Chronicles of Klept: Chapter IX
Brandt’s door rattled when Trunch knocked. Then again when Umberto pounded on it with his fist.
From inside: silence.
Then, eventually, the shuffling of reluctant feet. A click. A creak.
The door cracked open, and Brandt Ulfornd peered out like a man deeply disappointed that he was still alive. He smelled like the unmistakable scent of disappointment soaked in alcohol. His robe was inside out. His eyes were bloodshot. His general aura was that of a man who’d found rock bottom, bought property there, and was currently renting out the basement.
“...You again,” he mumbled, blinking slowly. “Didn’t I already give you a key or… a goat… or something?”
“The key. Yes,” Trunch said gently. “About twenty minutes ago.”
“Right. Good key. Worked fine?”
“Perfectly,” Umberto said, stepping forward. “Now we have follow-up questions. About the Lenn family”
Brandt blinked again, swaying slightly.
“The Lenns?” he repeated, squinting at us like we were a particularly unwelcome hangover. “They were… fine. Good folk. Kept to themselves. Generous. Rich, of course.”
He leaned against the doorframe, bottle still in hand, and waved vaguely toward the hill.
“Built that big house up there. Put up the mausoleum down here. Paid for the flower beds before the weeds won. Didn’t cause trouble. Didn’t attract trouble.”
He took another swig, winced like the drink had punched him back. “Look, if this is about the dead in the graveyard—they’re handled now, right? You sorted that. Lovely work, truly. Very brave. You have my thanks”. He gestured weakly toward the cemetery behind us, as if sealing it shut with a flick of his fingers. “So if it’s all the same to you…kindly bugger off and leave me be”
He started to close the door, but Umberto stuck a foot in the frame.
“Look, old man,” he said, trying very hard to be patient and failing miserably, “we’ve got skeletons literally clawing their way out of the ground and your name on the caretaker’s ledger. So unless you want to join them—”
“You don’t scare me,” Brandt snapped. “You think you’re the first thug come knockin’? I kept this place in order long before any of you were—hic—playing dress-up with swords!”
He shoved the door. Umberto shoved back.
There was a brief scuffle, which ended with Brandt sprawled unconscious on the porch, snoring like someone trying to breathe through gravel.
“Problem solved,” Umberto said, dusting his hands. “Let’s search the house.”
“You can’t just knock people unconscious because they’re uncooperative!” I protested.
“He started it! Would you have preferred I set him on fire?”
“I would have preferred a conversation!”
“That was a conversation,” he said.
Wikis, naturally, had already let themselves in.
The house was a disaster. Papers everywhere, dishes stacked in odd places, furniture that hadn’t been moved in years. But amidst the chaos, a strange kind of order: shelves stacked with carefully labeled books, maps, records, family trees—drawn and redrawn in painstaking detail.
The fairy flitted across the ceiling beams, peeking into boxes and scroll tubes, occasionally dusting things with the hem of their coat.
“Messy house,” she said, “but mostly meticulous records. Something changed recently though.”
“Something broke,” Wikis said, flipping through a massive leather-bound volume. “This man catalogued births, deaths, and dental appointments going back decades. And then… nothing. About eighteen months ago. Everything stops.”
They laid the book flat.
“L-E-N-N,” Wikis read. “Markus and Lilly. Arrived from out of town years ago. No listed origin. Very wealthy. Buried in the mausoleum.”
“And their daughter?” I asked, already peeking out the dusty window.
“Still alive. Brenne Lenn,” the fairy said.
“Lives alone in the family homestead” She and I spoke at the said time. Her reading from the ledger, me pulling from memory.
There was a pause.
“How do you know that?” Day asked suddenly, his voice cool but not unkind.
I turned, surprised—and was immediately reminded that Yak exists in a constant state of surprise appearances.
He emerged from behind a stack of crates like a theatrical specter and pressed a dagger gently—yet meaningfully—against my throat.
“What else do you know that you’re not telling us, Chronicler?”
“I’m a Church historian,” I said, carefully. “Tufulla didn’t bring me along for my swordplay. He sent me because I know the valley.”
Yak’s eyes narrowed. The dagger didn’t waver.
“The Lenns were prominent,” I continued. “Not just in Nelb. In Dawnsheart too. Wealthy, generous. Contributed to civic works, charity funds, temple restorations. Always smelled faintly of lavender. Their family name is carved on a bench in the cathedral’s west wing, next to the donation box that leaks.”
The dagger lowered.
“You could’ve told us this earlier,” Umberto said, leaning against the doorframe with arms crossed and an eyebrow raised. “Y’know—before we got here. Before the graveyard. Before Brandt went night-night.”
I blinked at him.
“You didn’t ask. You all just… ran off with weapons drawn and a vague plan involving improvised violence.”
“That does sound like us,” Day mused.
Carrie floated past with a ledger under one arm. “So… where’s this mysterious house, then?”
I pointed out the window. Through the mist, the Lenn estate sat atop a modest hill—looming just enough to be foreboding, picturesque enough to be tragic.
“There,” I said. “Two stories, slightly crooked roof, probably haunted. You can’t miss it.”
Trunch leaned under my shoulder and nodded.
“Think we should talk to her?”
“Yes,” I said. “But maybe not with the same tact you used on Brandt.”
I nodded toward the porch, where our gravekeeper lay in a heap—snoring, twitching, and absolutely unhelpful.
“Let’s try knocking with words this time.”
We left Brandt snoring on the porch, surrounded by broken bottles, scattered papers, and the lingering aroma of disappointment.
“Let him sleep it off,” Umberto said, waving a hand like he’d just performed a mercy. “He’ll be fine. Or not. Either way, quieter.”
I didn’t argue. At this point, I was saving my energy for more important things. Like regret.
The hill that led to the Lenn house was soft underfoot—overgrown grass, patches of wild onion, the occasional cabbage stalk creeping too close to the path. The house loomed above us like it had grown out of the hill rather than been built into it. Two stories, weathered shutters, and an uneasy stillness that made the air feel thicker the closer we got.
I took the lead. Not because I wanted to, but because if I left it to the others, we’d arrive by battering ram.
Behind me, Umberto was stomping up the path like the very concept of hills had personally insulted him.
He was… louder than usual. Angrier, if that was even possible. His jaw was tight, his eyes sharper than they needed to be, and he kept muttering about “rich people’s secrets” and “shady hilltop bastards” under his breath. If Din had been here, he might’ve offered a calming word. A logical argument. A steady hand.
Instead,the hand on Umberto’s shoulder belonged to Carrie.
Imagine, if you will, a fairy bard at the height of her powers—if those powers included an unshakable need for attention, the color palette of a gemstone heist, and an instrument that sounds like it’s been possessed by a musically gifted banshee with stage presence.
Carrie is barely three feet tall, though she somehow radiates tall. Her wings shimmer like stained glass windows mid-mutiny—flashes of violet, teal, and emerald that could either dazzle a crowd or distract a charging owlbear, depending on the lighting. Her hair is a riotous shade of sunset orange, styled in a way that suggests either careful intention or magical accidents she pretends were on purpose. She pins the more rebellious strands back with glittering clips shaped like musical notes. Of course she does.
Her clothing is what happens when someone says “travel light” and she hears “travel fabulously.” A velvety purple bodice embroidered in golden swirls wraps around her like a melody about to burst into song. From the waist down, she’s draped in a cascade of jewel-toned silks—sapphire, ruby, emerald, amethyst—like a patchwork tapestry that sings when she walks. The sleeves don’t match, obviously. One is snug with braidwork, the other is pure drama.
Strapped across her chest, like a knight’s sword or a mage’s staff, is a set of bagpipes. And not just any bagpipes—no, these are polished mahogany, inlaid with silver vines, the bag itself a forest-green leather etched with arcane musical symbols that pulse faintly when she plays. It’s all very subtle. If you’re blind.
She also carries a satchel full of sheet music, shiny things she’s ‘collected’ (read: definitely not stolen), and an alarming number of polished stones that she insists are ‘emotionally resonant.’
Her boots, laced with crimson ribbon, are technically for travel, though one suspects she judges every village by the acoustics of its town square. A small pendant shaped like a swirling gust of wind hangs around her neck—enchanted, of course—to ensure her solos arrive with appropriate drama.
And when she plays? It’s impossible to ignore. The sound is somewhere between a battle cry and a love letter, fierce and haunting, like someone casting Bardic Inspiration through a parade.
She’s dazzling. She’s maddening. She will absolutely make you a theme song before asking your name and she seemed to almost enjoy egging Umberto on.
“We should demand answers! You won’t get the right results if you’re charming about it.” She was hovering just next to him, wings beating furiously to keep up. I’m sure she would have used less energy if she just walked alongside him.
“I’m not here to be charming,” Umberto growled.
“Exactly!” Carrie beamed. “That’s your charm.”
Wonderful, I thought. I’m leading a powder keg. And someone’s giggling while holding the match.
As the house grew closer, I stepped a little faster, trying to subtly put myself between Umberto and the front door before he kicked it open and demanded someone’s inheritance.
“Listen,” I said, holding out a hand as the porch came into view. “I think I should do the knocking. I don’t know Brenne all that well, but we have met before, and I can use the Church as a legitimate reason for our visit.”
Trunch nodded, a hint of shared concern in his expression.
“That sounds wise. Maybe… introduce us, ask a few church-related questions, and we’ll try to steer it naturally toward the important stuff as we go.”
“Church business is important,” I reminded him “To some people.”
I stepped up onto the creaking porch—slightly warped boards, paint peeling in gentle surrender—and raised a hand to knock.
Three firm taps.
The sound of footsteps approached. Then the door opened.
Brenne Lenn stood in the doorway.
She took one look at me—specifically, at my robes—and her expression softened.
“Good Afternoon, Reader,” she said, with a small, reserved smile.
“You may not remember me,” I began, giving my most diplomatic bow, “but I’m Reader Klept from the Church of the Prophet, in Dawnsheart.”
She looked at me, and for a moment—just a flicker—there was something in her gaze. Recognition, certainly. Possibly… something else?
I missed it entirely. Carrie did not. Hovering just behind me, she leaned toward Wikis and whispered—not quietly—
“Oh, honey. She apparently remembers, alright”
Wikis didn’t respond, but I heard a quiet snort.
“I do apologize for the intrusion,” I began, adopting the careful tone of someone trying to ease open a wary conversation. “We wouldn’t normally arrive unannounced, but given the circumstances—”
Which is, of course, when Umberto blew past me like a storm through a library.
“This is taking too long,” he barked, brushing against my shoulder and storming through the door as if he owned the place. “I’ve got questions, and I want answers. Preferably before the next corpse gets back up and asks me something.”
Brenne took a startled step back. “Wait—what is—?”
“Umberto,” Trunch called out, sighing mid-apology as he followed after him. “He means well. I think. Sometimes. Sorry.”
Her eyes darted from the increasingly crowded entryway to me. I offered my most disarming smile. “As I was saying… Church business.”
She didn’t look convinced. Which was fair, considering one of our group had just let himself in like an angry relative come to dispute a will.
From behind me, Carrie’s voice piped up brightly.
“Oh, I like this energy,” she said.
Trunch attempted to smooth things over the way only someone flanked by an armed lunatic and a church scribe could.
“Brenne,” he said gently, “you’re safe. We’re not here to hurt you, and this really won’t take long.”
“It better not,” Umberto added, already pacing across her sitting room like he was preparing to interrogate a ghost.
I hadn’t even made it fully into the house before Trunch turned to me.
“Klept, be a dear and make some tea, would you?”
Which, of course, is exactly what you ask the chronicler to do during an investigation. Tea. Vital stuff. History can wait.
I retreated to the kitchen in search of something approximating a kettle. Behind me, Umberto’s boots thudded across the floorboards as he muttered about ‘secrets in the wallpaper’ and ‘something off about the upholstery.’
Wikis loitered in the doorway like a highly strung cat—eyes darting, fingers twitching, absolutely radiating “don’t trust anything that breathes or doesn’t.”
Day, ever the minimalist, simply said:
“I’ll wait outside.”
Then sat on the porch like he was awaiting the world’s slowest apocalypse. The afternoon sun caught the edge of his braid—an infuriatingly perfect thing, all smooth angles and quiet menace—and lit it up like a ribbon spun from bronze.
I would have hated him, if he wasn’t so consistently right about everything.
Also—and I cannot stress this enough—we just fought skeletons. In a graveyard. Right after surviving a golem attack. This morning. By the gods, that was only this morning. And somehow, his hair still looks like he conditioned it with elven moonlight and braided it using the whispers of forest spirits. I tried to remember if he had been brushing it on the cart ride over here but couldn’t. Which somehow made it worse.
Yak leaned on the doorframe, looking so casual I knew he was about to do something reckless. And Carrie—of course—had taken to fluttering about the garden like she was choosing centerpieces for an impending duel.
In the parlour, Trunch began the questioning with the steady tone of someone trying to be respectful.
“Brenne, we’re not here to accuse. We’re simply trying to understand if your parents ever mentioned any association with the Dan’del’ion Court—any names, visits, oddities. Anything that might help us piece this together.”
Umberto did not share this approach.
“Let’s stop pretending,” he said, voice low and sharp. “Your parents were in it. Maybe you are too. If you want this to go well, start telling the truth.”
I winced into the teacups.
Halfway through the questioning, I caught movement—Carrie, descending gracefully from above, as though she hadn’t just been spying through an upper window. She whispered to Yak, who turned and whispered to Day, who didn’t react at all… aside from the faintest nod.
Yak slipped silently inside like a shadow that had been invited in by accident.
Wikis, catching the cue, turned to Brenne with a sweetness I did not trust.
“Is there a restroom I could use?” she asked, blinking innocently.
Brenne hesitated, clearly frazzled.
“It’s… upstairs.”
“Thank you,” Wikis said, already moving.
There was no stopping it now. The stealth team had deployed. The interrogation was underway. The tea was steeping.
And I was standing in a stranger’s kitchen with the growing suspicion that this was all going to end with shouting, broken furniture, and an official complaint to the Church.
A couple of minutes later I watched as Yak slipped back outside like nothing had happened, and Wikis re-entered the parlour just in time for the conversation to explode.
Because of course it did.
Trunch was doing his best.
Which is to say, he was carefully and calmly attempting to explain to a grieving young woman that her parents’ final resting place had recently failed to live up to its promise.
“We discovered their sarcophagi open,” he said gently. “There are… signs of necromantic interference. We believe someone may be trying to—well—stir the past.”
Brenne, understandably, was already pale and trembling.
Then Umberto decided to help.
“Yeah,” he cut in, “your parents got back up. All skeleton, no soul. Attacked us. I put them down.”
There was a silence. The kind that has weight to it.
Trunch looked like he’d swallowed a tack.
“Just to clarify,” he said quickly, “we did not kill them the first time. They were already… post-mortem. What Umberto means is, they reanimated, and we were forced to—”
“Smash them,” Umberto added with a joyful malice “Again.”
Brenne’s eyes welled, then flared with a different kind of fire.
“Get. Out.”
“That’s fair,” I muttered.
She stood, trembling, but somehow steady, and pointed at the door with the certainty of someone who’d just had their last shred of comfort torched.
“All of you. Now.”
And for once, no one argued.
We left as a group—not quite silent, but certainly not speaking. Day rose from the porch without a word, his steps quiet, eyes unreadable. Carrie drifted overhead like a butterfly trying not to laugh, humming a tune that sounded uncomfortably like a funeral march in a major key.
I trudged near the back, notebook in hand, appetite hollow and bitter.
Yak reappeared beside me, chewing on something warm and fragrant. Something unmistakable.
“Well,” Yak added between bites, “that could have gone worse.”
“Yes,” I muttered. “But only if we’d arrived carrying torches and a mariachi band. Where did you even … Is that…?” I asked.
He nodded, mouth full. “Sizzlecake. Still warm.”
I stared at it like a man watching a ship sail away with everything he ever loved.”
He pointed off to the side.
Trunch stood beside a roadside stall, handing a few coins to an old woman who was packing things up. He had one more sizzlecake in his hand, the other already gone. A bag of onions dangled from his elbow like some cruel joke. He didn’t look back.
I felt something wither inside me.
“Move it, Chronicler,” Umberto barked from up ahead. “We don’t have time to dawdle.”
Carrie twirled lazily in the air, her humming now drifting into the second verse—bright, chipper, and completely inappropriate.
I hadn’t had a single bite. Not one.
We made our way back down the hill—toward the graveyard, and whatever regrettable plan would emerge next.
Din was nowhere in sight.
We called his name a few times, scattered and uncertain, until Carrie’s voice floated out from a corner of the cemetery.
“He’s over here!” she called, half-curious, half-concerned.
He was sitting cross-legged in the grass, completely still, positioned in front of a headstone that looked like it had been on the losing side of a decades-long argument with the surrounding flora.
We slowed. Approached cautiously.
“Din?” Trunch called out, wiping the last remnants of the last sizzlecake on his shirt.
No response.
Umberto clomped closer and waved a hand in front of his face.
Still nothing.
“Should we… poke him?” Yak asked, already halfway committed to the idea.
“Maybe, don’t,” Trunch said. “Not yet, anyway”
I looked down and noticed the grass, weeds, and moss had been cleared—carefully—from around the base of the headstone. Din had done it, that much was clear. Not in a trance, then. Not entirely. Something deliberate had led him here.
The stone beneath was worn, but not unreadable. Moss clung to the corners of carved lettering, but just enough had been exposed for the name to flicker into view.
D.A.V.O.S.
Beneath it, a carved face—undeniably Dwarven. The beard was rendered in curling, masterful strokes, rising up off the stone like it was caught mid-flow, or charged with static. It shimmered faintly, even without sunlight.
I stepped back.
“Sparkwhiskers?” I breathed.
The group went quiet.
Carrie landed lightly beside me and studied the headstone.
“What’s it mean?” She asked.
“I think it’s best he tells you, when he’s ready”.
“What’s wrong with him?” Wikis asked, circling slowly, eyes narrowed. “He’s not dead, right?”
“No,” I said. “But he’s… elsewhere.”
Trunch knelt beside Din and placed a hand lightly on his shoulder.
“Din?” he said again, softly.
Din didn’t blink. Didn’t move.
He was looking at the grave like it had spoken. And maybe, in a way, it had.
“Well, this is fucking great” Umberto spat “little miss skeleton parents up there didn’t give us anything” he gestured towards Brenne’s house “and now Din’s catatonic.”
“And I didn’t get any sizzlecake” I mumbled.
“What did you say?” Barked Umberto.
“I said, I’m sure we’ll figure out a way to snap him out of it” I offered, in a way that I hoped sounded reassuring.
“And I wouldn’t say she gave us nothing,” Yak said. He exchanged a glance with Wikis and she pulled something out from somewhere under her coat.
Trunch’s brow furrowed. “You stole something, from her house?”.
Yak just shrugged his shoulders.
“They found it in the bedroom upstairs” Carrie squealed “I saw them through the window”
Wikis placed a small box very carefully on the ground and immediately snatched it up again.
“I don’t think this one will raise the dead” Day offered.
She scowled at him and placed it down again. Black stone—though not quite stone—with delicate silver filigree edging. And on the lid, unmistakably, the symbol: a wilted dandelion head, nestled in a bed of thorns.
“It was hidden under a floorboard,” Yak said, casually cleaning his nails with a dagger like he was recounting a walk through a flower garden. “Room smelled like lavender.”
He glanced at me and nodded.
“Told you,” I muttered.
“And secrets,” Wikis added, sniffing the air like she could catch one mid-sentence. “Definitely smelled like secrets. He accidentally set the trap off” Wikis added nodding towards Yak “but then caught the dart without even looking. It was so cool”
“Didn’t even blink” Yak added
“Oh, you definitely blinked” Carrie huffed.
“So she was lying” Umberto was still waving in Din’s face “I knew it”.
“I don’t think she knew it was there” Yak offered. “The floorboard hadn’t been touched in decades.”
“It’s definitely Dan’del’ion.” Day was holding a medallion next to the box, comparing symbols. “Think we should open it?”
“Not here, not now” Trunch added.
The sound was subtle at first—a sharp breath drawn through clenched teeth.
Every weapon in the vicinity was suddenly out.
Swords unsheathed. A dagger appeared in Yak’s hand. Trunch’s fingers twitched with a spell half-formed. Umberto was halfway into a combat roll he didn’t need to commit to.
Even Day, who had spent most of the afternoon embodying “apathetic statue,” stood with one hand on his blade, expression unchanged but definitely more murder-ready than usual.
“Another one?” Wikis hissed, already stepping back and scanning the ground.
But it wasn’t a skeleton.
It was Din.
Blinking slowly, like someone just coming out of a deep, unwanted nap. He looked around at the very armed, very tense circle of friends now surrounding him, and let out a long, groggy exhale. He looked down at the headstone in front of him, the one he’d uncovered by hand, though I don’t think he remembered doing it. The carved Dwarven face looked back at him with a knowing kind of stillness, the spark-threaded beard catching the light.
I don’t know how long we stood there. Nobody said much. Even Umberto didn’t shout, which was unsettling in the way a silent forge is unsettling—you know the heat’s still in there somewhere, waiting to erupt.
Din didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t acknowledge us at all.
And here’s the thing: I’ve seen people grieve. I’ve seen people break. This wasn’t either.
This was something older. Deeper.
“I’m going to need time to unpack that, …what did I miss?” he rasped.
No one answered at first. They were all too busy trying to look like they hadn’t just prepared to decapitate him.
I closed my notebook and sighed.
“Should I start with the groundskeeper, or the poor woman up the hill,” I began, before Umberto clapped a hand on his shoulder with all the grace of a falling anvil.
“You didn’t miss anything important,” he said. “We still don’t have answers.”
And with that, he turned and began stomping back down the path toward the hamlet.
“Where are you going?” Trunch called after him.
“To get some,” Umberto barked. “One way or another. Someone in this shithole has to know something”
Carrie hovered a little higher, clearly thrilled.
“Ooooh, he’s doing the dramatic striding thing again,” she whispered to no one and everyone.
Wikis rolled her eyes and glanced at Din.
“He means well,” he said “In his own special way”
I tucked my notes back into my coat.
“Debatable,” I muttered. “But at least he’s consistent.”
And so, like some half-coordinated theatre troupe at the end of a very strange matinee, we gathered our things and followed Umberto up the dusty path.
As we moved uphill through the village, doors clicked shut. Curtains twitched. Someone, somewhere, dropped a stack of cabbages in alarm.
“Friendly place,” Umberto growled.
His frustration simmered with every step, like a kettle left too long on the fire.
Wikis, ever the pragmatist (and possibly a little desperate for attention), climbed onto a dry patch of fence post and called out into the square:
“Five gold for anyone willing to answer a few questions!”
It was a good offer. Generous, even.
It was met with silence.
Except, eventually, for a small voice.
A girl—no more than eight years old—emerged from behind a leaning rain barrel, barefoot, bright-eyed, and utterly fearless.
“I’ll talk,” she said, sticking out her hand.
Gold changed hands. Questions were asked.
The results were… disappointing.
The girl knew nothing about the skeletons. Nothing about the Dan’del’ion Court. She giggled when Wikis used the word “necromancy” and asked if it was like hide-and-seek but with dirt.
The group’s patience, already thin, wore to tatters.
Their questions sharpened, voices rose, and then—because of course it was Umberto—there was a moment where the air shifted. A tension. A sharp glint in his eye that suggested, if she didn’t start providing better answers soon, he was genuinely considering extracting them by less-than-legal means.
Trunch, ever the diplomat, shifted tactics.
He crouched down, softened his voice, and asked heavier, more difficult questions—about the graveyard, about anything strange the girl might have seen or heard.
But somewhere along the way, something was lost.
She seemed to think this was still a game. That all we wanted were simple, cheerful facts—her name (Petra), her parents’ occupation (cabbage farmers, of course), the number of cats she had at home (three, but two were “mostly wild”).
She answered with the bright sincerity of a child proudly reciting her alphabet, completely missing the tension creeping into every corner of the conversation.
Each earnest answer was another pebble in the growing mountain of frustration.
Wikis, ever the opportunist, crouched down and showed the child the Dan’del’ion medallion.
“My mum’s got one a bit like that,” she said brightly.
And then, as if she had just solved a riddle no one else could see, she skipped away down the road.
Everyone exchanged glances and began to follow.
Not openly. That would have been too reasonable.
Instead, Umberto lurked behind a row of exceptionally large cabbages, scowling like a man who suspected the vegetables of conspiracy. Yak, meanwhile, melted into the shadows and returned moments later—face, height, and general demeanor now uncannily that of young Brenne Lenn.
He approached the house, knocked once.
The door opened. A woman—worn, cautious, and clearly surprised to see ‘Brenne’ on her porch, stared in confusion.
Yak pressed her. Gently at first, then with the casual confidence of someone who had learned to lie before learning to walk.
The medallion came out at last.
It wasn’t a Dan’del’ion relic.
It was a simple pendant. Cheap, tarnished—a red rose cast in tin. There were similarities in the shape but that was about it. A parting gift, the woman said. From her husband. Before he ran off with a woman from ‘the Briars’.
Not a great lead.
Not a lead at all, really.
Yak returned to us.
“Dead end,” he said “husband left her – bought her a cheap rose medallion as a parting gift. She doesn’t know anything.”
Frustrated, the group fanned out through the village one last time—hoping, pleading, even demanding answers from shuttered windows and locked doors.
They found none.
Nelb had retreated into itself, and whatever secrets it held, it seemed determined to take them to bed early with the setting sun.
With no better options and tempers wearing thin, they made the practical decision to camp for the evening—just off the main road, within sight of the cemetery’s crumbling walls.
It wasn’t ideal.
But nothing about this day had been.
We set up in a crooked circle on a patch of uneven ground where the grass was too stubborn to grow properly and the stones were just ambitious enough to bruise your spine if you laid the wrong way.
I hadn’t eaten all day. The sizzlecakes were long gone, the leads colder than the grave, and the only thing drifting down from the fields now was the bitter stink of onions.
I pulled my robes tighter, laid down on a stone that hated my back, and tried not to think about everything we didn’t get.We would return to Dawnsheart at first light – hopefully to have a better day.
The Chronicles of Klept 