Cheep!?

Chapter 110

 

-Far away, in the fortress city of Ar’Klaadi-

The past few weeks had been both the most exhilarating and the most terrifying days of Dane Venn’s life. His embarkment upon the pilgrimage was still something he was proud to be able to say he was fully committed to, but there were times where he wished for easier days. 

This was one of those times.

“Hey, hey! Look! Hey! You’re not listening again, are you?” An upbeat and cheery voice interrupted Dane’s thoughts, again, and the black haired man almost didn’t need to focus to locate one of the most talkative of his wing of flying companions.

“I’m listening, Pecky,” Dane answered the Red Hawk, “It’s a very nice rug, but, again, you can’t take it with you.”

A whining noise elicited from the bird, “Buuuut Daaaane! It’s so nice! They won’t miss it at all!” 

Dane looked once more to the Ursunite, hand-crafted rug from beyond the Niffel Mountains, made from a tier of material that he didn’t think he’d ever be willingly walking atop of, and for a split second though, ‘Yeah, actually she’s probably right. This is the least impressive thing here, and I’m pretty sure they have more.’ 

He extinguished the thought, aghast with himself at the reminder that his life today was so very different from what it had been when he was an Oath Sworn. Seemingly sensing Dane’s conflicted thoughts and mistaking them for wavering on the subject of asset seizure, Pecky pressed on with, “We can take that really nice suit of armor you were staring at, too! I know you want to look all impressive and stuff since you’re so lithe. That armor was really big, too! It had a huge sword and–” 

“Pecky, I do not need to wear a suit of armor to look bigger,” Dane answered with a sharp chuckle, “Don’t take anything, we’re just here to meet with the–'' his heart skipped a beat as he realized again what he was saying– “With the leader of Ar’Klaadi… right.” His voice wavered and he took a deep steadying breath.

Pecky, resting with her talons embedded in a specialized resting pad on Dane’s shoulder, gently nuzzled the side of his head, “I’m sure he’s nice. Orson was pretty nice, right?” 

“He was a guildmaster, Pecky,” Dane reminded his feathered friend, “This is the leader of a city.”

“Well,” Pecky paused, before fluffing up her feathers, “Well big brother kicked the snot out of that Baron douche–” Dane cringed in regret for Eustace teaching the birds all the curses he was aware of – “for being a bad person.” 

“We’re going to a person in power, right now,” Dane whispered low, “One that we can’t kick the snot out of.” 

Pecky was quiet again for a few moments, before peeping, “Oh. I see the problem now. I got it.” 

A mixture of exasperation and amusement flowed through Dane, before the pair arrived through solid metal double doors. They were guarded not by flesh and blood, but by two squat golems. He would have, vaguely, equated them to the type that Orson had The Gilded Feathers train against, but that would be a discredit to the immaculately crafted works of war-formed art before him. They both heavily resembled a true dwarf, as though one were simply cast out of pure metals. Gold, silver, dark-gray blacksteel, and other more fantastical metals made up the robust, if somewhat shorter, golems. Dane had, through repeated practice, grown quite good at feeling the essence in the air around him, a side-effect of being bonded with five tames. 

The emanations he felt coming from these golems told him that if they meant him harm, he probably wouldn’t even have the chance to defend himself, let alone react in time to do anything about it.

Thankfully, instead of attacking, they merely stepped further to the side of the doors, before pressing the hafts of their glaives into the floor and twisting. Mechanisms ground beneath the floor and out of sight, the gentle rumble transferring to the door itself. They swung open smoothly, belying the weight of the slabs of heavily rune-crafted metal. 

Dane waited a heartbeat after the doors were opened fully, calming his racing heart and smoothing his features to a more respectful degree. “Alright, best behavior, Pecky.”

“Pinky promise. Oh, that still works if I don’t have pinkies, right?” Pecky lightly trilled, though Dane could tell she was doing her best to lighten the mood. 

Dane smiled before speaking into her mind while reinforcing it with thoughts of warmth and companionship, “It’s the thought that counts.”

Pecky warbled happily, and then Dane strode through the doorways into a room that flat-out destroyed what little common sense he’d thought he had about the use of wealth for decor. Whether plated or not, the walls were covered in alternative slabs of gold and what Dane reflexively hoped was a form of glass. Yet, the crystalline panels gleamed in a rainbow shower of light from rods of light that hung, suspended with nothing, mid-air. The light itself was white, but soft, rather than the scalding glare that Dane had seen executed in lesser noble households. Sparse but luxurious furniture dotted the room, frames of wood types that Dane didn’t recognize, mixed with rich fabric several steps above the Ursonian rugs in quality. He did, however, see a creator’s mark on each of the pieces, a sure fire indication that these were quite literally more expensive than any common man could afford even with a decade of saving. 

A tinkling sound dragged Dane’s eyes upwards to a chandelier with a hundred arms, each holding an immaculately crafted hexagonal crystal with some kind of coat of arms carved into each of them. More interestingly, and perhaps importantly, each of those coats of arms was colored appropriately with an embedded precious stone, marking each detail with such care and precision that Dane couldn’t fathom the method of setting them. Undoubtedly, an artisan with a very specific essence skill-set had performed the task, at similarly unique rates, he guessed.

Pillars made from stone rose from the floor to the high, vaulted ceiling, and at first glance these pillars were the least fanciful things in the room. At least, until Dane realized that they were not only covered in scrawling runework, but were also not made of ordinary stone. He didn’t know what it was, but the sheer sensation of essence coming off of them as he passed them would have long crumbled to dust any mundane material.

At some point, the additional things Dane might have noticed simply didn’t register, and with a certain numbness, Dane’s legs moved forward across a long rug dozens of meters in length. He came to a stop before a set of wide stairs, hewn perfectly and decorated with scenes that Dane vaguely recognized as all of the battles and important events that the fortress city of Ar’Klaadi had ever been involved in. The symbolism was clear, as a throne of pale white sat atop the many steps, overlooking a currently near empty room that could fit a thousand comfortably. This was a seat of power that recognized what it was built atop of, and it was a history filled with dogged determination, defiance, generosity, and in the rise of a city that yielded to no one else.

Which was exactly why Orson had emphasized that The Gilded Feathers needed to procure the man in power as a sponsor. 

Strangely enough, as Dane set his eyes upon the clearly powerful man in stone gray and silver finery, a platinum crown with fourteen points upon his head, he did not feel as out of his depth as he thought he might. Perhaps, though, that was because he’d been out of his depth for quite some time now.

Dane bowed at a forty-five degree angle, not the low bow of one utterly subservient, nor a high bow of someone of similar bearing. He knew who he was to this man, both not of his people, but also no equal, either. He kept the bow, having been versed in at least general etiquette by Eustace. Though, his friend insisted that most any noble that would hold an adventurer in contempt for breaches in etiquette as shallow as this wouldn’t be worth their time nor effort in the first place.

“Rise,” The command was given, though not imperiously, “You may introduce yourself.”

Dane did just that, “My name is Dane Venn, adventurer of The Gilded Feathers.” He gestured to his shoulder, “This is Pecky, a Red Hawk and one of my companions.”

The man atop the throne shifted on his seat just barely, and now that Dane was directly looking at him he noticed that he had a certain poise about him. He was far more personable in appearance than Dane had expected, with rich brown hair pulled back behind his ears, held in place by the crown he wore. Three small earrings adorned his left ear, an indication, he’d been told, of the most important people in the man’s life. That there were three matched up with what little Dane knew of the man; the Duke, often called Arnost’s second king, was married and had two children, though neither were being considered for the throne. Ar’Klaadi was unique in that while it was vaguely hereditary, meritocracy was what the council based their rulership on. 

To Dane, it seemed to be a thinly veiled pageantry for support, yet upon seeing the city of Ar’Klaadi he’d begun to doubt that knee-jerk response. His newfound impression was only further solidified by the fact that the Duke-King of Ar’Klaadi held such an air of self-assured power and authority that he couldn’t see this man as anything other than a true ruler. This was no Baron Enner, but instead a man who very much belonged in his position.

“I am Duke Burrholme, the Governor of Ar’Klaadi,” The man started, before pausing and giving a light smile that Dane hoped was benevolent, “And a myriad of other titles that I will dispense with. I am informed that you and your companions have embarked on the pilgrimage?” 

Dane nodded at that, feeling his skin prickle slightly with the force the man put off casually, “That is the case. For a few weeks now, in fact.”

“It is a fine thing,” The Duke stated, “The Kingdom hasn’t had much success with the pilgrimage for many years. I’m glad that there are still some young folk who are willing to brave its trials.” The man casually waved his hand, and Dane felt the little bit of suppression wearing against his skin disappear. “Guildmaster Orson speaks highly of you, can you tell me why?”

Dane simultaneously felt a touch prideful and simultaneously panicked at the mention of Orson speaking highly of them. Still, he took a moment to settle his nerves before speaking, “I wouldn’t presume to speak on behalf of another. If possible, I’d prefer not to speculate.”

And he meant it, Dane had no real idea as to what was going on in Orson’s head half the time. The man was wiley, and while Dane did have some idea, it wasn’t exactly what he could call a good reason.

The Duke blinked before he tilted his head curiously, “Not the response I was expecting. What if I said I insisted?”

“Then I would insist that I don’t know for sure.” Dane responded instantly before he could even consider the moment, but it was at least an honest answer. 

There were a few more seconds before Dane felt the creeping sensation of essence on his skin once more, and the Duke’s glower seemed to weigh on him like a heavy coat. “I am known for being generous, but that is not infinite. You would do well to consider your responses more carefully.”

Dane swallowed hard, but nodded, “I appreciate the advice. My answers remain the same, however.”

The Duke opened his mouth, before stopping and closing it. Dane privately felt like kicking himself for very pointedly mishandling the moment, but at the same time, he couldn’t help it. After what had happened to both himself and his companions with the Oath, he found it harder and harder to capitulate to demands he didn’t want to. Would it have been easy to throw out a general answer? Certainly. Any number of empty platitudes could have filled that void and they could have moved on.

But Dane had already promised his companions that they would never kowtow and scrape to anyone again. A vow that they’d made on the night of the pilgrimage.

“Mmm… I could have you thrown out of my city.” The Duke posited the solution aloud, “Would that motivate your tongue?”

“It’s a beautiful city. It’d be a shame to leave it.” Dane spoke, “Luckily, we’re quite adept at camping.”

Duke Burrholme fixed Dane to the floor with his eyes, and Dane internally began reaching out to his connections with the other Red Hawks. Pecky, on his shoulder, was already with him, just in case something untoward was going to happen.

Instead, the moment of tension was shattered as the man gave a small chuckle, which then rapidly devolved into a giggle. Dane stood, suddenly feeling much more awkward in his place, as the ruler of a fortress city lost himself to humor. 

“Adept at camping, he says,” Duke Burrholme chuckled, “Oh, I apologize, I am not laughing at you, it was… not an expected response. Orson did tell me that you had your own particular quirks.”

Dane blinked at that, before flushing, “Were you testing me?” Then Dane corrected himself at least nominally by adding, “Duke,” to the end of the question.

Atop the throne, the man shook his head, “No, not as such. At least, I hadn’t intended to. I am genuinely curious if you knew why he was putting so much stock into your group. If nothing else, I can see that you don’t lack a spine.”

Furiously blushing further, Dane cleared his throat, “Well, indeed, that is something.”

“From his words, he communicated to me that you were all driven, and that you were loyal to one another. I can tell as much from how your companion there–” he gestured to Pecky, then, –“Was preparing for a fight alongside you that you had no reasonable way to win.” The Duke paused then, before distractedly muttering, “Well, then again, the pilgrimage does very strange things, at times.”

Dane felt and, he was certain, looked decisively lost in the conversation. 

Luckily, the Duke cut in, “In any case, I believe you are of fairly good stock. You were here to see if you could secure patronage, yes?”

“Yes, Duke. That is the case,” Dane managed to pull himself back into order, “Nothing for free, of course, due to the pilgrimage, but a place to grow and hone ourselves.”

The man nodded, “I see no problem at all with that.” The man nodded to himself.

Dane felt his heart skip a beat, “Thank you, Du–”

“I suppose I should show you to the real leader of Ar’Klaadi now, considering the circumstances.” The man stood up from his throne and began walking away, gesturing over his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, what now?” Dane’s brain lagged behind several seconds before he began following, “Real leader? But, wait, excuse me? Can you explain?”

But the man didn’t stop, and instead kept walking, with what Pecky was sure was the most self satisfied smirk she’d ever seen, save for perhaps on her eldest brother.

“He and Niko would get along great.” Pecky nodded to herself, feeling the mixture of exasperation and confusion from Dane even as she enjoyed the ride, “I hope he’s doing okay. He was always pretty bad at birding.”