The Threads of Memory X - The Empty Town
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The shop doorbell rang and Gale entered the cluttered little gallery. Curios crowded the shelves, and old furniture stacked nearly to the ceiling obscured the counter at the back of the store. An oil lamp burned beside the open ledger.
“Be with you in a minute!” a woman’s voice chimed, followed by a muffled curse and stone-on-wood clatter from the back room.
“No hurry!” Gale called back, brushing his fingers across tarnished silver goblets and platters stacked on a shelf at eye level. One of the goblets buzzed with an enchantment meant to identify poison. He turned it over in his hand, and the orb lashed for it.
A redheaded dwarven woman hauled an unwieldy bag out of the back, the object inside churning mechanically. She heaved it onto the counter with a huff and shoved her curls back from her face to study Gale.
“Why hello stranger,” she grabbed the bag before it worked itself off the counter, “what can I do for you?”
“On the hunt for some old enchantments,” Gale launched into his prepared excuse, “I’ve a project that requires a steady supply of weave, but I’d prefer to reuse than create. Seems you may have what I need.”
“Sure do,” the bag writhed under her firm hand, “I don’t recognize you, new to Reddenhyde are you?”
“In a sense,” Gale admitted, “I’m staying at Willowdarn.”
“Willowdarn?” the bag clattered its way off the table and she cursed, scrambling out from behind the counter to haul it back up again, “no one up that way for the last fifteen years, save Shur. What brought you back after so long? Assuming you are a Halavar, that is, and not some taxman come to redistribute the property,” she cleared her throat and extended her hand to Gale, “Where are my manners. Adella, Adella Braugh, a pleasure to meet you…”
“Gale of Waterdeep, a pleasure Ms. Braugh,” Gale shook her hand firmly, “what do you have there?”
“Ah,” she shook the thing out of the bag and a basalt and copper construct clattered onto the counter. It righted itself and attempted to walk off, but she pinned it, “I found this out at the ruins. Seen a number of broken and dead ones out there, but this is the first that works.”
“Ruins?” Gale echoed, excitement bleeding into his voice. The construct waved its stiff limbs and left scratches in the wooden counter, “this is a Netherese constructor, where on earth did you get it?”
Adella’s face lit up. “You know, then? Are you an archaeologist? A wizard? What do you take it for?”
Gale smoothed his beard. “Both, I used to study this very thing -- well, my research was on the epic of Ortenkus, not Netherese construction methods specifically -- but I digress. Let me see it,” Gale approached the counter and caught the constructor before it toppled off. The magic bonds sparked between the stone joints. He sent a pulse of high frequency weave through the body, and it stilled so he could turn it over and study the carved runework on the bottom, “Ah, I see.”
“What?” Adella stood on her tiptoes to see.
“This is a rune carver, meant for small spaces such as ventilation shafts and sewer pipes,” he tapped the ends of the hands, “there’s a spidercrawl spell in the legs. If you were to let it go, it would scale the opposite wall.”
“How’d you turn it off?” Adella moved one of the legs back and forth, the magical bonds holding the construct together stretched.
“A simple counterspell,” Gale traced the runework on the underside, “you see these symbols here? They list the frequencies of weave the construct operates on in Lorossian notation. All it takes is a pulse of magic at the right frequency to disable it -- easily done even by the least skilled among us.”
“Wait, can you read Loross?” Adella heaved the construct into her arms and set it on the floor to see better, “because I’ve got this pet project I’ve been working on, but it’s hard to get good translation guides out here. There’s a -- well,” she stopped herself, tucking the constructor against the side of the counter, “Mr. ‘Of Waterdeep’, can I trust you with a remarkable research opportunity?”
Gale rested his elbow on the counter, picking the enchanted goblet up and gesturing with it as though it was full of wine. “I would be delighted to assist you.”
“The ruins of a Netherese enclave, out on the moorlands,” Adella nodded towards the back, “It’s tricky to get to, kind of picked over to build the town, but there’s plenty to dig up. Based on my mapping of the ley lines in the area, I think the Mythallar is still buried in the mud. Of course, there’s no digging until the summer thaw, but I have notes and artifacts and maps that could use an expert eye.”
Gale’s eyes widened, a grin splitting his face. “An enclave? Here? Which one -- do you know? And the Mythallar --” he laughed, “Mystra, what a gift! And here I thought I’d succumb to boredom.”
“That’s not all,” Adella wagged her finger at him, “hold on, let me grab something.”
She moved fast for her size, vanishing behind a thick hide curtain and emerging with a worn journal. She handed it to Gale, and he turned the dog-eared pages delicately.
“That dates to the last abandonment of Reddenhyde,” she explained, “I think the proximity of the enclave ruins have something to do with it.”
“What do you mean?” Gale asked, scanning the entries quickly. The author described a gradual decline of the town and anomalous occurrences, like finding fresh food in the pantries of houses he remembered being abandoned years ago.
“Well, the story goes that about 150 years back Jan Reddenhyde was leading a group of lost pioneers from Everlund and heard about a reclusive lord’s manor where they might replenish their supplies,” Adella began.
“The lord of Willowdarn, no doubt,” Gale muttered mostly to himself.
She nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly that, the folks at Willowdarn seem to be the only ones spared of the phenomenon. But Yan Reddenhyde rolled into town and discovered it empty. No one in the houses, doors left open, food still in the pantry, fires still lit. With no other option, he thanked the gods and moved himself and his entourage into the empty town. The story goes that he never made it to Willowdarn, and seemed to forget the place existed at all within days of settling in.”
Gale’s brow furrowed. “This is the journal of Yan Reddenhyde?”
“It is,” Adella said, “my father was his record keeper, and when Yan threw it out, he kept it. Thought we needed help to remember the story of how this place came to be, since everyone forgot so quickly. If you ask anyone, they’ll tell you we’ve been here forever. It has to be an effect of the Mythallar, doesn't it?”
“Perhaps,” Gale admitted, “it’s worth investigating. Have you brought this to the attention of the local authorities? The mayor, perhaps?”
She shook her head. “No one’s interested, and the mayor made for Everlund ages ago and hasn't been back since. His son Kenneth’s been holding it all together.”
The orb sent an insistent shock of pain throbbing up Gale’s neck. He cleared his throat. “Politicians are infamously lacking in curiosity. My apologies, I must cut our time short. Pressing business back at the manor. What do I owe you for this?” He held up the goblet.
“A promise to return when you can,” Adella said, “and the use of your expertise in Loross later.”
Gale clutched the goblet to his chest, backing out of the cramped shop. “You are terribly kind. I promise you both at my earliest convenience.”
The sound of Gale’s footsteps on the cobbled street insulted the blanket of silence smothering Reddenhyde. The gray sky above him threatened more snow, merging with the gray stone of the buildings and gray moors beyond. Pilgrim stomped his foot where he was tied on the main street as he saw Gale. His haunches shivered with cold, despite the riding blanket. Gale caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned, watching a stray cat slip from an alley between the abandoned surgery and a darkened shopfront and into a storm grate. The only other living thing on the road. The cold pressed into his bones, and he mounted Pilgrim.
The horse needed no urging from Gale, throwing his head in relief as he trotted down the main road towards home. His tail flicked anxiously, and he only settled when the town receded from view.
The manor rose above the moors, a hulk of black stone against the unending gray. It radiated malice, but Pilgrim did a little prance of joy when it came into view over the crest of the hill. The horse broke into a quick trot on the frozen road cutting between pools of stagnant peat. White smoke rose in pillars from the chimneys until it joined the gray sky.
Pilgrim’s rough trot sent jolts of pain through Gale’s body, and he pulled back on the reins until the horse reluctantly slowed. He swallowed around the seething knot in his chest, hands trembling as he dug in his pockets for the chalice. He bent over Pilgrim’s back as he consumed it so he didn’t fall off when the magic overwhelmed him. It surged into his chest, vision blurring. He panted, a metallic taste sticking to the back of his throat with each breath. He swallowed, straightened, and let Pilgrim continue along. By the time he sent Pilgrim on his way back to the stable, his breathing had begun to slow.
Marla’s voice echoed through the foyer, still slurred with sedation. Gale caught her and Kenneth speaking with Velim on the stairs, Marla holding herself tensely upright. She nodded to Gale, but never met his eyes as she passed him to wait alone in the cold with her bundle. Gale mirrored her polite greeting, and massaged at the ache still roiling in his chest. Kenneth remained on the stair with Velim, and Gale waited in the vestibule.
“Where is the well?” Velim asked, their voice low and only made audible by the acoustics of the stairs.
“In a sycamore grove to the northeast,” Kenneth said, “why do you want to know?”
“Two different malformations in a population as small as Reddenhyde, even if the town were booming, is unusual. I’d like to take a look at the site associated, perhaps see if your previous doctor left any information regarding the cause in the surgery, if you’re amenable,” Velim explained.
“Anytime,” Kenneth replied, “you’re always welcome in our home, doctor. Stop by anytime.”
Kenneth greeted Gale, shaking his hand on his way out the door. A final cold draft slipped into the manor as the heavy door closed after him. Velim flipped their braid over one shoulder as Gale joined them on the landing.
“How’s Marla fairing?” The orb flared when Velim passed him too closely. He pressed his knuckles against the hollow of his throat to relieve the pressure.
“As well as can be expected. Mourning, in pain, exhausted, but she’ll live. She’s lucky to have Kenneth.” Velim eyed his chest.
“The deformities?” Gale prompted.
The corner of Velim’s mouth quirked up. “Birth defects that severe occur naturally once per a million or so births. Two per generation is a staggering rate for such a small community. Warrants additional investigation. Did you happen to stop at the surgery while you were in town?”
“No,” Gale chuckled, “I’m afraid I got waylaid by the proprietor of a delightful oddities shop, the daughter of the original recordkeeper for Reddenhyde. It seems she’s been excavating the local ruins, and based on some of the relics she’s uncovered I’m inclined to believe her claims.”
“And she handed that information to you?” Velim raised an eyebrow.
“I imagine she was thrilled to find someone with my credentials in such a backwater.” Gale attempted to puff out his chest, but the orb forced his shoulders inward once more.
“Or equally thrilled she’s discovered a mark she can lure into the wilderness and rob,” Velim countered.
“Worry not,” Gale snapped his fingers and produced a small flame, “any would-be robbers are certain to meet their fiery demise at my hand.”
Velim smiled tiredly. “You'll have to introduce me later, I'd like a look at the birth and death records.” They slipped into their bedroom before he could respond, closing the door behind them.
Snow muffled the rattling of the willows, a gust of wind passing over Velim as they cupped their hands close to their face and breathed into their palms. The close sky reflected the light and cast the creek in velvet grays. Snow clung to their lashes, melting slow as they shifted from one foot to the other and waited for the trembling adrenaline to clear their system. When their fingertips began to ache, they turned around and began walking back around to the front door.
They picked apart the details of tonight's dream. Strapped to the operating table -- same thick leather straps and chafing pressure, then nothing. No surgeon above them, no beloved face or knife or blood. A fluttering of eyes, partial consciousness, and a sick sense of dread.
They shivered as they entered the manor, shaking the snow off the shoulders of their coat and kicking their boots off haphazardly. They padded through the dark on slippered feet, rubbing their cold hands together. When they turned the corner, they nearly collided with Gale.
He yelped and dropped the candlestick, the flame sputtering out. He leaned against the wall and clutched his chest, as though his hand could block the pulsating glow. “Velim!” he panted, voice thin, “I wasn’t expecting you.”
Velim picked up the candle and lit it with a flourish of their hand. Gale whimpered, the weave surging forth from his chest and washing over Velim like heat from an oven. They stepped back.
“Gale, are you okay?” They strangled their fear and stepped into the cloud of volatile magic. It tugged at their scales as they swung his arm over their shoulders and guided him back into the master bedroom.
Sweat stuck Gale’s hair to his forehead, his skin glistening in the firelight as Velim put him down on the sofa mid-incoherent explanation. They let him mumble while they tore through the chest at the foot of his bed for the enchanted objects he’d brought. The blistering heat of magic clouded their senses. The box was empty.
Velim leaned over the back of the couch and held his hand. “I’m going to see if I can find something in the other bedrooms. Hold on.”
Gale squeezed their hand, his chest heaving against the increasing pressure.
Velim slipped into the hallway and stopped in the open door of each bedroom, reaching for the slightest hint of magic. They felt a glimmer tucked away in a desk in an unused room, coated in a thick layer of dust. The ring, set with a pink diamond and pearls, radiated the warm sunlit glow of a warding bond. A wedding ring -- but this was no time for sentimentality.
Velim pressed the ring into Gale’s palm. The gold band eroded, pearls blackening and diamond centerpiece spiderweb cracking like glass. The glitter of inert dust slipped between Gale’s fingers, the sliver of weave devoured. The magic lashing from Gale’s heart blistered Velim’s skin as it sought something more substantial.
“You need to leave,” Gale choked around the expanding force crushing his lungs.
Velim chewed their lip, looking towards the door of the bedroom and back at Gale. He gazed up at them, tears welling up in his eyes. They dashed away. He closed his eyes with a sob, curling in toward the pain like he might smother it. He didn’t hear Velim return, the weight of their hand on his shoulder barely there against the pressure building inside him as they shoved him against the back of the couch. Their frigid hands opened the collar of his shirt. He groaned through his teeth at the small relief, the pressure shifting as they pressed the pad of their thumb hard to the center of the orb’s circular scar.
Velim gripped the lancet in their teeth, concentrating all the magic they could muster into the bleeding point on their thumb. The orb siphoned them away, a strange cold wind drawing out of their hand. The room around them swam. They straddled Gale’s hips, letting his body hold them up as they fed the parasite.
Draconic weave coiled around the orb, the roar of it loud in Gale’s ears. It left an antiseptic taste at the back of his throat. He whined, the sound pulled up from deep inside between panting gasps.
Velim cupped his face as the magic abated, thumb rolling down his slackening jaw until they felt his pulse flutter. Relief washed over him, the firelight casting him in warm profile. The world closed in on Velim’s mind, and they pulled their thumb away and stopped the magic current. The connection broke with a cold crackle of energy.
Gale’s face settled, his lashes fluttering. Velim shifted their legs, shoulders slumping as their hand slid down his chest and settled over the warm thrum of his heart. The world softened, caught between Gale’s body and the fire at their back. Something pressed between their legs. They braced themself on the back of the sofa, studying the changing shadows on Gale’s face in the firelight. Everything past him faded, a velvet dark blur at the edges of their awareness. The orb pulsed quietly, fat and satisfied.
Color flushed back into Gale’s cheeks. They wiped the sweat beading on his brow away with their sleeve, hips shifting, and realized what must be pressing between their legs. They stepped off, swaying unsteadily in front of the coffee table. Gale blinked, his eyes still turned skyward, lips slightly parted.
Velim muttered a goodnight and staggered out of the room, closing his door and then their’s behind them. They slid down the wood to sit in the soft dark of their bedroom. They reached for the sources of magic they knew were there, the bag of holding in their coat and the circuits embedded in the walls, but they returned only a dim hum. Velim's head fell back against the door, wondering at a world without sharp edges.
Gale’s world resolved in the chill of sweat cooling on his skin. He touched the circular scar, his fingers coming back smeared with blood. His chest rose and fell as he sucked air back into his oxygen starved body, awareness flooding back into his limbs and core in the absence of the unmanageable pressure. A different pressure materialized, straining against his trousers and twisting in his abdomen.
Gale listened for Velim, their hands long gone though the memory lingered on his skin. He pulled himself free of the waistband of his trousers. His length twitched, awake and needy with no regard for the ordeal -- pain forgotten as Velim’s gold-flecked eyes settled on his mind. The memory of their hand firm at his throat egged him on as his grip tightened. The orb purred, glutted on draconic weave.
His head lolled back, eyes fluttering closed as he surrendered to the sensation. One last pressure to relieve. Velim came to mind again, and he scolded himself, but they stubbornly remained. The warmth of them on his body, breath on his face and cold hands on his chest, the little shift of their hips as they straddled him. The way they folded into him against the cold in the warehouse, voice a hoarse whisper begging him.
Please, please.
The groan ripped from his throat when he came, and he clamped his free hand over his mouth. His hips bucked up, spend fountaining up and landing on his thighs where it soaked hot into his trousers. He panted, disgusted with himself, and cleaned up with a trembling wave of his hand. The whisper of magic sapped all that remained of the heat.
