Jackal Among Snakes

Corentin sat in a group of near eight others, in the same house that he had just had his discussion with Argrave. The other southron elves were grizzled, scarred warriors just as he was—obvious war veterans. They were in a loose circle, some standing, some sitting.

“So, just as Durran did, this new arrival claims to have met my daughter?” one asked, a man with a missing nose.

“Yeah,” Corentin nodded, looking out towards the door. “Same tale as Durran, too. Gebicca was crushed beneath rocks. Same accounts. Only difference…” Corentin turned his head back. “Argrave brought Brumesingers with him. Seems to have tamed them, too.”

The warriors all looked greatly intrigued by this. One, who leaned against Corentin’s wall, asked, “How?”

“I don’t know,” Corentin shook his head.

“You didn’t ask?” the man pressed.

“What am I, a damned interrogator? You ask him,” Corentin crossed his arms and shook his head.

“What good are you, old bastard?” the man with the missing nose asked.

“Least I can still smell things, Morvan,” Corentin returned with a laugh. “You go outside, that cavity you call a nose fills up with sand. What kind of desert warrior loses to sand?”

Some of the others joined the man in laughter.

“You one-eyed prick,” Morvan leaned forward, a smile on his face.

“Let’s stay serious,” another man interjected—though he seemed the oldest, he was the least scarred. All of the others heeded his words at once. “Save the banter for when we don’t have an unexpected visitor. This man, Argrave, claims to be working with the Lord of Copper. This deserves serious treatment.”

Corentin raised his hands. “Of course, Florimond.”

Florimond looked about. “What is he doing right now?”

Someone stalked to the door of Corentin’s house. “Looks like… he’s letting the Brumesingers play with the children.”

That brief little description immediately made everyone stir.

“Either he’s not a bad guy, or he’s damned good at tugging the heartstrings,” Morvan shook his head.

“This is someone working for the Vessels,” another warrior posited. “With the intent to betray them, too. Maybe he’s a paragon. Maybe he’s a good actor.”

That sobered some of the warriors up, and their smiles faded somewhat.

“But what he’s saying—that the southern tribals are going to attack with the help of the Lord of Copper—it does match with what Durran told us. Everything matches,” Corentin ceded.

“Did you tell him anything about Durran? About the proposition the man’s made to us?” Florimond questioned.

“You think I’m stupid?” Corentin put a hand to his chest. “I kept my mouth shut, tried to let him say his piece.” Corentin lowered his hand.

“And that warrior with him?”

“Quiet fellow,” Corentin nodded. “Looked… I don’t know. Probably the type of guy I’d avoid on the battlefield. Strong, tough, hard. If a man like that would follow him…”

“You’d run from anything, craven moron,” Morvan crossed his arms.

“You stand before that damned giant and tell me how brave you are,” Corentin gestured towards the no-nosed elf. “His hand’s bigger than your head. Maybe that’s not saying much, considering how small the brain inside is.”

The whole room laughed, and even Morvan sunk back into his chair, shaking his head with a grin on his face.

“So, what in the world are we going to say to this guy?” Florimond looked around. “Do we tell him about Durran?”

“Why would we?” Corentin crossed his arms.

“True, true,” Florimond nodded. “Nothing to gain from that. I do think we need to hear more from him—ask questions, work out his personality.”

“And we need to hear this ‘grand plan’ of his,” Morvan raised his hand. “Doesn’t matter if he can manipulate the Lord of Copper if he’s a drooling imbecile. If he’s stupid, we should probably migrate. Been too long, anyhow. Don’t like staying in this place for too long.”

“We should regardless. But…” Corentin began. “Didn’t want to say this, because it’s just conjecture on my end. I brought this,” he pulled out the black cube with glowing purple runes on it. “He kept his eye on it, like he knew what it does.”

“Gebicca might have told him,” Florimond posited.

“My daughter had never seen one of those,” Morvan disagreed. “Smart girl, but… too young,” he shook his head, then lowered his gaze to the ground. “Too young,” he repeated hollowly.

The room grew quiet, as though to comfort the man’s loss. Someone patted him on the shoulder, but no words were exchanged—they didn’t seem needed.

“Yeah, embarrass me by staying quiet,” Morvan finally broke the silence, shaking his head. “Keep talking, you damned idiots.”

People in the room chuckled. Florimond heeded Morvan’s advice, continuing, “So—we ask him questions, try to get a clearer picture of things—everyone in agreement?”

“Aye,” said the entire room asynchronously.

#####

“Sounds travel strangely in this place. I can hear nothing,” Galamon shook his head.

“Their runes,” Argrave explained. “They help with privacy. Don’t worry about it.”

Galamon stood beside Argrave, who sat on a rock in the oasis town. The Brumesingers dashed about the open area like little balls of lightning, the southron elven children watching them and playing with them, tossing things to be retrieved or leading them about with feathers.

“Do you like children?” Galamon questioned.

“No,” said Argrave immediately.

Galamon looked down. “You surprise me.”

“Well… if they’re related to me, it’s fine,” Argrave shrugged. “I don’t want to deal with other people’s children. Nephews, nieces, et cetera—that’s tolerable. Otherwise, forget about it.”

“Sons, daughters?” he pressed.

Argrave scoffed and shook his head. “Wrong time to even consider considering that.”

“You cannot control where the mind wanders,” Galamon stated.

“I’m not ready,” Argrave crossed his legs. “End of discussion.”

“I wasn’t ready, either,” he chuckled.

Argrave looked up at him. He bit his lip, considering a question. Before he could ask it, he spotted a decent crowd moving towards them. The old warriors of the southron elves moved from Corentin’s home, striding towards them. Argrave stood, turning around.

“Despite their age, injuries… these men are full of vitality,” Galamon stated.

“Are they skilled?” Argrave questioned, though he knew the answer.

“I cannot tell a man’s skill by sight alone. None can,” Galamon shook his head. “But they’re alive. That is testament to something.”

“They’re skilled,” Argrave told Galamon. “Frighteningly so.”

“Hmm,” grunted Galamon, keeping an eye on them as they moved closer.

The crowd of old veterans was quite a gruesome sight, but strangely, Argrave could not bring himself to pity any of them. They seemed too proud to be pitied. Some were missing hands or had gruesome scars across their bodies—Morvan ‘No-Nose’ was here, just as One-Eye Corentin. The de facto leader, Florimund, was similarly present.

Argrave felt a little nervous, facing them all. The Brumesigners, either sensing his nervousness or simply tired of playing with the southron elf children, rushed across the field and took refuge in his clothes.

“You must be Argrave,” Florimund greeted. “And those creatures…” he eyed one of the Brumesingers, who kept their golden eyes on the southron elf suspiciously. “…they are the last Brumesingers.”

“That’s right,” Argrave nodded, looking around the group. “And…” his gaze stopped on Morvan. “You must be Gebicca’s father,” he stepped forward, swallowing. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but…”

“I know,” Morvan held up his hand. He was missing a pinky. “Corentin told me.”

Argrave paused, taken aback by this reaction. At first, he dismissed the thought, presuming that the man had time to process his grief since Corentin had informed him… but Morvan definitely wouldn’t process it to this point, and especially not this fast. His breathing quickened as he came to a rapid conclusion.

He’s known. He’s known for a while now.

Argrave tried to think of alternatives, another explanation for this scenario… but nothing came, and the only thing Argrave could conjure was that Morvan had been informed a long time ago. The southron elf locked himself away for a week in ‘Heroes of Berendar.’ Considering everyone else’s personality had remained the same, there was no good reason Morvan’s reaction to his daughter’s death would change.

“…my condolences,” Argrave managed to squeeze out, realizing he’d been silent for far too long. “Your daughter was a woman of honor, thinking only of her people to the very last.”

Morvan nodded with a bitter smile, and then turned his head away.

With more time, Argrave tried to think of how he could approach this. There had to be something he could say, some way he could spin this to get into contact with Durran—hell, if he said the right things, his task might come a hell of a lot easier.

Then his mind drifted back to the Low Way, where he had stacked up so many lies that it was difficult to keep track of them all. The Unbloodied Blade, the Unsullied Knife, Blackgard… all of that had come back to bite him.

“By chance…” Argrave began. “Am I not the first outsider to come here?”

If he was open and honest, he could expect the same in return. Or at least, that was the gambit.

The veterans acted like experienced poker players, none of them betraying their thoughts with their expressions.

Argrave pressed the point, asking, “Have you met a man with a boar mask? Wears full plate armor, kind of like my friend here?”

The crowd stayed still. They’re not reacting—a swing and a miss, Argrave concluded.

“…or a golden-eyed southern tribal by the name of Durran?”

That got something out of them. The way some moved, their eyes shifted… Argrave didn’t need to have Anneliese’s empathic capabilities to tell that he had hit the head on the nail—though he’d feel a bit more confident if she was by his side, granted.

“Real erratic guy, kind of crazy, really cynical?” Argrave followed, drawing more reactions from them to be sure that he was right in this assumption.

“Why are you asking?” asked Florimund. He had the best poker face of them all—he asked the question with enough confusion that even Argrave doubted if he was on the right track.

“Because he’s the one that I need to inform Brium plans on betraying the tribals,” Argrave said, nervous as all hell he was wrong about the whole thing.

Silence settled in the clearing. The old warriors looked between themselves, silently communicating. After a long while, they nodded between themselves, before at last conveying that to Florimund.

Florimund turned, facing Argrave, and finally confirmed, “We’ve met Durran.”

Argrave felt like some pressure was released from his chest, and he couldn’t help but sigh. “That’s good. That’s great, in fact.”

“You’re friends of his?” Florimund gestured.

“We’ve never met,” Argrave shook his head. “But I know of him. And if he keeps on as he is, trying to work with Brium to take out the Vessels in Sethia… he’s going to get his whole damned tribe killed. Drained by the Vessels,” Argrave continued quickly, hoping they wouldn’t ask the details of the relationship.”

“Durran is a friend of the tribe,” Morvan vouched for him. “We can get your message to him.”

“Then that’s all that I need,” Argrave clasped his hands together.

“…but you’re going to need to tell us a lot more about yourself,” Florimund continued. “Namely, your relationship with the Vessels, your plans…”

“Fine by me,” Argrave nodded, sweating inwardly. This was going to be difficult to explain, to say the least, and Anneliese’s magic couldn’t last forever. “I will say this. I advise you migrate your people. The Lord of Copper might’ve had eyes on me—I can’t say for sure.”

He felt that exposing Yarra’s existence would only do more harm than good for further negotiations.

Florimund nodded slowly. “We’d planned on it, anyways. Been too long since we moved last. But come inside—let’s talk.”