Blackwing

[Ostheim]

"First step's rough, Kammer, watch her head."

"Uh huh."

A dull thud was punctuated by a sudden, sharp hiss of pain from the dragged woman as she was 'led' downstairs, manhandled roughly by two fellows that she had only recently had the pleasure of becoming acquainted with a few days prior. They'd put a blindfold on her, tied her hands together for good measure, but she knew where she was. She even knew the step she had just hit her head on. It was one of those ill-built stairways that had an uneven construction, leading down into a dark cellar underneath a cobbler's shop. Wynna was convinced that Howland had had the second step modified specifically so that those unfortunate enough to find themselves in her current situation would receive a rather rude awakening.

Kammer and Flats weren't exactly gentle escorts; she was surprised she was still conscious. If she hadn't been, that knock to her skull would have woken her right up. Howland was a prick like that.

And she had crossed him; intentionally or not didn't matter to men like Howland, or his paid thugs.

Still, she thought to herself as she continued to glide inelegantly down the stairs, dragged from both ends, it wouldn't hurt to try.

The narrow passage echoed with the noise of their chuckling as they dragged her to the bottom, stopping temporarily to pop open the door into Howland's inner sanctum. Kammer, a half-orc that Wynna thought well-too cunning for his own good, reached over to the back of Wynna's head, dragging her up by the hair, rewarded for his cruel efforts by a whimper of pain as she was forced to her feet. "Might as well see 'em standing."

"My gratitude knows no bounds," Wynna muttered. She wondered, idly, if they would violate her after. With the half-orc's hand clutching her hair, it suddenly seemed a very real and terrible possibility.

She forced the errant thought away. No, they were... she didn't wish to say professionals, but they were well paid by Howland to act the part. He was a petty, taciturn man, but not an overly cruel one.

She heard the door open, felt a sudden excess of warm air touch her face. It was a disquietingly comfortable sensation; she had no wish to feel at ease here, not when she needed her wits about her. The meaty hand abruptly left her head and hair and pushed her forward, sending Wynna stumbling ahead into what she remembered to be a well-shadowed, humble room. She searched her mind for extra details as the warmth became encompassing. A painting of Azoun on the wall. A desk with some flat-back chairs; she remembered feeling uncomfortable sitting on them the last time she was here. Her ass had ached slightly after.

She'd be lucky if that was all that hurt when she left this place today, she figured. With that thought in mind, she was manhandled over to the left, towards... the desk, yes. Someone clutched her shoulders and forced her down into a seat.

Flats cleared his throat politely; he was a squirrely man with a thin mustache, lithe and deft of hand. Wynna wondered if he enjoyed games with daggers, like she did, and then she wondered why in Tymora's name she was struggling to find common ground with a glorified rat man that likely only found pleasure in slipping shivs between unsuspecting ribs.

"Should we excuse ourselves, boss?"

Howland's crisp voice was quick and deliberate. It usually was; he seemed ever unflappable. "Yes, please. A thousand thanks to you both, gentlemen." There came a quick jingling noise that perked Wynna's ears like a bloodhound's nose to a close-by kill, followed by the sound of something sailing over her head, punctuated by a clapping sound as someone - Flats, probably - caught whatever it was. A coin purse, she imagined.

"Appreciate it, boss."

"Yeah," Kammer added. Man of few words, him. She hated people who didn't talk a lot.

She listened to them leave, listened to the door shut and latch itself again. A neat trick, that; magical? Probably. The footsteps up the stairs slowly faded away into an uncomfortable silence.

For a time, she listened to Howland write. To the quill that was doubtlessly in his hand tap itself against the inkwell, and the muted scribbling as he committed something to paper. Orders, probably. For her execution? She wondered how he'd phrase it. 'Cut her head off and be done with it.' Or perhaps something more couched in bureaucracy, explicit orders detailing how she was to be killed, where her body was to end up, and who would be entitled to the contents of her purse and in how many splits.

Her lips curled upwards, actually, at the morbid image. Only you, she thought.

"You're smiling, Celia," Howland observed.

"Guilty."

"Hm."

He didn't press, but the grim note in his voice left little to the imagination. Wynna did not smile again, listening to the criminal write for another few minutes, until finally she heard the quill slip into the inkwell and not come back out again.

There came a pregnant pause. She struggled to keep her expression calm and stoic.

Eventually, he cleared his throat softly, musingly. "I was just writing a letter to Cauno's wife."

Wynna felt her stomach twist. "Ah."

"Would you like for me to read it?"

She slowly shook her head, wishing desperately that she could see. Her mind struggled to paint a picture of the room she was in, where the door was, how difficult it would be to make a run for it. It just would not come, and all she could think of was a man, balding despite his young age, with a bushy beard that she had always thought too well-cared for.

More specifically, she was thinking about how he had died.

"She's with child, I think," Howland went on, his voice mild. "Their third."

Wynna frowned. Neither Cauno or his wife were part of his organization, but... he /had/ gone to Howland for assistance, had he not? No, she wasn't surprised that Howland knew these things. But it still unsettled her.

"In the letter, I-"

Wynna did something that, she would reflect later, was perhaps unwise. Howland must have been in a rare, reflective mood, for the slight went unpunished. She blurted out, "How did you know he's dead?"

His reply was immediate, unfettered by the interruption. "Fannali told me."

Wynna went cold. She felt her lips part in shock.

"I offered her fifty lions, actually." A beat. "That should, perhaps, tell you how invested my organization is in our late Cauno's work." She heard his fingers drum against the desk. "I wished to know who was responsible for the failure, and why the supposed 'guide' had not only failed so utterly, but had neglected to inform me upon her return."

She was speechless, her mind still reeling from the betrayal.

Fifty lions. Fan had betrayed her for fifty lions. She felt like crying, but she couldn't allow herself to look so weak in front of him. Some lingering sense of personal propriety still had her in its clutches.

Fifty. That bitch. She was worth at least a hundred. There was a nameless pain in her chest now, deeply emotional and ragged. She couldn't even cheer herself up.

She imagined Howland watched her for a time, appraising her. She was also certain that he knew exactly how much pain she was in right now; he had those beady sorts of eyes that seemed all-knowing.

"Luckily," he said after a while, cutting through the silence like a tempered blade through flesh. "I'm going to consider letting you walk out of here, Celia. But first, you're going to tell me a story. And you won't lie, and you won't embellish. I already have Fannali's side, and now I would like yours." Another pause, then, and she imagined him leaning over to say this, "Why let him die?"

Good question.

[Ostheim]

He'd insisted on the Laughing Lass, of course. Wynna had tried to not roll her eyes, and suspected she only half-succeeded when she noticed the young man finally step through the doors into the crowded tavern. He looked exceptionally nervous, and the expression of anxious doubt failed to flee from his expression as his eyes found her waiting at the bar.

Wynna spared a glance towards the booth where Fannali and Sweeper were waiting for her. They'd been patient so far; Sweeper always was, but she hadn't been as certain about Fan. She had a bit of a rash streak that rather reminded her of herself when she got right into the middle of something. Usually a dangerous something.

She redirected her attention to Cuano, who was busily making his way over towards the bar, that pensive look never once changing. He seemed to look twice at every patron and bouncer; Wynna thought this perplexing behavior, and she was beginning to deeply regret agreeing to humor the man's request for a meeting. He seemed more trouble than he was worth, and dreadfully skittish. Neither were particularly ideal when it came to their line of work.

Still, something about his zeal had appealed to her... and it wasn't as if she could just walk out on him now.

So Wynna smiled when he made it to the bar, doing her best to make it feel genuine as well as look the part. "Right on time, Cuano. How does the day find you?"

Cuano reminded her of an old man, one that had discovered some secret of eternal youth and was desperately attempting to fit in with the younger generation again through sheer enthusiasm. He had wide blue eyes, a balding head of hair and a prominent face full of beard. Always smiling, even when it was clear he was anything but at ease.

Like now.

"Celia! Always a pleasure, always a... a pleasure, where are your friends? I'm surprised you're alone." He had a deep voice, which neatly belied the man's squeamish nature.

She pointed to them, of course, and this seemed to relax him greatly. Perhaps he was pleased she was taking him seriously; more people had to mean more interest, right? Wynna led him over, trying not to smile as Sweeper stood up to his full height of three feet. He was ever polite, despite those beady eyes and the custom-fit breastplate that he wore constantly, even to 'social' outings such as this. A gnome, he was the muscle that Wynna relied upon in desperate situations. Wiry and deceptively graceful, he was more than willing to accompany her to strange places... so long as he got a cut out of the findings that seemed valuable enough.

They had a good thing going. Fannali, however, was new. She remained sitting, for one, raising a languid, half-elven hand in greeting as Cuano sat down, sliding into the booth on Sweeper's side. Wynna watched Sweeper climb back up and sit beside the pensive looking fellow, smirking idly at Wynna. Her eyes were on Fan, though.

She was new to the group. Wynna had met her in... well, it was a tavern, one far less reputable than the Lass. As much as she wanted to say she'd met her in some salon for scholars or at the library, she never seemed to get that lucky. A sorceress of some middling power, she had seemed very keen on listening to Wynna's drunken rambling about all the terribly interesting places she had gone and sympathetic to how down on her luck she was. Quite sympathetic.

Wynna liked her considerably, and was painfully aware that that stemmed from reasons that were not altogether academic. Unlike Cuano, her enthusiasm seemed quite natural, as though she had been born to adventure. Most importantly, she always listened, and always responded. Sweeper was a necessary evil that was occasionally pleasant company, but Wynna had higher hopes for Fannali.

"Hello!" Cuano was saying adamantly. "Hello."

Sweeper grunted, and Fannali fluttered her eyes at him. Save for a quirk of his head - Wynna knew he was married - there was no reaction. She was getting used to Fan's flirtations, which she seemed to have an endless reserve of. She was also trying to not get too annoyed about them, and that was a little harder. She sat down next to her and signaled for a serving wench.

"You don't live too far from here I hope?" Wynna asked, ever polite.

"No, no... well, yes, but the Promenade is very quick by wagon." He coughed, and she wondered how many silvers the bastard wagon driver had fleeced him for.

"Those charlatans will charge you an arm and leg," Fannali mused softly, affecting a sigh. That was another thing Wynna liked; they always seemed to be thinking similarly. It helped that Fan was currently brushing her shoe against her leg, though.

The wench came, took their orders and glided off again. Sweeper watched her go, distracted temporarily when one of the larger bouncers (the Lass was full of them) followed after the young woman. "Feh. Gotta take the bad with the good," the gnome muttered thoughtfully.

"Insightful as ever, my friend."

Sweeper just grinned, and Wynna tried not to feel too amused by the way Cuano shrunk away from the much smaller gnome. "May we... discuss matters, now, perhaps?"

" 'Tis true, we did come here for reasons other than providing Sweeper with a view." Wynna spread her hands, quirking her brow at the young man. "So discuss."

When Cuano smiled then, Wynna felt a fluttering in her stomach almost immediately. He looked genuine, and the glint in his blue eyes spoke of a predatory zeal for the forgotten and buried that neatly rivaled her own.

He discussed. And Wynna listened for a long time indeed, the noises of the Laughing Lass falling away like so much buzzing noise. There was only the four of them, that booth, and the makings of a plan. It all began with a single word, a word that he must have known would capture her attention with the very first syllable.

"Netheril."

[Ostheim]

The next few days were busy.

Cuano, naturally, had to return to his research and findings, poring over reports and accounts, double and triple-checking to ensure it all added up to what he was saying it was. He had hastily rebuffed her attempt at assisting him make sense of it all, possessive as any man or woman on the verge of some great discovery. After explaining his proposal and making his requests, the man was quick to leave them pondering in the Lass over possibilities.

Fan was eager, though Wynna was more willing to chalk it up to boredom; she insisted that they head out the next day before 'anyone else got to it.' An impressively childish fantasy for one likely twice Wynna's age, but she wasn't about to tell her that, or anything particularly rude that night. Wynna herself was deeply excited, and eager for an outlet. Some people enjoyed getting into fist fights or brawls to let the energy out; Wynna was a socialite, and would conduct herself as one. Bedding and drinking.

Both Fan and Sweeper were pleased with how things seemed to be going, having listened to the man's explanations with the dim visages of those who were only seeing what would be afforded to them at the end of it all. Wealth, relics, fame. All pleasant things, Wynna admitted readily, but there were some key problems that neither of them were willing to look at. Which was fine, she supposed; that was her job, and the very reason Cuano sought her out in the first place.

Not simply a scholar or an adventurer, Wynna had a habit of enabling things to happen. Contacts, strings to pull, lore to pore over. If someone wasn't certain where a place was, and it was not readily available on any common map of the Forest Kingdom, they would come to Miss Blackwing. She rather prided herself on being a font of knowledge, of not simply going on such excursions herself, but allowing them to occur in turn. Wynna believed in an atmosphere of cooperation; if she helped one budding scholar out now, they'd be more likely to do the same later.

But she was at a loss here. Cuano held all the cards, so to speak, all of the documents, the references, and the stories. What he needed out of her was funding. A crew (hers, she had already decided) and supplies. The knack.

She had most of that. But funding? Perhaps in happier times. These were not. Normally, she'd be happy to wait, to go on less dangerous runs that were guaranteed to bring in some coin. She and Sweeper were not below mercenary work, and they were both proficient at their jobs. Fannali, too. Coin could always be found, one way or another. In truly dire circumstances, she'd even resort to picking up old habits for a night or two; she comported herself with enough noble bearing to pick up on the easiest marks. Not especially profitable, but when times were rough... well, she was no stranger to relieving men and women of coin they wouldn't miss.

Luckily, she hadn't had to worry about such things for a long time... up until now, anyway. She had been discussing options with Sweeper (trying in vain to keep Fan out of it, but the woman was sharp) when Cuano walked into their lives, adding an urgency that had not been there before.

No, they needed coin. Funding, and quickly. She needed a patron, someone to deal into the equation. She briefly considered a noble patron, but the possibility of Purple Dragons showing up one day at the site was just too sickening a prospect. No, she needed someone who would, without a shade of doubt, keep this to themselves. Someone who had a stake in secrecy.

It would have to be Howland. The day after their talk at the Lass, Wynna sent the crime boss, who had always had an interest in relics mythical and more... easily acquired through blunter means, a letter detailing in broad strokes what her proposal was.

He agreed, of course. He was intrigued and requested a meeting with her; it would not be their first, or their last.

A Netherese ruin, right in the heart of Cormyr. Untouched by any official hand. Wynna's mind had begun racing even as Cuano had himself speculated. Remnants of a floating city? A citadel from where the High Netherese conducted themselves? Some font of magical lore, perhaps, forgotten by modern arcanists? The possibilities were endless, save for one thing; that Cuano was convinced, without doubt, that it was there, and it was waiting for them.

She spoke with him again, several times, over the next tenday. She spoke with Howland too, more than once. Everyone was very excited, very eager to figure out what Cuano had discovered. Howland wanted a cut, of course; first dibs, as it were, on the choicest finds. Wynna had agreed without really thinking about it; if the discovery was truly magnificent, they'd simply find a way to make off with it. He had wanted to send someone with her, of course, but she managed to impress upon him the degree to which she was attached to Suzail and her reputation in Cormyr; she would not risk double-crossing him.

She didn't think she'd have to. But she might, and she was comfortable with that, and comfortable with him thinking otherwise.

Wynna was dreadfully pleased that week, and the next. Invigorated in a way she rarely allowed herself to become, even with the prospect of a venture before her. None held the seductive promise that this one had. Fannali commented more than once, and Wynna was more than content to let her benefit from her mood as well. She could be an absolutely dour woman at times, but when she was happy, she was prone to make it exceedingly obvious. They'd grown much closer during this time, she and Fan. Even Sweeper seemed more affable.

Reflecting upon that, alone in Howland's chamber, still sore from where she had hit her head on the way down, Wynna did not have to speculate on why that mood was gone. It had died with Cuano and Sweeper, and with Fannali's betrayal here, was well and truly buried under the weight of failure.

[Ostheim]

The wagon was stuck again. Sweeper was quick to send Wynna a withering glare, running a hand over his smoothly bald head. Despite being the smallest of their motley band, he was easily the one imbued with the most strength. This, of course, often meant he was the one needing to do most of the work when the wagon was halted.

Which was getting increasingly more common the deeper they went into the King’s Forest.

Personally, Wynna did not mind the delay; the bumpy road was making her somewhat ill now that she had been confined to the wagon for the last hour or so, fatigue having thoroughly set in from hours of walking. She preferred to walk, typically, though it always depended on the road. This lonely stretch of dirt road through the King’s Forest was anything but accommodating.

She leaned to the side, eyes shut as she heard Sweeper groan as he took his leave of the wagon, along with the pensive hemming and hawing of Cuano and his… servant, she supposed, Hendrick. He had described the young man as his scribe, but Wynna was rather certain that he was mere hired muscle. Most scribes weren’t as bulky as Hendrick was.

Together, they began to tackle the wagon. Keeping her eyes shut, willing a brief reprieve of sleep, Wynna reclined back in her seat, her head leaning upon the crate they had saddled in the back of the wagon. Unmarked. Inside was a barrel filled with alchemist’s fire, heavily cushioned to prevent it from moving about in the crate.

She was through worrying about it. If it exploded, she took solace in the idea that she’d only know for a split second. It had been Sweeper’s idea, and gnomes tended to know about these things. Or at least Sweeper had assured her they did.

Taking a barrel of alchemist’s fire into the King’s Forest was, of course, highly illegal and probably punishable by a hefty fine. She didn’t think it’d constitute a capital crime or anything of the like, but… that would probably depend on how much damage it did when it did explode. And she had every intention of exploding it.

Probably none, if Cuano’s notes were accurate.

There was something soothing about listening to the three men puzzling over the wagon’s latest breakdown; it was not merely stuck, but the wheel seemed to be compromised in some fashion as well. Rather than fret, Wynna was merely glad to not be worrying about it herself, and that she could finally, almost get some sleep after many long hours of-

She felt a tugging on her arm sleeve, and tried her best not to sound disappointed. It could only be one person, after all. Her eyes fluttered open, taking in the pleasant sight of Fannali’s blonde hair framing her elvish face. Half-elvish, anyway, she was quick to remind herself. But sometimes, and maybe this was just evidence of her yet-unblemished good mood even on the road, she could only barely tell the difference between her and a full-blooded elf.

The difference, Fannali usually quipped, was one of personality… though Wynna was fairly sure the other woman relished in the favorable comparison, anyway.

Presently, Fan was doing her level best to pull Wynna free of the wagon, a mischievous gleam in her eyes. The scholar tried not to sigh; she had no energy for this, or anything else the sorceress wanted. Still, she allowed herself to be pulled out, landing gracefully despite her drowsiness, and wordlessly followed Fannali off the road and in between the trees. If any of the men noticed, they didn’t let on.

She was confident Sweeper had, of course. But he was used to this by now.

They didn’t have to go terribly far, stopping at the first conveniently-sized rock that was not too discomforting to sit (or lay) upon. From there, Wynna was content to let herself be wrapped up in the half-elf’s embrace; she had to admit this was quite a bit more comfortable than the wagon, though the steady thrumming of her heart was a little distracting.

Silence persisted for a time. Unable to see her lover and accomplice, Wynna simply tried to doze off again.

“You can’t be that desperate to sleep,” Fannali eventually murmured, stroking a hand through Wynna’s carefully cropped hair, a chastising edge to her voice. “We’re in a forest filled with-“

“Birds,” Wynna supplied quietly, tilting her head up, finally opening her eyes. Fannali wasn’t looking at her, her strikingly blue, angular eyes surveying the tree line. “Badgers… squirrels. Insects.”

“Goblins and dragons?”

Wynna shook her head, smirking. “According to most accounts, actually… no.”

Fannali looked impressed, but Wynna reminded herself that this was typical. “Why is that?”

“Diligent hunters and patrols, doubtless,” Wynna told her through a yawn. “ ’Tis the King’s Forest for a reason, you know… would he want his name attached to a place so dangerous?”

The half-elf rolled her eyes. “If it’s so safe, why are there ruins here that no one has known about?”

Wynna held up a finger, which Fannali quickly took into her mouth, prompting the scholar to sigh and withdraw it. “Let me finish, hm?”

“Fine, fine.”

Wynna smiled. “According to official documentation, there are no ruins in the Forest.”

Fan scoffed, looking every bit the snooty elf for a moment. “Well of course they would claim that.”

“Naturally,” Wynna agreed, turning her head to look at the trees around them. All seemed very still. “And ’tis mostly, ah… ‘fringe’ scholars that tend to suggest otherwise, but we’re all fairly of the same mind that the Crown is simply eager to lay claim to whatever riches such places might hold.”

“King’s Forest and all,” Fannali deadpanned, winning a satisfied smile from the scholar.

“Correct… but these woods used to be part of a very large forest, one that still exists today out east.”

“So?”

Wynna shrugged. “It was also one of the main routes Netherese refugees used to travel south.”

Fannali looked dubious now. “You think we’re about to stumble on a Netherese refugee camp?”

It was an amusing enough image to deserve a laugh, which Wynna knew Fannali liked. “ ’Tis possible… but even refugees must have carried very interesting things with them, don’t you think? For all we know, they might have stopped here and made a small village, something buried by the elements.”

Wynna could see at once that Fan was unsatisfied with that idea, so she quickly added, “But we won’t know until we get there, hm?”

The half-elf sighed, blowing a loose strand of blonde hair from her eyes. “Assuming we ever do…”

“The wagon is a necessary evil,” Wynna told her simply, for the umpteenth time. “Both for our cover, and for our purposes.”

“And what purposes would those be?” Fannali asked (knowing full well what they were), her tone waxing… well, it waxed with the certain tone that usually helped Wynna forget about other unpleasantries for a while. “Providing just enough delays that we can steal off alone?”

“A fortunate side-effect…” Wynna admitted, not feeling at all very tired anymore.

Sweeper shouted for them not long after that. Enough time to be very awake indeed, and very aware of, again, just how bumpy the road was. All things considered, Wynna didn’t consider the exchange having been worth making… even if she had managed to impart a little history, too.

[Ostheim]

They were two days past Waymoot, deep into the northern reaches of the King’s Forest when they finally arrived at the site. The terrain was steadily elevating as the Stormhorn mountains slowly came into greater focus as towering pillars of rock and gravel in the distance. No more roads out here; only game trails that the wagon was forced to negotiate with, and it had by now consistently proven itself to be the shoddiest diplomat of the crew. Unwilling to even entertain the idea of carrying their cargo, Wynna and the others seemed to be taking turns every hour to tackle the problem that was forcing their transportation back into motion.

At least the trees were letting up.

She was thoroughly exhausted when they finally reached the place, carefully following Cuano’s meticulous directions; the last day and a half had been one of seeking out landmarks given by shoddy eye-witness accounts and praying to their respective gods that they were interpreting everything correctly.

But not once had there been a miss-step in navigation. On any other venture, Wynna told herself it would have been genuinely unnerving. On this one, having struggled with the wagon, Sweeper’s gruff attitude, Fannali’s physical neediness and lack of discretion (she fully expected Cuano to make her the butt of gossip among scholars in Suzail at the end of all this), and Cuano’s annoyingly persistent optimism, she was simply thrilled to have finally gotten there.

‘There’ was a small valley between two hills, both of which were covered in rocky crag formations that dotted them like imperfect skin blemishes. The valley was a narrow affair, and was positively full to brim with rocky debris that had tumbled down from the hills over the years.

Cuano had another theory, though, one she was inclined to agree with.

“There, see?” he asked of her as Sweeper and Hendrick were busy pushing the wagon up towards the valley, the pair of asses patiently waiting on the side. He and Wynna were sitting side by side in the front of the wagon, and Wynna could feel Fannali’s amused eyes on the back of her head. She had a habit of staring when Wynna and Cuano talked over matters like this; history and the like, their common passion.

Perhaps she felt possessive.

“The crags there, atop the two hills?” he went on, thoroughly enthused.

She saw. On the slopes of the two hills were two seemingly identical rock formations, towering examples that seemed particularly jagged and weathered by time. It seemed little coincidence that the largest pile of rocky debris, situated in the valley itself, was between those two points.

Wynna, though not imbued with a dwarf’s cunning for stone by any measure, found it perplexing all the same. “What a queer formation,” she mused.

The other scholar could not stop grinning. “Fashioned by an ancient dwarven hold, perhaps. They did so love to carve into the rocks, manipulate them… before, ah, all of their troubles began, of course.”

She frowned at the thought of fifty or so hairy men squabbling and belching in the presence of their quarry, but was quick to dispel the image.

“Perhaps we may find evidence among the rocks?” Cuano suggested soon after, and that made her feel better.

When they reached the edge of the valley, just at the base of the slope that would lead them up to it, Cuano hopped out from the wagon and began to pace about, eyes firmly to the grassy ground beneath them. The force with which Sweeper rolled his eyes, to Wynna’s knowledge, could have easily itself pulled a Netherese enclave to the ground as thoroughly as any Karsus.

“Found something?” the gnome asked after a moment, his tone barely patient. He was happier when jobs involved violence.

Wynna was half-out of the wagon herself when Cuano turned and smiled sheepishly up at them. “No, no… simply hopeful, I suppose.”

She slipped back next to Sweeper, lowering her voice. “One of his documents said a piece of pottery was found around here, at the base of the valley.”

“Thrilling,” Sweeper deadpanned.

Wynna shrugged; she’d have been thrilled at such a find, too. Cuano soon re-embarked and off they went, slowly and slowly up towards the valley, Hendrick and his pair of donkeys at the helm. By that point, it was not long until they finally reached the valley itself, and the plethora of ancient rocks dotting the narrow passage in great clumps. In such density, Wynna had to admit, it was only plausible that they had indeed come from whatever formation had existed between the two hills.

And their ruin lied beneath it.

They took an hour to rest, the three men setting up camp while Wynna and Fannali took to exploring the valley. The rocks were everywhere, forming an unnatural maze as the two women struggled to navigate between the fallen debris; cursory glances over loose rubble, by now well and truly weathered and hundreds of years fallen, revealed no identifying runics, Dethek or otherwise.

History was a fickle bitch; Wynna loved her so, but the ever-present danger of weather and time taking their toll, destroying all evidence that something had ever existed… it never failed to frustrate.

They were slow in returning when darkness finally began to creep upon them, though mostly due to Fannali persistently mistaking ordinary rocks as something worth investigating. Wynna was beginning to regret not taking a dwarf along whenever she turned to look at the great pile of rocks that had accumulated.

Then again, the rocks were simply an obstacle in the end. Whatever they had come for, concealed for centuries, was beneath them. Hidden, and soon exposed if Wynna had her way.

She could hardly wait for morning.

[Ostheim]

“How big of an explosion could it possibly be?”

“Big.”

Wynna grumbled softly, staring past the wagon; their makeshift cover as Hendrick and Cuano began the complicated process of lighting a fuse that was connected to the by-now unseen barrel of alchemist’s fire, nestled among the rocks.

Sweeper and Fann were with her, the half-elf looking torn between boredom and interest over at the spectacle, while Sweeper had seemed to decide he would be bored for the majority of the trip until taken somewhere that might kill him. Not even the imminent explosion seemed to interest him very much, though Wynna was given to understand that this sort of behavior was typical for gnomes of a criminal persuasion; grim sorts that only seemed to derive interest out of particularly valuable looking gems they could steal or claim from the dead.

In Sweeper’s case, older relics could be added to that list. Claiming a gnome’s interest was often very good for securing their loyalty.

As for Fann… well, Wynna had somewhat more selfish reasons for worrying about her level of excitement more. When Hendrick had been looking for a place to set down the barrel, he had been, regrettably, shirtless. Elf-bloods were a mercurial sort, and so she had stared a little, much to Wynna’s chagrin.

She didn’t see the appeal… though, not only for more obvious clashes in preference, but the man seemed particularly guileless. Wynna did not think that particularly attractive in either sex.

She found herself glancing sidelong at the half-elf with a private, pensive frown, watching her look out towards the two men working. Idle eyes were fine, she supposed, but… no, this wasn’t going to work in the end. If it wasn’t Fann doing it, it would be Wynna at some point, getting overly invested in a particularly well-spoken bar wench or yet another bardess. Like always.

Comparatively speaking, ruins and scholarly pursuits were far easier to digest than dwelling on her saddening, ephemeral love life.

Next to her, Sweeper spat off to the side and lowered his head a little behind the wagon wheel. “Might want to cover your ears.”

She looked over at him, back to the barrel, where Cuano and Hendrick were busily running away quite fast. Blinking, she dutifully followed Sweeper’s advice, tugging on Fannali’s sleeve to spur her into doing likewise; she watched the half-elf cover her slender, pointed ears with a tangible pang of regret.

It was the ears she would often miss most.

They ended up waiting around a minute in full, during which Cuano and Hendrick joined them in covering their ears behind the deceptive safety of their wagon. Just when Wynna was about convinced that something had gone wrong, rising up slightly to look and only for Sweeper to, scowling, tug her back down and swiftly re-cover his ear, did the barrel finally explode. True to the gnome’s word, it was a horrendously loud, noisome thing that seemed to send the hills shaking with the power of the explosion. Merely covering her ears did not seem sufficient to keep the worst of the blast from pulverizing her sense of hearing… but it would have been far worse had she not been, doubtless.

When the shaking was done, Wynna found that she had been shutting her eyes rather tightly. Only when she sensed Fann moving next to her did she open them again, peeking up over the side of their wagon.

None of the rock fragments had come close… none of the larger, more dangerous ones, anyway. Sweeper had insisted on distance, and that seemed to have paid off; looking over at the site of the explosion, Wynna let out a sharp, impressed whistle.

It was desolated; the sense of wonder at the power of alchemy was quickly muted by a pressing, mad fear that the Netherese site below must have been damaged. She began to approach, only to be, again irksomely, pulled back by Sweeper. “Ruin is probably fine, cripes.”

“And I take it you’re an expert on such things?”

He made a show of deeply sighing, in his usual way. “You see all that red shit on the ground over there?”

Wynna squinted. “Yes.”

“It’ll burn right through your boots,” he snapped irritably, adjusting his goggles. “You need to let it burn away.”

Wynna felt immediately, cruelly put upon. “And how long will that take?”

The gnome gave an idle shrug. “Hour, probably.”

The following sixty minutes were spent, predictably, by Wynna imagining various scenarios in which fiendish alchemical liquid would seep down a pristine set of stairs, pain-stakingly crafted by the finest Netherese refugees (of course), burning all in its path. Perfect, mummified specimens would dissolve, relics would burn away merrily, preserved records would finally meet their final demise, and the magical items would go up in a terrific explosion and just destroy the whole bloody thing.

She spent a lot of it pacing.

Fannali and Cuano came over at various points, but she waved them off. Cuano, she noted coldly, seemed oddly sanguine about this whole debacle, while Sweeper never once seemed to not sport a shit-eating grin whenever Wynna had the misfortune of seeing him.

And she spent a lot of time staring at where the rocks had used to be; an angry red hue seemed to linger in the air there now, an after-effect of the alchemical explosion, and the land there looked barren where it had once been verdant and green, if marred by plentiful rocks. It reminded her, fittingly, of paintings of the Anauroch Desert, where the Netherese had made their empire, and their grave. A blighted wasteland where nothing lived or grew.

When Sweeper finally reported that the way was (probably) clear for her, Sune Herself having a scholarly debate with Oghma could not have halted her progress. With Fannali and Cuano both gleefully following along behind her, Wynna practically flew towards the gash in the earth they had made, at the scattered, decimated rock formation. Its only crime had been covering up what Wynna wanted to find.

And find she did. For where the barrel had used to stand, where the grass had been blown away, and the dirt and rocks forcibly extricated from where they had sat for centuries, now was a jagged hole in the earth. A hollow place made of ancient stone, a yawning pit with barely visible angled walls and hints of man-made construct.

Her heart racing in her chest, a passion that went far beyond her dalliances with any woman or drink, Wynna went to pull forth her torch, only for Sweeper to shriek a warning just in time to arrest the movement. A moment later, Fannali was muttering arcane words under her breath, light seeming to radiate off of her in excess of what Lathander was willing to give them on this day.

It was enough. Down below, in the hole, was a hallway.

[Ostheim]

With the rope secure around his waist, Wynna watched with a certain expectation of dread and anticipation as Sweeper was lowered into the hallway below. The hole, initially, had barely been big enough to convey any of the men, and only Wynna if she squeezed and contorted herself to the limits of discomfort. Fann, with her slender form, could probably have made it through with naught but a few scratches to sully her unblemished skin.

Neither of them were suitable to go first and scout. Wynna had begged, of course, but she was soon overruled by Cuano, who in a surprising show of utilitarianism decided that she was too risky to send first, Hendrick, whose motives for protecting her were far less pragmatic, and Sweeper, who did the best job of convincing her by reminding her that if anything was waiting down there, awoken by the explosion, he had best be there first to deal with it.

It wasn’t a perfect plan; in her mind’s eye, Wynna saw the gnome being lowered directly onto a pressure plate and zapped by a dozen different magical traps at once, sizzled before he even had time to scream. Of a sudden herd of terrible, eyeless monsters carrying him away for dinner.

All images that had been conveniently absent when she imagined herself going down first.

Hendrick and Cuano had spent the better part of the last hour chipping away at the hole they had made; subtlety was thoroughly disregarded by now, but it had been ever since the explosion. If anything was down there, they were doubtless waiting for them.

Once it was big enough to permit Hendrick, the stockiest of them, Sweeper was secured in the makeshift harness, his full-helmet concealing any expression of anxiety as the gnome gripped his custom-forged mini-bastard sword and shield. The two men carried him off to the hole and, with Wyn and Fannali (who, with an incantation, was suddenly far more equitable to any task requiring strength) on the rope to prevent him from dropping entirely, plopped him in.

Her hands taught around the rope, Wynna strained not to drop the diminutive mercenary. Fann looked dimly amused, though the concentration on her face was equally evident; magic had allowed her to easily handle what Wynna would never be able to do normally. Wynna wondered if she was just here as moral support.

Perhaps, she thought spitefully, Hendrick would have been bettered suited to this task, then. And, indeed, when the broad-shouldered man came over to help, Wynna left the two to hoist the gnome’s weight as she stalked over towards the hole, cold indifference radiating off of her.

She peered down into the hole, staring as Sweeper, clutching a torch in one hand and his blade in the other, continued to slowly descend. The drop wasn’t that far, all told, but the harness served an important task of rescue should he require it. So far he was utterly silent as the light from his torch began to illuminate the ancient Netherese architecture around him; Wynna could see them clearly now.

With cobblestone floors overgrown with fauna and fungi, along with long crumbling and decayed limestone walls, the interior of the hallway was undoubtedly ancient; Wynna had seen pictures of better preserved ruins, the remains of floating enclaves, but this was the first time she had ever seen the interior of a Netherese ruin.

Her heart pounded in her chest noisily, quickening with every detail she saw revealed by the torchlight. Pillars, most of them heavily withered, long faded murals inset into the walls… nothing distinctive seemed to remain, but the evidence was overwhelming regardless.

Said pounding ceased entirely when Sweeper hit the floor, and for a pregnant moment she watched and waited for something to happen.

Nothing did. The gnome’s helmet stared up after making a thorough survey, and he slowly relieved himself of the harness.

Cuano went next; finder’s keepers. Next went Fannali, whose magical expertise might be the only thing preventing a messy death down there. Hendrick followed after, receiving a saccharine smile from Wynna as he disappeared below. Standing around the desolation that she and Sweeper had concocted to permit their entrance, Wynna looked about the surrounding wilderness furtively.

All was quiet. The wagon, off in the close distance, suddenly seemed a tempting prospect. Some nameless worry, some paranoid sixth sense was troubling her, only to go unheeded. Wynna lowered herself down into the ruin.

Which was by now well-lit, all things considered; Fannali had her magical illumination flaring yet again, and the others had torches aplenty. Wynna spent the next few minutes, with Cuano, poring over the walls for anything approaching discernible insignia or glyph. Only Cuano managed to find something that might have once been written characters upon one of the limestones, but it was too weathered to make it out clearly.

Frustrating, to say the least. The hallway was a long one, sloped downwards at a gentle angle. Behind them, the way up was long since entirely blocked off by rock, soil, and rubble.

Wynna found that troubling; the rubble, anyway. Something about it seemed… deliberate. Paranoia, she told herself; this was the find of a lifetime, and it was just like her nerves to vex her endlessly on the cusp of such a discovery.

Soon they went lower, the torches and magelight struggling all the more so to keep the darkness at bay. They walked, Wynna up front to check for ancient traps or snares, for what seemed like a very long time indeed. Wynna could not help but notice that the hallway was a wide and spacious one, easily large enough to convey a modern wagon and its horses. The fauna began to steadily abate the deeper they went, until nothing living could be seen beyond her intruder-companions.

The two heavy stone doors they found at the bottom stood as a remarkable testament to Netherese architecture and resilience. Yet what intrigued her the most upon seeing them was the draconic character evident, etched upon both doors. Both she and Cuano seemed to let out a simultaneous cry of glee at the sight, their parchment and charcoals out as though their hands were quickened by magic.

The Netherese had been a proud people, but even they had recognized the staying power of the language of the dragons. Though their meanings defied most conventional translation, the script remained a constant throughout the eras. Wynna was confident that someone, somewhere, would be able to make sense of this.

She stood back from the doors as Sweeper came forth to take the front, grunting with exertion as he pried one of them open, the noise of stone screeching across the floor as he manipulated a door that must not have been touched in many hundreds of years. From there, after taking a quick glance inside for security, he entered the next chamber.

A sharp whistle soon followed. “Got us a bigger room here, come on-“

Silence. The four remaining explorers outside traded quick glances before hurriedly moving in behind their gnomish guard. They found him standing there just a few steps ahead, staring into the center of the chamber.

It was a large one, indeed. Yet the darkness was nigh-absolute, and it was only through the aid of their torches that Wynna could even make out a small, upraised platform in what was likely the center of the room.

Something lingered there atop the platform, its outline a dark silhouette that defied meaning. A statue, she thought immediately. Some sort of statue.

One by one, as the party surveyed that curious, loathsome looking outline, did the magical torches about the room begin to light up. Blue flame conjured into being, bright, but giving off no heat. They shared, all but Sweeper, a collective gasp at the first, then watched with awe as they began to fully illuminate the rest of the room.

The architecture was far more better preserved in here, with plentiful pillars lining the walls, impressive stonework doors leading to different parts of the ruin, and an upraised area in the center with multiple stairways up, like a squat, multi-ridged pyramid. A main foyer or welcoming chamber, perhaps?

There was more to see, more to understand, but Wynna paid it all little attention. But none of that mattered at all as the pyramid in the center, the platform, became illuminated in entirety. Awe was swiftly, brutally replaced with naught but fresh horror.

Lying atop the platform was a statue indeed; a statue whose craft and construction would have humbled even the most depraved of dwarven craftsmen had they the terrible creativity to sculpt such a thing. The detail was minute and awful, every ridge chiseled in exacting detail, every fold.

How does one describe such a thing?

Absurdly, Wynna was reminded of a windsock, an amusement for children who liked to scurry about the streets of Suzail on particularly windy days, as though to capture the essence of Shaundakul Himself. A conical body with a large, fearsome stinger upraised at its rear, as though to fend off a predator or bring swift death to prey. That was hardly the worst part; four spindly, fearsome looking arms with clawed fingers outstretched from around its conical maw, replete with absurdly sharp looking teeth. All around its ‘mouth’ was something like a mane of furry hair, looking more akin to the bushy petals upon a daffodil than anything else.

The sudden influx of malevolence in the room, like a thick miasma, was stifling. Simply laying eyes upon the horror was enough to fill her thoughts full of dark imagery and speculation at what such a thing would be capable of doing had it not been mere stone craft. Every one of them was silent; Sweeper standing just a little ahead of them, the gnome looking slack-jawed even fully covered in armor.

Slowly, Wynna felt Fannali’s hand clasp itself, vise-like upon her arm, and squeeze.

She very much wanted to do the same.