Chapter 67 – Teller of Fate

Teller of Fate

Seventh Movement: What Came After

Chapter Sixty-Seven

* * *

The fires were out.

Crews of volunteers were busy removing rubble and, where necessary helping to pull down buildings too far gone to be saved.

One of the Hermetists had told Elian Kneecapper that there had been few injuries and no deaths.

No deaths.

The dwarf thought of the dead in the Under lying in the catacomb their home had become.

Still, considering the violence of the last few days, it seemed a minor miracle no one above ground had died.

The dwarf turned and re-entered the Blue Griffin. The crowds within had thinned a bit since the end of the battle four days ago.

Most refugees had no worlds to return to anymore and many of them had decided to stay and try to find a place in the City Without a World.

Between looking for permanent accommodations and helping with the work that needed doing to return Glyph to its version of normal, the Griffin looked to be back to its pre-crisis level of custom. About half the guests were staying in Glyph, so most would be residents in the inn for quite a while, yet.

As soon as the gates were reopened to their regular worlds, many of the refugees would be leaving along with a surprising number of Glyph’s native population. The latter had decided that the city was just too dangerous. With the Garda still absent, Elian couldn’t really blame them.

In a few minutes, the dwarf was at the table the crew generally occupied whenever they were in Glyph.

Quolamin and Darmorel were there. Absent was Bradwold.

Present yet uninvited was Braddley the Below the Hipbone Disemboweller. The dwarf liked him little better than Bradwold did.

“Is Brad expected?” Elian rumbled.

“Ahem—”

“I wasn’t talking about you, dandy.” Elian let his tone do the threatening.

“He and Dævara are thtill in her quarterth. They thaid they be down thoon.” Darmorel was sitting next to Braddley, though not giving him any attention.

The dwarf wondered why the fighter was here at all.

They were meeting to decide where they should quest next. Most of their swag had been commandeered in siege of the last few days and it needed replenishing.

Before Elian got a chance to ask why the despised Braddley was with them, Bradwold and Dævara came down the stairs, arm-in-arm.

A chorus of jovial greetings passed back and forth, flying past Braddley, leaving no mark.

Neither of the two newcomers sat. Both were dressed for travel. There was something odd about Brad’s appearance, but the dwarf couldn’t identify it right away.

“Well, we’re off, we are!” said Dævara.

“Off where?” Elian asked, a bit surprised.

“Haven’t decided yet,” Bradwold responded. “Dæv and I are honeymooning.”

The cheer that went up was spontaneous and enthusiastic. It engulfed the entire room as the news passed in whispers to other tables and to wait staff. The bartender hooted above the throng and began ringing the brass bell on the wall behind her.

Both Dæv and Brad laughed and blushed at the response.

Elian and the women were up out of their seats to hug, smooch, and backslap the happy couple. “When did you get married?” asked Quolamin, the Well-manicured. She sounded out of breath.

It was the elf who answered. “We haven’t, yet. There’s a beautiful Rite done in Ælfen I’m hopin’ I can talk this one—” she jerked a thumb at Brad—“in to.”

“Never said ‘no’,” her spouse-to-be quipped, looking too innocent.

“So,” Elian said, “you won’t be questing with us, then.”

Brad stepped closer and placed a hand on the dwarf’s arm. “Not this time.”

Brad’s skin had an iridescence to it. Elian looked up at him; his eyes had it, too. It was as if his skin and eyes were prisms, splitting the light.

Bradwold noticed his stare. “You’ve noticed the change, then.”

Elian nodded. Bradwold’s gaze swept the others and saw the same surprised look.

Brad turned to Dæv. “Shall I tell them?”

“Let me,” Dæv addressed crew. “My love has begun the change from human to elf, thanks to the Incunabulum.”

“Why?” Elian was stunned. He wouldn’t have thought such a thing possible a week ago.

“Wouldn’t marry me unless I did, he’d not. Afraid to leave me a young widow, romantic fool that he is.”

“Young⸮” Quolamin said, one eyebrow cocked. She was rubbing a thumb over her nails, chartreuse this morning. “How old are you, Dævara?”

“Two hundred and seventeen, I am. Just a babe, really.” One of the elf’s famous grins bloomed a few seconds later.

Elian joined in with the warm laughter.

“One more thing,” said Dævara. “My loving husband’s name is now ‘Brandær,’ or ‘Bran,’ if ya like.”

“We must be off,” said the newly christened Bran. “Things to do before the gates open and all that.”

“We’re going to be short a man,” Elian was the only member of the crew who could say this without suffering an ‘accidental’ injury.

“That’s why I asked, Braddley to come,” said Brandær. “He’s a match for my skills; most of them anyway. Oh, and before you decide on a leader for the crew, Darmorel, the Well-Spoken gets my vote.” He winked at the female fighter, who gave him the pussy-cattest of smiles.

With a few more ‘good-byes’ and ‘congratulations’ the newly-to-be-weds headed out.

It was quiet at the table for a few moments after their departure while the old crew got used to the idea that they wouldn’t be seeing two old friends for a time.

Elian turned a not especially nasty look on Braddley, who gave it right back.

The business of the day was conducted between courses of the hefty breakfast they all decided on.

Per Brandær’s recommendation, Darmorel was acclaimed party leader.

Braddley, known simply as the Disemboweller now, as he was the last ‘Brad’ standing, accepted his place as the most junior member of the crew.

The last order of business was determining where to adventure next.

The worlds of the Zygmoya Constellation had been thoroughly explored. They’d known for months now that they’d face a decision on a new constellation to explore.

Problem was they’d had the discussion before and hadn’t been able to agree on a destination, so they had deferred until they had to decide.

Now they had to, and it looked like being a long session.

Braddley confounded the Kneecapper’s low expectations by resolving the issue before it got started.

“At the outer edge of the Brennan arm of the Antigua Galaxy, there’s a mediaeval constellation with over seventy inhabited worlds. Very few of which have even heard of Glyph or Portals,” Braddley said.

“So, they will have not had many adventuring parties come through,” Quol said.

“It altho explainth why we’ve not heard of it before,” added Darmorel.

“I don’t know it. What Aion is it in?” Elian asked.

“Bythios-Mixis.”

“Ooh! Moving up to the Decade!” Quol at least, seemed pleased.

And so, after a little more discussion, backed up by maps’ consultation, the decision on a world was settled: Origen, a largely rural world with two continents. Its three major cities were all well over fifty thousand years old.

At one time the tropical world was the capital of the entire constellation and several legends had it that untold wealth lay hidden there.

It was a theocracy now and isolated from its former vassal planets.

Its day varied widely in length owing to the twin red giant suns it orbited, each of which seemed to by trying to eat the other. Sunsets were reportedly spectacular. It had no moons.

The crew were just settling their bill when a loud, echoing boom reverberated through the room. They’d heard it before in the recent past: The gates of the city were once again closed.

Grabbing their gear and weapons from the heap in a corner, they headed out.

By the time they reached the Plaza of Dying Suns, they’d heard another somewhat quieter bang.

The crew emerged into the normal sphere-light of Glyph. The Consilium Gate, almost directly in front of them opened as they watched. Another boom and the clear yellow light and rippling meadows could be seen with increasing clarity as the gates briskly swung wide.

Looking up, Elian saw the spheres were moving again. They were pink for the most part, with a suggestion of yellow around the edges like an imminent sunrise.

The last gate, the Porta opened. Form their vantage they couldn’t see it, but that’s where but the sound came from.

Another sound not missed until it returned, was the faint sound of running water. The rivers were flowing high again.

The air soon became sweeter, too.

Cheers and an increase in babble indicated that the people welcomed the return to normal. Crowds began to form along Street and Avenue as those who were going began to move.

Elian wondered if Dæv and Brad were in one of those large queues.

“Well Brad, where’th the Portal we need?” Darmorel asked.

The dwarf started at the use of the name ‘Brad’. It would be some time, he supposed, before he got used to thinking of that name going with their new crew member.

“It’s this way,” Brad pointed toward the Mercenaries Quarter.

They headed out, weaving through the throngs in the Plaza, toward their latest quest, leaving behind for now the memories of absent friends.

— Gideon Jagged
Innsmouth, September 2026

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