Teller of Fate
Fifth Movement: The Power Under Glyph
Chapter Forty-One
* * *
The band piled into a Broadman’s Square in the Merchants Quarter.
They all had to squint in the light. Looking up, only half a dozen spheres were visible. They were quite close.
Well, they were exceptionally large and that meant closer than usual.
Probably.
Mostly yellow and white, with bright pink mottling, they seemed immobile, which meant bright skies for hours yet.
The four paused while the invisible Garda read and registered them. A wave of shivers passed through the group.
“Anyone want to reprovision before we rest?” asked Brad, pointing to a sign the over a large shop across the square that read, ‘Bloodbath & Beyond — Provisions for the Serious Dungeon Hacker.’
“Not in this light, thanks all the same,” rumbled Elian. He had his eyes tightly closed still.
The others agreed. Time enough for that later.
“All right, then. Let’s to the Griffin go.”
The Blue Griffin was a legend in a city already full of them. Located along the edge of the Plaza of Dying Suns in the Magsmens Quarter—home of the most talented thieves in the Multiverse—the Blue Griffin was the fourth largest non-guild building in the city and the second largest inn; only the Crystal Unicorn in the Mages Quarter was bigger.
Nine storeys tall at its highest, the Griffin was made of stone and wood and a few other substances difficult to identify.
It sprawled in three directions, had eleven wings, numerous connected outbuildings, underground tunnels, and rooms for those races not fond of light, and three of the city’s five mechanical elevators.
The Griffin was renowned as the place with the most luxurious suites, best and most varied food choices, the finest beer, strongest spirits, and the choicest whores in the city.
Live entertainment on the Griffin’s twenty-three stages was an ongoing affair with half in active use at any one time. On offer was everything from music, magick shows, burlesque, story tellers, plays, live gladiatorial games—to the death, to the first wound, to the comic humiliation—and live sex.
Some adventurous bastards even tried comedy, though usually not more than once.
It even had its own shops. If they didn’t mind paying a little more, flush or lazy adventurers could stock up on basics like potions and spells, or simple armour and weapons.
No less than a dozen healers were on call at any time of day or night. Relaxation and recreation could get rough at the Blue Griffin.
All told, nearly one in ten people working in the hospitality industry in Glyph worked at the Griffin.
It took Bradwold’s crew an hour to wend their way to the Inn. They decided to bypass the Plaza entrance after seeing the line-up and went around to the side, intending to enter by one of the many secondary doors.
A wood troll guarded their chosen entrance, its grey-brown hide scored with creases, its head covered in feathery green.
It looked at the troupe with the stern disproval of dim-witted bouncers everywhere. “Where d’ya think you’re going, buddy?” in a voice that sounded like the creaking of tree-trunks in a gale.
“I’ll handle thith, guys,” said Darmorel.
Only the group saw the stiletto she surreptitiously palmed as she walked up to the troll. “I wonder if I might have a word.” She crooked a finger and smiled up at the animate tree.
The bouncer bent its back, placing its head at the same level as hers. The others tried to hide smiles.
She made as if to speak in its nearer ear and instead inserted the blade four inches into its farther one. “Can you thtill hear me?”
The troll nodded slightly; its forest green eyes suddenly much wider.
“Good. We’re weary travellers back from an exhausting adventure with a lot of thwag to thpend. We’d like to thpend it here, or—” the creature’s black eyes widened as Darm did something with the knife—“we could go elthewhere. What do you think?”
“I’m sure we’d appreciate your business, mistress.” Then, in a frantic whisper that, nevertheless, carried, “Please take the dagger out!”
Bradwold failed to suppress a snigger.
Darmorel made the knife disappear so quickly it might never have existed. “How nice of you!” she beamed and slipped the troll a gold coin. “C’mon guyth. Firtht roundth on me!”
Finding their favourite bar was complicated more by the unusually heavy crowd than by their atypical place of entrance.
Finally, though, they found themselves in a smallish room on the third floor overlooking the Plaza. A dozen or so patrons, mostly fellow dungeon hackers, filled half the available tables. The crew exchanged greetings with the ones they knew.
The bar itself was opposite the large windows. They took a table away from the glare of the spheres and sat.
Darmorel dropped a gold piece as their server arrived and instructed her to keep the mead and ale flowing till it ran out. Soon, they sat sipping, in Elian’s case quaffing, and talking about food.
An hour later, as they were picking the last bits of food from their plates and Brad was contemplating another tankard of ale when a sweet, familiar voice purred from above, “Well, look who’s decided to finally pay his lady love a visit.”
A grin split the adventurer’s face as he turned and saw Dævara at the top of a wide staircase, resplendent in a shot silk dress of deep amber and silver.
The elf whore wore a wide silver belt, faceted silver rings, and bracelets. A heavy, blue-stoned necklace, also set in silver, and four silver combs holding up her hair added to her sparkle. She stepped quickly and elegantly down the steps.
Bradwold rose in unseemly haste and arrived at the bottom of the stairway just as the elf reached the fourth-to-last step.
From there she leaped into his arms, laughing merrily.
He hugged her close, her feet banging his shins and she shook with giggles loudly in his ear.
Her hair tickled his nose; and the smell of her, jasmine, roses, and that other scent uniquely hers.
Brad wished he didn’t still have his plate and chain on. He couldn’t feel her except with his hands.
“I’ve missed you, luv,” she whispered in his ear when her laughter subsided. Her breath in his ear made him shiver.
She pulled back just as he said, “Missed you too, Dæv.” They kissed.
Only when he began to sense the watchful silence behind him did Bradwold break the kiss, slipping his tongue back in his mouth and letting the petite elf slide down to her feet.
Two women and a dwarf pretended to concentrate on their drinks.
“Elian, my fine, fellow short arse, I brought somethin’ for you, I did,” said Dævara. She strode over to him. As he turned, she tickled him under his beard. “Look up.”
Everyone turned to see several statuesque ladies beautifully clothed and coiffed, standing along the mezzanine rail. No two were the same colour.
“Hmm,” the dwarf rumbled as he stroked his beard. “I’ll take all but the lizard.” The exotic, violet scaled beauty pouted, lashing her long, thin tail. Elian laughed as her ‘disappointed’ face dissolved into a warm smile. “This way, ladies. It’s time to make a dwarf salad.”
Leaving his seat, the fighter-healer headed for the hall that opened to the left of the bar.
The seven, eight, nine of them followed. The band would not see him for at least two days, if experience were anything to go by.
Quolamin shook her head. “I’d love to be a fly on the wall in whatever room they end up in.”
“You thay that every time,” quipped Darmorel. “Remind me again what your profession ith?” she asked the magick user.
Quolamin, the Well-Manicured stuck her tongue out.
“If you ever do find the nerve to thpy on him, remember to include your old friend, Darmorel. Or you could just join him.”
Quol stared daggers at her quest mate.
“I’m just thayin’ is all,” looking far too innocent.
“Quolamin,” Dævara interrupted, “Shorbrea’s here at the inn.”
The change in Quolamin’s face was comically abrupt, “She is? When did she get back? Where is she?” actually clasping her hands to her bosom. Then, noticing the smirks, tried to pretend she’d done no such thing. There was a collection of chuckles from a couple of the closer tables.
Quol glared at them.
“In your quarters, where else?” Dæv was grinning herself. From the elf, Darm would allow it.
Abandoning decorum, the magick user squeeeee’d and ran from the room.
“Well, that should even her temper out,” Darmorel remarked after the wizard had departed.
“And what about you, Miss Well-Spoken?” said Brad.
Darmorel turned to their hostess, “What’th on tap today, Dæv?”
Dævara replied by gesturing to the mezzanine again. A selection of the finer, dark-skinned male whores arrayed themselves.
They posed and made kissy faces while Darm, one hand on chin, the other holding her elbow, considered. Good natured catcalls and suggestions rang out from the room.
In the end, she selected two males built like bulls.
Darmorel headed off with her choices, calling over her shoulder as she did so. “Your shares of the loot will be in your quarterth. Tell the otherth, will you? Oh, they’ll know by now—never mind!” She shouted that last before disappearing down a staircase just within sight.
The rest of the unselected whores descended to the room and headed for various tables to try their luck.
“I think that’s our cue,” said Brad. He took Dæv’s arm as they left the room together.
Dævara surprised Brad by not climbing the stairs again. “Aren’t we headed for your apartments? My pants are a little snug.” We waggled his eyebrows.
She laughed. “I’ve moved, I have. Gregarrt let me have one of the cupola suites.”
The apartments she spoke of were at the top of the inn and were two levels high; three, if you counted the large cupola-topped room that was mostly used as a sleeping area.
The dome was entirely of glass, allowing an impressive view of the city. From without however the contents of the room were invisible, guaranteeing complete privacy.
Only the best producing whores merited those rooms.
“You’ve moved up in the world, then?” He hugged Dæv tight around her slender waist for a moment.
“That I have. I moved in these five weeks gone. I really wanted to share it first with a certain treasure seeker; but he was nowhere to be found, he wasn’t.” She put on a fake, yet quite fetching, pouty face.
“Careful, darlin’! You’ll trip over than lip if you’re not careful.” Brad flicked a finger on it, causing a popping sound from the elf’s mouth.
She laughed again, crimson eyes dancing, and hugged his arm, leaning her head against his bicep.
“So, what did you do in my absence?”
“My inaugural client was a storm giant named Arngeir.”
“A storm giant? Aren’t they…you know—?”
“Big? Oh, darlin’ you’ve no idea.” She made a gesture indicating wedding tackle that would have done a horse proud.
“So how did you manage?”
“I’m an elf, Dear Heart! We’ve our magical ways, we have.” Her turn to waggle her red-gold eyebrows.
“Surprised you didn’t explode.” Bradwold tried to imagine the coitus of the large and the tiny. Talk about wanting to be a fly on the wall.
“And of course when he came off there was lightning and a crack of thunder.”
She had to stop as Brad was suddenly laughing so hard, he couldn’t stand.
— Gideon Jagged
Innsmouth, August 2026
© Gideon Jagged
All Rights Reserved
