Arcanum: of Steamworks and Magick Obscura
In which Our Hero survives a most Frightful Zeppelin Disaster

Copyright© 2018 by Dragon Cobolt

Fan Fiction Sex Story: In which Our Hero survives a most Frightful Zeppelin Disaster - The IFS Zephyr was to be the greatest wonder of the world: A heavier than air flying machine, capable of carrying dozens in style. On its maiden flight, it was shot down. Now, the only survivor - a roguish half-orc inventor named Rayburn Cog - must puzzle out the reason why it (and now himself) are the targets of mysterious assassins. What is more, Ray himself has been inextricably linked to an ancient prophecy...that spells doom for all of Arcanum!

Caution: This Fan Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   BiSexual   Fiction   Fan Fiction   GameLit   High Fantasy   Historical   Steampunk   Western   Paranormal   Ghost   Cheating   Cuckold   Group Sex   Harem   Orgy   Polygamy/Polyamory   Interracial  

June 3rd 1885

Somewhere above The Stonewall Mountains

If there was a sound more appropriate for calculating the lifting capacity of an ellipsoid roughly eight hundred feet in length than the music from a string quartet, I was not sure what it might be. I scratched away with a ballpoint pen I had purchased in Caladon from its inventor. He had gone on at length about the reservoir of ink within and how long it could go before being needing a refilling. But what had impressed me was the fact that it could write on nearly any surface. Including, for instance, a cocktail napkin. The barkeep had looked at me as if I was speaking elvish when I had asked if he had had any paper.

“What’s this here?”

The voice – thick and blustery – drew my attention. My brows furrowed and I looked over my shoulder, then down at the gnomish gentleman who had stepped up to the bar where I was hunched and scribbling. The gnome looked up at me through thick rimmed spectacles and was gripping onto the suspenders underneath his rustic smoking jacket as if they were the only things keeping him rooted to the carpeted floor. Behind him loomed the ominous and incongruous combination of a servants black and white finery and the iron hard muscle and greenish complexion of a truly immense half-ogre. The combination of gnome and half-ogre bodyguard was so common as to be nearly a cliché, but I will tell you this: A cliché remains effective when well used.

And the low, threatening expression on the half-ogre’s face was quite well used.

“I beg your pardon, my good sir?” I asked the gnome.

The gnome seemed to become more rancorous from politeness than he might have been if I had spat in his face and strangled him with his own necktie. “What exactly are you doing here at the bar, half-orc?” he asked. “Do you even have a ticket?”

I sighed, then made to reach into my smoking jacket. The half-ogre clenched his fists and growled and I tensed, momentarily. A single wrong move might end my so far rather delightful voyage with a stoved in nose-bone and my brains dribbling out of my ears. I thanked whatever gods were listening that I had stowed my revolver in my room, as it meant there was nothing more threatening in my jacket than the rumpled ticket that I produced once they saw I was not carrying a weapon.

The ticket, embossed with the Industrial Council’s cog and the flag of the United Kingdom, was rumpled because I had grabbed it off the poker table before flinging myself through the window of the Roseborough Inn. The fellow who had wagered it had clearly believed it was impossible that a half-orc could draw royal flush without cheating and my argument that the odds were merely one in six hundred and forty nine thousand seven hundred and forty had been less than persuasive. The gnomish gentleman eyed the ticket, then harrumphed.

“I see,” he said. “I was not aware that any half-orc would be so adventurous and intelligent, to set foot upon the newest Wonder of Our Age.” I could hear the capital letters. I smiled, then picked up the drink I had ordered before. I sipped as the quartet in the corner of the ball room started up their next set – a sprightly number that was something someone could actually dance too. When I set my drink down, I sighed, feeling the pleasant burn of the cheapest whiskey that was available sandpapered its way down my throat.

Hey, I wanted a drink. But no one else here could tell what I was drinking, so why bother reaching beyond what my scant few coins could manage?

“Well, Mr...” I paused.

“Castleburger. Godfrey Castleburger,” the gnome offered.

I inclined my head. “Well, Mr Castleburger-”

“Senator Castleburger,” he corrected.

I pursed my lips fractionally. Of course he had left the senator out. I repressed the first response that wanted to spring to my lips and carefully said: “Senator Castleburger. I could hardly pass up a chance to be suspended beneath three hundred tons of flammable gasses.” I sipped my drink. “What red blooded man wouldn’t?”

Senator Castleburger scoffed. “Ah, I see, you’ve been listening to the fear mongers aboard this fine airship.” He slapped his palm against his chest with a sound not unlike a drum being struck. Gnomes tended to being scrawny, unlike halflings or dwarves, and Castleburger was no exception. His stature and his posture reminded me of nothing more or less than a greyhound that had learned to walk on his hind legs, followed by an introduction to the Academy of Posh Gits, which he graduated from.

With honors.

“The IFS Zephyr is completely safe,” he said. “Why, each section of the flight balloon is separately sealed within its own ingeniously designed self-repairing bubble of canvased fabric. There are spare hydrogen stores within the ship, in pressurized forms, themselves contained within the hardiest armor and the sturdiest tanks that the United Kingdom could devise. What is more, even if the impossible were to happen and every single section of the balloon was to be perforated the dozens of times that it would require for them to lose lift, the propellers can be angled downward, to allow us to land safely, whether we came down in University Court or ... or ... or ... the Isle of Thanos!”

I arched an eyebrow. “So, you’d go so far as to claim that this ship is unsinkable?” I asked.

“Well, we’re an airship, not a sailing ship, but ... yes!” Senator Castleburger said.

Which was when the quartet’s music was shattered by a horrible chatter chatter chatter noise, the shattering of glass, the screams of men and women, and twin buzzing roars. The half-ogre bodyguard of Senator Castleburger pushed the elderly gnome to the ground then knelt over him as he had been trained. I sighed, downed my drink, and crumpled up my napkin of equations.

“But of course,” I said, dryly.

I started towards the door leading out of the ballroom as several crewmen, resplendent in their red jackets and tall hats, shouted for everyone to remain calm. The screaming did not abate. In the narrow corridor, I braced both hands against the walls, to keep myself from skidding away as the Zephyr started to cant crazily to the left. Or was that the port? Either way, it made heading up the stairs to my chambers on the fourth deck tricky. I had to brace my feet against the insides of the stairs and use the banisters to keep myself from pitching forward.

That chatter chatter noise again. But this time, I was able to see their effects and could piece together the source: The ceiling piffed as holes exploded through thin wood and thinner steel. Sparks and wooden chips showered onto my shoulders and head. I lifted my arm and crouched down low and the holes passed me by, without tracing a line through my soft flesh. I shook myself and looked up at the holes.

A name came to mind. I had read of it in The Tarantian, boasting of the United Kingdom’s newest weapons.

“A machined gun?” I whispered.

And then the Zephyr shuddered and rocked. My nose flared and I scented smoke. Flames. I shuddered and resumed my movements, trying to keep my feet while the slewing grew more and more intense. I had to scramble over a ledge made of what had once been a wall to reach the corridor that led, hypothetically, to my room. I saw an elven man in a suit of leather armor, clutching a still faintly luminescent longbow. He had been shot four times through the chest and head, his brains oozing upon the floor. I shook my head, scrambling past the sad scene. “Sorry, old boy,” I whispered, then came to my door.

I put my hands to my pockets, and realized that somewhere in the confusion, I had lost the key. Another explosion rocked the ship and I heard the massive propellers groan and sputter and die. Then the chattering started again. I flung myself down as best as I could. Wood splinters sprayed across my back. I looked up and saw that the lock to my door had burst apart.

“My thanks,” I muttered, then crawled into my room. I knew that it was essentially a talismanic gesture, but I wished to hit the ground holding my revolver.

I succeeded in this task admirably.


I opened my eyes to a splitting headache and a sense of miraculous awe. I was alive. Yes, my spine felt as if it had been worked over by a dwarven masseuse and my head felt as if the entire human population of the United Kingdom had stepped on it on their way to the train station, but I was alive. I shifted in the small hollow of wreckage that had formed around me and craned my head about to try and get a bead on where I was. It seemed that my room had crumpled upon impact with the ground, forming a perfect cylinder around me that had spared me all save for the bumping and the scraping.

I checked my pockets, then looked around myself once more. There was my luggage. It had been compacted almost entirely, save for a single corner of a suitcase. The leather had been torn open and I saw the pouch I kept my bullets in stuck out of the hole. I snatched it and frowned as I heard the ominous creak of metal around me. I scrambled away and out of the tunnel of metal, finding my feet were now whisked out from under me by a cascade of loose debris under my feet. I tumbled, fell, and swore all the way down a roughly pyramidal shape of metal. When I hit the dirt and the brambles beyond, I stood with a slow groan.

My jacket was torn positively to ribbons.

“Perfect,” I said.

I took stock of the surrounding area. The airship had come down in the Stonewall mountains, but fortunately, it had struck a relatively clear part of the foothills. The massive heap of scrap metal and shattered wood – burning here and there – was all that was left of the greatest wonder the world had ever seen. I could spy a few bits of engine casing that were intact about half a mile away, one of which had a propeller that spun in starts as whatever dying energies within the housing flared and kicked, like a corpse in the snow.

“Help ... help me, please...”

The wheezy, reedy voice was piercingly clear, even over the rumble and roar of flames. I looked about myself, then saw the source of the voice: A small figure, pinned beneath a chunk of interlaced metal. I sprang forward, then gritted my teeth. My muscles were not exceptional for a half-orc, but they served more than enough to shift the metal and toss it aside. Beneath, I saw the countenance of a gnome. Not the Senator – this poor fellow had none of his haughty airs, nor his sneer. Even when he saw my green skin and smallish tusks, the gnome merely nodded.

I knelt down next to him. He reached out from the rubble and took my hand. “Thank you, my friend,” he whispered, his eyes unfocused and wandering. I opened my mouth, about to correct him. But then he cut me off, his voice growing intense. “You must find the boy!” He lifted his head and coughed, his eyes narrowing as he looked up at me. “Find the boy and give him back his ring...” A wracking great cough shook his slight body and blood flecked along his lips. “He will know what needs to be done...”

“What-” I started.

“Listen, listen to me.” He leaned up more, despite the great pain that this caused him. His hand tightened on mine, frightfully strong. “We had to do it. He did unspeakable things to us. We had no choice. We ... we had to do what he said. There are so few of us left, the work ... it is almost finished. And then ... the evil...” His head shook and his eyes widened. I wondered what he saw then. His breath was coming in shorter and shorter gasps. “You can’t imagine. He’s coming back to destroy everything. Everything and everyone. Please ... just find the boy. Tell him that I escaped, that I came to warn ... he will know what to ... do...”

He trailed off, his hand going slack on mine. I wondered if he had passed – but then heard him draw one last breath. He whispered “It’s all up to you, my friend. It’s ... all up...”

He trailed off again.

This time, he did not draw breath again.

I frowned. “Sorry, old boy,” I said, quietly. “But I have not the foggiest clue who you are.”

I reached into the old gnome’s jacket, then rummaged about. I came away with but three items. The first was a small, elegantly styled ring. The interior had a small G and a small B inscribed upon it. A name, without a doubt. I shook my head and tucked the ring away, safely. I did not try it on – I had read more than a few tales in the pulp magazines about what happened to foolish adventurers who put on any old ring given them, even those passed to them by dying old men with dire portents of the end of the world.

The second item was a small matchbook – lacking all save one match – that came from the very inn that I had started my journey in. I cast my mind back. I did remember, now that I thought of it, a gnome who had bustled out of the smoking room before the poker game had flown apart quite spectacularly. I tucked the matchbook away. Any proof that this fellow had come from somewhere was to be worth while.

The third item was a passport, signed in the name of the King of Caladon, allowing the gnome to travel from Caladon itself to the United Kingdom’s capital, Tarant. The name upon the passport was Preston Radcliffe.

So. I had a battered smoking jacket, a handful of revolver bullets, my pistol, a mysterious warning about some ‘great evil’ and no idea where exactly I was in a mountain range. “I had wanted adventure, but this is ridiculous,” I muttered under my breath. Tucking my pistol into my belt and wishing I had a holster, I turned and found myself looking at a robed figure.

The robed figure stood upon a small pile of metal debris, clutching a staff to their chest. Their hood had been drawn up, casting their face in shadow. I froze. I had been so absorbed by the gnome’s dying words that I hadn’t even heard this fellow sneaking up on me. My eyes darted to the staff, but I saw no sign of magick flaring about it. That did not entirely swear off the chance that this was some powerful wizard. Those cropped up when mysterious rings were involved, didn’t they?

Slowly, my hand drifted down to my revolver and I narrowed my eyes at the figure.

“I ... can’t ... believe it!” the figure said, their voice high and youthful. Or, considering their height, feminine. They reached up and removed all doubt by whipping their hood back to reveal a woman’s face and brunette hair. The appearance of a chipmunk was the first comparison that sprang to mind. It was not even meant as an insult – the woman was round cheeked and animated, with eyes that seemed to dart all over, with an intense excitement. It was quite a comely look, if not what one might call classically beautiful. She flung her arms wide, holding her staff in one hand and started to scramble down off her pile of debris. “I mean ... you! And the zeppelin! And the fire!” She gestured at a burning chunk of wood nearby. “And the altar says that ... that ... do you have any idea what any of this means!?”

I let my hand drift away from my revolver. Despite the situation, I found myself smiling. “No, I-”

“You speak!” the woman squeaked. Then, slapping her palm over her face. “Of course you speak, what am I a blathering idiot!?” I was about to offer my observations on that point when the woman inhaled sharply and pointed at me. “Wait! What did you say? Maybe, uh, maybe I should be writing this down...” She started to fumble in her robes, dropping her staff in her excitement.

As the staff clattered to the ground, I put my hands on my hips. “My lady, I, uh, I’m not entirely sure I follow...”

She wrung her hands, giving up the hunt for pen and parchment. I blinked, then put my hand into my pocket, pulling out the ballpoint pen. She looked at it as if she had never seen a pen before. And considering the inventor claiming to have only patented it two weeks before, it was entirely possible. “I ... am at a loss here!” She chuckled, looking rueful. “I don’t know what to do. Uh, I mean, you are the ... of course you are, I mean, you do know who you are, right?” She bit her lip, then groaned and put her palms over her face.

“Of course you do, what sort of brainless, half-baked question is that for the uh...” She dragged her palms down along her face, drawing it taut before releasing it. “ ... what ... do you call yourself?”

I smirked. “Rayburn.” I held out my hand. “Rayburn Cog. At your service.”

The girl gaped at me. She looked at my hand. Then looked at me. I blinked and slowly lowered my hand. I wasn’t sure if I was being snubbed or not.

“Oh.” She grabbed my hand and pumped it so vigorously I swore she was about to rip it out of my socket. “Please forgive me, I’m making a bloody mess of this whole affair. My name is Virginia, sir. And I’m new to the Panarii religion, er, your religion and I, oh, wait! Wait!” She stopped the pumping and her speech, then knelt on the ground. Her knees settled and then she clasped her hands before her, bowing her head low. “I, uh, hereby dedicate my, uh, no, commit my life to the Living One! I, Virginia, am at your service. Sir!”

Ah. Good, I thought. She’s utterly gone round the bend. Completely hysterical. Lunatic. And I’m alone in the mountains with her.

Slowly, I lifted my palms, raising my eyebrows. “Virginia, you say? I, uh, I don’t think I’m who you’re looking for.”

Virginia scoffed. “Yes, yes, of course, you see ... you’re him.” She chuckled, then started to stand. She brushed off her knees. “You’re the uh reincarnation of er, whose his name? I can never remember ... and I’m always getting him mixed up with the other fellow.” She waved her hands in a measuring gesture, shrugging nervously. “The, uh, the bad one. You, well, you know how old elven names all sound the same, heh? Right?”

She smiled at me, sheepishly.

I found the only thing I could muster was an ‘uh-huh.’

Virginia tried to rally. “Well, right, uh, give me a moment. You see, the Panarii, the religion that’s formed around the things that he said, I mean, that you said.” She pointed at me, then flung up her hands, her sleeves fluttering. “Oh forget it, lets start at the beginning! ... this beginning. Since there’s a lot that came before this. You, sir, are the reincarnation of a powerful elf, who the Panarri worship, and whose name is...”

“Wait!” I held up my hands. My green hands. “I’m supposed to be an elf? Whose named, what, the Thraxios the Exceedingly Orcish?”

Virginia barely repressed a giggle. “N-No, uh, right ... the name, uh...” She screwed her eyes shut. “Wait! Wait!” She lifted her hands, as if bracing against a wall. “I remember! It’s written in the scriptures. ‘The Living One will live again on wings of fire!” Or, uh, no, wait, I think it was ‘reborn’ on wings of fire.” Her arms fell and she groaned. “Oh, blood and ashes, why do elves always have to be so damned cryptic!?”

“It gives them something to do, I suppose?” I suggested, reaching out and clapping my hand to her robed shoulder. “Listen, ma’am-”

“Virginia, please. Sir. Living One.” She bowed to me so hard and so eagerly that she nearly butted my in the jaw with her head. “Listen, I know this sounds ridiculous, what with you being a half-orc.” She stopped, her face going completely pale. “Not that there’s anything wrong with you being a half-orc! I had many half-orc friends! Growing up! I mean, half-orcs are just like regular folk! I mean...” She screwed her eyes shut again.

I closed my eyes and counted to five. At the very least, Virginia here was trying. That went farther than it should have, considering the hand that I had been dealt at birth. And so, I forced a smile onto my face. “Lets focus on getting out of here.”

“Right!” Virginia said, nodding. “Listen, I was inducted into the Panarri by a wise sage, a woman named Johanna. She’s down, in the village, at the base of the mountains!” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder, towards the south. “She knows far more than I! She can clear this up.” She paused. “Though, we should look for other survivors, right?”

“Right you are,” I said, squeezing her hand, then stepping away. “This whole reincarnated elf business? That’s all such and such we can leave for another day. For now, lets focus on the here and now.” I smiled.

She beamed at me, picking up her staff. “That sounds exactly like something that he ... who ... that sounds like something the Living One would say!” Her eyes shone.

“How can you join a religion and not even know the founder’s name?” I asked, shaking my head as I started to pick my way away from her.

“Hey!” she said. “Elven names are all five syllables too long and have at least six times too many Xs and apostrophes in them! Heh. Heh. Uh...” She sighed, looking miserable as we started to poke through the rubble.


Three grim hours later, we had determined not a soul else had survived. We had gathered the bodies and stood above them, looking down at them. I shook my head slowly as I held a small letter I had found – crumpled and singed, it had been penned enthusiastically by one of the new unrecognizable bodies. Wilhelmina had been her name, and it sparked a faint memory of a willowy, pale woman who had looked at me as if I hadn’t even existed. And now she was dead, and her fiance would never learn of it. I looked at the letter, shaking my head. If I ever found him, I’d give him this. I tucked the letter up.

“Should we say something?” Virginia asked.

I shrugged. “A moment of silence?”

Virginia nodded. “R-Right.” She clutched her staff and I crossed my arms over my chest. We stood in the desolate, mountainous pass and the wind bit deep. Virginia shivered. “Come on. We should find the altar. It will have more information than my ... well, than me.”

I nodded. “Come on.” A distant wolf’s howl split the air. “That is definitely a sign to make haste.”

We started together, walking carefully along the rough stone and between the few scrubby brushes. Virginia used her staff as most people had throughout history – to keep her balance and help her step over rocks. I, meanwhile, never let my hand wander far from my revolver. Virginia, despite her robes and her inattention to the fine details of the Panarii religion, was quite able at clambering over rough terrain, and made good progress.

That is until she tripped over a half-hidden expanse of leather. She squalled out in shock, fell face first over the wooden spar she had struck, and thumped into the leather. I hurried forward and saw that she had fallen up against the strangest contraption I had ever seen. It was destroyed and smashed, but despite that, I could see the bird-like wings thrusting from a narrow harness of metal poles. That looked like a smallish steam engine of some kind. And were those propellers? Virgina scrambled to her feet, blinking as she looked down at the wreck.

“Is that ... a flying machine?” she asked.

“A heavier than air flying machine,” I said, slowly, stepping to the side. I knelt down, trying to examine the pilot, who looked as completely dead as it was possible to be. Not many could live sans their lower halves.

“And is that an ogre?” Virginia whispered.

“Yes,” I said.

“An ogre built a flying machine?” she asked.

“I doubt it,” I said, pointing. “That embossed symbol? That’s the legend of Maxim Machinery, Caladon. They make machined guns for the Caladonese army and for the United Kingdom. And this ship wasn’t shot down, it crashed. And that engine shows no damage save from the impact.” I made a face. “The ogre crashed the bloody thing.”

Virginia, meanwhile, had her hand on a rock to keep herself balanced and was reaching out with her staff. She hooked something that glittered around the ogre’s neck, then lifted and yanked the staff back. She plucked the amulet she had freed from the ogre’s slanted head, then held it up for me to see. It caught the fading sunlight and glittered: A small bronze circle, with a pentagon pattern embossed across it, with a single eye engraved in the center of the pentagon.

“Have you ever seen that symbol before?” she asked.

“No,” I said, quietly. “But I’m remembering the last, rambling words of a dying gnome and I’m beginning to think that the evil might be more than just paranoia.” I took the amulet.

Virginia blushed. “So, I may not know much about the legends ... but I’m fairly certain I’d remember flying ogres.” She bit her lip.

“We should get to your Elder Johanna,” I said, my voice grim.

She nodded.

The two of us started away from the wreckage and Virginia gasped out in excitement. “There! There it is!” She said, thrusting out with her staff. I saw what she was pointing at: It was a carved piece of rock, set on a plinth, almost directly across from where the Zephyr had crash landed. We approached and Virginia brushed some ingrown moss off the ancient looking stone shrine. I leaned forward and read off the letters carved into it.

And the spirit of Nasrudin shall be reborn on wings of fire in hills shrouded in fog,

and fight the last battle with the evil one.

“Well, at least we now know what you’re supposed to be called, right?” Virginia asked, smiling at me.

I frowned. “Nasrudin? It doesn’t exactly suit me. A tad stuffy don’t you think?”

“H-Hey!” Virginia squeaked. “Don’t-” She saw the smile on my face and blushed, smirking at me. “Oh, I see, you’re having me on.”

“Maybe a little,” I said, winking.

A snarl came from behind us. We turned as one. Virginia held her staff in two hands, with the grip of a skilled staff fighter. Her eyes had lost their wide eyed innocence. Instead, she had them narrowed and her feet had shifted into a combatant’s stance. I drew my revolver as well – and saw that, in unison, about twelve wolves had emerged from behind rocks, through brushes, and out of shadows. They looked scrawny. Starving. And their eyes glowed a brilliant red. I pursed my lips. Virginia hissed.

“Magick,” she whispered. “Which means-”

A purple figure stepped onto an outcrop of rock, holding a dagger in one hand. Their other hand flared and flickered with pale green light, swirling around his fingers. Faint hints of leaves could be seen, dancing between those fingertips. The figure was small and scrawny and had a very large head. I groaned.

“Oh bloody wonderful, the mountains have a kite infestation,” I said.

“That’s the shaman,” Virginia hissed.

“I know. Maybe we can work through this peacefully,” I whispered back, then lifted one hand. “Ho! We’re-”

The kite chattered and squalled in their own language, then pointed at us with the dagger. Several other kites – these ones bright red and slightly smaller – emerged from cover, waving their knives. The wolves started forward, growling threateningly. Then they charged. I swore under my breath, leveled my revolver, and blew the shaman’s brains out with a single, sharp report. The shaman sprawled and the magic in the wolves eyes faded. But they were clearly only being encouraged to attack, for even without magic, they still charged. Immediately, I saw that there were far too many.

Virginia did as well. She swung her staff in a wild arc and the wolves jerked back. With that momentary freedom from immediate attack, we both fled. I pumped my legs and Virginia hiked up her robes, exposing her ankles in the most daring way. I was fortunately able to keep my attention on the ground ahead of me, and spared a few moments to look back and fire wild shots over my shoulder. The ping and whine of bullets striking stone kept the wolves and kites from closing too quickly.

“A cave, sir!” Virginia gasped out, pointing.

I saw the cave a moment later. It had a narrow opening, perfect!

Virginia and I reached the cave with but moments to spare. Virginia immediately turned to face the wolves and the kites charging after us. She struck with her staff – not in wide, curving arcs, but rather, in quick, thrusting motions. She whacked a wolf on the nose, pushed another on its chest, and even parried the knife of a kite hunter who sought to slash at her legs. I, meanwhile, leveled my pistol. Virginia stepped aside at my hissed order and I fired three more times. One wolf’s brain exploded, another was caught in the chest. A third was shot in the flank and whined, kicking. This was enough for the pack to retreat, leaving only the kites. And the kites were either braver, or far dumber.

One rushed at Virginia. She knocked its knife out of the way, then slammed the butt of her staff into its temple. The kite collapsed, twitching. I reloaded, my fingers fumbling bullets into the chambers. The kites rushed all at once – trying to overwhelm Virginia through sheer force of numbers. “Duck!” I shouted. Virginia threw herself to her belly and I snapped up my revolver, the chamber clacking into the gun.

My palm rode above the hammer.

I pulled, feathered, pulled, feathered, pulled. Three kites sprawled, dead as door-nails and smoke rose from my revolver in a thin strand. Virginia slowly lifted her head, watching as the last survivor ran for the literal hills.

She was on her feet, pumping her fist into the air. “You showed those bast-ahhh!” She cut herself off, looking horrified. “I mean ... g-good hit, sir!”

I sighed, quietly, then slapped her shoulder. “You did quite well too, Virginia.”

She smiled, shyly, then shrugged. “Johanna taught me how to fight with a staff.” She held it up, then set it back down. “A-And a sword. And a few other things. Bottles! Once! Um, I think that was mostly a joke, though.” She shook her head, then narrowed her eyes. “What all this then?”

I turned and saw what she was eyeing. The cave was narrow and damp. But the corner at the end of it had a ruddy red glow shining from around the corner. I frowned, sliding new rounds into my revolver after dumping the spent into the chamber. I snapped it shut and walked forward, Virginia at my heels. As we entered into the darkness, Virginia whispered quietly. There was a sudden flash and glow of light behind me. I turned and saw that her palm was glowing with a luminescent sphere of magick energy.

“You’re a mage?” I asked, honestly surprised.

She smiled, shyly. “I know a bit of white necromancy,” she said, nodding. “A bit of illusion. Nothing fancy.”

I nodded. “Well, then. I’ll tell you if I ever need to talk to the dead.”

“Oh, that’s black necromancy,” she said, quickly. “White necromancy involves the healing of wounds, not causing them.”

“That-” My words stopped dead as we rounded the corner and saw the source of the light. A corpse sprawled in the cave right next to a well made bed. Several huge rats gnawed on the bones and nibbled at the desiccated fingers. They skittered to the corners of the cave at the shine of our light, leaving the corpse fully visible. But what had transfixed me and Virginia was what hung above the corpse. A spirit, ruddy red and lit within by an internal fire, floated in the air. The face was a death’s head skull, while the ribs were an open maw that showed nothing but a swirling flames between their tips.

“Please...” the spirit’s voice echoed, sounding wracked and tight with pain. “Please, I beg you. Help me.”

I looked at Virginia, then at the spirit. “Who are you, spirit?” I asked, stepping forward.

The spirit made an agonized scream. Virginia clapped her hands over her ears and winced while I gritted my teeth, trying to glare the spirit down. But the scream did not end. It merely went above the pitch I could hear, remaining only as a squirming feeling at the edge of sensation. My skin crawled as words poured from the spirit. “I am Charles Brehgo ... I ... my friend ... we were traveling ... priests ... we helped ... we did what we could ... for all we met.” It wriggled and rippled. “We came upon a witch. Vile. Witch. Her name...” Its skull-like head twitched like a shuddering clock, the hands writhing and flicking around. “Aribela. She cursed us. Cursed us. With madness. Madness My friend slew me and I am trapped ... trapped ... until the witch ... is slaaaaaaain!”

I winced. I looked a t Virginia. “You’re the magician, Virginia. Can a witch trap a spirit here?”

“It’s ... possible,” Virginia said, quietly. “Making it permanent is tricky. It’d take a great deal of power.”

I sighed, slowly. “Where is she?” I asked. “I can’t let someone suffer like this.”

Virginia breathed in softly. Her eyes shone as she looked at me. I groaned inwardly. She had already been confident I was this Living One. Now I was just confirming the damn thing for her. I shook my head. Damn prophecy and damn elves, I couldn’t let someone in such obvious pain suffer like this.

The spirit rippled, then focused. And suddenly I knew the location of the witch. It had appeared in my mind, as solidly as if I had a map. I blinked, then nodded. The spirit faded before our eyes, shimmering away, as if it had exhausted its ability to manifest. I could still feel its pain, echoing in the room. But without the spirit’s glow distracting me, I noticed that the cave had a bed and a small footlocker. It had clearly been used as a hideout. I glanced at Virginia, then stepped forward to the footlocker.

“What are you doing?” Virginia asked.

“Virginia, we’re in the wilderness. A wilderness infested by wolf packs, kite tribes, and now, barmy witches.” I smiled, then kicked the footlocker open. It squealed as rusted hinges complained. “We’re going to need every bit of help we can find.” I looked down into the locker, pursing my lips slightly as Virginia lifted her hand, shining the light down at it.

“What the bloody h-” Virginia stopped herself. “What is that?”

That?

That was dynamite.

I picked up the sticks of red explosives, then rummaged around. Among the detritus of the chest – which included rotten clothes and bits of leather – I found an old rusted flintlock pistol, enough bullets to keep my revolver in keeping, and a parcel that, when opened, turned out to hold a collection of grenades. There were some spare parts for various firearms as well, and a purse of gold coins. I started to tuck the belongings into my pockets and handing them to Virginia, who had enough pockets in her robes to hold just about anything. Virginia opened her mouth, about to ask me something, but I put my finger on her lips, silencing her. I didn’t know what a spirit could do – and I already was fairly certain that this Charles Brehgo was some kind of liar.

Once we were outside, I saw that we maybe had an hour of daylight left. And barely that – the sun had dipped behind the mountains, leaving nothing but a wan memory in the rock strewn landscape. I looked at Virginia and she finally let out the question she had been holding on: “What kind of wandering priest wanders around with enough explosives to refight the Charge of the Dragon Knights?”

I shrugged. “I think that’s something we’ll have to ask our witch.” I sighed. “Come on. I think it’s this way...” I paused. “What did you say the village your Johanna is at is called?”

Virginia chuckled. “I already told you, si-” She stopped. “Oh, bugger. I didn’t, did I?” She groaned. “It’s called Shrouded Hills.” She pointed along the same line as to Aribela’s house. “It’s that way.”

“The we can kill two birds – or at least one mystery – with one stone,” I said. “Come on.”


The house of the ‘murderous witch’ was a rather nice looking farmhouse situated on the edge of a small plot of land. The terrain had been growing steadily less mountainous and more forested by the minute, and we were essentially at the furthest point where one could actually farm. Further away from the lowlands than this point, it would be too rocky. But further away from the mountains, you’d be too close to civilization. And this house appeared to be entirely self sufficient, in its design and its situation. Light shone from the windows – the warm, welcoming light of oil lamps.

Virginia and I approached the front door. I rapped on the door and glanced at Virginia. She was holding her staff tightly, trying to not look nervous and failing. The door opened and I found myself looking at a half-elven woman dressed in a thick white robe. Despite the thickness and the furred rims around the wrists and the collar, I could still clearly see her quite pronounced curves. Her bust was full enough that I immediately sensed an intense wave of jealousy from Virginia, who was clearly quite a bit ... less blessed in that region.

The half-elf would have been beautiful, though, save for the deep, abiding sadness that had carved her face into a mask. All the light and life that would have shone in there and made her elegant curves and plush lips into something to marvel over was gone. Her eyes looked faded as she looked at the two of us. But then, to my surprise, I saw a faint flicker of life in those eyes and her lips twisted into a smile. She was making an effort, the poor dear.

“Hello, might I help you?” she asked.

I would have doffed my cap, had I had one. “Madame,” I said. “Are you, uh, by any chance the evil witch Aribela?”

That light flared as if her eyes were coals that had been pumped by bellows. Her smile became more genuine as she chuckled softly. “I have been described as a witch a few times, but never an evil one. At least, not to my knowledge. Why? Who sent you?”

“A tortured spirit called Charles Brehgo,” I said.

The light that flared in her eyes was fiercer now and her lips skinned back in a grin. “I know it’s wrong, but I take great joy in learning that Mr. Brehgo met the end of his road so shortly after he destroyed mine.” She paused. “Come inside. Let us speak before the fire of such things.”

Virginia shuffled in awkwardly as I made sure to knock my muddy shoes against the ground to try and get rid of the worst of it before I stepped in. Once I had closed and latched the door, I saw Aribela shrugging off her robes. Beneath the robes, she wore a thin shirt and a broad skirt, clearly quite comfortable. Quite a bit more comfortable than most women would be willing to wear in public, let alone with strangers. Let alone with a half-orc. But she did not seem to mind, even as she took a seat before a crackling fire, sighing.

Now, with the light of the flames, I could see the faint signs of her age – a few wrinkles around her eyes, the streak of white in her black hair. She gestured to a chair, inclining her head politely as I took my seat. Virginia dragged a third seat over, looking completely flustered.

“So, I would offer you something to drink, but I’m a Priestess,” Aribela said, smiling slightly. “I don’t drink. That was where Charles Brehgo and his companion, Richard Fahrkus, first grew irritated with I and my husband’s hospitality.” Her thumb slid along her ring finger, where a wedding band did glint. I looked around, suddenly worried that a furious husband with a short temper would burst out, ready to blow me apart with a scatter-gun. But Aribela’s next words killed my fear in the worst way. “But it was the treasures of my career and my golden holy symbol that led them to shoot my husband, shoot my son, and then shoot me.” She frowned. “When I came too, my family was dead and the two were gone ... and in my rage, I cursed them.”

My eyes widened. “And that curse of madness made Richard Fahrkus turn on Brehgo?” I asked.

Aribela snorted, rolling her shoulders slowly. “I believe that was the curse of greed. No. My curse was simple and far more terrible...” She frowned. “Neither of them will ever leave this plane of existence. Ever.”

Virginia hissed. “But ... the afterlife...”

“We do not know for sure, none of us, what happens after we die,” Aribela said, quietly. “But I know that being tied to a slowly decaying corpse, feeling every moment, for all eternity?” She shook her head. “That may be worth the life of my sweet Ebba and Thale.”

I paused. “I admit,” I said, quietly. “I’m leery of frontier justice. If only because half-orcs are often the target of it, no matter how little they may deserve it.” I grinned, fiercely. “But it sounds like it couldn’t have happened to two more deserving souls.”

Aribela chuckled, quietly. She smiled. “It is nice to talk to someone. Who are you, anyway? And what brings you out here?”

Virginia blushed. “He’s-” She stopped, then stammered. “Is ... a...” She looked at me.

“I’m Rayburn Cog,” I said, nodding. “And I’m just a wanderer, heading to Shrouded Hills.”

Aribela smiled. “Well, Mr. Cog, I am more than willing to put you up here. I don’t often have visitors. And you, unlike my last visitor...” She shook her head. “You have a good air about you.” She closed her eyes. “I should have listened to my instincts that-”

“No, Aribela,” I said, taking her hand, reaching forward. She stiffened as I gripped her hand, squeezing it. “No. You cannot blame yourself.” I paused, my eyes darting to the hearth. There was an empty space there, quite obvious. It was where the holy symbol had been, I was sure. I looked at her and smiled. “Listen, Aribela, you deserve to get at least something back.” I smiled.

“Oh?” Aribela asked, arching an eyebrow.


The spirit manifested before me as I walked into the cave. Aribela’s guest bedroom had been plenty comfortable, even if Virginia had insisted I take the bed and had then insisted on sleeping on the floor, then kept me awake all night by shifting about in discomfort. It had been more than enough to recover our stamina and set out once more. We had made it to the cave again without running into wolves or bears or anything, and so, I was fresh and fully reloaded. Virginia stood beside me, her face grim.

“You ... didn’t ... kill ... the evil witch?” Brehgo howled.

“Oh, no, we had a chat. You, my good friend ... are a liar,” I said. “And if you ever want to leave this plane of existence, you’ll tell me where to find your friend, Mr. Fahrkus.” I grinned at him, rather impressed with that bald faced lie. Half of playing poker, after all, was not letting on and all that. The spirit hovered there, shimmering, waiting. Virginia clutched her staff tighter still.

“Please ... release me...” the spirit whispered, whining. “Please...”

“First. Tell me where Fahrkus is.” I growled, stepping forward. A bit of complete nonsense. Trying to threaten a ghost with my physical presence. But it worked. The ghost blinked, floating back slightly, and then the mental location popped into my head. I turned and started to walk with Virginia. As we headed for the cave, I looked back and called over my shoulder. “By the way, I lied. Rot in here, forever.”

We walked out to the sound of screeching, to dire threats of being cursed forever, of haunting, of boils and sores and infertility. Virginia glanced back over her shoulder, then looked back over at me, gulping slightly. “Are you sure that was wise?”

“No, but it was rather amusing,” I said, grinning.

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