Chronicles of Klept: Chapter XXIII
And so it was that I found myself, once again, alongside this dysfunctional yet inexplicably effective group of misfits who called themselves ‘The Damaged Buttholes.’
“Each of us may be damaged,” Wikis had once said, “but at least we’re whole. For the most part.”
For the briefest of moments, I’d managed to slip the net—found a sliver of peace, a breath of quiet, a return to the predictable safety of scrolls and silence. I told myself I needed space. Clarity. Distance from the fireballs, the undead cats, the barroom interrogations.
Tufulla, apparently, disagreed.
It was subtle. Infuriatingly so.
A gentle nudge here. A quiet suggestion there. And now here I was inking my quill, packing my satchel, and preparing once again to risk my life so the chaos could be… documented. Properly.
Was I also damaged? Undeniably. I suspected the emotional toll of the past few days would take years to unpack.
But I had to admit — I was still, for the most part, whole.
And more than that, perhaps – I was wanted.
I’d begun to suspect that Tufulla was playing a much grander, more complicated game than he let on. That we were pieces, and he was moving us about the board with purpose. Not malice. No, never malice. But precision. Intent. As if he saw threads connecting events we hadn’t even noticed, and was quietly tying knots we’d only feel once we tripped over them.
Of course, there was the prophecy.
Tufulla believed in it. Truly, deeply. And if he believed it could be steered toward a better ending, he would do whatever it took to adjust the sails.
Even if that meant tugging the chronicler back into the storm.
It had barely been twenty-four hours since I’d stepped away. Now I was lacing my boots again.
I wasn’t sure I was ready for what was coming.
I was absolutely sure they weren’t. But for the first time, I felt like maybe, just maybe, I was a part of something world-changing.
It wasn’t formal. Nothing ever was with them. But the moment I sat back down at the table, inkwell open and quill in hand, Yak reached beneath the bar, retrieved a dust-covered bottle of Goblin’s Nut, and began to pour.
“A toast,” he said, raising a shot glass. “To the return of our chronicler. May he tell the story right.”
The group raised their glasses. Even Bones, curled by the hearth, let out a faint skeletal rattle that may have been celebratory. Or indigestion. Hard to tell with undead cats. I looked down at the full mug of ale Umberto had just given me.
“To Klept,” Carrie smiled.
“To correctly documented chaos,” Trunch added with a wink.
And then Umberto leaned forward and looked at me with something bordering on sincerity.
“Every story needs a witness, Klept. And every witness needs the courage to capture truth, even when it’s veiled in chaos.”
I blinked. “That was… unexpectedly eloquent.”
He shrugged. “I’ve read. A lot.”
I stared at him.
“Just, make sure you do this story justice,” he added, leaning back on his chair and raising his glass, “especially when it comes to the complicated but brooding leading man of the tale.”
“Which would be you?”
“Obviously.”
We drank.
Yak smacked his lips and studied the bottle’s label like it had personally offended him. “That was bottle six. I’ve got half a one stashed under the counter, but that’s it. I’ll need supplies if we want more.” He rubbed his chin. “Also… I’ve got an idea. Something smoother. Or fizzier. Possibly both.”
Day, ever the multitasker, had already relocated to a corner table. He didn’t say much, just gave me a small nod of welcome and returned to his spellbook, lips moving, fingers sketching silent runes into the air.
Din stood and stretched, the joints in his shoulders cracking like splintering wood. He stepped behind the bar, opened the cupboard, and cautiously lifted the lid of the egg box.
“No change,” he muttered. “Still pulsing slowly.”
I chose not to ask.
He let the lid fall shut and turned to us. “Right. We need supplies. Potions, mostly. And prep time. Meet back here in two hours?”
There was a chorus of nodding heads.
“What about you?” I asked.
“I’ve got an idea,” he said, eyes gleaming in a way that made me nervous.
Trunch rose, brushed crumbs from his sleeves, and adjusted his cuffs. “I’m going to speak to someone about the windows. And maybe a carpenter. Some of the stools have… suffered.”
Din nodded and pulled out a couple of small pouches of coin from the shelf next to the egg box. He threw one gentle to Trunch.
Yak grabbed a few coins, muttered something about fruit peels and experimental fermentation, and ducked out the front door with an alarming amount of enthusiasm.
And just like that, the Grin emptied.
Everyone gone, except Day, hunched in the corner, surrounded by parchment, whispers, and quiet sparks of light.
I watched him work for a moment, then turned and followed the others out the door.
We’d just picked up the last of Yun’s potion stock and were making our way back to the Grin when Umberto stopped dead in his tracks and sniffed the air like a bloodhound on the scent.
“She’s here,” he whispered.
“Who?” Wikis asked, already reaching for her weapons. “Naida?”
“No.” His eyes scanned the square, wild and searching. “Barbara. She’s -” He pointed suddenly. “Over there!”
And sure enough, across the bustling square, Barbara Dongswallower stood in conversation with a tall, cloaked figure. We couldn’t make out their face, hood pulled low, posture deliberately unmemorable, but Barbara was unmistakable. The hair, the poise, the faint, distant glamour of someone who’d never once been singed by an ill-timed fireball.
“Barbara! Over here! It’s me! It’s Umberto!” he shouted, sprinting toward them. But the square was loud – crowded with market stalls, musicians, and hagglers. His voice barely rose above the din.
Barbara nodded. Her companion leaned in. They both turned and began walking briskly away, ducking down a narrow alley and disappearing from view.
Umberto returned a few minutes later, winded and visibly distraught.
“I lost her,” he said. “They turned a corner and just… vanished.”
“Probably ducked into a shop,” Carrie offered with a smirk. “To get away from the crazed fan chasing her.”
“I am not a crazed fan,” Umberto growled. “We have a connection. A real one. She gave me this.”
He reached into his loincloth. There was a collective recoil.
From within, he pulled a folded piece of parchment; creased, worn, and suspiciously damp at one corner.
“She gave this to me personally,” he said, reverently. Then, without warning, he brought it to his nose and inhaled deeply.
We all recoiled again.
He shuddered. Eyes closed. A moment of pure, unsettling bliss.
“You wouldn’t understand.” He murmured.
“That is definitely true.” Wikis replied through gritted teeth. She suddenly spun on her heel and loosed an arrow in one fluid motion.
Thunk.
A startled squawk echoed through the square as a bird—small, black, and previously unremarkable—crumpled dramatically onto a vendor’s stall, scattering bundles of dried herbs and startling a nearby child.
Umberto snapped out of his reverie. Everyone froze.
Wikis didn’t blink. She looked up, unfazed, as the rest of us stood slack-jawed.
“What?” she muttered. “It’s been following me all morning.”
Then she went right back to scanning the rooftops.
The silence that followed was long and deeply concerned.
We began walking back toward the Grin. As we passed the stall, Wikis casually retrieved her arrow, bird still attached.
“Are you gonna be wantin’ that?” the vendor asked, peering at the feathered corpse. “There’s decent eating on a bird like that.”
Wikis yanked the arrow free with a wet shluck. “Ten silver,” she said flatly.
The woman narrowed her eyes.
“What? You know it’s fresh,” Wikis replied, holding the bird up as if demonstrating quality produce.
With a weary sigh, the vendor reached into her apron and dropped the coin into Wikis’ outstretched palm. Wikis tossed the bird back onto the pile of dried herbs and practically skipped away.
I leaned toward Carrie. “I think we’re all going to die,” I whispered.
Without looking at me, she flicked a hand in my direction. “You’re always so dramatic,” she said, then gave the vendor a polite curtsy as we passed.
We returned to the Grin to find Day helping Trunch unload a cart piled with basic, serviceable furniture. Nothing fancy. Half of it looked like it might snap itself to pieces at the faintest whiff of a bar brawl, but it would do.
Din stood nearby, calmly breaking the remains of shattered chairs and splintered tables into smaller pieces with his hammer. “Should be perfect for the hearth when it starts getting colder,” he smiled.
Yak was flitting between the bar and the kitchen, a blur of purposeful chaos. He moved like a man in the middle of a deeply personal ritual – one part alchemist, one part bartender, all mischief. Bottles of Smelt and other dubious spirits were lined up on the counter like a parade of willing victims. Into them, he dropped dried fruits, crushed herbs, slivers of bark, whole spices, and the occasional mystery root pulled from somewhere deep in his apron.
Every now and then, he’d pause, sniff a bottle, mutter something unintelligible, then either nod with satisfaction or dump the entire contents into a waiting bucket with a disgusted noise.
He scribbled frantically on the bottles with chalk, charcoal, and bits of parchment stuck on with wax. Some labels bore cryptic names like “Goblin’s Whimsy” or “Sapfire No. 3.” Others just had question marks or ominous warnings like not for breakfast.
One bottle was gently swirling on its own. I didn’t ask.
“The glazier’s coming by tomorrow,” Trunch announced, carrying a couple of stools through the door. He gestured to the jagged remnants of the front windows—the scars of the molotov attack. “Funnily enough, he has a stockpile of panes that are the perfect size. Said the previous owner of the Grin was a frequent customer.”
Umberto and Wikis each scooped up an armful of the more interestingly-shaped debris from Din’s growing pile; splintered legs, half-seat planks, a chunk that vaguely resembled a snarling goose, and carried it over to the hearth.
They stacked the pieces haphazardly beneath the stairs, just out of the way but close enough for firewood duty. The moment they stepped back, Bones leapt onto the pile with the bony enthusiasm of a cat rediscovering a childhood haunt.
He clacked and scrambled up the mess like it was a jungle gym built in his honor, his tail rattling as he perched atop the apex and began swatting at a hanging splinter like it owed him money.
Wikis folded her arms, watching with mild satisfaction. “Well. He approves.”
The last of the furniture was being shuffled into place. Chairs creaked reluctantly into position, and Carrie stood in the center of it all, hands on hips, directing like a general with a passion for rustic ambiance.
“That one by the window,” she called to Trunch. “And the round one near the hearth. No, rotate it. Perfect.”
She moved from table to table, placing candles inside old jars, adding what little charm she could with what they had. A few tables remained bare, just empty jars waiting for purpose.
“We’ll need more candles,” she murmured. “Or fewer tables.”
I reached into my satchel and pulled out a small bundle. “I picked these up this morning,” I said, offering them out. “I’d intended to replace the ones at the church altar. They are scented – I hope you don’t mind sandalwood.”
Carrie blinked, then beamed. “Klept. You’re a delight.” Before I could protest or deflect, she wrapped her arms around me in a brief, warm hug. “Thank you.”
There was a low, familiar rumble as Din emerged from the cellar, rolling a fresh keg across the floor.
“Are we through the current one already?” Umberto asked, surprised but also just a little proud.
“No,” Din replied, steering the keg toward the door. “This is for… something else.”
Yak, now lounging with his feet on the table near the hearth, looked up from the last of his cocktail scribbles. “Where are you taking it?”
Din paused, resting an arm atop the keg. “Well, we’re about to head out and find the people on this list.”
“If we can,” Carrie muttered, not quite under her breath.
“You want to take a whole keg with us?” Umberto’s eye grew wide with joy. “I mean , I love the idea – but who’s going to carry it?”
Din’s thought cracked for a moment and there was a quick, contemplative smile. “Oh I wish,” he said quietly, then. “We have to leave, but clearly, we can’t leave the Grin unmanned.” He gestured broadly to the broken windows and the scorch marks still clinging to the floorboards.
Trunch was solving a puzzle internally. “So, you’re buying off some of the city guard, with ale, to keep watch,” he asked “In case Thornstar’s goons show up again?.”
“Or Naida.” Day added, “She could come back.”
Din gave a sly smirk. “Something like that, yeah.”
There was the unmistakable snap of a blind being hastily drawn somewhere outside, followed by the heavy thump of approaching footsteps.
A shadow passed the broken window. A single figure filled the doorway, so tall we could only see a broad chest and the suggestion of shoulders before he stooped to enter.
Az. The massive orc from the fight for the Grin.
He stepped across the threshold, ducking his head and straightening to his full, formidable height. The floorboards groaned under his weight.
Everyone instinctively took a step back.
Umberto unclipped his axe.
Az grinned as he scanned the room. He locked eyes with Umberto, gave a slow nod, and said something guttural and sharp-edged.
Umberto relaxed his grip and replied in kind, just as rough, just as guttural.
I blinked.
Az’s chest shook with deep, silent laughter before he turned to face the rest of us. “I like him,” he said simply. “He’s funny.” Then to Din: “You said you had an offer of work?” His voice was gravel and thunder, but there was an earnestness to it, like he was genuinely curious to hear more.
“Sorry,” I blurted, holding up a hand. “Just. sorry, hold on. Umberto, speaks Orcish?”
Umberto shot me a look. “What? You don’t?”
Then he turned back to Az, muttered something in that same guttural tongue, and jerked a thumb in my direction.
Az roared with laughter, loud and echoing.
I narrowed my eyes. “What did he say?”
“Nothing to worry about,” Az rumbled, clearly still amused. He turned his attention back to Din. “The work?”
I kept glaring at Umberto. He just smiled.
“I – we – would like to hire you as security for our bar,” Din said. “We’ve had a few issues lately. One of them involves your former employer. Mr. Thornstar.”
Az’s face wrinkled like he’d caught a whiff of spoiled milk.
“Five gold a day,” Din offered, rapping his knuckles on the keg beside him, “and your own personal keg of ale. Replaced every other day.”
Trunch smiled faintly, eyes half-closed, and added, “Free meals included. When the kitchen’s ready.”
Az said nothing at first. His eyes moved from face to face, then around the interior of the Grin. The bloodstains. The scorch marks. The boarded windows.
Then his gaze slid upward.
They hadn’t taken it down.
The mural. The Damaged Buttholes in their moment of victory. Umberto standing atop Az’s unconscious body like a conquering hero. Carrie, mid-bagpipe-blast to the face. Yak, gleefully bongoing the orc’s rear. Din, calm and divine. Wikis, torch-like. Trunch, shadow-wreathed. Day, radiant and detached at the edge.
Az’s brow rose.
A single question, simple and heavy: “Is that… me?”
A roomful of hesitant nods answered.
He stepped forward for a better look. The room held its breath. We waited for the flare of anger. The insult. The punch.
He studied it.
And then he laughed.
A deep, belly-shaking roar that filled the tavern and knocked dust from the rafters.
“You hung that above the bar?” he asked, eyes still on the mural.
We nodded, cautiously.
“That,” he said, jabbing a thick finger at Yak’s triumphant drumming, “is hilarious.”
Another round of laughter. A slap to his thigh. We all exhaled.
“You honor me by hanging this,” he said.
We glanced at each other, mildly confused.
“I’ll do it.”
A round of drinks welcomed Az into the fold. The group explained how they were about to go in search of some people that were in danger. Az guaranteed the safety of their establishment. He picked up the keg as if it were a baby and gently placed it outside, next to the door and sat on it, as if he were riding a horse. He filled a large mug with ale and looked up and down the alley. The blind across the way opened, just a little and he smiled and waved at the unknown, faceless women behind. He blind snapped shut once again. Yak grinned.
“Az,” Trunch asked, “how did you know? About Umberto. Speaking Orcish?”
“In the fight,” Az rumbled. “He holds his axe with the Orcish grip. He was trained by a blade master.”
“I was actually raised by Orcs,” Umberto said, casually. “Found abandoned in a mine.”
My brain broke.
“Huh,” Yak shrugged, taking a swig like it explained the weather.
Trunch and Day exchanged a glance.
Wikis leaned toward Carrie and said, just a little too loudly, “That actually explains a lot.”
Carrie nodded, completely serious. “So much.”
The group continued to prep for their next venture into the unknown.
“We’ll have to wait until we come back to open,” Carrie sighed, eyeing the freshly placed furniture with reluctant fondness.
“At least we know the place’ll be secure,” Yak said, twirling a dagger between his fingers and nodding toward Az, still perched proudly atop his keg outside.
For a moment, Umberto frowned—deep in thought, like he was working out the weight of the world. Then, with sudden clarity, he dropped his pack and marched outside.
“Why wait?” he muttered.
He cupped a hand to the alley. “Yo. Kid? I know you’re there.”
Sure enough, Iestyn emerged from the shadows like he’d been waiting for his cue.
“Hello, Mr. Umberto, sir,” he said smoothly. “I see you’ve found time for clothes today.”
“No time for sass,” Umberto barked, then softened. “Look. I know Tufulla pays you to keep an eye on us.” Iestyn nodded.
“And I know you handled that… situation.” He waved vaguely, like brushing away a smudge on a window. “Wanna earn more coin?”
Before Iestyn could reply, Umberto clapped him on the shoulder and steered him inside, straight behind the bar.
“Yak. Come here a sec.”
Together, they showed Iestyn how to work the keg—pull the handle, tilt the mug, no foam overspill, no half-pours.
Carrie stared, scandalized. “You can’t leave a kid to manage the bar.”
“What? We know he’s capable,” Umberto said, jerking a thumb toward the open door. “Ain’t nobody messing with this kid. Not with that out there.” He nodded to Az, still outside, sipping contentedly from his tankard.
Then he tousled Iestyn’s hair. “You’ll be fine, kid. Remember: ale only.”
Yak pointed at the row of experimental bottles behind the bar. “The other stuff isn’t ready yet. Don’t even sniff them.”
Iestyn saluted with mock solemnity. “Understood. Ale only. No sniffing.”
Carrie groaned. “He’s just a kid,” she muttered as she fluttered past Day.
“A kid who made a decapitated body in an alley go away without blinking,” Day replied. “I think he’ll manage.”
I watched as Umberto trained a child to run a tavern. As Yak carefully rearranged his concoctions and muttered dark warnings about untested fermentation ratios. As Carrie lit candles in old jars and tried not to hover. As Az, a massive orc they had previously knocked unconscious, lounged outside with a smile on his face and a keg beneath him like a throne.
It was absurd. It was comforting.
Din appeared beside me, polishing a gauntlet. We stood in companionable silence for a moment, watching Iestyn mimic Yak’s exaggerated hand gestures behind the bar.
“You’re okay with this?” I asked.
He put the gauntlet on and flexed his fingers. “Honestly, I was going to do the same thing,” He said. “I think he’ll be fine. Plus, Az.” He gestured to the door.
“Mm. Right.” I nodded slowly. “A child tavern manager and an overly large orc with a personal keg. What could possibly go wrong?”
Umberto leaned over the bar and jabbed a finger toward the tap. “Four copper a mug. No more, no less. Payment goes in the box under the counter – not in your pockets, no matter how trustworthy your face looks.”
Iestyn nodded solemnly.
“If the keg runs dry,” Yak added, sliding a coaster under a mug, “ask Az to fetch another from the cellar. Don’t go down there yourself. Not unless you like the smell of damp and regret.”
“Got it,” Iestyn said brightly. “Ale only. Four copper. No regret.”
“Kid’s got promise,” Umberto muttered.
Din chuckled as we walked toward the bar. He crouched behind it, checking the cupboard near the coin stash. With a flick of his hand and a low incantation, a faint shimmer passed over the severed head of Dominic—still resting disturbingly close to the egg box.
“Decay prevention spell,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Last thing we need is that starting to stink.”
He grabbed a cloth, tossed it over the head like he was covering a particularly offensive casserole, and nudged it farther into the back of the cupboard.
“Right,” he said, straightening up and turning to Iestyn. “Listen. Most of the upstairs is off-limits. Patrons can use the just at the top of the stairs, but everything else is still under construction.”
Iestyn nodded with careful seriousness.
“Also, whatever you do, don’t open that.” Din gestured to the metallic box holding the egg.
Iestyn nodded again, eyes wide with curiosity.
“If it makes a noise, or moves, or does anything weird… just throw it down the well out back.”
Iestyn’s eyes changed from curiosity to fear. He opened his mouth to say something. Then paused. Din patted him on the shoulder. “It’ll be fine,” he said reassuringly. Iestyn nodded again, faster this time.
Din and I walked back across the room.
“…You know. To be honest, I think I missed this,” I admitted. “The way none of you ever seem to question what you’re doing, or whether you belong together.”
“Do we?” Din asked.
I glanced at the mural above the bar, at the cracked windows, the scuffed floors, the uneven stools, the wax-dripping candles.
At Yak and Umberto, teaching Iestyn how to properly wipe the taps with a clean cloth.
At Wikis, who had emptied her pouch onto a corner table and was now whispering to each of her trinkets, one after the other. At Trunch who was fast asleep and snoring on an armchair near the hearth.
“Yes,” I said softly. “I think so.”
Din nodded. “Then write it well.”
“I’ll try,” I said. “Um… and I’m sorry. About your people. The Sparkwhiskers.” I saw the sadness and uncertainty flicker in his eyes. “I hope you find some answers soon.”
He placed a hand on my shoulder. “Thank you. I hope you’re there when I do. To write it. So others will know.”
We both looked over to see Yak experimenting with a jar labeled Smoked Lime Rum with Pickle Clove Brine.
I gripped my journal a little tighter.
Final preparations were made. Potions clipped to belts, sleeping mats tied to packs. Last instructions were given to Az and Iestyn, and then we stepped out the door, bound for the Kashten Dell, the very place where all this had begun during the harvest festival, just a few weeks ago.
We stopped at a C.A.R.T. stand, then made our way through the North-East gate.
Leaving behind a twelve-year-old to manage a barely functioning tavern. Guarded by a very large orc. While a master assassin likely still skulked through the alleys of Dawnsheart… and a second lurked somewhere out in the valley.
Everything, as always, was clearly under perfect control.
The Chronicles of Klept 