((AN: Gelles is my level 68 (almost 70!) paladin on Thorium Brotherhood. I don’t own World of Warcraft, Blizzard does. :) ))

Anonymous

A World of Warcraft Story

By Kristin Renee Taylor

Sometimes, things are exactly what they seem. Snow is just snow. A muddy dirt road is just a muddy dirt road. And a tired traveler on a plain horse is just a woman on a plain horse, looking for a place to sleep.

Gelles Magain was exactly as she appeared to be: a small, young human woman, in wet clothes, her dark brown hair nearly black from the damp and plastered about her face and neck. Her eyes were the same color and shade as her soaked hair and the mud being churned under her horse's hooves. She wore no tabard. She carried no device.

She was an anonymous traveler, and she preferred it that way.

It was a wet night, heavy with fog and snow, and the only relief from the surreal silence of the snowfall was the unremitting clop-clop-squish-squish of her horse's sedate walk. Shrouded shapes drifted by to either side of her: trees, huts, the occasional farmstead, all of them as solid and fully formed as ghosts in a thunderstorm. In darkness and isolation, Gelles passed them by, secure in the knowledge that by morning the weather would have erased any sign of her passage.

There was a time, a voice said, where your presence would be noted, and people would have rejoiced to see you.

She ignored the voice as she ignored her surroundings. In silence, she brooded.

Gradually, the fog lightened, taking on a faint but strengthening shade of sour yellow some distance ahead of her and to the right. The horse, perhaps sensing what she did not, veered in that direction.

The sign loomed suddenly above her; its struts cutting through the wall of fog like the prow of a mighty ship ponderously making its way across the sea. The open lantern hanging from a rusty hook on the wall beneath it released a warm circle of light, but failed to burn away enough of the fog to make anything beyond the few feet of its influence look like anything other than murky shadows.

Her horse stopped. It seemed perfectly content to stand around all night, too.

The cessation of movement roused Gelles from her ruminations. She lifted her head to peer at first her surroundings, and eventually the sign swinging slowly to and fro above her head. Light pierced the shroud of mist enough for her to make out the blackened charcoal lines of a crudely drawn rooster and the twisted knot of a gallows rope about its neck. The words had been emblazoned in Common for all to read.

“The Swinging Chicken,” Gelles muttered aloud.

Choking Cock is more like it, the voice said.

A shadowy portal swung open on squeaky hinges directly before her, unleashing a rectangular flood of warmth and light and the smell of roasting meat into the evening. Her horse shied in surprise. Gelles settled it with a touch of the reins, backing it up as two old men, wrapped in worn clothes and reeking of beer staggered out of the inn, leaning on each other for support.

One of them took notice of her and halted. The abruptness of his stop nearly toppled his companion. He rounded on the first man. “Horace! Wut in the hells ye be stoppin’ like dat fer?”

The drunkard named Horace continued to stare wide-eyed at Gelles, his mouth slowly dropping open to reveal a few yellowed stumps of teeth. He pointed at her.

The second man slowly followed both finger and gaze to the still-silent human, who frowned down at them in puzzlement. His eyes went wide as well, wide enough to reveal one faded blue orb and one opaque, covered by a heavy film. All blood drained from his face. “It’s the ghost!” He shrilled.

Terrified hares couldn’t move faster than the two men, who bolted into the concealing fog and the night. Their shrieks were swallowed almost immediately.

Well, said the voice. Bet you didn't expect to make that big of an entrance did you?

She finally acknowledged the voice, saying softly, “Something scared them. More than me.”

Bravo, Gell, you figured that out all by yourself. Do you want a cookie?

The scared drunks’ flight hadn’t gone unnoticed. While Gelles sat in bemusement upon her horse, a shadow loomed large of the doorway and boomed out. “Who’s there?!”

She started, but recovered. “A traveler,” she said. “Just needing a place to stay for the night.”

A bear's rumble filled the air. “Got money?”

“Enough to pay.”

“C'mon, then.” The shadow retreated into the depths of the inn. “Wilt! Get da horse, ya lazy git!”

Gelles dismounted, splattering mud everywhere with her boots. From the back of her saddle she untied her satchel and the sword, wrapped in a light skein of linen cloth. By the time she had settled her satchel on her back, a tall, lanky tow-headed youth of sixteen had ghosted out of the fog to stand at the utmost reach of the light. He glowered at her sullenly, rubbing at a patchy beard with one hand. The fingers of the other drummed incessantly upon the rough-made crutch under his left arm.

She led the horse over to hand him the reins. “Take good care of-” He snatched the reins out and pivoted away from her. He limped away into the darkness, all of his weight on the crutch and his right leg.

Gelles waited until her horse had vanished, before sighing wearily and walking into the inn.

The heat of the common room hit her like a moist blanket, smothering her with its thickness. The layer of snow dusting her clothes and hair melted immediately, rivulets of water trickled down her face and under her shirt. She sneezed.

“Hey, ya ain't sick is ya?” The bearish bulk of the innkeeper loomed over her, neatly blocking her passage further within. “We don't want nonna dat.”

Gelles wiped her nose on the sleeve of her overshirt. “Not sick. Just cold, sir.”

The innkeeper grunted, but didn't move. “Two gold fer the night. Upfront.” One grubby paw thrust itself under her chin, and the stubby fingers waggled expectantly.

“Two gold,” Gelles said with meticulous care, “is highway robbery, and I'd rather spend the night outside in that case. Fifty silver for the room, dinner, and breakfast.”

The bear's eyes squinted into black slits. The single bushy eyebrow drew down into a v of anger.

“Fer gods sakes, Morris, let 'er pay the silver!” Her savior came in the form of an equally huge woman that stalked up to the innkeeper and shoved him out of the way with all the gentleness of a she-bear swatting at an errant cub. The behemoth scowled at the innkeeper until, grumbling, he lumbered away towards the bar to attack the woodgrain counter with a dirty rag. Fists on her wide hips, the woman watched him go. “Damn fool. Things’re bad ‘nough wit’out him gougin’ the few folks we do get.”

Gelles wasn’t sure if the comment was directed at her or if the woman was speaking to herself. And before she could formulate a reply just in case, the woman pinned her with a stern glower. “Well? Siddown by the fire before’s ya catch a chill, y’hear?” She stumped past Gelles to shut the door. “I’ll get’cha some food. Mutton?”

Gelles nodded, pushing wet hair out of her face to see better. “That’s fine.”

“Good, cuz it’s all we’s got.” The woman lumbered away.

Not very friendly, are they?

“Shut up, Gelki,” Gelles muttered, and forced her aching body to move. The floor of the common room was covered in sawdust, and Gelles left a muddy trail through as she trekked her way to the huge and thankfully lit fireplace and the two stools placed before it. She dropped to the low stool, and her satchel and the sword hit the floor a moment later. Leaning forward, closer to the fire, she buried her face in her hands and fought against falling asleep before her food arrived.

Light, was she tired.

I don't know why you keep on doing things the hard way. If you were a mage, you could just teleport to whatever backwater town you're trying to reach. Hells, ask nicely and I might even 'port you myself.

Ignoring the comments, Gelles pulled the tangled mass of her hair back and fought it into some semblance of a ponytail.

Fine, be that way. But at least settle down somewhere until the weather clears up. I'm tired of scrying you and seeing nothing but endless snow. Why don't you see if these people need a-

”No,” Gelles interrupted sharply.

Half-caught in the act of sitting, the young man that was taking the second stool yelped in surprise and jerked away. His boots caught in the legs of the stool, and he tumbled the floor.

Smooth, Gelles.

“Shut up, Gelki,” she growled. Standing, she held a hand out to the man. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. Are you okay?”

Her fingers were suddenly wrapped in the clasp of a pair of clean, warm and calloused hands. The young man gazed up at her with clear green eyes as he rose to one knee. “Oh fairest maiden, worry not for mine health, for I am but a poor and simple bard, blessed with much skill and, alas, very little grace. The fault was mine for mistaking you for a homelier lass upon my first glance, and my ill-preparation was my undoing when I glimpsed upon thee and saw that thy visage is as beautiful as the gods themselves. It is I that should be apologetic, for ever doubting that perfection could be made flesh and deign itself to visit this poor tavern.”

Gelles listened to all of this with one slowly lifting eyebrow. When the man bent his head to kiss her hand, she jerked her arm away. “That's... uh... You can stop that.” She sat. “Why don't you...” She gestured awkwardly to the other stool.

The man smiled, flashing her a quick glimpse of white teeth. He rose off the floor and sat, facing her. “A bit too much? I’m sorry, but when I see a beautiful woman I can’t help but wax poetic. I’m Marcus. Or ‘Marcus the Bard’ as they like to call me around here.”

To her horror, she realized she was blushing. She fumbled with her overshirt, pretending to be interested in picking small twigs and burrs out of the fabric and tossing them into the fire. “Gelles. That is, I mean to say... My name is Gelles. Magain. Gelles Magain.”

Very, very smooth, Gell.

The man failed to notice the flash of irritation that crossed her face. He was more interested in the bundles at her feet. The linen had fallen off the edge of the sword, exposing the hilt and part of the blade, and Marcus’ eyes were growing with admiration. “You must be called Gelles the Swordswoman, then, to have a blade that fine. May I?” She nodded and he stooped to pick the sword up. Standing, he unwrapped it and held the blade into the air to admire it: four feet of red and gray steel radiating a pale white glow.

Marcus whistled long and low, a sentiment that was echoed throughout the common room in low grumbles and whispers. Gelles turned her head to see people staring at her, only to look away hastily as her gaze passed over them.

Gelles realized that, outside of herself, the stable-boy and Marcus, no one in the tavern was under the age of fifty. She turned back to Marcus.

“They don't think too highly of adventurers, mi'lady,” Marcus said, answering her unspoken question. “Too many of their own children got bored with the peasant life and left for Stormwind or Ironforge.”

“Aye, and ain't a none of 'em been aback yet,” the large woman added. She joined them by the fire and shoved a trencher of roasted mutton and at fork at Gelles. Gelles took the items warily, noting that, if possible, the behemoth woman's disposition had turned even more sour. “None of 'em been aback, and ain't a none send any word neither.” Her vicious glare turned on Marcus. “Some folks're thinkin' they heards some fool's tales and took off to finds' themselves treasure in the belly of's a dragon.” Still glaring at Marcus, she hawked and spat into the fireplace. “So no, we don't kin's too well t’ folks that go 'round preachin' 'bout useless fantasies 'round here.”

Even in the face of that hard stare, Marcus never lost his amiable smile. “My dear Miss Nelly, I can assure you that every single one of my tales are as plain and true as your husband's stubbornness, and as real as your matronly girth.”

Nelly spat again “Pay your rent, bard, or we'll use that honey tongue'a yers to sweeten the pig slop.” She swept her glare to include Gelles, who ducked her head with an all-consuming interest in eating her dinner, and stumped away.

Marcus covered the sword again with the linen. “Truthfully, a more unpleasant creature has yet to walk Azeroth.” He sat again, propping the sword against the hearth. “So you're an adventurer, Miss Magain?”

“Just Gelles, and no,” she corrected. “I'm a scholar, actually.”

“But the sword-”

“-Is a present from the Archeology Guild in Ironforge, for my help with deciphering a few ancient Thalassian texts.”

“But still, this sword... and the Archeology Guild! You must have a lot of stories from working for them!”

“Not as many as you'd think.” Gelles smiled faintly. “I worked in their library. About the most excitement I've ever seen would be a stack of scrolls falling on top of me. Took me a week to put everything back in order.” She speared a piece of mutton.

“For a scholar, Gelles, you have remarkably clean hands. Not a smidgen of ink to be found on them. And they are rather calloused for someone who would wield a pen instead of a sword.”

The fork paused on its journey to her mouth.

After a too lengthy pause, Gelles resumed eating. “What is a bard doing out in the middle of nowhere?”

The smile on the bard’s face sharpened marginally. “Why, my fair lady, doing what I do best! I entertain the town’s gracious denizens in exchange for a spot by the hearth at night. I find the winter tends to past by faster when I’m not out in the cold. In summer, I head south to Hillsbrad and make the rounds down there.”

With a deliberate glance over her shoulder to see if the bartender or Nelly was nearby, Gelles said, “And let me guess: after a long winter of hearing your tales, the youth are always overwhelmed by a sudden urge to travel the world?”

“Well… perhaps I do paint the world beyond this little burb with colors a bit too bright and exciting. You can’t really blame them for leaving, though. This place is rather dull.”

“I’m surprised they let you stay.”

He chuckled. “Money is money, whether you like the source or if you loathe it to the vilest depths of the Nether.” His eyes glittered with good humor or malicious glee. “And they really do need the help of a set of strong shoulders. There are a lot of elderly people here that are a bit too old to be working their own fields. I do my fair share to help about during the day. I’m familiar with the lay of the land around here, so I often help Otis with the hunting.” He straightened in his chair, puffed up with pride. “I’m a pretty good shot, if I do say so myself.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, should I ever need rescuing.”

“You, my dear woman? Why I doubt there’s a single bandit that would dare approach someone such as yourself, with such a stunning weapon by your side. No bandits that still live, at any rate.” Gelles glared at him, but he continued to smile disarmingly. “Scholar or no, you are quite the remarkable individual. You would have no need of a knight in shining armor. You’re probably your own knight.”

Gelles retrieved her satchel and stood. “Try not to take this the wrong way, but I truly hope we never meet again, Marcus the Bard.”

Marcus beamed. “If only I had a silver every time a woman said that to me.”

Taking her sword, she walked off, leaving her dinner unfinished.

Gelles launched herself out of bed before she was fully awake. Barefoot and only in her small clothes, she stood in the center of her small and dingy inn room and swept her gaze around, searching for an attacker. When none presented itself, her mind finally engaged and she woke up fully.

She had been sleeping hard, exhausted as she was. She had heard a cry, and a door slamming shut, and then...

“Gelki?” she said softly. The slant of the dim light through the slats in the roof argued that it was late morning. She had overslept. “Gelki, I know you're scrying me. I need your help.” Her clothes- pants, shirt, vest, overshirt, and cloak- all hung from the rafters, where she had placed them to dry. She fished them down; not quite dry but they would have to do.

Gelles? For the love of... it's almost noon, and some of us want to sleep in.

Dressed, Gelles dug the sword out from under her bed and slipped it into the baldric on her back. “What happened after I went to bed?”

I dunno. Something 'bout an orgy, and I got it on with this very handsome Blood Knight. Ooo, you should see what they can do with the Light. Talk about stamina-

In the middle of searching for her satchel, Gelles squeezed her eyes shut, pinched the bridge of her nose, and growled, “What happened here?”

I dunno. You passed out, I had some arcane dust, you got robbed, and the rest is one big blur of ecstasy. Can you imagine what that freedom blessing does to a man's-

“I don't want to hear about your sexual conquests, Gelki! What do you mean I was robbed?”

Stop shouting, woman, I'm hungover. Lemme get the log... The internal voice trailed off into silence. All right all right. Let's see. could actually hear the pages being flipped. She folded her arms, glowering, and hoped nobody came in to see her apparently arguing with herself. Okay, here we go.

“Two o'clock: Gelles is asleep. Position: Back. Three o'clock: Gelles is still asleep Position: Has rolled onto her left side. Four 'o clock: I'm bored. She's still asleep. Five o'clock: Aoni came by and told me about a party over near the bank. Lots of cute guys. Gelles is still asleep, dream-phase, so I'm going to go- Oh wait. Pegleg must've picked the lock, because he's digging through her backpack. And yep. He took her gold. Predictable. I'm gonna go party.”

“I don't know what's more disturbing: that I slept through being robbed, or that you've been watching me, and apparently meticulously recording me, when I sleep. Do you really have nothing better to do all day than to write down every detail of what I do?”

Why pay to see a play when I can have my very own personal drama unfold right before my eyes?

“Forget I asked.” She found her satchel, wedged into a corner, the carefully packed contents- spare underclothes, her journal, hearthstone, writing utensils, and tabard- crammed haphazardly inside. Sighing, she pulled everything back out and begin to repack it. “Who is 'Pegleg?'”

What?

“'Pegleg.' You wrote that Pegleg had broken in and robbed me.”

Oh yeah, him. Y'know, the cute but dour kid with the limp and the crutch.

“The stable-boy.”

That's what I said. Pegleg.

“Do you know what a peg-” Gelles took a breath and silently counted to five. “Nevermind. If I asked you to help me find him, would you?”

Are you kidding me? It's the middle of winter down there! I frickin' hate being cold.

“Gelki...”

No. Absolutely no way. Besides, Aoni's starting to wake up. I need to go before she blows up my lab again. And... And I mean that literally. That's not a euphemism for- Gelles winced as an explosion detonated in her head before vanishing into blissful silence.

She rubbed her temples, feeling the start of a headache. “Light save me from sex-crazed Blood Elves,” Gelles muttered.

A knock on her door. It swung open and a familiar brown-haired head popped in. “You're awake!” Marcus smiled cheerfully. “How excellent, for it saves me from having to-”

“I've been robbed,” Gelles said curtly.

The smile faded. “Ah. Yes. So you've discovered.” His eyes moved to the sword on her back. “But the thief missed the real treasure!”

“My enthusiasm is writ large on my face. The robber was the stable-boy. Wilt, his name was, I think. I don't imagine he could've gotten too far, what with his leg, so he's probably somewhere still in town, lying low until I get tired of searching for him.” Slinging her pack over her shoulder, she crossed the room to the door and opened it fully.

Marcus filled the doorframe, dressed in heavy clothing. A bow and quiver of red-fletched arrows protruded over his left shoulder. Looking down at Gelles, he rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. “My fairest maiden, there is a slight flaw in your plan. For our misguided vagrant seems to have stolen your horse as well.”

This time she counted to ten. “Well. This just isn't my morning, now is it?”

Marcus explained as he led her downstairs, through the deserted common room, and outside into the crisp morning air. Along with her gold and her horse, Wilt had made off with Marcus' lute and half a dozen other minor things from the town. “It's my fault, really,” Marcus said. “The poor boy was the last young man in a village of the elderly. And a cripple at that. I felt bad for him, so I gave him a few lessons on the lute, you know, to help him fill the time since he couldn't do much else.

“He must have decided that a crippled bard is just as good as a healthy swordsman, and set out south to make his own path one of music instead of heroics.”

“A commendable decision. I'd be willing to let the money go, but he stole my horse, and I'm not quite that forgiving.”

In front of the inn they met an older man, tall and solidly built, dressed in heavy animal furs and wearing a longbow on his back and a sword at his hip. A quiver of arrows, also fletched red, counter-balanced the weight of the sword on his other hip. Completely bald but with a long pale beard, the man's most distinguishing feature was a wicked scar crossing along the top of his skull. He nodded once to Gelles and Marcus, before swinging himself up into the saddle of a tall black horse.

“Otis,” Marcus said by way of explanation. “He’s the wood guide around here. When I learned Wilt was gone I spoke to Otis to track him.” He smiled down at Gelles. “Never fear, my lady, you’re in the hands of the best two trackers in the area.”

Marcus climbed into the saddle of tall gray mare. He held a hand down to Gelles.

She looked at the hand, then up at him. “I’m not riding with you.”

He shrugged. “We have no other horses, and Otis hates having riders.”

Gelles scowled, and took the proffered hand. She clambered up into the saddle behind Marcus. “In case it wasn’t clear last night, I’m beginning to dislike you, Marcus the Bard.”

Marcus laughed. “And here I thought my charisma was my strongest attribute!” He kicked his horse into a canter to follow Otis.

The pale winter sun had burned away the fog of the night before, leaving a sky as warm and inviting as a frigid and gray frozen lake. The occasional burst of snow drifted down, driven by a cutting wind. Otis led them along the muddy road through the remains of the town and past the low brick wall that served more as a deterrent for wildlife than for any true threats.

The tracks of Gelles’ horse, still freshly imprinted into the mud, mirrored the path Gelles had been meaning to take herself just that morning, trailing along almost due west and slightly north. A hard twenty minutes of riding brought them to a small bridge crossing a stream. Otis crossed first, scanning the ground, and came galloping back.

“Tracks turn off yonder.” The lanky woodsman pointed south, along the banks of the river. “None prints on the other side, so’s our lad ain’t ditch the horse and continues on foot. Dunno why he ain’t followin’ the road, is the quickest way to get to get t’ the next town.”

Gelles peered in the direction Otis had pointed, but saw nothing more remarkable than water, rocks, and bare stark trees clawing at the sky. “What’s down that way? Anything significant?”

Otis rubbed his head. “Nuttin’ but some boulders. Water gets all fast there ‘fore plungin’ down a fall.”

“There’s a cave behind the waterfall,” Marcus added. “Nothing too big or expansive, but probably large enough for Wilt to hide in, especially if he’s got supplies for a fire and food.”

Otis nodded his agreement. “Food, and plenty water. Falls’ll hide any smoke or light, too. Hard climb down for a boy wit’ one bad leg, but the tracks don’t lie. Ya ask me, that where he wern’t.”

Gelles nodded. “Then that’s where we’ll go as well.”

With Otis picking a careful path through the ice-slicked rocks, the two horses moved at a steady pace southwards, following the bending curves of the river. For nearly an hour they continued on, following only a path that Otis could see. Occasionally the tracker would ford the river to the far bank and ride back the way they came, but he always returned a few minutes later with a shake of his head and they would continue on.

Marcus heard it first. He stood in his stirrups, head cocked to one side and listening. And then he settled himself and smiled over his shoulder at Gelles. “We’re close. You should be able to hear the falls in a moment.”

He was correct. As the two horses circumvented a boulder the size of a small house, Gelles heard the tell-tale rumbling of free-falling water. She leaned out in the saddle to look around Marcus’ torso. “Tabitha!”

At the sound of it's name, her horse lifted its head to look slowly at the newcomers. The reins had been tied to a tree far from the edge of a short drop in the land. Gelles dismounted and approached her horse, looking it over for any injuries. Seeing none, she gave it a grateful scratch behind the ears, and a withered carrot from her pack. “Tabitha doesn't look the worse for wear.”

Marcus nudged his horse closer. “It's a short climb, and then there's a path that leads behind the waterfall. Not too taxing, even for someone like Wilt, so he's holed up already.”

Gelles shrugged. She unslung her satchel and lashed it the rear of her horse's saddle. “The boy's not my problem. I have my horse back, and I'm sure the two of you can handle him.”

“But-”

“I've already lost a lot of time thanks to this fun little diversion, and I'd much rather get on my way.”

For once, the permanent smile fell. Marcus said, “Perhaps I mis-judged you, my fair one. I had thought you made of more exciting stuff.”

“Flesh, bone, and blood. Same as any other person,” Gelles said.

Otis had dismounted. The tracker was crouched by the edge of the waterfall, examining the rocks. “Blood on the rocks.” He leaned out. “And a body below. Face-down, so's can't tell if it's the boy.” He stood, facing Marcus and Gelles. “Ain't far down, not more'in thirty feet. Could be hurt. Could be dead.”

Without waiting for either of them, the tracker crouched again and slipped over the cliff edge, climbing down. Marcus glanced at Gelles again, shrugged, and went to follow after.

Gelles stood still, staring fixedly at her horse's reddish-brown mane. The animal looked at Gelles with its unblinking eye, then lifted its head to squarely rest its jaw atop her hair. It chewed. Saliva and chunks of carrot begin to seep into Gelles' hair and dribble down the side of her face.

She sighed heavily. “You're right, Tabitha. I do make a very bad civilian.”

Marcus and Otis were already at the bottom by the time they joined him. Otis was standing over the body, and he shook his head when Gelles looked at him. Not Wilt.

Marcus beamed as she went to join him. He stood a little ways from the riverbank, and between two jutting rocks she could barely make out a path through the crevasse they formed. “I knew you'd change your mind.”

“Don't make me regret it.” She nodded to the crevasse. “Through there?”

“Through there,” Marcus said.

“You're enjoying this aren't you?”

“You've figured me out, my lady. It's rare I have such a grand adventure.”

Gelles snorted, and took the torch that Otis was handing to her, lighting it from the tracker's. “If this is what you consider 'grand' than I'd hate to see your example of 'epic.'”

Otis again took the lead, squeezing sideways through a gap barely large enough to fit him. Gelles followed, her smaller size allowing her to pass a bit more easily, with her torch held high over head, while Marcus brought up the rear.

In only a few steps, the crevasse widened, spilling them out into the marginally warmer but dank air of a small and dimly lit cave.

The smell struck her hard, nearly doubling her over with wretching. The cave air reeked like a charnel house, full of blood and rot. She fought back the bile in her throat. Stepping to one side to see more clearly, and to make room for Marcus, she held her torch high to see the source.

Corpses. At least twenty or more lay strewn about the cave floor in various stages of decay. Some were so old that nothing but cracked and brittle bones remained. Some still had flesh and limbs, swollen black and rimmed with hoary frost from cold air. One, lashed to the furthest wall from the entrance, was still fresh, dripping blood sluggishly. The flesh had been flayed from the body, save for the head which had been left intact.

Wilt’s eyes were open but the sockets were hollow, the orbs gouged out.

“Sweet, merciful Light,” Gelles whispered. Her words were barely audible over the roar of the waterfall outside.

Otis took several steps into the carnage. He let out a hoarse cry and dropped to his knees next to a half-decomposed corpse, his torch falling from limp hands and sputtering fitfully on the ground. “Sherlene! Ah, my girl, what happened t’ ya?” The old tracker gathered the body into his arms, sobs wracking his frame.

Gelles looked away from him, affording him at least some semblance of privacy. She moved to another body, a barely recognizable pile of bones, and knelt. She picked up a thigh bone, turned it over to examine it closely. “These bones have been gnawed.” She looked up at Wilt’s corpse. “This isn’t just a slaughterhouse… it’s a cellar. A cold storage for something.” She set the bone down. “None of the… of the bodies are particularly old. At most a few years. And from what I can see, these people were all… Oh.”

So that was why nobody in the village had received news about their children.

Gelles swallowed thickly. She stood. “An animal that can kill these people and still fit through that crevasse isn’t likely to be big. I don’t know of any-“

“Weren’t no animal,” Otis snapped. “Lookit this! Some Light-cursed monster done killed our children!”

“Well, I don’t usually consider myself as such, but I suppose, yes, some people would think I’m a monster.”

Gelles spun, dropping her torch and reaching over her shoulder for her sword.

The arrow hit her chest, piercing straight through. She staggered back, her foot twisted on a body, and she fell to her back, onto the pile of corpses. Blood seeped through her clothing, saturating the fabric. She gasped in the too thick air as she struggled to rise; the arrow had gone through a lung.

Marcus knocked a second arrow to his bow. “I’m disappointed. Truly, I am. After playing this game so long with the townspeople, I had thought an outsider, a fresh pair of eyes, would be able to pick up on what was going on a lot sooner than this.”

Roaring with anger, Otis lept from the ground and rushed the Marcus. The younger man pivoted smoothly, shooting Otis point-blank in the chest. He stepped to one side as momentum propelled the tracker past him, where he crashed the ground and lay, twitching.

Marcus kicked Otis in the head, and the tracker went still.

He turned back to where Gelles lay, trying to sit up. “Now where were we? Oh yes. I guess I can’t blame you for not understanding what was happening. I am a bard, after all. Weaver of lies, master of deception, and all.”

“You killed them all.” Gelles coughed wetly. She could taste blood in her mouth, feel it running down her chin.

“Not at all, my dearest! Wilt did help with a few of the weaker ones. For a boy with a withered leg, he has powerful arms.” The permanent smile was now a full-scale sneer of superiority.

He had fangs.

“Worgen,” she whispered.

“Correct! But it took you two tries and you are a bit late, so I suppose it does not count.” Marcus stretched, the bones in his neck and back popping sharply. In the close-quarters of the cave, his body grew, a dark shape taking form. ”I’ve been luring the youth of that squalid little village out here for quite some time, with promises of ‘adventure’ and ‘excitement.’”

Gelles rose to her feet, swaying unsteadily. The arrow had lodged under her left breast, between her ribs. She took hold of the arrow’s shaft protruding from her chest. Gritting her teeth, she heaved, gasping in pain as she slowly drew the arrow out. The tip had no head, and the sharpened wooden point hadn’t lodged in bone. Thank the gods for small favors. As the head came free, she felt a gush of wet heat pour down her abdomen. She tossed the arrow away.

“I never lied to them, of course. There was plenty of excitement. Plenty of adventure. Plenty of food, too. Nothing beats a nice summer gorging and a nap on a full belly. The stragglers keep me sated during the winter, since I can keep the bodies fresher for longer.”

Gelles drew her sword. Blood made the leather-wrapped hilt slick and hard to hold, but it was a condition she was used to.

Marcus smirked at her, green eyes glowing with a beastly shine in the dying light of Otis’ torch. “Wilt, the poor lad. Ah, there’s a tragic story I’ll look forward to telling one day. Wilt found out what I was, of course. Mostly because I let him. I spun a little story about turning him into a worgen to fix that leg of his, but the little crippled boy grew inpatient at being the last one to have his excitement. When I ordered him to lure you out here by stealing your horse, he refused to do it unless I changed him first.”

“So you killed him.”

Marcus laughed. Fabric ripped. “Worgen are ‘cursed,’ my dear one. Even if I knew how to pass on my gift I wouldn’t give it to a crippled little bratling just so he can compete with me for territory.”

And suddenly he was before her, looming over her smaller stature, the shredded remains of his shirt and coat swaying in tatters from the speed of his movement. He lowered his muzzle to her ear. “I like you, Gelles. You smell delicious. Stay for dinner?”

She closed her eyes. “Marcus, my dislike for you is now a full-fledged loathing.”

He laughed gutterly. Lifting one massive paw, he swiped at her head.

The shield absorbed the blow. The lupine face twisted in anger and confusion. “What-“

Gelles rammed her sword up, through the worgen’s jaw and into its brain, the tip of the blade bursting out the top of its skull. She stepped to the side as the worgen toppled like a felled tree, dead.

She moved to Otis, opening herself to the Light and, through it, healing the two of them. The arrow buried in Otis’ chest was pulled out and tossed aside like so much chaff.

The tracker stirred and opened his eyes. “What in the…” His eyes went wide. “Marcus!”

Gelles pointed to the newest corpse. “Dead.”

Otis stared in amazement, and then at Gelles. “How…”

She shrugged and stood. “I put my sword through his head.” Rising, she pulled yanked her sword free and wiped the gore onto her cloak. “It seemed like a good idea, as he simply would not stop talking.”

“Who are you?”

Ignoring the question, Gelles sheathed her sword. “My condolences to those of your village.” She moved towards the crevasse. “If you find my money, keep it. Use it to hire a good bard.”

“Wait!” But Gelles tuned the tracker out and slid back through the crevasse.

Fresh air. She took a deep breath, expelling the fumes of blood and the sickeningly sweet stench of decay. She squeezed her hands into fists to stop them from shaking.

Later. She could have a reaction later, when she was well away from this place.

As she climbed the waterfall back to her horse, a familiar buzzing sounded in her head.

Okay, I’m back. You wouldn’t believe the- Wait. Why are you covered with blood? What happened?! Dammit, what did you do?!

She chuckled as she mounted Tabitha, and turned the horse north, back towards the road. “Nothing, Gelki. I’m just a boring scholar with a boring life. And I really hope it stays that way this time.”