Chapter Text
It’s a slow day, not unusual for the harvest moon, especially when it’s been raining all day for the past three days. The inn is warm, far warmer than the ice-cold sheets of rain that smash against the windowpanes. Impulse’s suggestion to move the cows into the stables a few days back has proved to be a good call. Gem can just barely hear them shuffling about from where she sits on the ground floor.
There isn’t much to do around the tavern without any visitors. The cows have been fed and milked, the rooms cleaned, and there’s soup in the cauldron and a pie in the oven. So she resigns herself to a cozy late afternoon read, pulling out the book their resident bard had gifted her. There’s a roaring fire, a cute little romance, and a warm cup of tea; there’s nothing else she could ask for, really.
From time to time, she hears the soft strum of a lyre, no doubt Scott passing the time. It’s odd for a bard to stay in the same tavern for months on end, but who is she to question the man? After all, she’s the owner of a tavern on a road that very few choose to walk on. No casual travelers walk these roads, no merchants or traveling troupes. The tavern’s clientele consists mostly of hunters, mercenaries, and those whose business is better left unknown. It doesn’t matter too much to her who comes by the tavern to get a room or buy a meal, as long as they don't cause any trouble.
It’s a little lonely here, living this far away from other people. When there are no guests, it’s only Impulse, Scott, and sometimes Shelby when they decide to visit. Even rarer, Drift comes to see them, preferring to stay back home in the town a few miles out. The rest of the town rather dislikes her, to put it mildly. They’ll sell supplies to her or maybe fix something up for her when needed, and that’s about it. To be honest, they don’t like anyone who associates with the tavern. Scott and Shelby may have a home there, but that’s as far as the townsfolk are willing to associate with them. Shelby’s shunned from promoting her writing, having to travel for months on end to Victoria for her work. Scott’s barred from playing in public places and is shushed whenever he even makes a noise. The rural folk in Cindershade are superstitious and wary, even more so this close to the border.
There are whispers of the supernatural that rage about, and they’ve chosen to label whomever they choose as a witch or a monster. Not that they’re particularly wrong about anything. Gem has the slight suspicion that Scott’s a siren of some sort, and she knows for a fact that Shelby and Drift are both fae. What type of fae they are, she has no idea, but she has some suspicions.
As for Gem, well, she’s the most normal-looking of the bunch. Where the fae have pointed ears and sharpened teeth, she has rounded ears and a normal smile. Where sirens have fish scales on their skin and darkened areas around their pupils, her skin is smooth, and her eyes appear normal.
What the rest of the world doesn’t see, though, is the flickering of her disguise when she’s in private. The faint impression of antlers on her head or the fish tail that clings to her form when she’s in water. The deer that are felled in the forest by foxes or wolves are all by her. She’s one of the birds in the sky, and the spiders in the caves. She is whatever she chooses to be.
On the odd occasion, there’ll be a druid or a woodland witch stopping by the tavern, who will recognize the magic laced in Scott’s music or Drift’s baked goods. Those labelled as the supernatural tend to leave gifts for the tavern. There’s a nether witch that leaves speed potions whenever they come by, and some woodland fae that bring all sorts of delicious, hard-to-grow fungi. The occasional necromancer or vampire is coming from the Greywick area down south and bringing news of the long-abandoned town and the forbidden magic happening down there. There are whispers of cloning and soul storing, the desecration of the dead, and the regrowth of limbs. But it’s not much of Gem’s business.
She perks up at the sound of the bell above the door jingling and turns to see a customer. She takes in the soft, well-cared-for blonde hair and dark, chocolate brown eyes, a ruby red jumper made of wool, and slacks from treated leather. It’s not the dress of their usual folk, not the wandering humans or the magical folk. And, despite the pouring rain outside, this strange being is completely dry.
“Hello, welcome to the Weeping Rose.” Gem stands to greet the customer, placing her book on the side table next to the couch. “I’m Gem, the owner of this tavern. What could I help you with?”
She receives a slow blink in return; those brown eyes don’t seem to judge or accuse, but remain cold nonetheless. The silence stretches for just long enough to be uncomfortable, but just barely before she might assume they can’t hear.
“Do you have stables?” Their voice is smooth and accented like the people of Victoria. They don’t get many Victorians out here, especially not this late in the day and in this horrid weather.
It takes a moment for her to realize she’s left them waiting for an answer. “Oh yes, on this side of the building,” she gestures vaguely in the direction of the stables, “feel free to put your mount in there, no charge.”
They nod before heading back out into the pouring rain. She takes the chance to call out to Impulse.
“Impy! We have a customer!” Her voice reverberates around the tavern and will, at some point, reach Impulse’s ears. He’s a dwarf; he’ll hear her well enough. She checks herself in the mirror, just trying to make sure she’s presentable. It’s not good for business to be known for being unprofessional. She’s just finished re-tying the bow in her hair when the guest returns, still miraculously dry.
They blink those cold brown eyes at her and refuse to say a word. They have a bag with them this time, a large burlap sack that smells floral. They stare at each other for a moment before the guest pulls out a little bag that sounds like coins clinking and hands it towards her.
“Oh, that’s probably too much. How long are you staying?”
“One night, two meals.”
“That’ll be 10 cinder,” Then she realizes that this guest probably doesn’t have any cinder, “or I suppose five Victorian pence.”
She gets a nod in acknowledgement and, after a quick moment of counting, five Victorian pence in her hand.
“The bar’s downstairs, we’ve got soup in the cauldron, and a pie in the oven. Just tell the bartender you’ve paid already. I’ll get your room set up for you.”
She gets another nod before they head downstairs. She watches them go before putting the money into her pocket and grabbing her book and teacup. Gem slips into her little room on the ground floor, leaving her dishware and reading behind. The money’ll go into her little hidey hole.
She straightens, brushes imaginary dirt off her dress, and heads upstairs. Of the two rooms, she supposes the guest would prefer the larger room. She sets some flowers on the dresser and straightens the bedding. Gem checks the corners and nooks for any dust or debris. Finding none, she’s satisfied with renting this room out and shuts the door. She grabs the key and heads down to the bottom floor.
The bottom floor of the tavern is warm and cozy. She’s very proud of it all. The rug was one Shelby found in Victoria, and she has some rare spirits and wines thanks to her mystical guests. She enters to see the guest sitting at one of the tables, idly consuming some food and staring intently at Scott. She’s a little confused why, as all Scott is doing is strumming his lyre. There isn’t even any singing happening.
“Gemmy!” She turns and sees Impulse’s bright, big grin. “I have food for you!”
She smiles back, her eyes crinkling at the corners. Impulse is a fantastic bartender and an even better friend. He’s sweet and caring and notices far more than most people. Those eyes hide mischief, and behind that smile is a prank-loving dwarf.
Gem accepts the plate of food and settles at the bar, a single stool separating her from her guest. She feels those eyes on her before she notices that they’ve shifted to staring at her. She turns to face them, green eyes meeting unblinking browns.
“Oh, right, here’s the key to your room.” She hands them the key, and with the brush of their hands, she feels a sense of being seen. It’s unnerving.
“Thank you, Gem.” Their voice is nice, soft, almost honey-like, and they seem more agreeable to speaking now that there’s food in their system.
“So… Where you headed?” Impulse is really bad at being subtle, but his question is a valid one. Where is this mysterious traveller, whose name they still haven’t shared, headed to?
“Greywick.” Their answer is clipped and short, without any of the honey-sweetness that clung to their previous words. It’s not anticipatory, or even proud or shady. Gem’s met enough people to tell the difference between those types of intents. No, it’s more dreading, but not fearful, as if heading to one of the most dangerous places nearby is not a challenge but an inconvenience.
She knows that Impulse and Scott are no less surprised, judging by the soft stutter in the lyre’s strumming and the little stumble step Impulse takes behind the counter. Their traveler looks more of the scholarly type, as most guests coming from Victoria tend to be. She expected a location more connected to research, like the magic of Trillium or the excavation sites of Zyvoris. Greywick is an unusual place to visit, especially from a place like Victoria. Victorians tend to dislike the magical, shying away from it in favor of more practical research.
“Why are you all so surprised?” Gem’s confused at the question, turning to meet their guest in the eyes. “If it’s so odd for me to head to Greywick, then I must ask, why is a shifter running a tavern in Cindershade?”
Her blood runs cold. No one, not even the magical folk that frequented the tavern, could tell what exactly Gem was. They could tell she was magic, like calls to like after all. But never pinpointed what type of magic she was. While it’s not illegal for her to exist, she knows hundreds of hunters would love to kill her and sell her corpse on the markets of Ravenguard and Dreadhow. The pirates think that shifters are good luck charms, and the smugglers in Dreadhow buy and sell everything known to mankind.
The guest blinks those deep brown eyes at her. This close, she can see the distinct lack of a pupil and the ring of pure black that outlines their sclera. Their skin is so pale, paler than even Scott, who spends every waking moment either submerged in water or indoors. She waits for them to continue, for them to lay down the terms of this exchange.
Seemingly sensing her unease, the guest decides to speak up without prompting, for the first time since they met. “I’m Grian, he/she.” There’s a pause as their guest, now named, takes a breath to consider what else to say. It’s her turn to blink, unsure of how to continue. “I’m going to Greywick to study vegetation. I’m a botany student.”
Their guest is trying, at least a little bit, to put them at ease. She gets the sense that he doesn’t talk to very many strangers. It’s a start, so she decides to continue the trend of introductions by reintroducing herself. “I’m Gem, she/her. I own this tavern, built it and designed it myself.” She pauses, debating whether to continue before deciding that it’s worth it if her secret doesn’t get out.
“This is Impulse,” she gestures to her friend working from behind the bar. He gives Grian a little wave.
“He/him, resident cook and mixologist.” Impulse takes over his own introduction, shooting Grian a toothy grin. Grian returns the gesture with a nod. She seems about to mention something before deciding not to, no doubt recalling how shocked and scared Gem was when called out. There’s no way that, knowing what Gem is, he doesn’t know what Impulse and Scott are. Especially recalling how intently Grian had stared at Scott earlier.
“I’m Scott,” Gem is startled by Scott’s smooth, sweet voice so close to her. At some point during that conversation, they must have moved closer. “If you hurt Gem in any way, I will tear your limbs off one by one and then feed you to the fish.” She turns towards her friend, catching sky blue eyes with her earthy green ones. Their fins are flared in anger and protectiveness, and a part of Gem is warmed by their willingness to defend her. They make an odd trio, the three of them. Impulse, with his brown hair and even browner eyes looking as much the same as every other person in Hermitopia, clashes readily against Scott’s eerily blue eyes and even bluer hair. And Gem’s somewhere in the middle, with eyes so green that she gets mistaken for a woodland witch and hair so bright one wouldn’t be blamed for assuming it's fire.
Grian blinks, an action Gem has come to associate with her. There’s a tense silence before Grian nods and speaks. “I’m not going to. No point, honestly.”
Scott seems satisfied with this answer and decides to continue. “Well, I go by he/they and I’m the resident bard.” He finishes with his signature hand flourish and a wide, disarming grin, before slipping back to his spot on the stage.
Gem watches, warily, as Grian stares at the space where Scott once was. The uneasy silence is back, as the rest of the tavern seems to hold its breath. Thankfully, Grian gives another slow blink before going back to eating his food. The entire world seems to restart then. The sound of the rain and the crackling of the fire slowly bleed back into her ears.
She expects the rest of their meal to be eaten in silence, but it seems, now that Grian’s introduced herself and been introduced to everyone, he’s more inclined to talk.
“Why here, this far from the capital of Cindershade?” Gem turns to Grian in confusion, and he elaborates, “Well, I heard that they’re looking for dragon riders in the rural parts, outright kidnapping those of age, and well, you seem to fit the bill.”
It’s Gem’s turn to blink. Most of her news comes from the woodland folk, meaning she is woefully unaware of all the goings-on of the capital. This piece of information shakes her to the core. She can’t go back to the capital, not under any circumstances. In her heart, she knows this entire situation is her fault. She could save lives from the torment of the dragon riders' corps if she could just march back to the capital and face her judgment. But the part of her that begs and screams to live won’t let her go back. If she ever heads back, it’ll be so much worse than if Grian just rats her out to the smugglers. It’ll be worse than being dragged out alive and sold to some uncaring rich collector.
It’s worse because no one knows what happened. Impulse and Scott won’t judge her. Void, they left their own homes and found one at the Weeping Rose for many reasons. She knows their stories and their pasts, but she just can’t tell anyone. It still hurts too much. She has to run, like a coward, fulfilling the jeers and taunts that were once thrown at her.
Grian has noticed her turmoil and puts one of those soft, workless hands over her own. She can feel the gazes of her friends, boring into her back, concerned but not prying. Dimly, she realizes that she’s shaking, fingers trembling, and her body vibrating with anxiety.
Impulse is the first to break the silence.
“Gemmy, are you alright?” His voice is soothing. His syllables clipped in the distinct nature of the dwarven homeland of Edolas. It soothes her a little bit, helping to bring her senses back to the present reality.
“I can’t go back.” Her voice is hoarse, barely a whisper, but it carries in the near-silent room. “They’ll …” she takes a deep breath, “They’re here for me. They’re looking for me.” Her voice catches, betraying just how terrified she is. Gem Taymond prides herself on being strong and confident, on being prepared and in control. But she’s not, and it brings her back to that dark cell in the dungeons.
Her body is barely processing sensation. She knows she’s at home, and she’s sitting on a chair, and there’s a fire and rain and a soft hand that she’s clasped tightly with her own. Normally, she would be far more embarrassed about clinging so tightly to a stranger, but right now, she can’t bring herself to care.
Shifting and hiding isn’t an option, not when the eggshell hanging around her neck will give her away to anyone nearby. No ordinary person would have the remnants of a dragon’s egg, much less a woodland animal. She can’t bring herself to get rid of it either.
“Come with me to Greywick.” She startles at that statement, forcing her eyes open to stare blankly at Grian. Even Grian looks confused at herself, as if not knowing why he suggested it in the first place. But even so, she continues to speak, those smooth Victorian vowels steadily calming Gem’s nerves as she’s presented with an alternate option.
“My route takes me back through here on the way to Victoria. The journey is just long enough to avoid the soldiers. They should stay clear of the borders of both Edolas and Kharadel. We could head through Edolas’s mining tunnel to Kharadel instead of my original plan to criss-cross Cindershade, then skirt along Helgard to reach Greywick. If need be, I have connections in Dreadhow’s smuggling den and with some Ravenguard pirates. I need to go there afterwards anyway.” Grian’s plan is long-winded and would take months to complete, but it’s her best option in avoiding being captured again. Besides, she’s always wanted to explore the world. Scott and Impulse know this, and this is her best bet. The chance to see Edolas’s silo, Kharadel’s rainbows, and Greywick’s haunted gravestones drives her own adventurous spirit.
“How do we know we can trust you?” Impulse’s words bite, sinking their teeth into Grian’s suggestions.
“You don’t.” It’s the best response they will get. There’s no concrete way of proving intentions here, just the thin hope that this person, who knows her secret, will guide her to safety.
“If it helps, I’m of magic too. Not going to rat out my own kind when I could just be captured as well.” A reassurance, a proof of what they already suspected, but a welcome reassurance nonetheless.
She’s stuck between two impossible choices, ones that will change her life irrevocably. And she has only minutes to choose. It’s obvious which choice is the better one, the moral one, the one that would save lives. Before Gem can talk herself out of leaving, Scott jumps in.
“Impy and I can take care of the tavern for you, and you can come back when it's safe. You’ve always wanted to see the world after all. Here’s your chance.” Scott’s eyes are warm, and his words are syrupy sweet, like honey. There’s no strong magic behind his statement, just the soft pulse of soothing energy. It’s a welcome change from the turmoil boiling inside of her and settles the thoughts brewing inside of her.
She chokes out a wet laugh. At some point, she’d started to cry, either at the prospect of leaving or adventuring, she doesn’t know. It’s the only option she has and the only choice she’ll get. And just like five years ago, she runs.
“I’ll go.”
What follows is a little blurry. She knows she packs up her things: clothing, money, weapons, a couple of books, and a copious amount of tea. Impulse and Scott take turns giving her a huge hug that she can’t help but melt into. Impulse moves his stuff to her room, to give the impression that Gem never was part of the tavern to begin with.
Leaving in the middle of the night gives them the ability to deny ever even stopping at the tavern. And while it’s not ideal, Gem also knows the rain will obscure their tracks and slow the soldiers down. She also has the sneaking suspicion that, just like when Grian arrived, they will stay perfectly dry.
Saddling Ash gives Gem a moment of clarity. As she runs her hands around the straps and buckles of the bridle, she feels the urge to cry again. It's all too similar to the first time she left home, and she knows this time, not coming back would ruin her. She’s going to miss Drift’s baking and Shelby’s rambles, Impulse’s creations, and Scott’s music, and she’s going to miss them even more than she misses those of the past.
Impulse finds her crying into Ash’s snowy white mane when he comes by to deliver a bag of food for their journey. She can hear through the walls of the stable, Scott giving graphic and descriptive threats to Grian, and she almost wants to laugh.
“Oh Gemmy,” she turns and buries herself in his arms, sobbing into the dwarf's chest. In these years, Impulse has become like a brother to her, at least more of a brother than the two related to her through blood. It takes a little longer for her to detach, and Gem’s sure her eyes are redder than rubies with the amount of crying she’s done. She turns to attach the bag to Ash’s saddle when Impulse hands her something.
In his hand is a bright yellow gemstone.
“A gem for my Gemmy,” Impulse says with a smile, but Gem can see the slight way his hands shake.
For a dwarf to give away their life-gem to another means either a deep friendship or a lasting relationship. It’s a symbol of lifelong trust and devotion. She wants to cry again. Gem cradles the gemstone in her hands gently, knowing that within it lies Impulse’s immortality.
“It’s a tourmaline," Impulse says with a smile, leading Gem to meet his eyes. “It helps protect against evil and brings luck.” He trails off, hesitating a little bit before continuing. “If you get into trouble in Greywick, give this to the manor lord of Tek. White hair and red eyes, you can’t miss him.”
She cocks her head in confusion. Impulse has never mentioned even going to Greywick before, and he never cares about news coming from that part of the world. For him to know someone important enough in Greywick to carry the title of manor lord, and for him to trust that person enough to have his life-gem, there must be a long story behind it.
Seeing her confusion, Impulse continues, “He’s uh, my ex.” The dwarf’s sheepish now, shier than Gem’s ever seen him before. “He still cares, that’s just how he is. A swell person, honestly. Always keeps his word. Super caring and sweet. He’ll help.” There’s a wistfulness to those words, and a lingering sense of longing.
Gem doesn’t know what else to do besides nod. She turns, hiding what she's doing from Impulse. Pulling out her necklace, she places the gemstone inside the hollow eggshell, keeping the gift close to her heart.
She turns to give Impulse one last smile before heading back inside to tell Grian that she’s ready.
Inside, Scott is sitting cross-legged on the stairs, watching Grian intently. They pop up, and the second Gem comes back inside and runs to give her another suffocating hug. When they detach, he hands her a bottle filled with pale blue swirls of smoky magic.
“It has one song in it,” Scott murmurs with that sweet, slightly askew grin of theirs. “Use it wisely.”
He turns towards Grian, “Take care of our Gem, ok?”
Grian gives a nod and looks expectantly at Gem. She attaches the bottle to her belt and gestures back to the stables.
“I’m ready.”