Chapter 53

(Siartin)

Back on the road away from any major settlements, Grifo, Heilim, and Tylon travel further south towards the site of possible lycanthrope activity near Garen’s Well. They don’t waste any time leaving Siartin today after quickly consuming breakfast.

Elevated humidity causes them to sweat profusely, soddening their clothes in early to mid-afternoon. The party members accommodate multiple, brief breaks in their schedule to rejuvenate from the sun radiating on them. Adding more to their misery, the mosquitos are swarming them like zealous fans of a voguish band.

Grifo and Heilim are having a conversation while Tylon ponders several incidents from the thirteenth of this month. Is it actually true? Am I the prince of Adoran? For all I know, either my father or mother could be a peasant. Besides, what evidence do I possess to prove my heritage since the king’s dead? Who would even believe me? I have the Septom on my side, and she wields massive influence. Maybe the other two conspirators are influential too. Even if they accept my right, I don’t feel confident in my ability to lead. I’ve never been in a leadership role. Ruling a nation as my first experience is an Iridii’s way of throwing a person into the deep end. And they expect me to produce an heir. Maybe Betudaca would be interested in becoming my wife. Have at least one Certh on the throne, and I obtain the love of my life. An absolute win in my books. I retained the techniques Grifo and Heilim taught me at the brothel.

“What’s on your mind, Tylon?” Heilim inquires. Despite the revelation, Tylon instructs them to not call him Dylar, Your Majesty, Your Highness, or anything else of the sort.

“Huh?” Tylon snaps back into reality.

“You were deep in thought,” Grifo responds.

“Oh. I am remembering the events two days ago, mainly discovering I’m a prince. However, I still have doubts that I’m royalty.”

“It is generally best practice for Septoms to not lie,” Heilim speaks. “I doubt a Septom as powerful as her would engage in chicanery.”

“Even if I am, who would believe me?” Tylon asks doubtfully.

“You have us,” Grifo replies.

Tylon grins slightly from his companions' support. “I appreciate you two having my back. Forgive me for saying this, but I want someone important like the Septom.”

“That’s perfectly rational,” Grifo responds, not offended by the words.

“The seven noble, prominent families would challenge you automatically, and that’s just for starters,” Heilim speaks. “Someone like the Septom would be beneficial. Hopefully, the two schemers are just as patrician as the families or as influential as her.”

Tylon naturally progresses to the next topic. “I have no leadership skills, so I can’t run a kingdom.”

“At least you possess a building block,” Grifo replies.

“And what’s that?”

“You’re rational. You carefully contemplate before reaching a conclusion, and it’s not batshit crazy.”

“No reason why you can’t start learning now,” Heilim responds. “From now on, you’re the leader. You’ll call the shots. Grifo and I will counsel you, but, ultimately, it comes down to you.” He notices Tylon is distraught by something. Since he’s been that way since the thirteenth, he speculates it has to do with the turbulence. “Still disturbed by your first kill?”

Tylon nods his head. “I keep convincing myself that she would’ve maimed you or worse, but I claimed a life that probably had people that cared about her. It’s not the same as hunting as our ancestors did.”

“And it’s terrific that you feel that way, or else you would be a monster.”

“How do you do it? How can you butcher people without hesitation?”

The unexpected question forces Heilim to rationalize his behavior. What would be the best answer to explain his actions? He cogitates the truth but selects the lesser version of it. “Monsters exist in humanoids, and it’s up to the heroes to assure they don’t terrorize innocent people.”

"You consider yourself a hero?"

Heilim thinks about his response in silence for an extended period as Grifo and Tylon head further south with him. "I'm trying to be one... in hopes that I'm not truly lost."

Accepting his answer, Tylon ends the dialogue.

Near their destination, the group members cross into the Tumal province. A buck bolts in front of them with a pack of wolves in pursuit as a way of greeting the travelers to the new area. They continue as soon as it’s safe, and they detect the sound of the deer’s last seconds alive, a signal of the wolves’ successful hunt, and the brush emanating a ferocious growl. Heilim responds with his roar in werewolf form, to which it whimpers as it scurries away. Further along, frogs croaking in a high pitch drown out the sound of footsteps on the moist ground from a recent storm, the puddles attract additional mosquitos and other pestiferous insects, and they swarm the travelers.

Grifo notices an erect, metal cross on top of a mound of dirt through the trees. Naturally curious, he inadvertently diverts Heilim and Tylon as he ambulates over to the site. One dirt mound becomes three, each with their personal cross as they emerge from the trees. The eminence is fresh, no more than a couple of days old, with bundles of red flowers on top. Inspecting the words on the blue metal, they ascertain this site is a mass grave of one hundred twenty victims of starvation. Heilim requires a minute to gather himself from the area triggering repressed memories as he tells Grifo and Tylon to move ahead.

“We should be near Garen’s Well,” Grifo speaks. “We should be there by nightfall definitely.”

As day transitions into the evening, the party arrives in the small village of Garen’s Well. Tight security halts Grifo, Heilim, and Tylon at the entrance, interrogating them for the reason of entering the settlement. The royal guards catechize the Cerths the most, asking them nonsensical questions. Grifo casts a spell on them, calming them down and causing them to be affable enough to allow him and his companions access.

They discern numerous propaganda posts that are highly obscure to read. The dark paint covers up the colorful graffiti on the side of some buildings large enough to host it. Any scraps of paper on poles or walls are the remains of the whole post. Additional guards observe from their positions at citizens living their lives.

Inside a tavern called the Stuffed Swine, the atmosphere is devoid of chatter. A vacuous space near a piano desperately requires a pianist.

Under the piercing scrutiny of the customers and security, Grifo, Heilim, and Tylon locate their seats and order their meal. Unfortunately, unlike the other instances of tavern food, the portion size of the Stuffed Swine is diminutive, unworthy of living up to the business name.

“Sorry,” the waitress says in a low voice and glances around. “We’re having a challenging time acquiring necessary supplies, so we have to ration our current stockpile.

Seeing their lack of food, the group members engage in conversation, insouciant by the other customers. The guards become inquisitive, so they decide to throw their weight and authority around to teach the foreigners, especially the Farlanders.

“Sounds like an interesting conversation,” one of the guards intercalates. His foul breath of alcohol invade Grifo, Heilim, and Tylon’s space, and the beer-gut collides against the table, causing the cups, plates, and utensils to vibrate. “What is it about?”

“Splendid,” Grifo speaks before he faces him. “You can probably assist us.”

“Oh?” The guard has the widest grin on his face. “And what would that be?”

“We heard the news of a family that was slaughtered near here. Evidence suggested Skin Changer activity. Can you tell us where the site is?”

“First time I’ve heard of it.” The officer maintains his grin for a different motive. “Sounds like secret talk of terrorists in the Brotherhood of Liberty. Come with us. We need you to answer some questions.”

“Not even by Iridii will you force me out of my seat,” Heilim responds.

As a consequence, the security associates unsheathe their weapons. “And now you earned yourself an arrest by uttering a non-Church entity and for resisting orders of a King’s guards.”

“Judging by how the citizens react, I wager that you’re not in good graces with them. They won’t give a single fuck if misfortune strikes you down if you execute your threat.”

The guard laughs. “Now threatening the King’s guards. Keep this up; it’ll be an execution instead for you, Farlander.” Heilim advises Tylon subtly through body language when he notices him about to speak, and he doesn’t want him exposed. Heeding the hint, Tylon alters his action to silence.

“Hold up,” an unknown voice shouts. 

A masculine Dwarf wearing modest clothing walks towards the source of tension in the dining area. Beside him is another male who is a giant even by tall race standards for comparison, smiling with drool coming out of his mouth. Even with an adipose body, there is an abundant amount of muscle beneath because of a massive club on the behemoth's back. The residents observe in either hope or horror, depending on which outcome they believe is most likely, at two additional people standing up against the King’s Guards.

“And who the fuck are you interfering with an arrest?” The guard interrogating the foreigners asks in an agonistic tone. He glances between Heilim and the stranger.

The pygmy stranger gestures between himself and the giant as he introduces themselves. “We’re just two bastards that simply want to deescalate the situation before it does the exact opposite, Lylas.” The stranger stares at the newcomers and the guards. “Gods, it appears we can use several whores in here. They’ll help tremendously in this situation.”

From the way the stranger comports himself, Lylas increases his temper. “What authority do you have to suggest how I command my troops, dwarf? And how the hell you know my name?”

“This Human-“ the stranger emphasizes his race by elevating his voice to a stentorian volume-“ merely made an observation. A suggestion would be forgetting this whole mess and getting laid.” He doesn’t bother answering how he knows Lylas’s name.

“You’re under arrest also.”

“Do you apprehend people for merely pissing you off? If so, then it’s a marvel why the whole village isn’t in jail.” Ear-piercing scrapes of the chair on wood causes everyone to cover their ears as the outsider pulls a seat over and stands on it to reach the beverage on Grifo, Heilim, and Tylon’s table. The stranger pours a drink until it rains slightly on the wood with an empty cup in one hand and a wine bottle in another. “Tell me, how did you obtain the position you’re in right now?” He inquires before he quaffed the wine.

“The king, himself, appointed me,” Lylas answers. 

“He’s at the bottom of the barrel already,” the stranger retorts before he resumes his drink.

“You still haven’t told me how you know my name, and I won’t allow some random half-man insulting me,” Lylas demands, infuriated by the indignity.

Not finished with his alcohol, the stranger raises a finger as a gesture for Lylas to be patient while he’s in the middle of downing his booze. Then, he places the cup on the table. “It’s my business to remember names. It’s also in my interest to know other details of prominent figures.”

“I doubt you know details about me,” Lylas challenges.

“Where do I begin?” The stranger asks himself out loud. “You served my father, Kywell, for years before bailing for unknown reasons and exhibited the same actions multiple times. Such a bizarre habit of having.”

Hearing the name, Kywell, begets Lylas to sweat. “I was given promotions. What lunatic passes opportunities to climb the ladder to an upper-tier?” He finally connects the dots. “Wait, I know who you are. You’re Raulyn Hearthrow.” At the announcement of the short Human’s name, multiple customers and guards lean into each other’s ear and whisper.

“A superb observation from you,” Raulyn responds dryly. He halts Lylas from uttering his following words. “Before you order your men to do something asinine, allow me to lay out the consequences first. I possess damning secrets about you, and I have friends observing us in secret. As soon as they sense the story going south, at least one of them will escape and divulge the confidences, tarnishing your reputation. If that doesn’t mortify you-“ he indicates Heilim and the giant-, “these fine gentleman wouldn’t vacillate in shedding blood. I concur with the Certh in that the villagers wouldn’t shed a single tear if my friend, Pavhik, and perhaps him annihilate you.” Pavhik wields his enormous club and still hasn’t lost his smile. Somehow, the grin becomes menacing.

Lylas relents begrudgingly. “Stand down, men.” They proceed to leave the tavern.

“Excellent.” Satisfied that there won’t be bloodshed, he focuses on Grifo, Heilim, and Tylon. “You’ll find the site outside the village to the west. Who knows what time covers up?”

“Thanks,” Tylon speaks.

Raulyn hops off the chair, and he and Pavhik walk to their sleeping quarters after the giant returns the chair to its original location. As a token of gratitude, the owner gives Grifo, Heilim, and Tylon a room at a deep abatement, so they drop off unnecessary gear before searching for signs of lycanthrope activity, and the locals reveal details of various livestock and people vanishing without a trace. Noticing Raulyn in a secluded area, Heilim breaks from the group to palaver.

“Thanks for backing us up.”

“Don’t mention it,” Raulyn replies.

“I have one question.”

“Speak.”

“What made you believe that your friend and I would demolish the guards.”

“Because I know that screwing with the Mad Butcher equals a death sentence,” Raulyn adds more as he disappears from view behind the door. “The Hearthrow family could use a man with your laurels in its ranks. It’s just an idea.”

During the trip to the family massacre site, Heilim ponders about Raulyn’s words. Why would a Hearthrow express interest in having a Certh like me in his ranks? What benefits will I attain by joining?

Grifo, Heilim, and Tylon split up as soon as they arrive at the scene, and they notice signs of a struggle. Off the path and in the bushes lay broken pieces of a cart and a putrefying horse corpus. Near the remains, Heilim discerns impressions on the soft ground of several people lying prone in two distinct groups: blood splatters and two bullet casings. So two groups of people were here. I suspect that a mother shielding her children is one half, and the father attacking the threat with a firearm is the other. Obviously, the victor is clear. The horse and human imprints on the ground suggest an ambush.

Meanwhile, Tylon investigates markings on an enormous tree. A large orifice is a sign of a profound impact from a projectile. Another hole next to it has blood splatters surrounding it. Around the tree, some footprints denote a feline creature, a lion judging by the hair.

“Heilim, can you come over here?” Tylon asks. He points him towards the signs when he arrives. “Notice them?”

Heilim nods as he pieces the evidence together. The father must’ve hit the creature with a large caliber bullet and missed with the other. Footprints and hair suggest a lion, but too feral to be a Nakjit. A Skin Changer, perhaps? It must be a minor too, from the size. There are similar footprints at the slaughter spot. Most likely, they’re a family of Skin Changers or a rogue organization. I wonder where the trail leads to?

Be vigilant, Conall speaks in Heilim’s head. I sense Skin Changers around and not from the sanctioned group.

Fenra or wild?

Bestial.

Which direction?

Further up the path.

“Heilim, Tylon, you two need to behold this,” Grifo suggests, his voice trembling with fear. They notice immediately what has him frantic, a set of giant footprints of a monster with four claws on each foot. They, too, are perturbed at what it represents. “Those folks in Garen’s Well don’t realize just how fortunate they are."

“We’re lucky too that these footprints are a couple of days old,” Heilim responds. “I’d rather avoid Razorclaws any time of the year, let alone during the season when the females are giving birth.”

“Me too,” Tylon replies. “It also explains the horse.”

“Thankfully, the tracks point to nowhere important,” Helim utters.

“Let’s travel the path further ahead,” Tylon suggests, taking a couple of paces ahead of Grifo and Heilim. “I want to know if there’s more evidence of Skin Changers. Signs of them plotting an ambush.”

“You’re in command,” Grifo speaks.

“If you insist,” Heilim replies.

Using Conall as a personal bloodhound, Heilim points Grifo and Tylon towards a house after pretending to scour the land with them for a minute and a half. Despite the tatterdemalion appearance, there are signs of people living there either brand new or one of the worst tenants in the world. The lights are on, showing a family of four about to consume a pristine cut of beef and mostly slop. Disheveled, hairy, and filthy in appearance, they are a consummate match to the abode. Under Tylon’s orders, the party walks over to the door.

A knock on the entrance results in frenetic noises on the other side. It appears that the family, or most of it, is making itself exiguous out of fear. A single male Firbolg opens the door to greet Grifo, Heilim, and Tylon. They notice he has extra hair on his body on top of what is considered natural for the race, and it resembles a lion’s mane.

“Can I help you?” He asks—the tone and body stance signal to the group members that they’re not welcome. There is a greataxe nearby that they suppose will be used if they don’t tread carefully with their words and actions.

“Hello,” Tylon replies. “We heard reports of dangerous monsters attacking random people in Tumal, and we noticed signs of activity near your home. We’re just checking up on you and your family and wonder if you have any news pertaining to our quest. What’s your name?”

“Waesyarus, and no, I don’t have any news about monster attacks,” Waesyarus answers. “Now begone.”

Heilim, at the urging of Conall, wedges his foot in the gap as Waesyarus attempts to shut the door. Then, growing angry at the obstacle, he urges the Certh to remove his foot. The wooden door with faded colors and missing splinters creaks and moans under the strain of being the center of the struggle, as if warning them about its fragile existence.

Believing they’re at the point of no return, Waesyarus begins to transform into his alternate form. At first, his eyes change to those of a lion. A deep, guttural growl is the next instance of change, followed by the enlargement of his teeth. Every fabric sunders till nothing is on him as his size increases to the Grifo and Tylon’s disbelief. His entire body is now in the shape of a muscular lion, complete with a tail. Simultaneously, Heilim transforms into his werewolf form.

In a clash of teeth, claws, and fur, Heilim and Waesyarus engage in a fight, adding larger holes than the existing apertures as they bust through two walls. Several lacerations appear on their skins, their fur turning changing color to their blood. Heilim latches onto his opponent’s left shoulder by his teeth, tearing out a chunk of flesh as Waesyarus chucks him to the side and lands with a sickening thud.

Grifo and Tylon stand frozen to their spot for several minutes during the altercation at the sight of absolute truculence. Tylon composes himself as he notices a female Firbolg huddling next to two younger Firbolgs, ages eight and five, all with tears down their faces. The oldest child has a bullet injury. Are they praying? My instincts tell me that they are not the monsters we initially thought. He inserts himself between Heilim and Waesyarus before either of them executes their next move.

“Enough of this!” Tylon orders.

Heilim snarls at Tylon for interfering. “Out of my way, Tylon,” he says in Conall’s voice. “They are dangerous, alive.”

“You dare defy the order from the heir to the Adoranian throne?”

Heilim disengages, still maintaining his werewolf form and on extreme vigilance. Waesyarus, on the other hand, captures Tylon and holds him hostage.

“Tylon,” Heilim shouts, and Grifo echoes. Then, he assumes his stance, gathering energy to launch himself to attack while growling.

“Stand down,” Tylon commands. Both Grifo and Heilim obey reluctantly though Heilim maintains the energy in case he needs to strike. He then turns his attention to Waesyarus. “I’m not your enemy. I only want to stop this before any life is lost. Release me.”

“Not a chance,” Waesyarus responds in his alternate, monstrous voice. “I’ll savor every second of tearing your throat out.”

“And risk your family’s lives?”

“What do you mean?”

“I noticed your wife and children praying in another room. They fear they will lose you. As soon as you kill me, you’ll die, and no one will protect them from Heilim. I honestly believe you’re not the monster he believes you are. Please, tell me your side of the story.”

“Fine,” Waesyarus replies and releases Tylon. The half-Farlander gestures to Grifo and Heilim to not escalate the tension. “You may actually free us from our curse.”

“Curse?” Tylon inquires.

“My wife, Zinyra, and I encountered a werelion years ago, and it infected us. We lost our children, and our current offspring inherited our curse. We bounced from multiple locations that I can’t count the exact numbers due to the residents figuring out our lycanthropy. The places that discovered that we weren’t gifted from Lymis were the most vicious. This house served as the longest without raising alarms until the incident with the other family. I suspect that’s your true reason for traveling here.” Grifo, Heilim, and Tylon nod in agreement. “They discovered us and kidnapped my youngest son to expose him and us to the royal guards in Garen’s Well. We freed him, but we had to kill them, or else we would’ve relocated and lost a member of the family. They wouldn’t see to reason.”

“Where does freeing you from your curse come in?” Heilim inquires in a demanding tone.

Waesyarus gives him an angry glare. “Rumor has it that there’s an organization of rogue Skin Changers operating around here, stealing livestock and people. A werelion is the leader. It should be the same one responsible for infecting us. If you continue down the road and turn on the first branch heading south, a cave resembles a wolf’s maw. If it turns out the werelion is completely disparate than one that cursed my family and me, then at least there’ll be fewer rogues giving cursed Skin Changers a horrible reputation.” At this time, both he and Heilim revert to their original figure.

As Grifo, Heilim, and Tylon exit the house, Zinyra arrives and covers Waesyarus’s naked body with a blanket. They barely step foot on the path before she stops them. “May I request something?”

“What is it?” Grifo asks.

“It would be of tremendous importance that you don’t cause the royal guards in Garen’s Well to relocate. They’re the only reason why we remain here.”

“We’ll consider it,” Tylon answers. He isn’t sure what to do about the situation. Allow the authoritative guards to maintain their iron grip on the town, causing more suffering to the citizens, or remove them and risk the family to migrate for Eporeiia knows how long. Finally, at Zinyra’s persistence, he relents, though he isn’t sure if he’ll break his vow.