Chapter Text
Woljif stood back with his hands on his hips, admiring his own handiwork. Or, well, Sosiel’s handiwork. Say twenty percent.
“I’m no calligrapher,” Sosiel apologized, climbing down the ladder and depositing his can of paint before joining Woljif to get a look at the sign from a proper distance.
“It’ll do great,” said Woljif absently. He was busy entertaining the fantasy of old Fyllemen happening past his stall at the festival market and stopping to stare in shock and humiliation at the sign: you had to admit, “Mysteries and Marvels” beat “Ancientries and Wonders” hands down.
Can’t wait to see the look on that ol’ gnome’s overfed face, Woljif thought with glee, and then became aware that Sosiel seemed to be waiting for something. “Well, gotta get unpackin’,” he said cheerfully, clapping his hands together. “See ya around.”
Sosiel kept standing there.
Woljif avoided glancing back at him as he began unlatching the first of his trunks of precious Crusade relics, and pretending to carefully unwrap the objects from oilcloth one by one, in case anyone was watching.
Eventually, he hazarded a quick glance out of the corner of his eye.
Sosiel cleared his throat.
The tiefling swallowed his bile and dug a purse from inside his jacket. “Fine. How much you want?”
“What? I don’t want money.”
Woljif swiftly tucked the purse back into his pocket. “If you’re sure.”
“Thanks wouldn’t be too much ask though, would it?”
Woljif screwed up his face. Really? “Fine. Thanks, Brother Sosiel.”
“You’re very welcome,” said Sosiel pleasantly. “Please reassure me that you’re not planning on cheating the poor folk still recovering from the demon attack.”
“Course not! I ain’t stupid. I only cheat rich folk.”
With a semi-satisfied nod, Sosiel picked up his paint can and departed.
Woljif rolled his eyes as he turned back to his wares. Priests, my tail.
That day Sosiel wasn’t the only priest to hang around and try to teach him some lesson or other. Later when he was taking a break at the buffet tables it was Ramien who sidled over with that preachy expression that made his tail twitch.
In alarm he glanced around for a plate he could use to carry off a stack of spicy pastries, but it was too late. Ramien had him cornered by the Varisian flan.
“It’s good to see you back in Kenabres,” said the Desnan prelate with an angelic smile. “And under much more auspicious circ*mstances.”
Woljif’s mouth was full so he didn’t answer at first, and it was a good thing, because he guessed what “circ*mstances” Ramien was referring to and really, really, didn’t want to talk about it. So he gave Ramien an apologetic, full-cheeked wave and turned a shoulder.
“You seem to be thriving,” Ramien pursued, leaning close to reach across and select a canapé. “Who would have guessed crusading would suit you so well?”
“I ain’t—“ Too late, Woljif realized he’d gotten himself caught in the conversation. “I ain’t a crusader. I’m on contract.”
“However you want to call it.” Ramien pointed out the cheese puffs. “Try one, they’re heavenly. You know, I find that the darker and more distant places my travels take me, the better it feels to be home again, though Edme holds bitter memories. I can’t help but wonder if you feel the same, even after the Abyss.”
“Good question, considerin’,” Woljif said, resigning himself. Ramien was by far not the worst of the holier-than-thou lot, and now that he thought about it there were a few things weighing on him since the Kenabres city gates came into view. Staring up at the statue of Iomedae that had somehow survived the demon attack and still loomed, casting its grand shadow as always over the square, he pensively finished off another pastry. “I got a lot to put behind me.”
Their attention was suddenly diverted by the sound of contagious laughter rising above the noise of the crowds. A few tables over Siavash was ribbing Lann. “No, they don’t! Wait, what do spider eggs taste like?”
“Like these,” said Lann, looking around for somewhere to dispose of the half-eaten pastry in his hand.
When you heard the chief laughing like that you just couldn’t help yourself. Woljif realized Ramien was watching him with one of those knowing smiles. “And a lot to look forward to,” the priest said.
“Damn right. I’m here for the party, not for a walk down memory lane.” He hoped his blush didn’t show. And that Ramien would get the hint.
He didn’t. “A walk down memory lane would be dark travels indeed, judging from the few encounters you and I had before the Crusade.”
“Yeah.” Woljif found his appetite had vanished. “Well, I gotta get back to work. Uh—hey, Father Ramien, don’t mention any a’ that to the chief, will ya?”
“Oh? You haven’t told him about your life here in Kenabres?”
“Nah, like I said, no use lookin’ back. And he’s got enough on his plate, he don’t need me complainin’.” And I’ve got no use for his pity or yours, unless you’re willin’ to make a donation.
“Wait, don’t go yet. Listen,” Ramien urged, laying a hand on his arm. “I know you’re not accustomed to having a trustworthy and supportive ear, but consider talking to him. You might find it lightens your heart. Perhaps to him the truth is not a burden, but a gift.”
“You know, Father, you’re a decent guy, so I’m not gonna tell you where to stuff it.”
“I’m not asking you to confess, but to confide.”
Waving him off, Woljif made his way back to his market stall. Priests, my tail.
“Hey, got a few minutes for the Commander?” A colorfully dressed, tawny-haired dreamboat of a bard ducked into the Mysteries and Marvels stall and flashed him an irresistible smile.
Woljif snatched back the broken knife handle that a halfling customer was inspecting and locked it up in its case. “Sorry, we’re closed. Come back later with more gold and you, ma’am, could become the proud owner of the Vorpal Dagger of the Sixth Thassilonian Runelord of Sin, pried out of the cold, long-dead and very creepy hands of the lich Alderpash himself.”
The halfling raised a dubious eyebrow. “The sixth? Which sin is that?”
“I think it was wrath,” said Siavash.
“Yeah, he sure was wrathful when we destroyed his phylactery. Whew!”
“True story,” added Siavash.
The halfling’s eyes went wide.
“Collect all seven!” Woljif called after her as she disappeared into the crowds, then leaned into the arm draped around his shoulders. “Time is money, chief, but I reckon I can spare a few minutes for you.”
They locked arms, and off they went into the busy festival. The scents of food and fireworks filled the air, and colorfully costumed crowds milled about them. It was impossible not to be hit in the face with a paper azata wing or two. Even the many masons’ carts and scaffolding had been decorated with streamers depicting the Tree of Valor, attesting to Kenabres’ determination to leave the demon attack behind and look to a happier future.
“Did you have something to eat?”
“Yeah, thanks. You?”
“I’m stuffed. I gave Lann a tour of the buffet and then I had cake with Aivu. Not to mention the wine tasting with Sosiel. Good thing he had a restoration spell ready.”
As they rounded the corner into the square, a pair of festival-goers dressed as the Commander and Woljif paused so they could point and laugh at each other. The half-orc “Commander” wore an outrageous assortment of blue, green, purple and gold and had apparently cut up a dish towel to look like a fringed scarf at his waist, and “Wolijf” was a gnome in shiny leathers and a cap with wooden horns nailed to the sides.
“Cute couple,” Siavash remarked.
Woljif shook his head as they set out again. “Must be dreamin’. Never in my life imagined people’d be dressin’ up as me.”
“Funny story,” said Siavash, “this isn’t my first time. When I was at Almas University we had a costume party and one of my friends came as me.”
“Yeah, I believe it. Who’d you go as?”
“Baphomet, coincidentally! At the time my life was so far removed from demon wars it seemed funny and not at all in bad taste. Ah, here we are.” Siavash steered him toward a darts stand under an awning fluttering with rainbow-colored streamers.
“Back to try your luck again?” asked the pink-pigtailed gnome at the stand.
“I came with reinforcements.” Siavash passed her a few coins, in exchange for which she handed Woljif three darts.
Enjoying the respectful silence as he prepared to show them how it was done, Woljif toed the line painted in the sawdust at his feet, weighed the dart in his hand, squeezed one eye shut, stuck out his tongue, and threw.
His first shot was perfect. The dart quivered in the bullseye of the straw target. “Watch and learn,” he grinned as Siavash and the gnome cheered him on, and with the impetus of their encouragement he proceeded to nail the other two shots too, without even cheating.
“Looks like we have a winner!” cried the gnome, jumping down from her stool to fetch a prize hanging from the display, and Woljif found himself the proud owner of an irregularly-shaped swatch of sackcloth stuffed with straw and painted purple. He turned it around in his hands and found a pair of mismatched button eyes. “Is this sposed to be Aivu?”
“Yep.” The chief stood there beaming.
“Want it?” Woljif thrust the stuffed dragon into his hands, and by the look on the chief’s face realized he must have unwittingly done something romantic, for which he was pleased to find himself amply rewarded.
“I better get back to work,” he said when their mouths parted, trying to shake off the flood of distracting sparkly warmth and recover some of his cool business acumen.
“I’ll walk you back.” Hand-in-hand they set off again, Siavash with the stuffed Aivu under his arm. “I’m having the time of my life,” he said, and he sure looked like it, with confetti in his hair and a braid of daisies around his neck. He gave Arueshalae an encouraging wave when she glanced up from her conversation with a flock of other Arueshalaes.
“Me too. People who used to wipe their feet on the likes a’ me linin’ up to get fleeced and comin’ back for more.”
“Spare me some more precious time later?”
“I’ll close up at sundown.” Out of habit, as they weaved through the crowd Woljif ducked his head and deftly skirted the guards’ line of sight, but his eye was drawn suddenly to one of them posted by main gate—one he unfortunately recognized.
That guy.
He never knew his name. Just what he’d done to him, and every derogatory word he’d said, like it was burned into his mind with a hot brand. Funny how sharp the fuzzy edges of memory became in the cold light of fear.
Woljif stopped in his tracks and pulled Siavash back so that he was hidden behind him. “Hey chief. See that guy, the ol’ guard with the beard?”
“Yeah, you know him?”
Woljif wasn’t smiling. “You could say that. See them notches on his halberd? Broken tiefling bones, every one.”
Now Siavash wasn’t smiling anymore either. “Yours?”
“Well, no.” Which was technically true. “I was too quick for him.” Which was a lie. “Whaddaya say you go work some a’ that diplomattin’ and convince him to come buy some stuff. Him and his friends too.”
“At your service, Your Highness.” Though Siavash gave him a grin and a jaunty bow there was a dire light in his eye, one Woljif had come to recognize and unconditionally trust to raise the right kind of bedlam. It sent a little thrill up his spine.
“Thanks, chief.”
As Mysteries and Marvels opened up for business again to the clamor of a crowd of impatient customers, Woljif’s heart raced. A chance for a little sweet, sweet comeuppance. He wondered if the bearded guard even remembered him, and it made him even angrier to think how unfair it was that while for the guard the incident was all in a day’s fun, for Woljif it was a memory that would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life.
