CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Portents, Paperwork, and Pruning
Three medallions sat in the center of the table. No one touched them. No one even leaned too close. They just… sat there. Heavy. Silent. Sharp edges catching the lantern light in ways that felt deliberate.
“Possession of a single Dan’del’ion artifact is an act of treason against the Crown,” I said quietly.
“And we’ve got three.” Din was stern. You could see the concern setting in his brow, slow and stubborn, like a badger digging in for winter.
Wikis exhaled loudly. “We have four.” She pulled another from her coat and tossed it onto the pile. Carrie gave her a look. “It’s the one Klept showed us on the way to Nelb. I … accidentally put it in my pocket. Sorry.” She stepped back and whispered something to her pouch, just quiet enough that the shiny things could hear it… and no one else.
“Four potentially cursed and definitely illegal relics” mused Trunch “If we wanted to get the Grin shut down before we officially open, this will do it.”
“Don’t forget the loot from Brenne’s.” Yak tossed a small black box onto the table. Inside: the brooch, and that folded scrap of parchment none of us could decode.
Day stood and crossed the room to the shelf behind the bar. “Since we’re bringing out all the cursed heirlooms…”
“I don’t think the egg’s connected to this” Din called after him.
“Not the egg.”
Day reached high, grabbed the brick from the top shelf, and tossed it gently across the room.
“This.”
Carrie caught it and placed it down next to the others.
Yak was hunched in his chair, arms crossed and feet tucked up, casting suspicious glances toward the skeletal cat curled on the armchair nearby.
“I still don’t trust it,” he muttered. “Bones. What kind of name is Bones?”
“The descriptive kind,” Umberto replied, not looking up. He’d been unusually quiet.
Din exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate.
“So, in total we have… four medallions, a resurrection brick and, and a box containing a brooch and a piece of parchment with some very bad vibes?”
Day returned to the table. “We can’t talk to anyone outside of this group about this. Except Tufulla. He has to know. We can’t risk someone else finding out about this.”
“I hate having to sneak around. It’s so ineffective,” Umberto was clearly grappling with his natural in-your-face state and the understanding that this needed to be kept quiet, at least for now.
There was silence for a beat.
Then: shff — Trunch slid a small square of parchment across the table toward Yak.
“Draw it.”
Yak blinked. “The stump?”
Trunch nodded.
With a sigh, Yak pulled a charcoal nub from his pocket, hunched over the page, and began sketching. His tongue stuck out slightly in concentration.
A minute passed.
He held it up with a grin. It was… generously, a stump. The proportions were off, the perspective nonexistent, and the glowing sigil resembled the web of a spider on narcotics..
Trunch took it without blinking. “And we know about this,” he said, holding it up.
A knock at the door.
The entire table froze. No one ever knocked. Not here. People just… walked in.
Day threw come cloth over the table.
Carrie tried to act naturally.
Umberto was up in a flash.
He flung the door open like it had insulted him. Standing outside, smiling and perfectly unbothered, was a familiar young lad, the one Tufulla has talked to the other night. The one with the tray of morning ales.
Umberto leaned down until they were eye-to-eye, which didn’t require much leaning.
“What do you want?” he barked.
Din stood, raising a calming hand.
“He’s just a kid, Umberto.”
The boy smiled brightly, unfazed.
“Note from the High Reader,” he said, holding out a folded parchment. “I mean, from the Mayor. From Tufulla. Says he has information and needs to talk to you right away.”
I sighed. “Of course he does. That man has impeccably eerie timing.”
Umberto snatched the letter, dropped a couple of copper into the boy’s hand, and gave him a gentle nudge back toward the street.
Then, he stepped into the alley, glanced across it, scowled, and shouted,
“What the fuck are you looking at? Go back to your knitting!”
The blind across the way dropped instantly.
He came back in, slammed the door with enough force to rattle a beam, crossed the room to the bar, poured himself a mug of ale, and downed it in one long pull.
No one else said a word.
Day scooped up and cloth and artifacts, securing it together in a little bundle.
“Just in case” he assured the group, placing them in his pack.
We filed out of the Grin into the soft gray morning. As we reached the corner of the alley, Din suddenly stopped.
“Wait.”
He turned on his heel and jogged back.
The group watched in silence as he reached through the still-cracked tavern door, unhooked the key from just inside, and locked it with a quiet click. He gave the handle a firm tug to be sure.
Din returned, handing the key to Trunch.
Umberto gave a small grunt. “You locked the door?”
“We’ve only just started getting it into shape,” Din replied. “And we’re new in town. Better to be safe than suddenly out of ale.”
Carrie blinked. “Wait… there’s a key?”
“I leave it hanging just inside the door. Just in case there’s ever a moment no one’s here. I trust you all more than anyone else.”
“We’ve really only known each other for a few days” Trunch put the key into his pocket.
“Exactly, and that’s still a few days more than I’ve known anyone else in this town.”
That got a small chuckle from Day.
And with that, we turned and headed for the church, medallions safely stowed, questions forming in our minds, and behind us, the sound of a blind being closed.
There was a small commotion outside the old rectory, now commandeered by municipal bureaucracy under the disgraced former Mayor, Lord Roddrick, and rebranded as the Mayoral Office. Two guards were attempting to placate a small group of local vendors.
“Acting Mayor Tufulla is currently in an important financial meeting. He’ll hear your grievances as soon as it concludes.”
The other added calmly, “In the meantime, we ask that you patiently wait.”
Reader Fenna stood at the church doors a little further down, her expression brightening when she saw us. She was dressed in slightly more formal robes than usual, clean lines, richer fabric, the faint shimmer of silver threading along the sleeves. A sermon-day ensemble.
“Good morning Reader Klept, and friends.” She stepped forward, voice warm but low. “I’m just about to give the mid-morning sermon. You’re welcome to stay, of course — though I thought Tufulla would have had you doing it.” Her gaze settled on me, equal parts teasing and hopeful.
I smiled, thinly and replied dryly.“Apparently, he has other plans for me.”
She nodded, apologetically. Then leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
“He’s not in a meeting, he’s just avoiding people. He’s expecting you, though. Head on through the side door… but be warned, he’s in a mood the likes of which I’ve never seen.”
We made our way inside, cutting through the heavy hush of the church, the scent of incense and old stone hung in the air. Din did his best not to clank across the flagstones in full plate, but the effort was admirable more than effective. There were a few muffled gasps from scattered pews as Umberto strode in front, chest out, loincloth fluttering with every purposeful step, axe gripped like he was expecting heresy behind every pillar.
Then came Day, hair in a long braid down his back, moving with the kind of effortless grace only elves seemed to master. The gasps softened. A sigh or two followed. One young woman at the end of a pew visibly swayed, caught herself on the bench, and then slowly slid to the floor with all the conviction of someone overcome by divine vision.
Carrie, suddenly aware of a room full of eyes, lit up like a festival. She twirled on her heel, struck a pose, and blew kisses as she walked, basking in the attention like it was sunlight she’d been waiting for all morning.
The side door behind the pulpit creaked open into the office. Tufulla was pacing inside. The desk bore witness to chaos: scrolls, letters, ink smudges, half-drunk tea, and a half-eaten pear that looked like it had been forgotten mid-bite.
We filed in like schoolchildren returning from recess, untidy, slightly guilty of something, fully expecting a lecture. Din quietly closed the door behind us.
“Do you know,” Tufulla began, not looking up, “how many forms I’ve signed this week that I technically shouldn’t have? The mayoral guidelines haven’t been updated since the Pumpkin Blight of 1543.”
He picked up a parchment and waved it like a flag of defeat. “According to this, if you wish to house four chickens on your property, you may do so freely.”
Day raised a brow and nodded solemnly.
“But,” Tufulla continued, “should you add a fifth chicken, you must apply for a permit, which costs seventeen silver and one button, paid in person to the mayor.” He slapped the parchment down and placed a small, dull button on top with quiet menace.
“Do you know what happens if a street vendor submits their permit application on the wrong day of the week?”
Yak shrugged. I shook my head.
“Nothing. It just gets filed in the wrong drawer until someone dies or retires.” He sighed. “In the church, there’s continuity. A scripture survives for centuries. Change one verse, and there’s outrage. Cloister riots, candlelit protests. People care. But taxes? Regulations?” He threw his arms wide. “They get rewritten every time someone sneezes in council chambers, and then someone misplaces half the paperwork.” He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought,“Incidentally, you do not need a permit to house a bear.”
He dropped into the chair behind the desk like a man who’d fallen into a well and wasn’t sure if it was worth climbing out.
I stepped forward “You know there are those who believe the church should change a little too. Modernize. At least adjust to the changing ….”
Tufulla waved a hand, dismissing the thought with priestly efficiency. “Yes, yes. That’s a concern for the next High Reader.”
He glanced at me as he said it, just briefly, but I suddenly felt uneasy.
Then, abruptly, he stood.
“But that’s not why you’re here.” His voice lost all of its earlier tone. “You’re here because something has begun.”
He moved to the window, arms behind his back, watching the steeple shadows stretch across the cobblestones outside.
“I’ve made some inquiries, with my contacts in the White Ravens. There are reports of Castle Ieyoch being repaired, rebuilt. There have been other incidents, like what you saw in Nelb, of people, how should I put this? Not staying dead.”
“I imagine that might be hard to accept, as a man of faith” Trunch reasoned.
Tufulla’s expression didn’t flinch. “The White Ravens’ reports align with dozens from the general populace.” He gestured vaguely toward the mountain of parchment. “Undead in the forests. Skeletal things. Corpses walking. Some with Dan’del’ion markings.”
Yak raised his arms, moaning theatrically with his best zombie impression. Carrie snorted, barely containing a giggle.
He turned back to us, voice steady now, “All heading the same way. Toward the castle.”
Trunch stepped forward, posture straight, voice steady. “We’ve done some investigating of our own,” he said. “After Nelb, we went back. Brandt wouldn’t speak to us again, but we found… signs. Yak followed a hooded figure into the forest. Watched him vanish at a stump.”
Tufulla’s eyes narrowed slightly.
Trunch nodded toward Yak, who gave a little shrug and a nod of confirmation.
Trunch continued, “the stump glowed in the moonlight. With the same sigil as these.” He motioned to the table.
Day was already moving. He unwrapped the cloth bundle and began laying out the artifacts with the reverence of someone disarming a curse. First the medallions. Then the brooch. The parchment. The brick.
Tufulla’s earlier irritation vanished like mist. He stepped closer, brows drawn tight.
He picked up the brick, turned it over in his hands. “I think you’ve accidentally wrapped up part of your renovations.”
“Nope,” Day replied flatly. “That’s meant to be there. It resurrects things.”
“There’s a skeletal cat running around our tavern right now,” Wikis added, cheerful as ever. “His name is Bones.”
“I see” Tufulla said quietly, placing the brick back on the table like it might bite. “You might need a permit for the cat, I’m not sure.” He picked up a medallion, turning it so the light caught the twisted dandelion in the center.
“This is deeply concerning,” he said. “These are incredibly rare. The White Ravens might come across one, maybe two a year. The fact that you’ve collected all this in a matter of days…” He trailed off, gaze moving from face to face. “I’m thankful you brought them to me.”
He gestured toward the folded paper. “What’s written on that?”
“We’re not sure,” Carrie said, stepping forward. “Could be names. Could be a recipe.” She smiled at Din, who did not return it but instead folded his arms.
“We want to go back to the stump. With your blessing.” he said carefully.
Tufulla didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he turned to his desk, cleared a space with one practiced sweep, and began writing. The scratch of the quill filled the room.
“That’s not a yes,” Umberto muttered.
Tufulla finished the note and sealed it with wax. Then, without ceremony, he turned and walked to the far window where a large, pale-feathered raven waited silently on the sill, so still it might have been carved from bone.
“Solstice,” Tufulla said. “My familiar. She doesn’t eat bread crumbs or deliver romantic poetry I’m afraid, but she’s very good at getting messages to the right people.” He tied the note to her leg.
Day leaned closer, curious. “I have one of those too.” He extended a hand. A large spider crawled from his sleeve and settled on his palm.
Wikis squeaked and took two steps behind Trunch.
“Solstice is going to send request too the White Ravens. For an investigation team.” Tufulla explained, watching the bird take flight. “Experts in Dan’del’ion history. Possibly more knowledgeable than even our friend Klept here.”
Tufulla turned back to the group. “I need you to wait. They should arrive by morning. Return to the stump with them. Do not try to be heroes, not yet.”
Umberto rolled his eyes. “So we’re babysitting more chroniclers now?”
“Specialists,” Tufulla corrected. “Not chroniclers. And if even half the rumors about what’s happening at that castle are true, you’ll want their help.”
He let his gaze fall on the table of artifacts again. “You can take those with you. But leave the parchment – I quite like puzzles. Maybe I can figure it out.”
We turned to leave when Tufulla stopped us “Go out the front door please – you wouldn’t want to disturb Reader Fenna’s sermon. And take this.” He handed me a piece of parchment covered with faded ink and numbers.
“What’s this?”
“I have no idea actually. I think it’s an inventory, or a ledger. From about 60 years ago.”
Day raised an eyebrow.
Tufulla leaned in and lowered his voice, “Apparently, I’m in some kind of important financial meeting,” a mischievous glint sparked in his eye. “When you leave, wave it around, put on a bit of a show. Make it look convincing.”
Carrie snatched the paper from my hand before I could respond.
“That,” she declared, twirling toward the door with a beaming grin, “is something I can definitely do.”
By the time we’d ambled through the market and got back to the Grin, the light had begun to shift to that early afternoon glow that makes the dust look charming.
“We could open after this stump business,” Din said, dropping his gauntlets onto the bar with a tired clatter. “Assuming we don’t die or get arrested first.”
Carrie nodded, hands on hips, surveying the space. “We’d need to finish the upstairs eventually, but that’s a big job. Big jobs mean coin.”
“Speaking of coin,” Day added, running a hand along the bar’s polished-enough top, “we’re beginning to run low. Or at least I am. I can’t speak for everyone else.”
There was a general murmur of agreement, the kind that’s polite but undeniably grim.
“I mean, we got paid for clearing out those crypts,” Day continued. “But nothing since then.”
Several eyes turned toward me.
I raised my hands slowly. “Tufulla will pay you. I promise. He’s honest. He understands the weight of what he’s asking us to do.”
“From the church coffers or the city’s?” Trunch asked.
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “Maybe both. Depends who’s feeling more generous—or guilty.”
“And when?” Umberto growled, arms crossed, brow furrowed so deeply it looked like he was trying to fold his entire face in half.
“I’ll speak to him,” I offered quickly. “Today, if it helps. I’m sure something can be arranged.”
There was a pause.
“Make it soon,” Umberto said. “Otherwise I start charging by the day. Or the body.”
“I’m not sure that’s legal,” I said.
“I’m not sure I care,” he replied, adjusting his loincloth and reaching for a mug.
There was a brief lull as everyone sat with that thought. The quiet weight of unpaid effort. Of coin thinning in pouches.
“Well,” Trunch said, sitting back with a shrug, “opening the doors would at least bring in something. Doesn’t have to be grand yet. Just open.”
I looked around the room – it was far from being a town hotspot, but I’d sat and drank in worse. “You’ve got rustic charm. Limited seating.” Bones leapt onto the bar, much to Umberto’s annoyance, “Haunted ambiance. There’s potential.”
“We’ll definitely need more chairs and tables if we are to open,” Trunch added. “There’s a salvage yard just outside the walls. I saw a few pieces that might do. At least for now until we can afford something better.”
“We have ale,” Umberto said, tapping one of the new kegs with something approaching restrained pride. “That’s all we need.”
“And,” Yak added, ducking behind the bar and reappearing with a squat, dusty glass bottle. He held it aloft like a relic unearthed from a forgotten tomb. ““We also have this. Gentlefolk, prepare your tastebuds.”
Everyone leaned back.
Umberto’s eyes narrowed. “Oh no. You take that and fuck right off.”
Din scowled. “We are not serving smelt in our bar, Yak”
“What’s Smelt?” Trunch asked, peering at the bottle like it might suddenly blink at him.
“Sulker’s Fire,” I offered. “More commonly known as Smelt. Technically a spirit, functionally a solvent. Smells like regret and burns like memory.”
“It’s originally an orcish grain spirit.” Umberto eyed the bottle like it was the one thing from his childhood he hadn’t forgiven. “They also use it to strip rust from weapons, and start fires in wet weather.”
“Some people tried to distill it further” Din added, “tried to make it more drinkable and failed“
“It tastes somewhere between scorched grain, brass, and shame.” Wikis spoke with her head down, as if she’d just tasted a bad memory.
Yak grinned, unfazed. “Yes, yes. But this isn’t just Smelt. I’ve been tinkering. A bit of toasted nut mash. Caramelized roots. Spiced bark. Floaty bits.”
“Floaters?” Carrie winced, nose wrinkling.
He held the bottle up to a lantern. Bits drifted lazily inside, suspended like pickled secrets: golden flecks, slivered nuts, something suspiciously leaf-like. “It’s aged.” He said, practically beaming.
“In a cask?” Din asked, hopeful.
“In my pack for weeks” Yak replied, “then behind the flour sacks. For three days.”
“We’re going to die,” Umberto muttered.
“Trust me,” Yak said, already pouring. The smell hit first—smoky, nutty, buttery, with an odd sweetness that hovered like mischief. We each took a glass. Mismatched. Cracked. Carrie’s still had wax on the rim.
We hesitated. Then, cautiously, sipped.
A beat.
“Oh,” Wikis said softly.
“Wow,” Carrie blinked.
“This is… weirdly good,” Din admitted.
“Nutty,” Trunch mused. “Like roasted hazel or… almond?”
“I’m getting caramel,” I said. “And something warm. Clove?”
“It’s smooth,” Day added, looking at bottle and the Sulker’s Fire label. “I hate how smooth it is.”
Umberto downed his in one shot, stared at his glass, then at Yak, then back to his glass. He held it out.
“Again.”
Yak beamed, already refilling.
“I’m telling you,” he said, “no one else in Dawnsheart has anything like this. Give me time, give me coin, or failing that, some moral flexibility, and we can make the Grin the talk of the town.”
“What do you call it?” Wikis asked.
“I haven’t settled on a name yet – I’m thinking about calling it a ‘Goblin’s Nut’ on account of the nutty flavour.”
Umberto’s drink came out his nose.
Carrie giggled “Imagine trying to keep a straight face when people order it”.
Day smiled and gently shook his head. “A few more tables and chairs,” he said scanning the room and counting on his fingers. “Ale. Yak’s mystery spirits. We could do a soft open.”
“A soft open?” Wikis looked intrigued. “Like a trial run?”
“Exactly,” Din nodded. “We’ve got ale, a roof, and at least one drink that might be legal. That’s a tavern in a lot of other towns.”
“And if we do it right,” Yak added, swirling the last drops of his concoction in a glass, “people talk. Word spreads. We get locals. Adventurers. The odd bard with a coin pouch and no sense of danger. Enough to keep the shelves stocked and the lights on.”
“Enough to pay for more than stale bread and borrowed furniture,” Carrie said.
“We open the doors,” Din said, “and maybe it keeps us from having to take every bone-rattling, ghost-haunted job that comes through town.”
“That’s a terrible sales pitch,” Umberto muttered.
“It’s honest,” I replied.
He grunted. Which, in Umberto’s language, was close to agreement.
After some more discussion around money, and some gentle urging from Umberto (the kind that involved axe-pointed gestures and the words “backpay or blood”), I left to speak with Tufulla about providing payment to the group for “services rendered,” as Trunch put it.
The others headed out to see what furniture they could wrangle from the scrapyard, muttering about carts, splinters, and whether “structurally compromised” counted as rustic charm.
The next morning dawned with the promise of clouds and the inevitability of poor decisions. I returned to the Grin just after sun-up, three figures trailing behind me like mismatched shadows.
They were all dressed in variations of scholarly disrepair, tweeds and robes, ink-stained cuffs, boots that had seen more libraries than dirt. I ushered them quickly inside and closed the door behind us.
“Everyone,” I said, stepping forward, “this is Redmond, Jonath, and Orsen. Investigators. Archivists. Technically… specialists.” I lowered my voice and tilted my head toward the window. “White Ravens.”
“They don’t look like specialists,” Umberto muttered, eyeing the trio like he was deciding which one he’d lose patience with first. “They look like they’d lose a fight to a side of beef.”
“This is Umberto” I said to the investigators, “And over here we have Day, Carrie, Trunch, Din and Yak. And that’s Wikis on the stairs.”
She was sitting halfway up, coat loosely draped, legs apart in her usual stance of unbothered confidence, dangling a piece of string for Bones. The skeletal cat leapt and twisted, bones clacking merrily as he darted between her boots.
“Who’s a ferocious little death machine,” she cooed, wiggling the string and completely ignoring the small group clustered at the door.
Bones launched again, this time vanishing under her coat.
The tallest of the three, Redmond, cleared his throat and straightened his spectacles with a sniff of academic disdain. He looked back at Umberto. “Physical prowess is not the benchmark of expertise, Mr Umberto. Our contributions are of a more… intellectual variety. We bring insight, research, and understanding. Tools you may be less familiar with.”
Yak coughed into his cup. Day raised a brow.
Redmond gave a patient, almost pitying smile. “We’ll stay out of your way—so long as you don’t get in ours. This is a matter of ancient magic and long-lost rites. You wouldn’t understand the layers of complexity involved without a dozen years of foundational—”
A yelp.
Wikis stood abruptly, flailing one hand inside her coat while hopping backward down the stairs.
“Get it out! Get it out! He’s caught. He’s caught.”
“What do you mean, caught?” Trunch asked
“He’s entwined!” She screamed pointing at her crotch.
Carrie screamed with laughter. Yak choked on his pastry, Din rose instinctively, then thought better of it. Day just turned, walked to the bar, and poured himself something strong. Osman’s face lost all colour.
A final tug, a pained yelp (from Wikis, not the cat), and Bones dropped to the floor, now dusted in the kind of fluff that didn’t grow on skeletons. He landed upright, proud, tail twitching like nothing had happened.
Redmond sucked air between pursed lips and huffed. He looked at his partners with an air of disapproval. Jonath, the shortest of the three and already scribbling in a small, leather-bound journal, nodded to himself and murmured, “Fascinating behavioral characteristics…”
“Welcome to the Goblin’s Grin,” Carrie said holding back further laughter. “We’re thrilled to have you join us on our little adventure. Truly. Try not to die.”
Wikis lifted her coat and bent over, then straightened with eyes wide and voice hollow: “It’s all gone.” she said as Bones strutted across the floor, tail high, now fuzzed with mystery fluff.
Osman swallowed back an urge to throw up.
Redmond cleared his throat with the kind of pomp usually reserved for lectures and death sentences.
“If we can all refrain from further… performances,” he said, eyeing Wikis, “I suggest we focus on our task. You do your job, and let me do mine.”
He adjusted his collar and turned to Carrie. “By my understanding, High Reader Tufulla is paying you handsomely, from the White Ravens’ coffers, no less, to guide us to a tree stump in the middle of a forest.”
Umberto snorted. “We haven’t seen a single coin.”
I stepped forward, producing a modest leather pouch and offering it to Trunch. “A thousand gold. For, quote: services rendered, and an advance for ensuring Redmond and his crew don’t get attacked by undead, swallowed by vines, or,” I glanced at Umberto, “offended to death.” He snarled at me.
Trunch weighed the pouch, nodded once, and passed it to Day.
Day opened it briefly, eyebrows lifting, then handed it to Din.
Din counted out a portion with methodical care, just enough for each of them to feel briefly optimistic, then crossed the room to the bar, crouched, and opened the cupboard behind the counter.
He slid the bulk of the gold beside the egg box with quiet finality.
Carrie frowned. “Why there?”
“It’s safer here than on our person,” Din said, closing the cupboard. “Especially in the woods. You never know what we’ll run into.”
“Plenty of bandits roaming the woods in the valley” Yak added. “I should know – I was one, briefly. Once.”
Redmond shook his head.
“Better to lose a handful than the whole pouch, if that happens” Day added.
Umberto looked unconvinced, but didn’t argue.
“Alright then,” Din said, rising. “Let’s go.”
The group shuffled out—boots, belts, bags, and bookish robes rustling in unison. Din was the last to leave, pausing in the doorway to give one last glance around the room.
Then he locked the door to the Goblin’s Grin behind us.
The Chronicles of Klept 