Korr's Ring
Korr's Ring
The scent of lavender and rosemary, usually a comfort in the Shrine of the Harvest Moon, felt heavy, almost cloying, in the hushed room. Candles, their flames small and steady, cast flickering light upon the cot where Brindle Eamond lay, his breaths shallow and rattling. Wax dripped in slow, melancholic tears beside him. Sister Eliza, her face a mask of serene gravity, stood by the far wall, her hands clasped tightly. Her gaze was fixed on the Blessed Grain Stone tucked beneath the dying man’s narrow bed, its faint warmth a silent testament to the truths being coaxed from him. Above, doves rustled in the rafters, their soft coos a stark contrast to the rhythmic, unrelenting spatter of rain on the stone walkway outside.
Mirielle Vancroft watched Brindle, her dark eyes filled with a mixture of scholarly curiosity and empathy. The man was a thread, frayed and about to snap, but a thread that might lead to answers Eleanor so desperately sought. Beside her, Hawke Swiftwater stood with the stillness of a forest predator, his senses alert, his gaze sweeping the room, noting the exits, the shadows, the way the light fell through the oiled parchment windows. Arkhan Valerius, his bronze scales catching the candlelight, radiated a quiet strength, his hand resting near the hilt of his longsword, a silent promise of protection in this sacred space. Eleanor Moongazer was closest to Brindle, her posture taut, every line of her body radiating a fierce, contained energy. The name "Saltwind" had been a key turning in a lock she'd carried for too long.
Brother Cedric, his voice a warm counterpoint to the room's somber mood, adjusted the simple woolen blanket over Brindle. "Let him speak while he can," he urged quietly, his eyes kind but tinged with an urgency that mirrored Eleanor's. "Chauntea’s light will not falter here. Truth brings peace, even when it cuts. He deserves that much, and so do you all."
Brindle’s eyes, clouded with pain and the proximity of death, fluttered open, finding Eleanor's intense gaze. His voice, when it came, was a dry, gravelly whisper, each word an effort. "Saltwind…" he rasped, a cough shaking his frail frame. "We… we thought she’d sink quiet in the deep… swallowed by Valkur's embrace... but no…" He paused, gathering strength. "Kara… Kara found her. Took what mattered."
Eleanor leaned closer, her auburn hair falling forward. "What mattered, Brindle? What did she take?"
"A painting…" His eyes held a flicker of remembered beauty. "Gods, it was beautiful… 'Twilight in Redveil'… Arinhel Varnesse’s brush. Neris Foldhands… he delivered it…"
A sudden creak from the shrine’s heavy oak front door cut through Brindle's words. All heads turned. A figure cloaked in the drab robes of a lay attendant slipped inside, head bowed, moving with an unnerving quietness. Hawke’s eyes narrowed. The scent of bitterroot and something acrid, like spent smoke powder, pricked at his nostrils, out of place amidst the herbs and clean incense. He subtly shifted his weight, his hand dropping to one of his shortswords. Mirielle, too, caught the scent, her mind cataloging it – ingredients often used in flash powders or crude explosives. Her fingers tightened on the smooth wood of her quarterstaff.
The newcomer looked up, and the illusion of a humble attendant vanished. Beneath the hood, a mask concealed their features, but the eyes glinting through the slits were cold, predatory. "Too much talk for the dead," the masked figure snarled, their voice a harsh rasp. "Time to hush it."
In a blur of motion, the assassin lunged towards Brindle’s cot, a wicked-looking dagger appearing in their hand as if by dark magic.
"No!" Eleanor cried, drawing her own Death's Bite dagger and rapier in a single, fluid movement. She threw herself between the attacker and Brindle.
"This is sacred ground!" Sister Eliza’s voice, usually steady, rang with outrage. "You bring shadow here at your peril!" She moved with surprising swiftness, placing herself near the small altar, her hands reaching for a heavy silver candlestick.
"Guard him!" Brother Cedric boomed, his earlier warmth replaced by righteous fury. He hefted a surprisingly solid oaken stool, positioning himself to cut off the assassin's escape route towards the main door. "Go—strike true, champions!"
Arkhan was already moving, his plate armor surprisingly quiet as he stepped forward, shield raised. "By Bahamut's breath, you'll not defile this place!" His voice resonated with divine power. He swung his longsword, not to kill, but to drive the attacker away from Brindle.
The assassin was quick, deflecting Arkhan’s initial blow with their dagger, the clang of steel loud in the confined space. They feinted towards Eleanor, then spun, a small, dark object arcing from their hand. It shattered on the stone floor, and a thick, acrid smoke billowed outwards, choking the air and obscuring vision.
"Smoke bomb!" Hawke yelled, his voice tight. He coughed, blinking against the stinging fumes. "Mirielle, can you clear this?"
"Working on it!" Mirielle’s voice came, focused. She began chanting, her hands weaving intricate patterns in the smoky air. "Ray of Frost on the windows – fresh air might help!" A lance of icy energy shot out, shattering one of the parchment windows, and a gust of damp, cool air swirled in, thinning the smoke slightly. She then began a more complex incantation, a low hum building around her.
Eleanor, relying on instinct and the sounds of combat, pressed her attack. The assassin, clearly prioritizing Brindle, tried to slip past her in the haze. Her rapier darted out, seeking purchase. She felt it connect, a satisfying tear of fabric and flesh. A grunt of pain from the assassin.
Arkhan, guided by his Divine Sense, could feel the malevolent presence of the attacker. He pushed through the smoke, his shield deflecting a wild dagger thrust he barely saw. He brought his sword down in a powerful arc, forcing the assassin to stumble back.
Hawke, meanwhile, had circled around the edge of the smoke, using the prayer benches as cover. He loosed an arrow, aiming for where he'd last seen the attacker. The thwack of the arrow hitting home was followed by a sharper cry.
The smoke began to dissipate further under the influence of Mirielle's minor air currents and the broken window. The assassin was visible now, bleeding from a cut on their arm where Eleanor’s rapier had found its mark, and an arrow protruded from their thigh. They were cornered between Arkhan and Eleanor, with Hawke cutting off any retreat towards the back.
"You won't silence everyone," Eleanor spat, her eyes blazing.
The assassin, realizing their position was hopeless, made a desperate move. They feinted towards Arkhan, then, with surprising agility despite their wound, tried to duck under Eleanor’s guard, aiming for Brindle one last time.
But Eleanor was ready. Her Death's Bite dagger, held in a reverse grip, flashed out, intercepting the assassin’s desperate lunge. The blade bit deep into the attacker's shoulder. The assassin screamed, the sound cut short as Arkhan’s shield slammed into their side, sending them sprawling to the floor, their dagger clattering away.
Hawke was on them in an instant, one boot pressing firmly on the assassin’s injured shoulder, his shortsword at their throat. "Talk," he said, his voice dangerously low.
The fight was over as quickly as it had begun. The shrine was a mess of overturned herbs, scattered parchment, and the lingering, bitter scent of the smoke bomb.
Brother Cedric quickly moved to Brindle’s side, his face etched with concern. Sister Eliza retrieved the assassin’s dagger, her expression grim.
Mirielle completed a quick binding spell, her fingers tracing glowing runes in the air around the downed assassin’s hands and feet. "They won't be going anywhere."
Brindle was gasping, his eyes wide with terror and pain, but he was alive. Eleanor rushed to him. "Brindle, quickly. What else? Where did she take it?"
His voice was even weaker now, a mere thread. "Redveil… she took it east…" He coughed, a painful, racking sound. "The gate… the gate of charred stone… you'll find her… find her there…" His eyes unfocused, his breath hitched, then stilled. The Blessed Grain Stone beneath his cot, which had glowed with a warm, steady light, slowly dimmed, its luminescence fading like a dying ember.
A heavy silence fell over the room, broken only by the relentless drumming of the rain. Brother Cedric gently closed Brindle’s eyes, his lips moving in a silent prayer.
Sister Eliza looked at the party, her gaze somber. "His truth is now our burden. We must make it count."
"We will bless him," Brother Cedric said, his voice thick with sorrow but firm. "And then we will see to this… this viper." He gestured to the captured assassin. "But vengeance must not blind you. Justice, yes. Mercy, where we can show it."
Eleanor stared at Brindle’s still form, her heart a cold knot in her chest. "Charred stone…" she whispered, the words a chilling echo. Korr. The Saltwind. Kara Thornblade. The threads were tangling, pulling her towards a confrontation she both craved and dreaded. She picked up a small, driftwood log that had fallen from Brindle's satchel during the struggle. Strange, burnt-in notations covered its surface, resembling celestial maps. In Brindle's cold hand, a silver ring gleamed faintly. She gently slipped it off. It was engraved with a holy symbol of Chauntea, intricate and rare.
Mirielle approached the assassin, now securely bound. "Who sent you? Who is Kara Thornblade working with?"
The assassin just spat towards her, their eyes filled with hate.
Arkhan knelt, his expression stern. "You have failed. You have defiled a holy place. Speak, and perhaps Bahamut will show you a sliver of mercy in the accounting of your deeds."
The assassin remained silent, glaring.
Hawke picked up the assassin’s dagger. "Poisoned," he noted, examining the dark, viscous substance coating the blade. "They weren't just trying to silence him, they were making sure."
The immediate threat was neutralized, but the air in the Shrine of the Harvest Moon remained thick with unanswered questions and the grim promise of more violence to come. Brindle Eamond’s last words had opened a door, and beyond it lay a path shrouded in smoke, ashes, and the glint of a blade in the shadows.
The intermittent drizzle had given way to a steady, soaking rain by the time they left the Shrine of the Harvest Moon. Brother Cedric had taken charge of the captured assassin, promising to see them delivered to the town guard and questioned thoroughly, though he held little hope for a willing confession. Sister Eliza, her composure regained, had offered them barley tea and a moment of quiet reflection, but the urgency of Brindle’s last words spurred them onward. The driftwood map fragment, with its cryptic celestial markings, and the name "Neris Foldhands," the smuggler Brindle had mentioned, were their only leads beyond the ominous "gate of charred stone."
Mirielle, after a brief study of the driftwood, suggested a possible connection to an abandoned distillery rumored to be a Blackthorn Syndicate haunt, located on the western fringe of Cobblecrest's woods. "The celestial coordinates are difficult to place without more context," she’d explained, her brow furrowed in concentration, "but some of these symbols… they align with old smugglers' charts that sometimes used local ruins as waypoints. If Neris Foldhands was involved, he'd need a place to receive and store illicit goods like a valuable painting."
Hawke, familiar with the woods around Cobblecrest, knew the place. "Stonecoil Glen," he’d said, his expression grim. "It burned down years ago. They said it was an accident. Locals avoid it; say it's haunted by the men who died in the fire."
"Or by those who don't want visitors," Eleanor had muttered, her hand instinctively going to Chauntea’'s ring, now worn on a leather thong around her neck.
The path to Stonecoil Glen narrowed as the underbrush thickened, wet branches brushing their shoulders with cold, leafy fingers. The air grew heavy, damp, and unnaturally still, the usual sounds of the forest muted. A faint, sweet-scorched scent, like burnt sugar and damp wood, drifted through the mist-draped trees, growing stronger as they pressed on.
The ruin revealed itself slowly through the oppressive mist – half-buried stone walls, a sagging roofline threatening to collapse, and a crooked brick chimney tilting precariously against the grey sky like a skeletal finger. The old distillery stood silent, a monument to decay and perhaps, darker secrets.
"Charming," Eleanor commented, her voice dry, as she scanned the crumbling facade.
Hawke moved with his usual quiet grace, his eyes missing nothing – a disturbed patch of leaves here, a too-fresh scuff mark on a mossy stone there. "Someone's been through here recently," he murmured, pointing to a nearly invisible trail leading towards what might have once been a side entrance. "And they weren't just sightseers."
Arkhan, his hand resting on his shield, surveyed the ruin with a paladin’s unease. "This place feels… tainted. Be on your guard." The air itself seemed to cling to them, heavy with the smell of old ash and something else, something vaguely metallic and unsettling.
Mirielle, her orb of shielding glowing faintly at her belt, felt a prickle of arcane energy. "There are residual magical traces. Faint, but present. Warding spells, perhaps, or something more."
They followed Hawke towards the most intact part of the structure, a section where the stone walls still stood reasonably firm, though the roof sagged dangerously. Inside, the burnt-sugar smell was stronger, mixed with the cloying aroma of fermenting residue. A thick layer of burnt mash, now a sticky, tar-like substance, coated the floor in patches, making their footing treacherous. Flies buzzed in lazy clusters around what looked like old fermentation vats. Crumbling wooden catwalks, slick with moisture, hung precariously above the rusted metal tanks, groaning under their own weight.
"If Kara, or this Neris, used this place," Eleanor said, her voice low, "they'd need somewhere secure to keep something as valuable as 'Twilight in Redveil'." Her eyes scanned the larger vats, the shadowed corners.
Hawke pointed towards one of the largest vats in the center of the main room. Unlike the others, which were open and decaying, this one seemed remarkably intact. Its heavy wooden lid was bolted down, the edges sealed with melted wax and something darker, almost like dried blood. "That one's different."
As they approached, a faint sound reached them, almost inaudible above the drip of water from the leaky roof and the sigh of the wind through broken panes of glass. A soft, rhythmic tapping, like a knuckle-bone against wood, seemed to echo from within the sealed vat.
Mirielle and Arkhan exchanged uneasy glances. Eleanor, however, moved closer, her expression hardening. "Anyone in there?" she called out, her hand resting on the hilt of her rapier.
A voice answered, so faint it was almost lost in the oppressive silence. It was wet, whispery, and filled with an unutterable weariness. "They… sealed me… with what I knew…"
The party froze. Hawke’s bow was suddenly in his hand, an arrow nocked. Arkhan took a step forward, his shield angled protectively.
"Who are you?" Mirielle asked, her voice calm but firm.
"Burned me… to silence…" the voice continued, a faint gurgling sound accompanying the words. "But the gate… still calls her name… Red. Red like fire… like blood on canvas…" A pause, then, "Let me go… and I will tell you what I know of the ledger… of Neris."
Eleanor’s eyes narrowed. "Ledger? What ledger?"
"Proof…" the voice whispered. "Of the Saltwind's cargo… where it truly went. Hidden here. They thought the fire took it all…"
Arkhan looked troubled. "This could be a trap. An undead creature, luring us in."
"Perhaps," Mirielle conceded. "But 'Red like fire, like blood on canvas'… that sounds like the painting Brindle mentioned. And a ledger confirming the Saltwind's cargo… that's what we need."
Hawke examined the bolts on the vat. "They're rusted, but solid. It would take time to open this. And make noise."
Eleanor made the decision. "If there's a ledger, we find it. If this… thing… can help, we listen. But we're not walking into anything blind." She looked at Hawke. "Can you get this open, carefully?"
As Hawke began to work on the bolts, his tools surprisingly effective against the rusted metal, Mirielle explored the edges of the room, her gaze sweeping over the crumbling walls and collapsed machinery. Her foot landed on something softer than the surrounding debris. She knelt, brushing away a layer of burnt mash. Beneath it, the stone floor felt strangely uneven. "There's something here," she called softly. "It feels like… leather over stone." She worked her fingers under the edge of what turned out to be a cleverly concealed trapdoor, covered with preserved hide and disguised with a layer of ash and debris.
At that moment, a new voice, sharp and cold, cut through the damp air from the shadowy catwalks above. "Wrong place, wrong time. Shame you found the truth."
Before they could react, two burly figures, armed with heavy maces, charged from behind a stack of collapsed barrels near the far wall, their faces grim. "No one walks out of Red’s cellar without bleeding first!" one of them roared.
Simultaneously, a sleek, shadowy figure dropped silently from the catwalks near the stairs – a Syndicate Whisperblade, daggers glinting in their hands. The Whisperblade immediately cast a spell, and an unnatural silence descended upon the area around the stairs, swallowing all sound. Then, they hurled a small flask that shattered on the ground, releasing a cloud of acrid, poisonous fog.
"Ambush!" Arkhan bellowed, his voice miraculously punching through the edge of the magical silence as he charged towards the Bruisers, his longsword a blur of bronze light. He met the first Bruiser’s mace with his shield, the impact jarring his arm.
Eleanor, abandoning the trapdoor for the moment, spun to face the Whisperblade, her rapier and dagger a dance of deadly steel. The poisonous fog stung her eyes, but she pressed the attack, her movements quick and precise. "You picked the wrong crew to mess with!"
Hawke, abandoning the vat, loosed an arrow at the second Bruiser, who was trying to circle around Arkhan. The arrow struck the Bruiser in the leg, making him stumble and roar in pain. Hawke then ducked behind a rusted tank, seeking cover as he nocked another arrow.
Mirielle, caught near the trapdoor, quickly assessed the situation. The Silence spell was problematic, preventing verbal components for many of her spells. She focused, drawing on her abjuration knowledge, and began to weave a protective ward around herself, its faint blue light shimmering in the gloom. She then targeted the Whisperblade with a Fire Bolt, the silent streak of flame forcing the agile assassin to leap back.
The fight was fierce and chaotic. The Bruisers were strong and reckless, their maces whistling through the air. Arkhan, a bulwark of bronze and steel, held them back, his Divine Smite flaring as his blade connected, searing flesh and armor. The Whisperblade was a more elusive foe, their movements fluid and deceptive, their poisoned daggers seeking any opening in Eleanor’s defense. The poisonous fog swirled, making breathing difficult and vision obscured.
"You'll burn like the last batch!" one of the Bruisers taunted Arkhan, his mace crashing against the paladin's shield.
"Bahamut's fire burns hotter, fiend!" Arkhan retorted, his own blow forcing the Bruiser to give ground.
Eleanor duelled with the Whisperblade, a deadly ballet of feints and parries. She felt a searing pain as one of the poisoned daggers grazed her arm, but she fought through it, her resolve hardening. "You work for Kara Thornblade?" she hissed, her rapier flicking out, forcing the Whisperblade to disengage.
"We don’t fight to win," the Whisperblade snarled back, their voice strained as they dodged another of Mirielle’s Fire Bolts. "We fight to delay. She knows now. She knows you're here."
Hawke, using the terrain to his advantage, picked his shots carefully. He felled one Bruiser with a well-aimed arrow to the throat. The remaining Bruiser, seeing his companion fall, roared in fury and charged Arkhan with renewed ferocity.
Mirielle, seeing an opportunity as the Whisperblade was momentarily distracted by Eleanor, unleashed a Web spell. Sticky strands erupted from the ground, attempting to ensnare the assassin. The Whisperblade, with incredible agility, managed to mostly evade the spell but was slowed, one leg caught in the clinging strands.
This gave Eleanor the opening she needed. Her glassteel rapier lunged forward, and this time, it struck true, piercing the Whisperblade’s side. The assassin gasped, a flicker of surprise and pain in their eyes.
"Tell Kara I'm coming for her," Eleanor said, her voice cold as ice.
The Whisperblade, realizing the fight was lost, made a desperate attempt to flee, trying to pull free from the magical webs. But Hawke, seeing their intent, sent an arrow whistling through the air, pinning their cloak to a wooden support beam.
Arkhan, meanwhile, had dispatched the final Bruiser, his longsword cleaving through the man's defenses. He stood panting, his armor dented, but his resolve unbroken.
With the Bruisers down and the Whisperblade trapped and wounded, the immediate threat subsided. The silence spell faded, and the sounds of their ragged breathing filled the distillery, along with the incessant drip of water.
Hawke approached the trapped Whisperblade, his expression stern. "Who is 'she'? Kara Thornblade? What does she know?"
The Whisperblade glared, but then a grim smile touched their lips. "She knows enough. You're too late. The painting is already on its way to the rendezvous." They coughed, blood flecking their lips. "And Neris… Neris is long gone." With a final, defiant glare, the Whisperblade slumped forward, unconscious or dead.
Eleanor quickly searched the assassin, finding a few coins, a garrote wire, and a small, intricately carved wooden bird – a messenger token, perhaps. No clues to Kara's immediate whereabouts.
Mirielle, meanwhile, had returned to the trapdoor. With Arkhan’s help, they pried it open. A narrow, dark opening led down into what appeared to be a small, hidden cellar. "The ledger Brindle and the voice mentioned… it must be down there."
Before descending, Eleanor paused, looking back at the sealed vat. The tapping had stopped. "What about him?"
The voice from the vat, weaker now, almost a sigh, whispered, "The ledger… under the old brewing altar… in a hidden drawer… Release me… please…"
A quick, grim discussion followed. Releasing an unknown, possibly undead, entity was a risk. But it had offered information.
"Let's secure the ledger first," Arkhan decided, his pragmatism outweighing his suspicion for the moment.
Eleanor, Hawke, and Mirielle descended into the cramped cellar. It was damp and smelled of earth and decay. A crumbling stone altar, clearly once used for some part of the brewing process, stood against one wall. After a few tense moments of searching, Eleanor found it – a loose stone, which, when pressed, revealed a small, hidden drawer. Inside, wrapped in oilskin, was a thick, leather-bound ledger. Its cover was sealed with wax, bearing a strange symbol: a braid-knot within a flame.
"The Saltwind's cargo mark," Eleanor breathed, recognizing it instantly. This was it. Proof.
They returned to the main room. Hawke, with a heavy sigh, approached the sealed vat. "Alright, friend. You held up your end." With considerable effort, he and Arkhan managed to pry open the lid.
The stench that arose was horrific, a mixture of decayed flesh and the sweet, cloying smell of the enchanted mash. Submerged within the dark liquid was a corpse, its skin leathery and waterlogged, but its face, surprisingly, held an expression of peace. Around its bloated wrist, a thin chain held a signet ring – a ring etched with two clasped hands beneath a cresting wave.
Eleanor gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. She recognized that ring. It was Korr's. Her Korr. He had been here. His murderer had been…here.
The realization hit her with the force of a physical blow. The fight, the ledger, Kara – it all faded into a roar in her ears. She stumbled back, her eyes fixed on the ring, a silent scream trapped in her throat.
Arkhan, seeing her distress, gently placed a hand on her shoulder. "Eleanor…"
Mirielle, her face pale, looked from the corpse to Eleanor. "This… this changes things."
Hawke, his usual stoicism shaken, averted his gaze from the vat. "He said 'Red like fire, like blood on canvas.' He was trying to warn us about the painting, even then."
Eleanor finally found her voice, a choked whisper. "He was here. His murderer was here." The grief was a raw, tearing thing, but beneath it, a cold, hard anger began to solidify. She looked at the ledger in her hands, then back at the ring on the corpse's wrist. "They will pay," she vowed, her voice low and trembling with a dangerous intensity. "Every last one of them."
Korr was gone, truly gone. But he had left her a path. A ledger, a ring, and a burning need for justice that would not be quenched until Kara Thornblade answered for her crimes. The ashes of Stonecoil Glen had yielded their bitter secrets.
The Gilded Lily Inn offered a stark contrast to the grim decay of the distillery. Warm light spilled from its windows, and the distant sound of a lute being played, somewhat inexpertly, drifted from the common room. They had taken an attic room, seeking privacy to examine the ledger and to give Eleanor space to grieve. The rain still whispered against the roof shingles, a soft, steady rhythm that seemed to underscore the quiet solemnity within their small chamber.
Eleanor sat on the edge of a narrow bed, Korr’s signet ring clutched tightly in her hand. The ledger lay open on a small, scarred table, its pages filled with cramped handwriting, coded symbols, and what looked like celestial coordinates. Mirielle and Hawke leaned over it, their expressions intent, while Arkhan stood watch by the door, his presence a reassuring bulwark.
The initial wave of grief had passed, leaving Eleanor with a hollow ache and a steely resolve. She stared at the ring, its familiar weight a comfort and a torment. The metal was cool against her palm. As she focused on it, trying to draw strength from the memory of the man who had worn it, the room around her seemed to dim. The candlelight wavered, and her vision clouded, as if breath had fogged a pane of glass.
A whisper, faint but clear, echoed in her mind, not from the room, but from within the ring itself, or perhaps from a memory it held. It was Korr’s voice – tired, strained, but unmistakably his.
"If she finds the painting, she finds the gate. Stay to the shadows... I love you."
The vision, if it could be called that, was fleeting, a mere echo, but it struck Eleanor with the force of a fresh wound. Tears welled in her eyes, blurring the sight of the ring. "Korr," she whispered, her voice breaking. He had tried to warn her, even in his final moments. He had loved her.
Mirielle, sensing the shift in Eleanor, looked up from the ledger. "Eleanor? Are you alright?"
Eleanor quickly wiped her eyes, taking a shaky breath. "The ring… I heard him. He said Kara is looking for a gate, connected to the painting." She recounted the whispered message, her voice gaining strength as she spoke.
Hawke nodded slowly. "The 'gate of charred stone' Brindle mentioned. It fits."
"The question is, what gate, and why is this painting, 'Twilight in Redveil,' so important?" Arkhan mused, his brow furrowed.
Mirielle turned back to the ledger, a new urgency in her touch as she traced the cryptic symbols. "This ledger is more than just shipping manifests. It's heavily encoded. There are names, locations, payment routes… Kara Thornblade is running a significant operation." She pointed to a recurring symbol. "This braid-knot within a flame… it's on the Saltwind’s original cargo manifest, but here, it's used to mark specific transactions, high-value ones."
For the next hour, they pored over the ledger. Mirielle’s knowledge of historical ciphers and Hawke’s familiarity with smugglers’ cant and celestial navigation proved invaluable. Arkhan, with his keen eye for detail and understanding of religious symbolism (often co-opted by clandestine groups), also provided insights. Eleanor, her grief now channeled into a focused determination, recognized some of the aliases and ship names, remnants of her past life with Korr.
"This Neris Foldhands," Mirielle said, tapping a name that appeared frequently. "He seems to be a key associate of Kara’s. He handles logistics, often using routes that bypass major ports. The celestial coordinates Brindle had… they're part of a larger map, likely one of Foldhands' routes."
"Many of these entries refer to 'Red Stone' or 'Red Veil'," Hawke observed, tracing a line of script. "And this phrase repeats: 'Red sails wait beneath the gate.'"
Slowly, painstakingly, they began to piece together the puzzle. The celestial coordinates from Brindle's driftwood, combined with notations in the ledger, started to form a coherent route. It led east from Cobblecrest, skirting the edge of the Adder Peaks, towards a landmark identified in the ledger only by a crude drawing: a crumbling stone archway, half-swallowed by mountainside, with what looked like scorched earth around it.
"The Charred Gate," Eleanor breathed, the name sending a shiver down her spine. "It's an old smugglers' pass through the Adder Peaks, barely used anymore. Dangerous, unstable."
Mirielle found a final, hastily scrawled entry in the margin of the last page, written in a different hand, almost certainly Kara's. "The coordinates end here," she said, pointing to a spot just beyond the depiction of the Charred Gate. "And look at this note: 'She rides again when red touches stone.'"
"'She' could refer to the Saltwind, or another ship Kara has acquired," Hawke mused. "'When red touches stone'… a sunset? A signal?"
"Or the painting itself," Eleanor suggested, her mind racing. "'Twilight in Redveil.' Perhaps the painting contains a clue, a map, or is itself a key to this gate Korr mentioned."
They now had a destination: the Charred Gate. They had a purpose: to find Kara Thornblade and stop whatever she was planning, and for Eleanor, to exact vengeance for Korr. The ledger was a treasure trove of information about Kara's network, and Korr's ring, a painful reminder of her loss, had also become a conduit for his final warning.
As the first hint of dawn began to lighten the sky outside, casting long, weary shadows across the attic room, a fragile sense of clarity emerged. The path ahead was fraught with peril, but for the first time since the Saltwind was lost, Eleanor felt a flicker of something other than grief and anger: a grim hope. Korr's memory would fuel her, the ledger would guide them, and her companions, her new crew, would stand with her.
Word of their discoveries, particularly the confirmation of Brindle Eamond's murder and the Blackthorn Syndicate's involvement, had reached Mayor Greenfield. He had requested their presence at the Town Hall, not for a public declaration, but for a discreet meeting. The intermittent rain had finally ceased, but the sky remained a bruised purple, casting a somber light over Cobblecrest as they made their way through the damp streets.
The Town Hall, usually a place of bustling civic activity, was eerily quiet. Lanterns burned low, casting long, dancing shadows between the stone columns and empty wooden benches of the main chamber. The central hearth was dark and cold. Tessryn Vell, a known Syndicate associate who had been apprehended by the Town Guard trying to flee Cobblecrest shortly after the attack at the shrine, slouched in a sturdy prisoner’s chair placed in the center of the room. She was soaked from the rain, her expression a mixture of defiance and fear. Mayor Greenfield, a portly man whose usual jovial demeanor was replaced by a grave concern, met them at the entrance to the chamber.
"Thank you for coming," he said, his voice low and troubled. "I want this contained. No guards, no scandal. The last thing Cobblecrest needs is widespread panic about the Syndicate operating so openly. But I need to know what you’ve found, and what this Vell woman knows." He gestured towards Tessryn. "She's been… uncooperative."
Tessryn Vell looked up as they approached, a sneer on her lips. "Well, well, look what the rain dragged in. Come to admire the catch of the day?" Her eyes, hard and assessing, flicked over each of them. "Truth costs coin or blood," she muttered, more to herself than to them. "Yours or mine?"
Mirielle stepped forward, her expression calm but firm. "We know about Kara Thornblade, Tessryn. We know about the Saltwind, and the painting, 'Twilight in Redveil'. Brindle Eamond told us before your associate silenced him."
Tessryn’s sneer faltered for a moment, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. "Brindle always did talk too much." She quickly recovered her composure. "Kara has more eyes in this room than you think, scholar. Tell me what you really want—and what you’ll pay for it."
"We want to know where Kara is going," Eleanor said, her voice dangerously quiet. She stepped into Tessryn's line of sight, Korr's ring glinting faintly on the thong around her neck. "We found her ledger at Stonecoil Glen. We know about the Charred Gate."
At the mention of the ledger and the Charred Gate, Tessryn’s bravado seemed to visibly shrink. She leaned back in her chair, her gaze darting towards the shadowy corners of the hall. "You found the distillery ledger?" she whispered, a new note of fear in her voice. "Then you know… she's not just smuggling trinkets anymore."
"What is she planning, Tessryn?" Arkhan pressed, his voice resonating with authority. "What's so important about that painting and the Charred Gate?"
Tessryn hesitated, her eyes darting around the room again. "The Charred Gate…" she began, then stopped, her attention caught by something over Hawke’s shoulder. Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly.
Suddenly, a lamp in a nearby alcove crashed to the floor, plunging that section of the hall into deeper shadow. "I said I'd get the light!" a voice snarled from the darkness. "Didn’t say it was for you!"
A figure, clad in dark leather and moving with a frightening speed – a Shadowblade Apprentice – lunged from the darkened alcove, not towards the party, but straight at Tessryn Vell, a wickedly curved dagger gleaming in their hand. "Your silence was bought, Tessryn! You’re past the refund!"
Simultaneously, another figure, a Syndicate Skirmisher, emerged from behind a tapestry near the main entrance, short swords flashing as they moved to block any retreat. "Door’s shut! So’s your chance!"
"Protect Tessryn!" Mayor Greenfield yelped, scrambling back from the sudden eruption of violence.
Arkhan reacted instantly, throwing himself in front of Tessryn, his shield deflecting the Shadowblade Apprentice’s initial thrust. The clang of steel echoed through the hall. "Deceivers! Cowards! You dare attack in the very heart of this town's law?"
Eleanor and Hawke spun to engage the Skirmisher. Eleanor’s rapier and dagger moved in a blur, forcing the Skirmisher to give ground, while Hawke nocked an arrow, his eyes narrowed as he sought a clear shot in the shifting shadows and sudden chaos.
Mirielle, seeing the Apprentice was focused on getting past Arkhan to Tessryn, unleashed a blast of arcane energy. "Magic Missile!" she incanted, and three glowing darts of force streaked through the air, slamming into the Apprentice, who stumbled back with a cry of pain.
The fight was a desperate flurry in the dim, lantern-lit hall. The Shadowblade Apprentice was agile and possessed unnerving abilities, seeming to melt into shadows and reappear. They pressed their attack on Arkhan and Tessryn, their shadow dagger flickering, seeking any gap in the paladin’s defense.
"Even if I fall, the message is sent!" the Apprentice hissed, their voice strained as they parried a blow from Arkhan. "She knows you have Vell!"
Tessryn, surprisingly, wasn't cowering. Protected by Arkhan, a spark of defiance returned to her eyes. "I didn’t want to die quiet," she yelled over the din of battle. "Maybe I won’t!" She grabbed the heavy wooden chair she'd been bound to and, with a grunt, swung it awkwardly at the Apprentice's legs, causing them to stumble.
Hawke and Eleanor fought back-to-back against the Skirmisher, whose dual short swords were a whirlwind of steel. Hawke, unable to get a clean shot with his bow in the close quarters, switched to his shortswords, his movements economical and precise. Eleanor, a dervish of controlled fury, pressed the Skirmisher relentlessly, her blades seeking openings, her footwork keeping her just out of reach of the Skirmisher’s counters.
Mayor Greenfield, having recovered his wits, bellowed from a relatively safe position near his desk, "Guards! Guards! To the Town Hall!" His voice, though panicked, carried.
The Skirmisher, perhaps hearing the Mayor’s shouts or realizing they were outmatched by the combined skill of Hawke and Eleanor, tried to disengage, to flee back the way they came. But Eleanor was too quick. Her rapier lunged, and the Skirmisher cried out, clutching their sword arm as their weapon clattered to the floor. Hawke followed up immediately, disarming them of their other sword.
Meanwhile, Arkhan, with Tessryn’s unexpected assistance, had gained the upper hand against the Shadowblade Apprentice. Mirielle, seeing an opening as the Apprentice was forced back by Arkhan’s relentless assault, sent a Ray of Frost at their legs, encasing one of their boots in ice and causing them to slip. Arkhan’s next blow was decisive, his sword hilt connecting with the Apprentice’s temple. The assassin crumpled to the floor, unconscious.
The sudden silence that fell was broken only by their ragged breathing and the distant sound of running footsteps as the Town Guard finally approached.
Tessryn Vell was breathing hard, clutching her side where the Apprentice’s dagger had apparently grazed her. But she was alive. She looked at Arkhan, then at the others, a grudging respect in her eyes. "You… you actually protected me."
"We protect the truth, Tessryn," Mirielle said, approaching her. "Now, tell us. Where is Kara Thornblade going?"
Tessryn nodded, wincing. "Alright, alright. You earned it." She took a deep breath. "There’s a tower. An old, ruined watchtower, east of the Charred Gate. Half-buried in moss and scree, on the mountainside. That’s where she’s going next. She’s been clearing it out for weeks, using it as a staging post." She looked directly at Eleanor. "The painting… 'Twilight in Redveil'… it's more than just pretty colors. It's a key, or a map, to something hidden deep within the Adder Peaks, something the Syndicate wants badly. Something Kara believes will give her ultimate power in these parts."
The Charred Gate. The ruined tower. A key to unknown power. The pieces were falling into place, painting a grim picture of Kara Thornblade’s ambitions. Brindle Eamond's dying words, Korr’s spectral warning, the cryptic ledger, and now Tessryn Vell's coerced confession – all pointed towards a confrontation in the desolate, dangerous expanse of the Adder Peaks. The echoes of the Saltwind were growing louder, and the storm they heralded was about to break. The path was clear, if perilous. They had succeeded in uncovering Kara's immediate destination. The cost, however, was yet to be fully tallied, and the shadows of the Blackthorn Syndicate stretched long and deep.
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