Dashyl's Quest

“There’s not much to tell, really,” Dashyl admitted. “I woke up in the care of curics from Sanctum. They nursed me back to health and took care of me until I was okay to leave.”

“Ah yes, I left you in the care of Rathyra. A robust and stoic curic. However, she can be a little brisk in her bedside manner.” Soern chuckled at some far off memory coming to the surface. “Once, in her care, I complained about her vigorous scrubbing while cleaning a deep wound I had from a vaygr. A piece of the beast's tooth had broken off in me and she was so determined to remove it that I passed out from the pain. She never let me live that down. For being a healer, her sense of humor could be rather cruel.” Soern stroked his beard and smiled with a distant look in his eyes. “Ah, but I have delayed you further, please, young Dashyl, begin again.”

Dashyl and Fretly shared a furtive glance before Dashyl continued his story. “Ah, well, I met Fretly when he was brought in one day for healing and he was pretty much the only company I had other than the curics, but they didn’t ever talk to us for very long.”

“Humph,” Soern snorted, “They are women of few words. What are your plans now that you are right as a river?”

“Why should we trust you,” Fretly asked.

Soern laughed a few belly laughs and slapped his hands down on his enormous thighs. “My little friend, I could have killed this young Sarion when I first encountered him. Why would I want to interfere with his plans now? If you continue to be suspicious of me, you may wait outside until Dashyl and I are finished catching up.”

Fretly pouted, crossed his arms over his chest and sank into his seat a little deeper. “Whatever. Dashyl, if you trust this guy, then I trust you.”

“See, that’s acting like a wise adventurer,” Soern said, winking at Fretly.

“We had hoped to find a caravan in Anchorwatch to travel with across the Tournament Plains to Trader’s Haunt," Dashyl explained.

“Trader’s Haunt,” Soern asked incredulously. “Why do you want to go to that forsaken place? The main reason I am paid to man this post is to keep the riff raff from Trader’s Haunt out of Anchorwatch. The two of you will be skewered and scambagged before you see your first morning in Trader’s Haunt.”

“You underestimate us, my gargantuan friend,” Fretly said. “I have fought in the Center of Death Tournament. And lived, as you can see.”

“As have I. As have I,” Soern said, stroking his beard and squinting at Fretly. “Fighting an opponent in plain view in front of you is one thing. Avoiding a blade or a bash from behind in a crowded alley is another thing entirely.”

“Have you heard of the Urchyn’s Clan,” asked Fretly.

“Hm, those pesky rascals from Fairewood? Yes, I have heard of them, common thieves who steal while travelers enjoy entertainment. I have never seen or met one,” Soern answered.

“Until now,” Fretly pointed out. “And we are more than thieves. Surviving as an Urchyn in the underworld of Fairewood is no less dangerous than slipping into Trader’s Haunt unnoticed. We’ll make it. Don’t twist your beard off worrying about us.”

Soern looked at his young guests and sighed. “I suppose you are going there to catch an airship. Where? Back to Fairewood?”

“Fretly is. I don’t know yet. I want to go home, but I’m not sure there’s any reason to go home,” Dashyl said.

Soern slurped the last of his tea and stood up. The Kirzan towered over Dashyl. Sarion, on average, are the shortest race on Rynaga (of those that live on land), while Kirzan are the tallest. Dashyl nearly fell over looking up at Soern, but balanced himself at the last minute.

“Dashyl, there is a very good reason for you not to go home. You are being hunted. A Krill Assassin was after you,” Soern said.

Dashyl’s eyes grew large. Something tugged at the edge of his memory, something ominous. His heartbeat quickened. Tears welled up in his eyes. He dropped his head and watched a tiny carapid crawling along the floorboards of the hut as Soern went on telling his story.