The long, fiery fingers of twilight stretched across the sky, the sun a large, glowing orb on the horizon. Beneath the few meager wisps of clouds that hung below the heavens, the white puffs turned into smears of blood by the struggling daylight, a small town rested. Houses and inns, bakeries and tailors all nestled together among other shops and taverns. Most the denizens of the quaint place were either finishing up their day’s work, or already heading home for the night.
Home. Where their friends or loved ones waited, where spouses or children would greet them upon their arrival, would dine together, then huddle around the warm hearth as the mild spring day gave way to the lingering chill of the night.
Rayadell, clad in her usual brown cloak with the hood drawn over her head, wove her way through the dirt streets, a bulge at her back easily mistaken for a large pack hidden beneath the garment. She leaned her weight onto the intricately carved staff she held, the silvery metal tipping either end glinting in the fading light. Alas, it was not to the home of a spouse that her feet led her, nor to the company of friends where she could spend the night laughing and drinking and eating her fill in good company.
Bruised and battered from a fight with a young chimera that had somehow managed to wander into the local area, Rayadell made her way to an inn with a worn, painted sign with the words, “The Laughing Phoenix” surrounding the fiery head of a phoenix. With the proof of the chimera’s eradication delivered, one of the pouches at her belt was weighted by a fair amount of gold. It would be enough to last her for a while... at least, as long as the inn did not charge an arm and a leg for a half-decent meal and a bed for the night.
Inside, the stench of stale ale and sweaty bodies permeated the main floor tavern. No matter how often she smelt it, she feared she would never get used to it, to the smell of humans and other races trying to drown their sorrows or relax after a long day by staring into a flagon of cheap alcohol.
Though the gaze of the single, silvery eye not obscured by her black-tipped white hair darkened, the rest of her even expression never changed.
She quickly surveyed the half-empty tavern, taking in the few halflings, dwarves, and humans who occupied the tables. The light of a couple lanterns cast shadows over their faces. All were men, save for the waitress who flitted about the tables, flirting with the customers as she cleared tables and delivered food and drinks. Her simple, stained skirts twirled about her body as she moved.
Rayadell turned her attention from them when a man with a bow leaning against his table, a hood drawn over his face and his feet crossed at the ankles on the table, took an interest in looking back at her.
With easy, elegant steps, she went to the bar where a mousy man in his thirties leaned over from behind the counter, trying to arouse another three times as thick as him and covered in furs who looked to have passed out on his stool, his head turned away from her.
The mousy man looked to her, frustration pulling at his thin lips. With a sigh, he left the unconscious man and stepped toward her.
“What can I do for ya, miss?” he asked with a slight accent, looking her over, taking in her youthful appearance and snowy complexion.
“I need a room for the night,” she said softly, her voice just loud enough to rise above the noise of a group of dwarves who had begun to sing a drinking shanty horribly off-key. Her eyes narrowed and her head twitched toward the offending group. “Single bed. And a hot meal.”
“It’s a solair for an unshared room,” he informed her, crossing his arms. “Five krazeals for a meal.”
“Fair enough.” She was in no mood to argue, her body ready for a nice, long rest. She reached into one of her belt pouches, and pulled out two solairs--round, golden coins with a small hole in the center--and placed them on the worn countertop. “If you have it brought to my room, you can keep the change.”
“As ya wish, miss.” He greedily snatched up the coins. “One mo, and I’ll get a key for ya.”
“Thanks,” she said with a nod.
“I’d know that voice of yours anywhere,” a deep voice slurred as the man on the stool raised his head high enough to turn it to look to her. “If the world ain’t small, I’ll eat my coat.”
Rayadell exhaled through her nose, and irritation settled over her face. Her long fingernails drummed once against the countertop as she turned her head to look to him. He sported a long, bushy beard the color of honey. His green eyes glittered dully, and were slightly glazed over from either sleep or intoxication, if not a bit of both. His skin was dark and weathered, a scar running over his mouth lifting the corner of his lips in an eternal smirk.
“If it ain’t the Silver Wanderer herself!”
Rayadell scowled at the nickname the man had given her when they had traveled together nearly a year past. No matter how hard she had discouraged it, the burly human insisted on calling her it.
“Valos,” she greeted irritably with a stiff nod. “It’s been a while.”
“Eleven months, two weeks, and three days,” he grunted, his head lowering back to the countertop and eyes closing.
“I’m flattered you’d bother to remember that.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm.
He did not respond, and, for a moment, she thought he had passed out again.
“You’re looking well,” he grumbled, his eyes opening.
She lifted an eyebrow, hoping the barkeep would return soon. “I’d say the same, but then I’d be a liar.” She tapped the nails of her free hand impatiently on the counter, her hands covered by a pair of leather, fingerless gloves.
Valos let out a deep, rumbling laugh that ended in a hiccup that looked like it traveled through his entire body.
How long does it take to retrieve a key? she thought irritably, glancing to the door between shelves of bottles and mugs that the barkeep had disappeared through.
The feeling of being watched crept down Rayadell’s spine. She glanced over her shoulder, and found the man at the table, his face hidden in his hood, still looking in her direction. Her eyes narrowed.
“What name should I put for ya, miss?” the barkeep said when he finally reappeared. He placed a brass key on the counter and slid it toward her.
“Took you long enough,” she snapped at him.
“Tarora Shadefell,” Valos answered the barkeep’s question for her, her alias rolling off his tongue sluggishly as he turned his mug in his hands and stared at it with a newfound interest.
The barkeep glanced to him with a scowl, then looked to Rayadell for confirmation, a frown still pulling at his lips.
She nodded as she took the key, a piece of parchment hanging by a leather cord with “16” scrawled messily on it.
“Top floor.” The barkeep pulled out a crude wad of parchment and quickly scribbled her name down. “Last room on the left. Food’ll be brought to ya by the hour’s end. Be out by an hour after sunrise.”
Rayadell nodded, then headed for the stairs visible in a hall opposite the entrance.
“Try to not cause too much trouble,” she muttered to Valos as she passed, who only grunted in response, then placed his mug on the counter with the demand for a refill.
Rayadell hurried to her assigned room, eager to rest her weary body. The steps creaked beneath her, and the lamps that lined the walls in even intervals cast eerie shadows down the bare hallway at the top floor. The heels of her tall boots clicked lightly against the floorboards.
The room was fairly small, a single lantern casting its meager light over the two even smaller beds, one pushed against either wall to the left and right. Two pathetic, crude dressers sat against the wall opposite her, a bowl for washing setting on both the furnishings. She entered, locked the door behind her--leaving the key in the lock--then went to one of the beds. Slowly, she leaned her staff against the wall beside the head of the bed, then, making sure the sole window in the room was blocked by the curtains, removed the cloak.
A pack was strapped to her back, its form rather narrow. On either side of it, a set of silvery bat-like wings were tucked against her body at a rather uncomfortable-looking angle, and a tail of fine, silvery scales curled up beneath the pack.
With a relieved moan, she stretched her wings and uncurled her tail, the translucent membranes spiderwebbed with purple and blue veins.
She quickly unstrapped the pack and placed it on the floor beside the bed, her tail swishing slightly behind her from where it protruded from her self-tailored pair of pants. She went to the center of the room, and stretched her wings again from the open back of her shirt. She extended them to their full impressive span.
She gasped when a knock sounded at the door, her wings drawing in and her body crouching defensively. But no one tried to enter. No one spoke from the other side, requesting entrance.
Instead, an envelope slid in through the bottom of the door.
Rayadell stared at it for a moment, then glanced around the room before cautiously picking it up. She flipped it over in her hands. Though there was nothing on the front, someone had written five simple words in a shimmering red ink on the back: “Leave response at room 7.” Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, she reached into the envelope and pulled out the folded letter inside.
The moment she unfolded it, she gasped at the name it was addressed to. She folded it, and quickly unlocked the door. She carefully poked her head out into the hall and looked down either side, but whoever had left her the note was gone.
Taking a deep breath, she retreated back into her room. She relocked the door, then unfolded the letter once more to read through the elegant script of the letter.
Rayadell Farrodane,
We give our sincerest apologies for the suddenness of the message, but we have found ourselves in dire need of your assistance. Alas, we cannot give the details of the mission by such an insecure method, for there are others who would gladly intercept this letter. We beseech you, come to Caldavail upon the 19th of this month so we may discuss the particulars of what we would request of you. However, we can tell you this: it is a retrieval operation.
I assure you, we do not ask this of you lightheartedly, and will reward you most handsomely. Should you accept the terms and return successful, we believe we have a way to alleviate you of the curse that has haunted you for all these years.
Sincerely,
Mr. and Mrs. Carish
For a moment, Rayadell forgot how to breathe. This had to be some sort of cruel joke, or a trap. But she had not used her real name in many years. There was nearly no one who should know it, and yet, whoever the Carishes were, they did. She read the letter twice more, her gaze lingering on the last line of the letter. Subconsciously, she raised a hand to finger the swirling marks her curse had left on her face, the marks she kept hidden behind her hair.
Caldavail was a small village a few hours’ travel from where she was. Which was just as well; the morrow was marked the nineteenth. If she left early enough, she would be capable of making it in time.
And if it’s a trap? her voice of caution asked.
And what if it’s not? came her silent rebuttal.
She read the letter again, then once more for good measure, as if the red ink would reform and tell her if it was a trick or not. But the words did not change.
“Dash it,” she muttered. “It’s worth it.” She hurried to the bed, placed the letter and envelope on the thin bedding long enough for her to tuck her wings into her back and replace her cloak.
Locating a plume-less quill and a bottle of half-dried ink, Rayadell scrawled out her response on the front of the envelope: “I’ll be there.”
Folding the letter and placing it in the pouch with her money, she left her room and headed for room seven. She found it on the floor beneath her, and knocked. No one answered. After trying again with the same result, she slid the envelope beneath the door, then hurried back to her room. If she wanted to get up early enough to make it before nightfall, she would have to call it an early night.