Chronicles of Klept: Chapter XI
I spent the evening debriefing Tufulla on the events in Nelb. We raised a glass in honor of Edgar and Josep, the readers who fell in the church attack. We discussed the prophecy—how the townsfolk had reacted to the read, and its potential meanings. We talked about the discoveries in Nelb, the Lenn family’s potential involvement with the Dan’del’ion Court.
“I’ll reach out to some of the other White Ravens, they might know something” he said as he wrote down the information.
He seemed unusually interested in the group, their personalities, dynamics.
“I’ve seen a little of them in action,” he said, pensively swirling his drink. “At the festival. At the church. It’s like what I imagine watching a fireworks display in a library would be like—brilliant, deafening, and guaranteed to ruin the furniture. You’ve spent time with them, tell me about them,” he leaned back in his chair and sipped his pint slowly. It was almost as if he was trying to confirm a theory.
I saw an opportunity.
“Well, if you’re looking to assign credit or blame,” I began, “Umberto’s rage is the easiest to spot. He intimidated a ten-year-old into spilling her secrets by growling about ‘the whispers of blood justice.’ The child gave up everything—her name, her bedtime, the location of three frogs she’d been hiding in a boot.”
Tufulla raised an eyebrow. “Effective?.”
“Terrifying,” I corrected. “He’s like if vengeance grew legs and learned to read.”
“And the others?”
I sighed and took a long sip.
“Wikis, she’s the halfling with the wild hair and … minimal dress code. She collects shiny things and trusts nothing. She once accused a chair of betrayal because it squeaked when she sat. But she’s quick-thinking and alarmingly good at survival. Like a magpie with anxiety and a knife hidden in it’s wingpit.”
Something was hastily scribbled into Tufulla’s notebook.
“And the faceless one”
“Yak? Unnerving. Sometimes forgets to put on a face. Or puts on someone else’s. I watched him imitate a guard so well he almost arrested himself for suspicious behavior.”
Tufulla chuckled at that, but I shook my head.
“No, I mean it. There’s something off about him. But he… notices things. Things I don’t. There’s insight beneath the weirdness. And an almost unnatural fondness for pastries.”
“Interesting, and what about the fairy?”
“She’s loud. Brash. Impulsive. Prone to singing—or worse, playing those god awful bagpipes—right in the middle of tense negotiations. It’s like she thrives on the sound of escalating tension. But… she’s useful in a pinch. Somehow, despite the noise and the nonsense, she inspires the others exactly when it matters most. She’s chaos, but chaos with timing.”
Tufulla flipped a page in his notebook. “The dwarf?”
“Ah, yes. Din. Calls himself a Sparkwhisker.”
That got a raised eyebrow. “Really?”
“Right? From the supposedly wiped-out clan of old,” I continued. “But here’s the thing— I think he might actually be legit.”
Tufulla stared at me as if to say “go on”.
I leaned in slightly, lowering my voice like I was about to confess to seeing a ghost.
“His whiskers do the thing. When he channels magic—they float up, spark like electric tendrils. It’s unsettling and kind of impressive. I keep expecting his beard to catch fire. It’s like he’s pulling energy from somewhere older than he is.”
Tufulla blinked once, then slowly reached for his journal. “Fascinating…I knew there were a few survivors of the massacre but,” he shook his head and scribbled hastily, “he had to have been very young.”
“Din is… the closest thing that group of individuals has to a moral compass. Which is impressive, considering he’s usually elbow-deep in someone else’s consequences. He seems to be the group’s conscience.”
Tufulla nodded.
“Don’t get me wrong,” I added. “He’s stubborn, loud, occasionally sanctimonious. But if I had to bet on which one’s walking out alive …”
Tufulla frowned at his own notes “He may very well have done so, long ago”.
“Sorry?“
Tufulla muttered while writing some notes “He may have already walked out a situation alive that, by all means, he really shouldn’t have been able to,” he looked up and smiled. “You’re starting to understand them.”
“I’m starting to build a case for long-term exile,” I muttered.
But truthfully, it felt good to be away from them—even if just for an hour. No sudden explosions, no shrieking spell effects, no arguments about who gets to loot the decorative spoon. Just quiet, ale, and the warm, familiar hum of a tavern.
“What about the elf?” Tufulla asked.
“Day…” I paused. “He’s the one I keep forgetting about—right up until something explodes and he’s the one standing with his sleeves rolled up.”
Tufulla looked intrigued.
“He doesn’t talk much. But he moves like someone who’s already worked out three ways to win and two ways to vanish. I’ve seen him cut down an enemy mid-sentence, then cast a spell with the same hand before the body hit the ground.”
Tufulla raised an eyebrow.
“I think he might be the most dangerous of the lot. Not in the loud, explosive way, but in the ‘break the world quietly’ way. He doesn’t waste movement. Or effort. Which means that when he does act you better brace yourself ,because the chamber pot’s already in mid-air.”
Tufulla made a note in the corner of the page, his face unreadable.
I added, more to myself than to him, “I’m just not sure if he knows what he’s capable of yet. Or worse, if he does.”
Tufulla huffed “The unholy one – the gnome with the topknot?”
I blinked. “You mean, Trunch?” then realisation hit “Ah. Right. Yes. The pact thing.”
He gave a quiet ‘hmm,‘ it was the same sigh he gave whenever I spilled wine on my church robes.
I often forget that Tufulla, accepting though he is, is still, at his core, a man of faith. The idea of making a bargain with a cosmic horror just to skip a few years of magical study makes his skin crawl. Trunch’s very existence is, to him, mildly offensive on a metaphysical level.
“If Din is the conscience then Trunch seems like the rational one,” I went on. “Always pushing for diplomacy. Tries to calm the situation down. At first I thought it was just his nature—cool-headed, even-tempered. But I’ve been watching him. And I think… it’s more than that. I think he genuinely doesn’t want people getting hurt. Not just his allies. Anyone. That’s why he always tries to talk first. He’s not trying to win the fight. He’s trying to prevent it.”
Tufulla raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
“I also wonder if the calm is something else. Like maybe he doesn’t want to find out what happens if he really lets go. Maybe even he doesn’t know what’s waiting on the other end of that pact. If he does, he’s doing an admirable job of pretending it’s someone else’s problem.”
“That’s what concerns me,” he muttered, setting his cup down gently. “Still, I think this group’s… unconventional traits may prove to be of further use.”
“Use for what?” I asked.
“Whatever comes next.”
He gave me that look—the one that means ‘you won’t like the answer, so I’ll let time deliver it.’
Tufulla closed his journal with a decisive snap. “Well. Thank you Klept. As always, very detailed. Astute observations. I knew I picked the right man for the job. Now I think you should get some rest.”
He placed a hand on my shoulder as we rose from our table. A firm, familiar gesture—one he’s used since I was barely tall enough to reach his ink pots. I used to think it meant ‘Well done.’ Now I think it means ‘Don’t wander too far.’ Either way, it still works.
I blinked. “Rest? Now?”
“Yes. I want to think over what you have uncovered, and to be prepared for tomorrow. We’ll attend the fight in the morning, see how well your new friends do. Could be… enlightening.”
I groaned. “So I have to wake up early to watch them punch people?”
Tufulla smiled, utterly unfazed. “Think of it as research. Besides, you look like you could do with some rest in your own bed,” he paused “…and perhaps a decent wash.”
I grumbled into the bottom of my empty mug. “I prefer my research written, footnoted, and not covered in blood or teeth.”
“Then wear a taller collar,” he said, standing up. “Just in case.”
I raised an arm and sniffed “Point taken, though, about the wash. And to the point, the dormitory cots aren’t much better than the roadside. Myself, and others have been asking for new mattresses for a while.”
“I’ll take your word for it. Just try to come tomorrow in a state that doesn’t evoke a walking onion.” and he walked out.
I stared at the door for a moment, then sniffed again. I nodded to myself and placed some copper down on the table as I headed to some much needed rest.
It turns out, nothing says community spirit quite like structured violence and mild gambling. In general, most of Dawnsheart are slow to rise however, on this particular morning even as the sun’s first light began to engulf the valley, the town square was a hive of activity. Tables, chairs, barrels and hay bales ringed a makeshift arena in the center of the square. Dozens of people were settling in hoping to get the best vantage points. Vendors were selling breakfast pastries and mugs of Dawnsheart’s famous ‘morning ale’, a concoction of roasted chicory root, nettle leaf, ginger and just enough fermented grain to take the edge off. Dark, slightly smoky, with a lingering burn that clears your head it’s often said to taste like spite and second chances. Drinking it won’t make you happy, but it will make you ready.
As I approached, I spotted Tufulla already seated near what looked to be some kind of officiating table—complete with sign-up sheets, lists, and an overwhelming number of papers. He beckoned me over with the smug enthusiasm of someone who’s already ticked off half a to-do list before dawn and very much wants you to know about it.
“I got here early and managed to get us a couple of good seats,” he said, handing me a warm pastry and a steaming tin mug of morning ale.
I caught the sharp whiff of vinegar and salt. “Waker’s Brew? Really, What’s wrong with the standard, or even a Scribe’s Stout? a hint of berries in the morning is a lovely start to the day”
Tufulla nodded, utterly unbothered. “The guards say it heightens the senses. You look like you need it. Besides, I quite like it – I find the berries make it too sweet. The vinegar helps remind you you’re alive.”
I accepted both brew and pastry with the air of someone deeply unprepared for the concept of morning violence.
The officials (I use that term very loosely) began to arrive not long after. Government clerks, Citywatch representatives, and a few self-important members of the Dawnsheart Council took their seats behind the officiating table, adjusting their cloaks and clearing their throats as if preparing for a royal decree rather than a sanctioned brawl.
Over the next hour or so, announcements were made, names were checked off, and rules were discussed and then read aloud by a young clerk with a voice like wet parchment. Point was made to remind everyone that these were not fights to the death, but to knockout or submission. Disciples of Theraphis were pointed out to be on hand to deal with serious injuries, several magic users were identified around the crowd prepared to ‘shield’ bystanders if necessary.
Contestants checked in one by one—some nervously, others with theatrical bravado. Eventually, our group appeared through the crowd.
Trunch and Din approached first. Trunch shook my hand with a calm nod and clasped Tufulla’s with a small, respectful bow. Din offered a firm grip and a half-smile—the kind that says, I trust you not to laugh if this goes horribly wrong.
Day walked past with a dry “Hey,” while Yak, wiping flaky crumbs from another borrowed face, muttered a casual “Sup?” before vanishing into the crowd again.
Carrie and Wikis trailed behind, both mumbling something that might have been “morning,” though it was hard to tell through the slurred vowels and visible regret. I caught a faint scent of last night’s wine clinging to Carrie’s sleeves. Wikis had somehow managed to drape a cloak over her head like she was hiding from the sun, the law, or both.
Umberto, clad as usual in nothing but a loincloth and small cape, was off to the side doing push ups directly in front of a fruit vendor. He grunted in my general direction—loudly, pointedly, and without breaking eye contact. It was both a greeting and a challenge, and I chose to ignore both.
The fancily dressed individual from yesterday’s sign ups, Symond Thornstar, soon arrived, flanked by the enormous orc whose presence alone cleared a path. He made one last attempt—oily, insistent, and laced with pointed references to influential acquaintances, to convince the officials that the property was rightfully his. When that failed, he sighed, adjusted the cuffs of his embroidered sleeves, and with all the dignity of a man checking into an inn he used to own, reluctantly marked himself as present on the contestant list.
And then, Barbara Dongswallower arrived. Radiant. Dazzling. Dramatically overdressed for an hour most people reserve for regret and dry toast. She greeted fans with gloved hands and practiced smiles, waved to admirers like a queen who tolerated affection as a necessary part of fame, and glided toward a small table someone had clearly not reserved for her, but which now undeniably belonged to her by virtue of sheer presence.
Umberto froze mid-pushup. One arm still locked in place, body trembling with suppressed chaos. He turned his head slowly, as if fearing a sudden movement might wake him from a beautiful dream.
“She’s here?” he whispered. “She’s actually watching?”
He rose in a single, fluid motion—graceful in a way that felt borrowed from someone else’s story. For once, he didn’t grunt, growl, or flex at the nearest authority figure. Instead, he adjusted his loincloth. Smoothed his mohawk with both hands. Tried to look taller.
Then he caught me watching.
“What?” he barked, his voice cracking slightly. “Stretching’s important. Chronicle that!”
Then, after quickly glancing to see if Barbara was watching he stormed over to the official’s table, chest puffed out, yet something was different this time. His usual thunderous stride was replaced by something… lighter. Almost … bouncy? Yes. The man was bounding. Elation clung to him like dew on a daisy. The rage was still there, of course, but now it twinkled—twinkled—like a greataxe dipped in glitter.
“Enough dawdling!” He demanded, thumping his fist onto the table. The officials flinched. One dropped a quill. Barbara remained seated, unbothered, elegantly disinterested. “Let’s get this started. I’ll go first – it’ll be quick” he continued.
Once things got underway, it was exactly the kind of affair you’d expect from a public and official sanctioned street brawl.
The Chronicles of Klept 