A Flash Of Gold

Author’s Note:

So I wrote this story for my lovely wife, Meredith, with little more intention than to put a smile or two on her face. It is my first departure from my science fiction anthology series The Long Diaspora, and is a notably different type of story. Gone are the spacecraft and alien worlds, in are alchemists and elves. This is a fantasy story, and it is a heist, and yes, there are griffins. I had a heap of fun writing this story and hope to put forth more in this this little world sooner than later. I hope you enjoy it.

This is also the longest story I’ve written to date, so feel free to download a copy to read in your preferred format. But if you want to go for it and read it in one long blog post I won’t stop you.

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For Meredith, Merry Christmas.

The river flashed gold as it tumbled down the mountainside.

It flashed with gold, and silver, and copper. It flashed with opals, and rubies, and sapphires, and diamonds. Rushing waters from the glacier-clad peaks above, carved their way through a great staggering cleft in the wide flank of the mountain, and in their vigor pulled all the wealth out of her fiery heart and brought it forth for the world to see.

Naturally, folks were pretty eager to see it. Maybe get some of it themselves, if they were so lucky.

So naturally, when the river ceased its furious rush down from the heights and learned some placidity upon the lower slopes, when the mountainside turned from sheer cliffs and staggering pine-covered pitches to merely steep hillsides, there a town arose. A bustling, beautiful, messy town filled with all the peoples of the world. The town was called Ramshackle and it was a ramshackle place, not because it was broken-down or unused, quite the opposite, in fact the town was the busiest for leagues and leagues around, but it was built in a hurry by people who were in a hurry. Zig zagging game paths became zig zagging trails became zig zagging streets as more and more feet made their way to grab their part of the mountain’s treasure. Overnight, buildings had sprung forth from the ground, mushrooms after a rain, places for all the feet to get off the ground for a little while, for their mouths to find something to eat, for their minds to find something to do with the treasure their hands had grabbed. The river whisked into the middle of town still remembering its haste from up above, still carrying traces of treasure in its crystal water, so the people of Ramshackle lined their streets with sluices. One thousand two hundred and thirty three sluice boxes directed the river every which way, alongside streets, over houses, into squares. In these winding Rube Goldberg contraptions the last of the mountain’s wealth was picked out bit by bit, until the scrubbed waters poured out of town, reconvened, harried by the whole ordeal, and meandered their way into the forest waiting beyond.

Ramshackle was a busy place. A happy place. A rich place even. But rich is mostly a matter of comparison and the people of Ramshackle did not feel rich by comparison. Because while they got the last of the mountain’s treasure they did not get the first of it. Above their teeter-totter roofs, up up up the steep side of the mountain, glowering at the top of a bright white waterfall that poured one hundred and two dwarvish feet down a wide grey cliff, there, rose a fortress.

Not an evil fortress, but not all that admirable of one either. It was called Greyweather, and it matched the stone of the mountain from which it was hewn and the clouds that surrounded it many-a-day even when the good people of Ramshackle were enjoying a sunny afternoon. Not a soul could say it wasn’t beautiful though. Fluted spires rose above its curtained wall that flowed into the cliff face below. Behind, great keeps rose higher still along the great cleft the river had carved, built to stand out by blending in. A place that said in its very essence of being, yes nature is wonderful and all, but our hands can do better.

It was built by elves after all, and elves are never in a hurry. Surely you know elves by now. Tall, beautiful, wise, serene you could say. Imperious, haughty, detached you could also say. Depends on the day, and on your charity. They envisioned Greyweather, with its crenelations, its gatehouses, its portcullises, and made plenty of room for alpine gardens, for libraries, for baths, and lounges where the elves could recline in their wan ennui, all because this was not their home. Not originally anyway. They got it just like they got everything else in this world, they bought it. They were, or is it are?, immortal after all. Plenty of time for the interest on their investments to compound. When elves took a fancy to something, they almost always found a way to buy it.

Two human generations, or six and one quarter elvish blinks ago, when the river had first began to rush with the mountain’s treasure Greyweather was no fortress, but a mine. Owned and operated, proudly, by the J. Spade & Sons Mining Cooperative, a dwarvish outfit that sought mostly iron ores across the mountain and her many sisters. Now dwarves I’m certain you know as well. Squat, stout, heavy beards, and a love for singing, sure. But a bit surly too, maybe a little miserly as well, but fair in a deal, and fairer in a fight. They’d followed the river up ages back and had dug deep, mazing, beautiful mines along the canyon of the river. Then one day they struck more than they had bargained for, and thought it was their lucky day. Gold and platinum replacing iron and rust. But the very notion of an iron mining cooperative was rather strained by the sudden introduction of a literal river of gold. It all took a while to shake out, but suffice to say that the elves were more than happy to help them out of this situation, and now J. Spade, sons, grandsons, nephews, and grand nephews found themselves suddenly retired in expansive coastal villas filled with incredible mosaics they don’t understand, drinking exotic wines that their stone-dust scoured palettes can’t taste.

The deal left a few, ok more than a few, disgruntled dwarves out of work, chaffed to learn that ‘Mining Cooperative’ had been little more than a piece of misleading brand work by J. Spade. But the deal was a deal, and the elves took over. Naturally they couldn’t stand it down in the mines so they rehired a few of the more pliant dwarves to help them build a fortress more suitable to their tastes, and get the mine humming again so they could start to collect on their new investment. 

Hence how we find Greyweather for our story. Sitting nestled high upon the side of the mountain between the clouds and the great chasm the river and dwarves had carved, but now filling the high vale with filigreed spires, cantilevered gardens, stained glass atria, and gilded halls. All of it perched above the mines deep below which actually drew forth the wealth. It was an imposing place, and a beautiful one. A place built to be the pride of the elves, despite the fact that it was actually built by dwarves. A fortress, built to look like a castle, that was in reality a mine, a mine built to squeeze the wealth out of the mountain.

And the wealth came, in a great gout of a fountain. Copper, silver, gold, platinum, opal, sapphire, emerald, ruby, and diamonds were all pulled from the rock as the river’s headwaters flowed through a tight maze of caves that went so high up the mountain no one had ever really found the end. What was the need? The river brought all the wealth right to the doorstep of whoever held the mouth of the chasm. And the elves held it. And they were fabulously rich. Not just because the metals and jewels the river brought were rare. Though they were that too. But because in this world, gems and precious metals were the trade stuff of the alchemists, artificers, apothecaries and arcanists. Here, they made magic.

Ages back, alchemists had started out like they always do, trying to turn lead into gold. After a couple...hundred...million failed attempts, and a couple...hundred...thousand beheaded alchemists at the displeasure of kings and lords across the land, one clever apprentice finally figured out that while you could never make more gold, with a little gold to begin with you could make something that was more than the sum of its parts, just not the something they were expecting. A literal gold rush began as clever minds the world over flocked to alchemy, divining ways to turn metals and gems into tinctures, potions, medicines, and miracles. To cure disease, to induce crops to grow, to make bread bake into a hundred loaves instead of just one; there were potions to make you tall, to make you funny, to make your farts smell like roses. Not far behind them, clever craftsmen learned to use the same magical properties of jewels and metals to create all manner of magical devices. They became known as artificers, and they made jackets that never got wet, lamps that always glowed, roofs that never leaked, and plows that tilled the field while their owners sat happily in the shade sipping lemonade. The world glowed in a happy rose-smelling renaissance.

And the world still glowed, even ages later, though time, as it always does, had dulled what was shiny and new into what is and what’s expected. The world had developed these new tastes though, so gold and jewels were more precious than ever, and the elves in their far-sighted wisdom developed an uncanny knack for cornering the market. That’s why as we begin our story we find them fat and happy, if the perpetually willowy and morose elves can be called such things, filling the vaults of Greyweather with as much treasure as the mountain would deliver them. It is why even with all this wealth trapped in caverns up stream, a town like Ramshackle could thrive, serving the fortress, sluicing what flakes made it out of the mines and into their town, and generally being a hub for folks coming and going from the river that flashed with gold.

Of course, none of that made much of a difference for our heroine. Especially not now.

We find her far away from Greyweather and the mountain and Ramshackle, off in the forest of giant redwoods that spans for a hundred and more leagues from the foothills out towards the distant sea, in a place where the only crystal in the now placid river is the crystal of its waters as it weaves beneath the great trees. She’s hooded, mottled in browns and greens, hunting in the dying light of the evening as the world slipped from warm red to cool purple.

Felicity Broadfeather was a native of this wood, born and raised. If she knew of this discussion we’ve been having thus far, she probably would’ve thought something like, Just our luck, that all the wealth in the world would spill into our river and we still wouldn’t see a cent of it, or some such laconic sentiment aped and espoused by the young of small towns the world over. She would not be wrong though, of course. For all that the elves lived lavishly, and Ramshackle lived less and less to its name by the day, her village, tucked amongst the grand trees of the forest saw little and less of the wealth. Which is why today Felicity was not hunting game, but treasure.

For months she’d staked out her ambush, with keen eyes and a keener mind. The elves could not horde forever, even they had needs that could not be slaked by gold. So through the wood, along the road that followed the winding river on its path out to the sea, great caravans would lumber, laden with treasure. From her vantage, squatting camouflaged up on a perch between a great tree’s roots which climbed three stories into the air, she could see her target as it rolled noisily on through the quieting evening, foolishly trying to make use of the failing rays of the sun. She could see a row of covered carts, ambling heavily along a rutted bend in the road, just above the glistening waters of the river that flashed lavender in the late light. Here everything looked miniature. Toy carts and horses and soldiers beside a trickle of a creek. But that was just a trick of the great cathedral of trees they found themselves in. Broad, smooth, red trunks slid skyward for a hundred fathoms into the still air before they arched out in the riot of branches and greenery that was the overstory, itself another fifty fathoms thick. Redwoods is really just to give you a general idea, they were in fact many different kinds of tree, some long-needled others wide-leafed others bearing a kaleidoscope of fruits, though they all shared similar warm red trunks. And of course, they all reached magnificently high into the wood’s air.

It was a breathtaking sight, and several of the soldiers guarding the caravan   seemed to notice as well. For Felicity, evening shafts of light sliding between the towering columns of trees were a nightly occurrence, not the once-in-a-lifetime wonder the guards were experiencing. She’d gladly take the distraction though, her forest always looked out for her. Sliding from her crook, our heroine slipped silently through the towering undergrowth of ferns that arched well overhead above the warm humus of the forest floor below. Right on queue, the sun slid just below the low branches of the overstory, peeking through in a clearing just to the west. The scene went from beautiful to heart stopping. Purple and lavender disappeared in a moment replaced with golden air. Beams of warm, late sunlight, hung lazily between the trees as the river below and leaves above turned ablaze with this godly glow. The caravan ground to a halt.

Quick and quiet as a shadow, Felicity stepped out of the undergrowth just out of sight of a tired-looking guard who at that very moment was thinking, Belinda will never believe me when I tell her about THIS, and he was probably right, she wouldn’t. Belinda likely wouldn’t be too keen to hear about how beautiful the forest was when she learned that her husband was guard on a caravan that was robbed and would probably have his pay docked. But he got to experience this moment of natural magic, so at least that was something. Meanwhile, Felicity’s nimble fingers were lifting several loaves of bread, a small purse of coin, a bolt of elvish cloth, and a little case of alchemical tinctures that had her very optimistic. A pretty nice lift, for a solo job. There was one more flap to take a look beneath in the moment the forest had bought her, and Felicity always had to look. She lifted the flap up.

Barooo! Barooo! Barooo! The sound erupted from high on a neighboring tree, echoing through the evening silence. Felicity and the guard both bolted their gaze in the direction of the disturbance. Up on the tree they could see the lion’s hindquarters of a griffin, her griffin, Buckley. He had found a cache of grubs tucked into a bole on the tree and was now trumpeting his pleasure as he happily munched away, head buried in the trunk, lion’s rump waggling happily for this unexpected treat.

Goddamned griffins, she thought.

Just then the guard’s eyes slipped down, to find Felicity, arms loaded with lifted goods. And the rest of the evening’s calm evaporated as the golden rays of light died one by one, and the sun slipped down for the night.

“Lovely evening we’re having isn’t it.” Felicity quipped with an impish smile at the slack jawed guard, turned on her heel, and dove back into the darkening, ferny undergrowth.

She could hear the alarm rise down the caravan as she careened ahead, fronds whipping her face, pulling off her hood and mask. Behind her the heavy, unsure feet of brutish guards who didn’t know the forest crashed through the undergrowth. As she ran a smile spread across her face and her tousled mane of burnished copper hair streamed in the wind behind her.

This was her forest.

Arms laden, light fading, it mattered little. Felicity streaked through the ferns, a silent banshee, a sylvan shadow as uncatchable as the west wind. On and on she dashed, in a winding path that crossed her pursuer’s feet and had them clanging into one another in their heavy, pointless armor. She could evade these oafs out here all night. Soon the evening wood was filled with the sound of her banshee laughter.

Evade, but not escape. For that her getaway driver would have to pull his head out of a tree. “Ki-ki-karrooo! Ki-ki-karrooo! “ The joyous thief called between her rolls of dancing laughter. Buckley was a sharp, if distractible, creature. He knew to come to their secret call as well as his name. Griffin’s were all smart, they just didn’t speak the human tongues, so it was a little difficult to make sure you were on the same page. There were plenty of griffinriders in the woods as well...just not so many with red-rumped mounts called Buckley. So she couldn’t exactly go around yelling his name in the otherwise silent airs of the wood.

“Ki-ki-karrooo!” Felicity called once more as she burst forth into a clearing in the ferns. The clanging, clashing guards were a way behind her, but on her trail. She knelt, quickly lashed her haul across her back in a sling, and at the last moment pulled her mask over her lower face. They’d see the great cascade of golden flecked auburn curls that was her hair, but that couldn’t be helped. Besides what would they know other than the fact they had been robbed by a woodswoman? The guards crashed into the clearing, red-faced and furious, struggling mightily to draw swords grown sticky with disuse.

“Justwa! Juswhat! Justwhathe hell doyeh think yer playin at?!” Panted Belinda’s husband, spittle flying from lips that wouldn’t see even the driest kiss from his wife for three full turns of the moon.

Felicity slid slowly backwards with her hands up, keeping an even distance from the guards. “Easy gentleman, easy. You’ve caught me.” she cooed softly, not stopping her slow retreat. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of amethyst feathers darting through the canopy. Her lips turned up into a smile beneath her mask.

“Thenstopwhere yehare missy!” Blathered the other one, I’m not quite sure of his name or whether he had a wife to put him in the dog house.

“Well gents, bad news. I’m not going to do that.” She took one big step backwards opening the clearing between them. “Good news though, if you enjoyed the sunset here in the Wilder Wood, you should just wait to see the sunrise!”

In a flash she darted to the right, as the mass of purple feathers and red fur that was her griffin touched down lightly in the clearing not breaking a full tilt run, wings spread, curved beak clacking in the last of the light. The guards had never seen anything like it, abandoned all their pretenses of drawing swords, and obligingly bowled over backwards into the ferns. Felicity lept a leap practiced a thousand times over, letting Buckley’s wide wings sweep the ground beneath her as she cleared to land deftly on his back. With two powerful thrusts of wing they were back where they belonged, in the air, soaring through the open understory of a forest from which they were both made.

And the thief sang her dancing, banshee laugh as they sailed off into the warm and silent night.

--

The plan came to Felicity Broadfeather from one drunk dwarf.

Well at least the parts she couldn’t have come up with by herself. If the mark had been anywhere in the Wilder Wood she wouldn’t have needed any help, what could a dwarf know that a woodswoman didn’t about her forest? But this prize was  several steps above anything the woods could offer, and a wise woman knows her limits. So that’s how Felicity found herself down at The Cup pumping drinks into one steaming-mad, former member of a dwarvish mining union, who was already half in the bag. With each tankard more and more of a plan came into focus in her mind. The prize, the greatest in the land, one that could remake the very way of life of Twelvetrees, or land her in an elven cell until the end of her days. Which was ironic, because just that morning she’d been thinking of leaving the thieving life behind.

The sun rose that day, much like it did every day in the Wilder Wood, behind a veil of foliage for everyone but Felicity. For the past decade, she’d made a point of greeting the sunrise from her perch above the canopy, where the sun would rise over the wood and the sea beyond, clear and glorious. She told herself that she kept this habit to make the most of each day, in truth it may have had more to do with her parents slipping off into the early morning light ten years ago. For either reason the habit was the same, she and Buckley would perch to watch the open morning sky slide from plum to periwinkle to peach as they breakfasted on the blimpberries that grew on vines in the high canopy. Everyone said the curious clustered blue-grey fruits that seemed to float at the end of their stalks would make you lighter the more you ate. Felicity knew this to be an old wives tale. But still, it couldn’t hurt. Being light and nimble was her bread and salt, so she and Buckley breakfasted on them every morning until the sun had just cleared above the distant tree tops, when the first rays of the new day would shine down and begin to stir the sleeping village below.

Twelvetrees of the Wilder Wood. Home of the woodspeople, many griffins, and nearly everyone Felicity Broadfeather had ever known. This morning, like all mornings, she and Buckley sailed back down to the tidy and homely canopy house they shared with Gran, arriving just as the kettle came off the fire for a cup of strong, dark tea.

“How rises the sun, my Little Luck?” Gran asked, pouring the sparkling water over a bed of tea leaves that smelled of sugar and cinnamon and pine and earth and life itself.

“Like all days Gran.” She replied like she did every day, salivating as the swirling steam caught the filtering rays of morning. “Beautifully.”

Gran, was withered and old now, but was no less sharp, and certainly no less full of love. Her peridot eyes glinted as she smiled with her whole, wrinkled face.

“I heard the sun was thinking of changing its mind about tomorrow. You’d better keep going up there to keep her honest.” The wise old woman joked as she shuffled about the kitchen, carving off two slabs of steaming bread right out of the oven and slapping on two thick pads of fresh butter. “You were out late last night. No trouble I hope?” she asked kindly, sliding Felicity her breakfast.

“No trouble...” Felicity fibbed as she tore into the soft, warm crumb. “Just some late training at the rookery is all.” Her lies were helped down by the thought that without her evening escapades there would be no bread, no butter, and certainly no tea. Gran had no love for the elves or the caravans who passed their town by, but she was rather old, and Felicity would hate for her to worry. So they kept up the facade that her work training griffins at the rookery paid enough to keep their pantry full.

“Ah those young birds, they’re lucky to have you.” Gran smiled back, shuffling painfully around the tidy kitchen that was an extension of herself.

Like every day, Felicity grimaced watching her grandmother struggle where once she would glide. Moving about the kitchen was one thing and couldn’t really be helped. But Twelvetrees was a town of heights, and heading anywhere out of their canopy house would take Gran all day as she tediously, dangerously, navigated the bridges, stairs, pulleys, trolleys, and dumbwaiters that made the town run.

What made her grimace more though, was that there was something to be done about it. Something that she hadn’t figured out how to make happen. Yet. Artificiers out by the sea, or even some of the better ones in Ramshackle, could craft a floating chair. Inlaid with metals and gems in intricate patterns they held tightly as trade secrets, they could make her Gran a throne befitting her role as Lady of the Wood. A chair that could glide up and down the heights and let her visit the market and the springs and the tincturist all in one day, maybe even with a cheeky trip to The Cup for good measure. She deserved it, after all the love she’d given the town in her many long years.  All Felicity knew is it would take as much precious metal as she’d ever had, and more opals than she was likely to ever see in her whole life.

“Well, duty calls Gran. The birds won’t train themselves.” Felicity smiled lovingly, savoring the feel of warm, rich tea washing down the silky butter and bread, and gave her grandmother a kiss on the cheek.

“That they will not, you’d best be along.” Gran replied with a loving smile. “Tailwinds to you, my Little Luck.”

Felicity stepped through the homely rooms of their canopy house; every wall, table, shelf, nook, and most of the crannies were filled with knacks and knicks that told the story of the lives of the good people that called this place home. Out on the porch which wrapped around the place, tied into several swinging rope bridges and one pulley lift, she found Buckley, basking in the early sun. For the most part, griffins behaved much like birds, but every now and again their cattiness came out. Just then he looked very much a cat, laying with forelegs crossed, eyes closed, in serene repose as the rays filtered through and set his feathers alight. For as much of a pain as he could be, Buckley undoubtedly was a beautiful bird. His head, wings, and forelegs all took their look straight from a red tail hawk, but a hawk rendered in purple. As he basked his feathers glowed heliotrope, amethyst, evening, and lilac. When he spread his wings they would reveal a stretching pattern of stripes that alternated between dusk and dawn. On his hindquarters his lionine legs couched lithe and waiting, covered in a fine shining coat of terracotta. And when he opened his eyes, they would reveal themselves as two golden discs which would outshine the sun.

Looking beyond, Felicity paused to drink in the crisp air and savor a view that could only ever be, home. Twelvetrees was waking up. From up in the canopy where she lived she could look out across the whole village as it ascended and descended through the magnificent redwoods they called home. It was a humble place but rarely a hungry one. The town stood long before Ramshackle or even Greyweather, and would stand long after, but would never know their prosperity. The woodsfolk were as humble as their homes, who worked with their hands, and knew how to savor a cup of tea in the streaming morning light. They lived at every level of their enormous trees. Canopy houses, naturally, were small, built in the very highest branches, just below where they fanned out to form a nearly unbroken ceiling, enough to keep the sun tamed and pleasant, always slipping through gaps to shine shafts of light down into the forest below. Below them, up the heights of the trees, structures were rather larger. Anchored to trunks rather than branches. Homes for larger families, town hall, the market, shops and all the like occupied the heights. Down on the forest floor was where Twelvetrees met the rest of the world. Positioned as the town was at the time of our story on the Crystal River Road between the mountain and the sea, the forest floor was home to stables, storerooms, stockyards, and the inn. Services built for the caravans that crawled endlessly along the road. Even down between the roots of the trees some of the Twelvetreigans made their homes, digging out cellars in the rich earth. From their trees’ crowns to their roots, the woodsfolk, made their homes, the place they were made for.

Which was for the best as Twelvetrees was no place for the acrophobic. From hundreds of feet up in the canopy down to the floor below, theirs was a vertical town. Homes connected to branches and to platforms and to other homes by rope bridges which swung between the spanning branches, swaying pulleys which ascended the heights, sagging guylines which everyone had quite forgotten the use of, and every other contrivance of a people who were more comfortable swaying in the air than standing on the solid ground. From her high porch perch Felicity smiled and soaked in the familiar sight, tidy homes at all levels happily spilling out white smoke from their morning cookfires, hewn from the same red wood to which they clung. The sun danced down past all the happy homes and their happy smoke to warm the forest floor below and set the Crystal River, just on the far side of town, to sparkling and earn its name. To walk along the forest floor you may not notice the town much at first, so fitted it was to its place, the buildings grew rather large, but always they blended into the tree on which they clung. But once your eye found a home and followed its bridge along to the next you’d soon realize this place was built by ten thousand hands who had lived ten thousand lives in these trees.

And everywhere there were griffins. Wild griffins. Tamed griffins. Young, brash griffins. And hoary, old griffins. Monstrously large griffins, and those still scarcely bigger than house cats. Graceful griffins, and the clumsy ones too. In the streaming morning light they flitted small as butterflies dwarfed as they were by the leviathan trees they too called their home. It was these resplendent, stubborn, sharp, vexing creatures to which Felicity needed to attend this morning. She gave two sharp whistles and Buckley begrudgingly roused from his morning nap, stretched back lazily, still very much feeling his cattitude. And then dove off the edge of the porch.

Goddamned birds, Felicity thought, and dove after him. She caught him just as his wings fanned out to their full extent, straddling him comfortably as she did every day of her life, and let her smile spread ear to ear as she felt again a thrilling rush that would never grow old in ten thousand lives. Flight. His wide wings easily held their weight and soon all the momentum of down became momentum of out and soon again momentum of up. A few powerful flaps and they regained any height they lost and were sailing just below the dappled green of the canopy. In smooth banking turns they darted between the great rising columns of the trees, as they made their way across town and off to work. Pretty tough morning commute, Felicity thought glibly, and not for the first time.

As they reached the forest above the Crystal River, Buckley climbed even higher, through a gap in the canopy up to a height only the griffins called home. The rookery, which stood an isolated island in the sea of forest. Fathoms and fathoms below the great trees drank of the springs and the river and grew even taller than all their brothers. Approaching as they were from below this overstory appeared like a great dome of green above, open in the center to reveal the rookery’s arching heights above the canopy, but the wide, strong branches formed a wall that let in beaming shafts of golden light. If below there seemed a great deal of griffins, this was something more. The rookery was their place. Here Felicity would only ever be a visitor.

But what a place to visit. All around in the stately, sinuous branches were nests beyond count, hewn much like the houses below out of red wood, and all the birds that had made them. Now griffins you surely know already. Half eagle, half lion, fearsome guardians of priceless possessions, treasured troves, modest maidens and the like. All of it true, to one extent or another. But here’s something you may not know, they weren’t just half eagle, they could be half all sorts of birds. Hawks and harriers, ospreys and owls, kestrels, kites, falcons, ravens, rooks, buzzards, and merlins. Even secretarybirds, yes that’s a real bird, you can and should look them up. In the hindquarters they would take after all sorts of great cats. Lions of course, but also plenty of tigers as well, pumas, cougars, cheetahs, lynx, and leopards. There was little rhyme or reason as to what sort a hatchling would favor. Looking at the parents was little help. They would molt after a year in the nest and some new, stunning beast would be revealed. A new combination of bird and cat, likely never before seen in all the wide world. How, was a magic the griffins kept to themselves.

And the colors. We can’t forget the colors. All the birds and cats mentioned above, those are just to give you a general idea of shape and form. Griffins could, and did, occupy all the colors of the rainbow, in any combination they pleased. Not changing on a whim, but certainly obeying nothing quite so restrictive as heredity. As we discussed, Felicity’s bird was a particularly handsome fellow, purple feathers on a red-gold lion’s hind. But that was just the beginning. As they circled up into the rookery, the dome of trees was ablaze in color. Carmine, saffron, cream, amaranth, seafoam, azure, and malachite. Colors there never have been words for, and never will be, though maybe there should. They streaked and dived around Felicity as she soared up into the overstory.

Now as for the noble protectors bit and all that. It could be true, but that didn’t mean it always was true. And that, in part, was Felicity’s bread and salt. Griffin training. She alit on a wide branch with a deep, tidy nest built back against a crook in the tree, home to three fledgecubs she’d been working with for the past several moons. Their mother croaked a lazy greeting as she basked in the morning sun, lime feathers over a silver blue hind. She, like all griffins, was torn between her two halves. At times bird, flying frenetic and furious. At times cat, lazing, dazing, waiting for just the right moment to pounce. Felicity tossed her a large dried fish from her bag to keep things copacetic, and looked into the nest. The young fledgecubs were just beginning to show their colors. A brawny, tawny male that looked to favor rook, a lime female that unusually favored her mother’s kingfisher, and a runty little fella who’d only just poked out a few russet feathers; it was anyone’s guess what bird he’d favor at this stage. They all looked up an chirrupped happily, expecting breakfast.

“Hello my little songbirds.” She beamed, breaking off small chunks of fish for them to tear into. “How are we today?”

Behind her Buckley groused grumpily, unhappy to be missing the grub.

“Oh fine, some for you too, you lazy bum.” She tossed him a fish. “No more than that, these are treats for training, go find yourself some grubs.”

He glinted his gold eyes at her munching his snack, and flapped lazily away. It seemed like he got her drift, but one could never be sure, and that was the crux of her job. Training griffins was decent work for a young woman with ample patience, little fear of heights, and a side-gig as a small-time thief to fill the gaps between paydays. Felicity may have preferred liberator of misbegotten goods, but she’s not telling this story so we will call her what she is. Starting a few months before the chicks began to fledge, enterprising trainers would appease the ever-watchful mothers with promise of food. They would then bond with the fledgecubs as they gained their feathers and learned to fly. And finally, they would use that bond to try and mold a creature suited for life with a rider. Most young griffins would never take and would remain wild. But if a bird showed promise a trainer would bring a potential rider up and see if they would be a match. It was slow, frustrating work, filled with false starts, and deflated hopes. But when a new rider bond was made the payday was quite handsome for the trainer.

Of her current brood Felicity was most hopeful about her tawny hebird, the female was too similar to her wild mother, and the runt was too small to stir much hope in her. But then again Buckley had been the smallest of his brood, and had been an excellent match for her at bonding when she was just seven. Today he was still a small bird, but all the nimbler on the wing for it, a superb fit for Felicity’s light feet and lighter fingers. There was no way to know which way bird would go, all a trainer could do was show up day after day and see how the feathers fanned out.

Hell of a place to do it, she thought, looking around at the airy rookery with all the streaking colors of the world soaring by in a jubilant carnival of flight. She took the fledgecubs out of the nest one by one and paraded up and down the wide, sunny branch which was their home. At this age training griffins was much like training puppies. Giving commands, doling out treats, trying mightily to keep one’s patience as the smart, obstinate little birds found every which way to evade training and return to play. Hell of a job to do in it, Felicity thought, as her fledgecubs embraced their inner kittens and rolled around on the branch in a pile mewling happily. It would be another long day, and she wouldn’t mind one bit.

Sunset found Felicity soaking sore feet in the Crystal River, admiring its waters, and sharing a couple steaming buns with Buckley. She was making progress with her brood, could almost let herself believe she would bond two of them at this point, before proper training dashed her hopes. It was still tedious, tiresome work. Nothing beat the cool water of the river on toes bashed and beaten across branches up in the rookery all day. Buckley lay beside her on the bank, begging for bites, and soaking his talons like he’d done anything more than scrounge for a few grubs and nap in the sun all day. In the lowering light the river lit up, living up to its name. Even out here, countless leagues from her headwaters, she ran clear and bright, winding through the forest on a bed of cream and camel pebbles. Out this far there were no more gems or precious metals in the Crystal River, but the waters were prize enough. A treasure in which to soak sore toes, to rinse on a hot day, to water the gardens that climbed up the sheltered crooks between their tree’s titanic roots, to keep the town healthy and humming, and to let the brewers craft the finest ales for a hundred leagues in any direction. Speaking of which, it was getting to be about that time of day.

A day of training and some hot buns will make a girl thirsty, she thought a little smugly, also not for the first time, and set off up the hill towards The Cup. Boots in hand, she padded softly through the soft loam of the forest floor. At times she enjoyed seeing her town through a visitor’s eyes. This evening, as all evenings, did not disappoint. Up and down the trees, all around, little tidy windows began to glow with candle, lamp, and cookfire. The still air rang with the sound of laughing children fleeing their scolding mothers, and wafted with the smells of the simple, hearty fare this people could pull from the land by the work of their strong hands.

She followed the trail along to where it met the river road right in the center of town, and her destination. The Two Talons Inn, and more importantly for Felicity’s purposes this evening, its public house, The Chippy Cup. This was by far the largest and most prominent structure in town, which made sense as it was the only place the town made any money off all the caravans that passed through. It nearly surrounded the entire gargantuan base of the biggest tree in the forest. Years ago, before the caravans and the road, the Two Talons had been a modest affair, a small pub with a few rooms above, unusual in that it sat directly at ground level. But as the ground level business grew so did the facilities. Nowadays there are three stories of rooms, stables, store rooms, gardens, an outfitter, and a provisioner, along with a large dining hall. Fortunately the Twotalons family were sensible folks, so they kept all that separate from the drinking establishment, which was always the busiest in town.

Tonight it all buzzed with a gentle ferment, windows all alight, chimneys spilling sweet white smoke into the evening air. Out front, a familiar bunch played in the empty road, running amok and laughing as they were almost always wont to do. The Howdy Bunch. They were something of a remarkable triumvirate even here in these feather-festooned woods, a set of triplets all bonded to a matching set of birds. Typical griffin siblings looked nothing like each other nor like their parents, but twins and triplets happened regularly enough and they were always identical. Excepting their color, of course. When the triplet children were born they were the talk of the town. Years later when they were ready nearly ready to try and bond a shebird hatched three identical chickcubs, Felicity trained them but didn’t dare get her hopes up. But then her luck struck thrice, and the three bonded the birds; it was nothing short of a miracle. It was also likely to be Felicity’s largest payday by a wide margin.

Now their remarkable bond had only strengthened, as they chased and wrestled with their growing birds in the soft grass along the roadside. The griffins were a perfect primary triad red, yellow, blue, but all favored burrowing owls and when they dipped their heads in greeting, much like the burrowing owls we know, they seemed to confer an unspoken howdy pard’ner. Naturally the kids had taken up the habit as well.

“Howdy Miss Felicity.” They all laughed out in unison, as birds and children all bobbed their heads in comical synchronicity.

“Hello Hennie. Hellow Harper. Hello Hollis.” Felicity called back with a grin.

“I’m Hollis.” One protested as they continued to wrestle around.

“I’m Hennie.” Laughed another, but Felicity couldn’t tell which in their rolling tumult.

It was impossible to tell the three apart. They wore matching clothes dyed to match the colors of their birds red, yellow, and blue. Or was it that they wore colors opposite their birds? One was a girl, the other two were boys, Felicity knew. Though no one could keep track of who was who. Or was it two girls and a boy? she wondered, as did the rest of the town. She chuckled at the raucous scene and turned towards the inn.

Outside the gates of the Two Talons proper, stood a guardian. In the gathering dusk she hulked massive beside the door, the true mayor of the town, and the queen of the griffins if griffins had use for such silly things. Althea, the largest, oldest griffin in the whole Wilder Wood. She stood a pale sentinel by the gate to the Two Talons’ grounds. She had been the mount of no less than three previous mayors and was likely more than one hundred and fifty years old, though with how griffins aged it was more likely that she had another fifty years in her than five. In addition to being the largest griffin she was also undoubtedly one of the most striking. She favored a great horned owl crafted in china porcelain with silver flecks shimmering through all her bone-pale feathers. Tonight they beamed back lilac in the dimming evening light. Her hindquarters were thick and strong, curved claws digging into the soft earth, covered with a fine fur of white gold dappled with the spots and stripes of a snow leopard. Althea stood a solid two heads taller than Felicity on a good day and was fully twice as wide as the gate she guarded. She was, without a shadow of a doubt, the most intimidating creature west of the Morning Mountains.

Fortunately for Felicity, Althea was also the mount of her best and oldest friend. She reached into her bag for one last dried fish, saved special to appease the true mayor. Buckley bowed deeply to his superior and kept a respectful distance before fluttering up to join the other guest griffins on the roof perches.

“Here you go, you hoary old bird.” Felicity cooed, feeding the griffin and scratching the downy feathers beneath her beak. “Just remember who brings you the best treats.” Felicity stroked her hands along down toward the griffin’s neck, through feathers which dwarfed her hands. “It certainly isn’t any of these caravan bastards.” Althea rumbled a deep, catlike purr, and nodded her head softly. Felicity passed the guardian.

Inside The Chippy Cup was humming, as always. The craftspeople of Twelvetrees were experts at working with the trees, and The Cup was the shining example. It occupied the wide span between two roots, but like many of their other structures it recessed back into the tree itself a ways, providing excellent shelter, and importantly, excellent wood from which to craft all the things a pub would require. Walls, roofs, tables, chairs, shelves, the bar itself, all of it was hewn from the same supple, tight-grained wood of fawn. The walls were lined with deep booths, the center filled with long trestle tables, and the bar spanned in a great semi-circle mimicking the old outer edge of the tree. Behind the bar, as nearly always, at least when Felicity couldn’t get her to play hooky, was Bonnie Twotalons, her dearest friend.

Now before you get too many ideas it is important to note that if Bonnie’s parents had looked in the mirror for but a moment they would have realized their daughter was bound to be anything but ‘Bonnie’, they were two of the largest humans to ever walk the forest. But they hadn’t. And that’s what they named her, and now Bonnie lived with their own lack of reflection, along with all of their impressive physicality. Her head nearly swept the rafters above, and her strong shoulders filled every door she passed through. Her skin was dark and she kept her sanguine woodswoman’s hair worn in a close crop around a face that had seen more than a few punches thrown at it as she helped unruly patrons from the bar. The Twotalons were an impressive people, and not just physically. They had deftly played their hand at business and their success was one of the few improvements the town had seen in the past century. Althea’s mayoral riders had been Bonnie’s grandmother and great grandmother and great great grandmother respectively, past mayors all, and her mother was a brawny caravaner who’d caught her father’s eye but had little love for flying, so now Bonnie was the fourth of her line to ride the magnificent beast.

“How come the birds?” Bonnie asked in her warm, booming voice, a grin splitting her broad face.

“Better than yesterday, worse than two days ago.” Felicity sighed, sidling up on an empty stool.

“That time of the fledging huh?” Bonnie smiled sympathetically. “You’ll get through it.”

“Yeah...I keep telling myself that.” Another sigh. “Someday I’ll believe it. For now I’ll take a double of the red.” Her light fingers plopped down a couple shiny copper crowns on the bar.

Now here’s the thing, Bonnie Twotalons had been Felicity’s friend since they were both in the nest. She knew what her friend did for work, she knew Felicity hadn’t bonded a new bird in the past three months, and she knew damn well Felicity didn’t have the coin to go buying doubles in full. Bonnie also, importantly, knew her friend’s proclivity for putting those light fingers to use. Now the Twotalons had no excessive love for the elves, but they respected the caravaners and realized the precarity of their recent successes.

All of which is to say that one large eyebrow was raised in the direction of Felicity Broadfeather as she slid her stolen coins across the bar. But nonetheless, cold red ale was pumped up from the cellar below and dispensed frothily into a suitably chipped porcelain mug.

“Birding’s been paying off more than I’ve heard about?” Bonnie asked, sliding the mug over, with a judgemental stare.

“Oh come off it.” Felicity shot back testily, savoring her first foamy, dancing sip. “I was leagues away, in and out in a blink, no one even knew I was there.”

“I heard two guards chased a girl through the forest with a mane of curly, auburn hair. They almost had her but were bowled over by her griffin.”

“Could’ve been anyone I reckon.” Felicity quipped, bone-dry, attempting in vain to enjoy her hard earned pint. “Loads of griffinriders in all the villages around here.”

“I suppose it’s lucky then that they couldn’t get a good look at the bird in the dim light.”

“I don’t know if I’d call it luck.” Felicity quipped and earned a formidable scowl from her friend, so Felicity put her hands up in submission. “Alright, alright. Maybe it was closer than I said, but it was all well in hand. And besides, if you must know, I’ve given it up.”

“Given it up?”

“Given it up.”

“And why’s that then.” Bonnie’s disbelief was nearly edible.

“Maybe I’ve grown, maybe it’s time to turn over a new leaf. And I tell you what if I can bond two of these fledgecubs I’m working with right now, I’ll be right as rain. Set up for years to come, me and Gran living on easy street.”

“Bah!” Bonnie boomed, “Felicity, you’re working with three fledgecubs.”

“Yeah? So? That leaves one to spare.” She took a smug draught of her ale.

Behind, the door clattered open as a young pair walked in off the road. Felicity and Bonnie eyed them together as they had a thousand patrons over the years. Young, undoubtedly from the university up north, likely on some grandiose quest to Ramshackle, maybe all the way up to Greyweather. From the look of it, it seemed as though they had little choice in their companion. The tension between the two was palpable.

“We’re looking for some rooms for the night.” The fellow glowered across the bar.

“Only got one left for you.” Bonnie replied matter-of-factly, “Up top floor, good view, but a small bed.”

The lass scoffed in frustration and threw up her arms. Felicity wasn’t sure why, despite his dour look, he was a handsome lad. Worse bedfellows could be found for the night.

“You’re serious?” He demanded unpleasantly. “We’ve been on the road all day.”
“Same as everyone friend, I’m afraid.” Bonnie continued polishing, unperturbed by a scene she’d played a part in a hundred times by now. “Caravan’s have us full up. So it’s the loft room, or camp out in the wood. My Nan says rain’s moving in tonight though.”

The travelers grunted in frustration, but nodded and took the key, then the pair sulked out quietly. That’ll make for an interesting evening, Felicity imagined.

Unfortunately for Felicity, Bonnie had not forgotten her displeasure, and carried on. “No one ever bonds two birds in three. Much more like one in five. If anything you’re at risk working with so few right now.”

“Well no one trains the birds like I do.” She shot back on the defensive. “And in any case, I tell you I’m done, so I’m done.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“You’re seeing it. And now, if you don’t mind letting me enjoy my hard-earned beer in peace I’m sure some of your other patrons would like to enjoy your sparkling company.”

Bonnie turned off in a huff, vexed by Felicity, just as Felicity was vexed by her birds. But the funny thing was, she meant it. After a good day training, a soak in the river, warm buns, and cold beer, Felicity could almost imagine living content. Here in the high summer, with gardens in bloom and rains soft and warm, tables full and larders filling. At this moment, she could pretend if only for a heartbeat, that she could make herself content. An evening pleasantly buzzing at The Cup with a cold mug full of the finest red ale in all the land. What else could someone in their right mind want?

And that, my dear reader, was when the siren song of one drunk dwarf danced upon the ears of Felicity Broadfeather and set our whole story into motion.

“Now let me tell you feller!” Felicity overheard, as the local red loosened lips, “Them elves ‘ent got the sense that the gods gave a goose. They never had to coyote. Never known how to dig the hard rock. Couldn’t tell ya fool’s from the true color if they didn’t have dwarves there grading for ‘em. All they ever known is more, more, more.” She looked down to the rough character as he finished his double in a thirsty gulp. “Now if they get their way, with their new fangled portal and all, I tell yeh, the poor old mountain, she’ll be played out ‘in the year.”

Apparently the dwarf’s interlocutor couldn’t see the treasure in his conversation because he got up shaking his head having had enough of the dwarf’s ramblings. But this was something. Felicity reached over the bar to fill two more doubles, slid more stolen coppers down across the bar to a scowl from Bonnie at the far end, and sidled down to see just what this fellow knew.

“Looking empty there, friend.” She said slyly, passing him a frothy mug.

“Sure enough am ma’am. Thank yeh kindly.” He raised a smiling cheers, and drank half the tankard down in a greedy gulp. “Name’s Barnaby Lamplighter IV.”

“Felicity Broadfeather.” She raised back. “Seen you around town a couple times now, but never had the pleasure of your acquaintance. What brings a dwarf about Twelvetrees?”

“Came to see a bit o’ the natural splendor.”

“I didn’t know dwarves were the traveling type.”

“Dwarves are any type we fix to be missy.” Barnaby drawled surly, taking another gulp. “But yer right, this ‘ent my place, but now the old mountain she ‘ent my place neither, thanks to those derned elves...thinkin’ they’re slicker than owl grease, couldn’t sort tailings from paydirt without us though, I tell yeh...” he descended into ornery muttering, stewing in his ale.

Felicity considered the fellow for a moment. Dwarves were a proud and ancient people, crafted by the mountain nymphs themselves back when the world was young and lost in the fogs of time. They were thick and sinewy, Barnaby probably came up to her shoulder but she wasn’t particularly tall. Beards of course, spilling down their chests in curly waterfalls that ranged from deep red to pitch black. They crafted their own clothes, suited for the mine, double kneed overalls of rough canvas, shirts of fine spun lambswool rolled to the elbows that buttoned up the front and were patterned with their tribe’s tartan, Barnaby’s was deep blue shot through with threads of yellow, amber, and white, atop it all, a brimmed leather hat battered by years of tunneling with a band for an artificed light. Felicity racked her brain for anything else she knew about dwarves, they generally formed a couple tribes up into mining collectives which was part of what made them reliable if stingy business partners. When they controlled their mines that is. Being born from mountain nymphs they held a certain religious reverence for the mountains and caves they called home and rarely expanded mines to their maximum potential capacity. But it mattered little, a dwarvish mine operating at quarter capacity was still a mile better than the best mine ever run by humans, and humans were the only other people who would willingly work below ground. Dwarves were also exceptionally long-lived; it was likely that Barnaby worked on the mountain before it became Greyweather. This conversation will be fairly interesting indeed, she thought.

“I suppose they certainly wouldn’t know how to run a mine to dwarvish standards.” Felicity egged on deftly.

“Yer darned right they wouldn’t ma’am!” Chipped mug slammed down by a broad, hairy hand. “Wouldn’t know the right way to do it if they had a donkey’s age. Can’t never know it, they’re of the sea, interlopin’ up in them tharr hills.” He drank deeply again, and let loose a formidable belch from deep in the belly. “They keep her goin’ this way, my poor old mountain will be not more than a pit before yeh blink.”

“And I suppose that has something to do with that portal you mentioned.” She probed.

The dwarf looked up suddenly with slate sharp eyes under a shaggy red-brown brow, and raised a hairy caterpillar of an eyebrow at her. Felicity reached over the bar for another couple mugs, sliding more coppers, receiving more scowls. The dwarf rewet his whistle with a pleased smile and began to talk once more. “Now I really shouldn’t be spillin’ this chili to yeh missy, but heck, I guess I can’t lose my job more than once.” Felicity leaned in close, hoping some intense attention would help the dwarf keep his voice down. “And dadgum, if this unnatural portal business won’t hurt you poor woodsfolk in the end too. I guess you should know.” He thought for a long moment. “Y’all make your bacon and beans on this here river road, and I tell yeh, she wain’t be flowin’ with gold much longer, not if old Lysander gets his way.”

Lysander Sunhorn, Grand Curator of the Clouded Halls, elves always found a way to outdo their pretentious names with an even more pompous title, was for all intents and purposes the boss of Greyweather. Though the elves would always deny any sort of hierarchy in their midst, and claim they were guided by the stars or some such hooey. His greed had grown the most since moving to Greyweather, and he steadily implemented ways to increase production from the mine at all costs. For what reason any more, no one was quite sure. Even all the way out in the Wilder Wood, Felicity had heard of his single-minded lust.

“What’s he planning?” She asked.

The dwarf leaned in close, murmuring deeply. “Well yeh see the road’s his chokepoint. He’s already got more gold and jewels than any one feller ever had. But he’s a gots to keep a hold on old Greyweather, so these caravans run back and forth turning gold into fine wines, fresh fishes, cloths from away o’er the sea, and all that. But he’s up there in his citadel, looking at the caravans winding their way through the wood, gettin’ lost, gettin’ knocked off, generally movin’ slower than molasses in January. Well it’s trying, even for elvish patience, I tell yeh.”

“So the portal what? Cuts out the caravans? Takes the treasure straight to the port?”

“Well that’s the idea anyhow.” Barnaby conspired. “No one’s ever done anything like it. He’s got some young elf, only a couple thousand years old or something like that, Keledim The Lightweaver, he calls hisself. Says he has some newfangled, starguided, plan to build a gateway straight to the harbor. O’course the elvish bastard’s useless as tits on a boar hog, couldn’t craft a skewer from a stick, but that’s all fine, old Ramshackle’s full of all sorts of artificiers. So he’s got ‘em workin’ round the clock, dwarves, humans, merfolk, a whole team making this portal. And if she works...” Barnaby let out a low whistle.

“They’ll move treasure to the port in an instant, nothing for Ramshackle, nothing for us, nothing for anyone but the elves.” Felicity filled in.

“Indeed lil’ lady. ‘Fore you blink my dear mountain, well she’ll be a hole in the ground.” He stuttered, choking up. “I just cain’t bear to think on it.”

Through this whole chat Felicity’s mind was on fire, racing at top speed, there was opportunity here, she just needed to pan the nuggets from the gravel. She slid another double of red across to the dwarf.

“I can’t bear to think of it either, Barnaby. But I tell you what I’d love to hear about, tell me about the mountain, about Greyweather, about all the beauty you and your brothers built.”

And talk Barnaby did. About the mine and how it came to be, how the dwarves built their shafts to utilize the river and how the river to this day despite all the elvish opulence on top of it was still the lifeblood of Greyweather. He talked with disgust about building the elves’ fluted, fragile towers out of the fine rock of the mountain; he painted a picture in Felicity’s mind of the halls, vaults, and towers where the elves hid their treasure. And the more he drank, the more he spoke of betrayal. By J. Spade & Sons, by his brothers in the mining union, one by one forgetting their loyalty to the mountain and letting the elve’s greed infect their hearts. This is the doorway I can’t let shut Felicity thought as the dwarf waxed on, the night grew late, and the Cup slowly emptied.

“It ters me ta bits missy, thinkin’ on what we let slip away.” The dwarf slurred sadly. “Them Spade’s was one thing, newest family to run the cooperative, never should have trusted ‘em. But the Trolleymens, the Canaries, heck even a few of my actual Lamplighter cousins, to be spurned by them and turned out on my backside. Hurts more than a hundred hammers to the thumb I tell yeh what.”

“And they all did that, what because you were trying to strengthen the Union?” she probed.

“Old Lysander he says I was a-agitatin’.” He spat. “Tryin’ to hold a bit of our nymph-given rights is all. But the Union was a-holdin’ on by a thread as she was, elves turned it into every dwarf for hisself, better for ‘em that way I reckon.” Barnaby Lamplighter IV, looked down with tears in his eye. “Den’t matter that I quit, they woulda sacked me eitherway, and eitherway I couldnta taken it one more day.”

At this Felicity’s ears perked up. “You quit? I thought you said you lost your job.”

“Yaw, lost her to the ol’ elvish grip.”

Down the bar Bonnie coughed sharply, clearly trying to grab Felicity’s attention. She would have been suspicious of this whole conversation Felicity reckoned, but now she tried to butt in? Typical.

Felicity pushed ahead, a plan coming into vague form in her mind. “But you did quit of your own accord?”

“Yes’m”

“Well in that case Barnaby, I think we may both be in luck...” She leaned in closer than ever to the dwarf, ready to see how willing a partner she may have.

Behind them the tavern door swung open, barely noticed by Felicity just some late caravan crew stopping in for a little refreshment off the road. Bonnie coughed sharply once again. Annoyed, Felicity shot her an angry glance only to see Bonnie nod right behind her. She turned to see the one face that could successfully empty her mind of all other thoughts.

Even fresh off the road Lachlan Needledown came in like a dream. Tall and lean, hair the color of autumn light falling nearly to his shoulders. He wore a caravaner’s uniform, but somehow, like all things he did, seemed to make it look effortless and distinct all at once. On his razor sharp jaw he sported a light fuzz from nights out under the stars. Felicity liked him scruffy, but certainly wouldn’t have half minded shaving those cheeks herself, especially if it meant some alone time with him down at the springs. She’d known Lachlan her whole life, but ever since he’d gone off carvaning he’d become a man, one hell of a man at that and Felicity was down bad for him. Suddenly Barnaby and all her plans were a million leagues away, and Lachlan was moving in quickly, as always sporting a lovable, earnest grin.

And here was Felicity Broadfeather, dirty, sticks in her hair, smelling of bird. But at least all of that was par for the course. Much more difficult to explain was the very drunk dwarf she had cornered at the end of a dark and empty bar who was plausibly ten times her age.

“Felicity! Hi!” Lachlan called out in his singsong voice. He looked a man, but still held a boy’s heart, and it came out in his voice.

“L–Lachlan!” She gasped, panic now cutting through her swooning reverie. “H–hi!” she stumbled dumbly.

“It’s been a while.” He beamed, entrancing. “Glad to see you. We’re only here one–”

Next to Felicity, Barnaby let out a prodigious belch and spun on his seat, glaring up at her crush. He looked a sight, bloodshot tearfilled eyes, beard and shirt doused in spilled red ale, tattered hat darkening his face so he came across as one trying to look tough, but really just looked sad.

Lachlan had no idea what to make of it. “Oh! Hello....um, is this fellow bothering you Felicity.”

He would come in all shining armor, she thought, heart still fluttering, mind still ground to an unceremonious halt.

“Botherin’ her feller!” the dwarf protested, “She’s been the one buyin’ me drinks!” He shoved a hairy beer-drenched finger into his chest. “You come in here all tall and purdy, thinkin’ yer some high-grade pocket hunter, but yeh den’t know the hard rock.”

Not one for a fight, Lachlan put his hands up. “No offense meant, friend.”

“Lachlan, this is Barnaby Lamplighter.” An awkward introduction seemed unlikely to help, but it was the only move she had.

“Pleasure to meet you.” Lachlan lowered a hand to shake, the dwarf just kept his finger on his chest.

“Barnaby Lamplighter IV.” the dwarf clarified, unhelpfully.

“Barnaby is from Greyweather.”

“Formerly of Greyweather, thievin’ rotten bastards...” his ale-addled tongue descended into incomprehensibility.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did you lose your job there?”

“I quit, quit o’ meh own free, nymph-given will, before I can see the greedy bastards hollow out my mountain...” The dwarf rambled on as Lachlan’s face turned more confused, and Felicity’s mind refused to jump out of its stuck gear.

This was not going well. Lachlan, like all woodsfolk, held no special love for the elves, but he was currently in their employ. Sitting here pumping drinks into an agitator dwarf, was hardly a good look. All else aside, getting drunk with a random traveling dwarf was unlikely to impress Lachlan, especially as he now probably met ladies from Ramshackle to the sea. Felicity could feel her cheeks begin to grow hot.

Fortunately Barnaby’s ale-soaked mind decided to help her out, to an extent. “Well have ‘er yer way feller.” He mumbled. “Thank ye fer the drinks ma’am. Let’s a-continue our jawin’ real soon.” He tipped his hat and stumbled out the door.

“He seemed...nice.” Lachlan offered, as always kindly helping to move a conversation to fairer grounds.

“Yeah...uh...nice. I suppose.”

“Do you often get several mugs deep with dwarves down here these days?” The evidence of her scheming still sat in their chipped glory on the bar.

“Oh, no. No, of course not. He was just an interesting fellow, wanted to hear about what he’s seen. Dwarves live for so long and all that. He was a member of the DMU.” Whoops, probably not the ground to retread, she thought.

“The mining union? I heard they disbanded it entirely a couple months back.”

“Oh...really?”

Lachlan smiled and carried on helpfully. “So is this what you’re up to these days? Getting to know members of the DMU? Going to write some kind of retrospective for them?”

“Uh, me? No, you know me, just training the birds. Same as always.” She smiled back and tried to lean back casually on the bar but only succeeded in slipping her elbow on spilled ale. Her cheeks continued their ignition.

“Ah. That’s so cool Felicity, if I’d bonded a griffin, I doubt I would’ve joined the caravan.”

This was Lachlan’s way, he could make you feel like the center of all the world, even as you knew he was off traveling the land, ladies surely fawning over him at every inn and township.

“Yeah, but the caravan takes you all over,” she stuttered. “That’s got to be pretty, uh, cool. Right?”

“Oh yeah it’s great, been on lots of routes now, but lately it’s all been Ramshackle to port.” He looked at her with laughing green eyes. “Past couple runs were good, but I gotta tell you Felicity, you’ve gotta be careful out there. We’ve been getting hit by thieves more and more. I know the Wilder Wood is home, but it’s dangerous out on the road.”

“Oh thieves, you don’t say...” She got up, if her mind wouldn’t find a gear, she could at least staunch the bleeding and get out of there. “Yeah...I guess I’ve heard all that. None of them here in Twelvetrees though...actually IthinkI’vegottago. Bye.”

So Felicity bolted out and left her crush confused on a barstool, as her best friend grinned ear-to-ear behind the bar, barely able to hold in her laughter. Buckley, faithful as always, whisked her away in the cool night air, but not nearly fast enough to cool her cheeks which threatened to catch flame as she thought back on what a fool she’d made of herself.

---

Distractions will be your undoing as a thief.

One beautiful distraction is how Felicity found herself bound on a stool, roadside, face to face with one mean caravan mercenary. I have got to find a way to keep my head on straight these days, she chided herself as she looked around and considered her options. Out of the corner of her eye a little green flash caught her attention. Now that may be the solution to one of my big ifs, she pondered as she twisted away at the rough bonds on her wrists.

But we’re getting a bit ahead of ourselves here, because this day had started out just like any other, with a warm cup of tea, looking down over the tucked-in town of Twelvetrees. Bonnie’s Nan had been right, rains had moved in the night Felicity first had her mind set alight by Barnaby Lamplighter’s loose tongue and they had decided to linger a couple days while they were in town. The heat of high summer had only just broken, and this rain was but a sign of changes to come, in the cool of the rainy morning you could feel autumn queuing up around the corner.

Felicity had looked in on her fledgecubs, and received only skeptical glares as she’d tried to coax them out of the nest for some training. Fair enough, days like this day in the Wilder Wood were best for nestling in oneself, be it by the fire, or down at the Cup. Rainy skies turned the towering forest into a misty mirage of shifting greys and greens. Even the red hides of their trees were subdued to deep umbers. Below the canopy no proper rain made it through, but drops would diffuse into a light and pleasant mist until it could collect down in the understory. Most of the woodsfolk took after Felicity’s fledgecubs, tucked away with toes up on their mantle places, white smoke from their chimneys puffing out to mix with the watery vapors. Not Felicity, her mind was still on fire. If her birds wouldn’t train, she knew someone else she could work on.

“You have absolutely lost it Felicity. NO.” Bonnie certainly was going to need some working on. As soon as Felicity had begun to spool out her plan, Bonnie had gotten up and gone to the woodpile, she’d been swinging her heavy ax in frustration at a series of mammoth stumps rendering them down to kindling. In part to build their supply for winter, in part to keep from throttling her friend.

“Come on Bon, you’ve barely even heard me out.” she pleaded.

“Heard enough from you, that’s for sure.” Whack. Whack. Whack. “Caravan’s are one thing. And even that, you told me you were done. Now you come to me singing some song about knocking off fucking Greyweather? All based on the words of some drunk dwarf. Who’s left town by the way! You’ve lost it Felicity, it’s time to get real.” Whack. Whack. Whack. “Listen if birding’s not doing it for you, you know you can come work at the Two Talons. But you need to leave this craziness aside.”

“He’s just back in Ramshackle, ready to go when we are.” Felicity implored. “Barnaby’s a dwarf, we made a deal. He’ll stick to it.” That much was true, Barnaby had been easy to track down to continue their conversation. He would help her, if she would help him. Seemed fair enough, besides it was a win-win, she’d have a shot a the job of a lifetime, the dwarves would regain the strength of their union, and if they were lucky the portal would be put out of commission for the foreseeable future. If she could pull it off. There were several, large, snarling ifs still in the mix.

“Bah! I don’t even want to know what sort of hairbrained deal you struck with him.” Whack. Whack Whack. “Besides, by your own admission, you’ve only got half a plan. Your exit strategy is nonexistent. What could I even say yes to?”

“I’m working on that.” She retorted hotly in defense. “There’s a way around it I’m sure.”
“Sure, just figure out how to navigate a labyrinth of infinitesimal tunnels that not even the dwarves figured out in a thousand years, and you’re home free.” Bonnie tossed her cuttings onto the massive pile that climbed up the side of the Two Talons. “And even besides all that Felicity. What would it even be for? We live a good life here, you really want to risk all of it.”

“Yeah, a good life of being passed by.” She shot back. “And that’s only for now until they get the portal figured out.”

“Superstitious mumblings of a dwarf.” Whack. Whack.

“Even if that’s all it is, this is a shot to change this place for the better. Not just coppers off the caravans. With a haul like this we could get enough tincture to fertilize the farms for a hundred years. We could replace Miss Minerva’s loom, and all the kettles down at the brewery, and Riser’s ovens, all with inlays that would have them produce tenfold. Cold hungry winters would be a thing of the past. We’ve been passed over by a literal river of gold Bon, all I want is one little runnel to help this place I love. Just think how easy splitting wood would be with a properly inlaid ax.”

Whack. Whack. Whack. “There’s nothing wrong with my ax, thank you very much Felicity.”

“And you know I’ve been thinking about my Gran, she’s getting so old these days, it breaks my heart to see her stuck up in the canopy most days. With just one little pocketful of the elves treasure I could get her an air chair so she could cruise up and down all day long. Just think how happy she’d be.” Felicity knew this was her second most potent line of guilt trip.

“Yeah until she goes floating off into the heights and gets stuck there all day. You know those artifices have a mind of their own. My Nan has a saying you know.”

“Better chipped cups than chipped teeth.” They said in unison, Bonnie earnest, Felicity exasperated.

“See? Then you know it.”

Felicity crossed her arms in a frustrated huff. This was a true spot of contention. The Twotalons family weren’t exactly parochial, but they certainly held a healthy skepticism of all that came off an artificer’s bench. They weren’t entirely without reason either, Nan Twotalons saying had some wisdom to it. An artificer could make you a stronger cup, but then you were only more likely to chip a tooth on it. All but the very best made artifices, with the very best materials, had a way of behaving according to their own whims.

Felicity knew as much, and she, just like everyone above school age in all the land, knew the solution to such troublesome behaviors. “Then I’ll just have to be sure to grab some diamonds while I’m up there.” Diamonds, when inlaid, had no powers of their own, but would always make an artifice function as intended.

“Get your head out of the clouds. Even a mine as productive as Greyweather will barely produce any diamonds. Even if the rest of this crackpot plan were to work, there’s no way you’re getting anywhere near where the elves keep diamonds.”

When Bonnie was this right it was best not to press the point. “Then I’ll string up some guidelines, we’ll make it work one way or another. We always have.” It was time to bring out her class A1 guilt trip. “Bonnie you know that ever since my folks left, you’ve always been the one there for me. You’ve been my sister, and I can’t do this without you. But together we can do this. It’s not about just getting by, it’s about getting all the people here we love what they deserve.” If this didn’t work nothing would.

Bonnie stopped swinging, moaned looking up to the misting skies with closed eyes, and threw down her ax. “Figure out the fucking exit and we’ll talk.”

A bright wolfsmile cracked across Felicity’s face. “Love you sis’.” She kissed her seething friend on the cheek and slipped away before the magic of the moment broke.

And that was what was banging around in Felicity’s head as she slipped in disguise alongside a caravan lumbering through the wet mulch of the river road later that rainy day. Not an ideal headspace for a pull, but a job of the Greyweather’s size would need coin, so she’d have to keep up on the caravans while the rest of the plan came into shape. Felicity Broadfeather was a professional though, at least she fancied herself one, so she carried on even as her head clanged full of disparate ideas pulling her thoughts every which way.

The forest at least was willing to lend Felicity a hand today. She’d tucked in behind a small column of migrant walkers heading back to the coast before autumn set in earnest. Everyone moved slowly today, walkers, caravan mules, guards, the lot of them, everyone one lulled into molasses by the grey of the day. From down on the forest floor the canopy was a pulsing sea above of indistinct slate and green vapors reaching down the stretching trunks of trees. The cool of the day had seeped into bones across the caravan, so instead of guards keeping sharp eyes out, they were mostly watching steps around the little runnels of rainwater that criss-crossed the road. A fine day for Felicity to help herself to some of their excess wares.

She’d darkened her hair and Buckley’s feathers in an attempt to keep the heat down in the event she needed to make another swift exit, but so far it seemed to matter little. She slouched inconspicuously next to the massive, lumbering caravan and darted in to make pulls whenever an opportunity presented itself. And there were ample opportunities. This convoy consisted of nearly a dozen mule-pulled trains, all stacked with food, cloth, tools, and supplies. On any other day this would be plenty for Felicity but today she had her eyes set on Greyweather, and for that she would need coin. Which meant trickier pulls, coins had a nasty habit of being attached to humans.

Horns blared two quick hits, time to stop for lunch. Even better, Felicity considered as she slunked ahead to the lead wagons. There was a mark, a pair of guards with their swordbelts tossed up on top of their wagon along with a delightfully chubby coin purse glistening with misty condensation. Felicity pulled her hood higher over her darkened hair and aped a limp as she shuffled slowly past. The guards looked up and saw only a wretch heading for warmer climes and promptly lost interest as they returned to their steaming bowls of gumbo. As soon as she passed their sight, Felicity jumped up cat-quick onto a wheel and vaulted into the wagon filled with rich cloth. Right above the guards’ heads the coin purse decided it had had enough of the caravan life, slipped silently from beneath a sword, and walked itself right into Felicity’s pocket. In a flash she was back on the far side of the wagon, resuming her limping gait. A perfect pull.

She continued on up the caravan looking for her next target, when she turned around a wagon further ahead and bumped dead into the last face she wanted to see out on the rainy road. Lachlan Needledown. Of course he still looked fantastic, even cold and wet out here on the river road, all that seemed to happen was his auburn locks were wetted back dashingly and his boyish cheeks were lit aglow with a youthful exuberance that most living souls could only envy. Now these sorts of distracting thoughts would not be very helpful for a thief attempting to keep a low profile to be sure, fortunately for Felicity it mattered little because they passed through her mind for one scarce moment, before she ran straight into his tall, strong chest.

Limping gait, pulled hood, dyed hair. It all mattered for nothing, Lachlan had known her since they were both children. Felicity’s hopes of a low profile evaporated with the warmth of his smile as soon as he recognized her.

“Felicity? Hey!”

Frustratingly, agonizingly, catastrophically. Felicity’s mind ground once more into a hormone flooded stall.

“Hey, hey, hi Lachlan!” Her voice cracked out far louder than she’d intended. Was it only in her mind that it rolled echoing down the caravan? She could only hope. “Lovely day we’re having out here isn’t it?”

The rain quickened in unhelpful response. “Um...not particularly no.” He replied, beyond confused.

“Oh yeah, of course...the rain and all that.” She struggled, stuck mind on a knife’s edge between awkwardly not saying anything and turning into a yammering, blathering fool. “Well, the rain’s never bothered me much. I say it makes the trees look rather lovely.”

“Yeah, I suppose it does. I like how you always find the silver linings Felicity.” He smiled warmly and lit a flame inside her chest, that maybe, somehow she could find a way to make him hers. “But what are you doing out here? Don’t you know the forest is full of thieves these days?”

“Uh me? I’m just uh...foraging!” Felicity was a lithe and nimble, cunning thief. But she was no liar, and the mistruths cracked out loud and glaring. “You know how my Gran says, rainy days, good morels.”

“Wouldn’t she be meaning the days after the rain?”

“Ha! Ha ha...” Her laughs felt as awkward as loose teeth in her mouth. “I suppose you’re right. It’s been rainy for a couple of days though.”

“Yeah...besides you’re leagues away from town out here. Do you always come foraging so far afield?”

“Me? Pssh, of course not....uh, Buckley!” She grasped at the griffin’s name like a lifeline. “Yes Buckley wanted a good fly, he’s so quick these days. Where is that bird? Probably neck deep in a bed of grubs somewhere.”

“Ok...did you dye your hair?” Lachlan asked, just kind, just curious, just charming as always. Misplaced trust in her somehow kept his mind from suspicion.

“Oh! You noticed?”

“Yeah...it’s nearly black.”

“Well um, yep. Decided it was time for a change.”

“Well, I like it, seems...cool. I like your red of course, but this is cool too.”

“Thank you, just uh trying it out for a little while you know.”

Just then, having heard his name from his hide up in the canopy, Buckley was crashing his way down to the forest floor at full clip. Ready, eager to help Felicity in any way he could. So he streaked down in his dye-colored feathers to where his sharp eyes spotted her talking very closely with a strange man. Clearly she needed rescuing.

Of course that hadn’t been Felicity’s intention when she’d nearly yelled his name, but as was often the case with griffins intentions were regularly left by the wayside. Ironically, he did still come to her rescue though. Just not from a hostile guard, but an interminable, irredeemably all-thumbs conversation from which she could not escape. Buckley landed hot and with his best intimidating squall. Fortunately Lachlan was a woodsman and knew his way around a temperamental griffin, so he stepped aside gently with a subtle bow.

“Oh hush you great, squawking bird!” Felicity shooed at the rearing griffin.

As Lachlan rose from his bow Buckley realized that he did recognize this fellow, that he was known to provide some tasty treats when they met by happenstance outside The Cup. The griffin thought it best to make sure he didn’t have any treats that needed eaten on him today and immediately cozied in and purred pleasingly.

“Oh and now you’re begging for treats! Some help you are birdbrain.” Felicity exclaimed.

Lachlan only smiled and petted the griffin along his dyed headfeathers. “Why yes Buckley, it is good to see you today.” Buckley snuggled in further, always knowing the best way for a treat. “Haha, yes I do think I have a little something for you.” He slipped a little jerky into Buckley’s waiting beak. “You dyed his feathers too?”

Gods help you, you guileless, well-meaning beauty, Felicity thought with kindness. I suppose it's a good thing you didn’t join the constables. A few wagons back she saw as the swords that were set up for lunch were being pulled back down, in moments her chubby little coin purse would be found amiss.

“Yep! Ya know, uh, had to make sure the mixture I made worked and all. Anyhow, I really got to get back out there, mushrooms won’t find themselves!” she began to back around the far corner.

“Oh of course, good to see you.” He waved but just as she was about to round to the far side of the caravan. “Felicity! Next time I’m back in Twelves, it’d be great to join you for a pint at The Cup. You know if you’re not too busy with your dwarf friend.”

“Yeah, sounds lovely. I’ll be around!” Her heart skipped a beat as she darted away just before the robbed guards passed by in their search for the thief they were only just beginning to realize was very much real.

That heartbeat skip was the unforgivable distraction for a working thief. A job was no time for flights of fancy about the future. She shooed her now very much identified griffin away so she could try and slip away as a roadwalker, but her mind was too full of fancies of Lachlan Needledown over a pint of red and what might happen after for her to notice the dark figure that slipped from behind the wagon and followed her down the caravan. Though she certainly noticed the rough hands that grabbed her by the cloak and tossed her unceremoniously into the thick, wet roadside undergrowth.

Which is how Felicity Broadfeather found herself hands bound, in the dripping ferns beside a caravan, face to face with one shaved-head, tattoo-cheek, missin’-tooth, crazy-eye, all-in rather sinister looking mercenary as he plucked her chubby little coin purse out of her pocket and dropped it into his own. Distractions were always a thief’s undoing.

“Well, well. What a bonnie day to catch a hapless fly in my web.” Felicity’s captor smiled menacingly, keeping low in the ferns as the caravan began to collect itself to carry on after lunch. Felicity’s nimble fingers worked at the rope that bound her. No matter how she twisted and turned though the bonds only tightened and tightened. “Nae lass, twistin’s no use. Work’d out on the cutters couple years back. That’s sailor’s rope, shot through with a bit o’ gold to make sure it holds its knots.”

Her mind raced, panic forcing a sort of crystalline focus through her. She considered the scene. This mercenary grabbed her, grabbed her chubby purse and dropped it into his own pocket, but had pulled her secretly away from the caravan. This was a man with little affinity for the caravan or for the elves. Likely his only concern would be his pocket.

“No ye see lass, we’re in a bit o’ predicament. You seem to have been stealin’ from my employer. Can’t say I begrudge you much, to be honest. Problem is, there’s a bounty on thieves out in these parts. Bounty that could put me up for a month straight out at port, with casks o’ ale and women every night.”

Well that wasn’t too hard to guess, Felicity acknowledged but held her tongue. In situations like these she found it was best to let others do the talking if they were willing. Just then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a little bit of green slip away from the dripping fronds and dart shadow-like over to the caravan. A forest gnome. That’s the only thing it could be. The way he moved was nearly impossible to follow. She watched as he swiftly helped himself to several heaping sacks full of loot from the cart she could just glimpse through the ferns. It seemed he should have been toppling over with the weight.

“They’re especially keen on bringin’ in griffin-ridin’ thieves...and especially especially those with copper-red hair...” He reached up and rubbed a smear of black dye off her forehead, the rain washing away her disguise. His smile turned from menacing to wolfish, as a touch of gold flashed in his black eyes. “There’s a spot o’ luck on your side though lass. I’m a man for hire, and you strike me as the type who a-might make listenin’ a-worth my while. So I’d get to talking if I was youse.”

Felicity’s heart hammered in her chest, as she scrambled for a way out. The sailor’s rope cut into her wrists, fighting her finagling at every turn. One desperate hope crawled up out of the deepest parts of her mind, sailor’s rope would be crafted to hold amid wind and waves and all sorts of trashing. It would be made to hold a fixed object like a mast or a cleat against all the twists and turns of the sea. She thought, prayed really, maybe it would misbehave if she could make her wrists less like a cleat in the wind. Behind her back she ceased her struggling and began to pump her hands into fists, seeking nothing so much as to make her hands swell up and do something the rope didn’t expect. It was a long shot, but there was no way this scar-lip, tore-knuckle asshole had sailor’s rope with even a trace of diamond dust in it. There was a reason they always called gold, the fool’s diamond. Gold could make things seem smarter, but that wasn’t nearly the same as making them right. She pumped her fists and prayed.

“Come on lass out with it.” The mercenary pulled a rather dire looking dagger out of a sheath on his back and began to carve bits off an apple to chomp at them loudly. “My name’s Murdok, and I’m a man o’ my word.” Crunch. Chomp. Crunch. “I’ll get yours off your laddie back there easily enough if you’ve nothing to offer.”

Her heart jumped at the thought of being exposed to Lachlan, and her eyes flared, betraying her. Through the ferns the alarm for the stolen purse was officially raised, horns rolling up and down the caravan. She kept pumping, but the bonds only tightened and tightened. Her hope dwindled away, and she searched for a new path forward. Then a new idea came into her mind, nearly as crazy-eyed as the mercenary who stared her down knowing he held nearly all the cards. Meanwhile, the little green shadow reappeared at the edge of their scarce clearing. The gnome seemed to stop for a moment and consider her, his dark, miniscule face wholly unreadable to human eyes. Then he waltzed, uncaring, alongside the kneeling mercenary, darted a featherlight hand into his deep pocket and pulled out her chubby purse. It was a pull so brazen, so bold, so almost lazy, Felicity couldn’t believe her eyes. And just like that the gnome stepped behind her captor and disappeared as though made of mist. Now that was a professional, she considered, but not one who’s put me in a better spot here.

Murdok only smiled wider, revealing a horror of sharp, yellow teeth. “Come on lass, honest I don’t want to give you over to the leader o’ this caravan, his lordship Elfwind, is full o’ himself enough as is. And honest too, I don’t want to break your laddie’s heart, learnin’ he’s mixed up with thieves and all that. He does take his post so seriously.” He dragged the curved, crooked tip of his dagger up her leg. “You can do it lass.”

To all hells with it, I need crew too, Felicity conceded within herself, and deflated. Murdock grinned, a crooked jack-o-lantern.

“I’m gathering seed to hit Greyweather.” she whispered against her better judgement.

“Greyweather?” His eyes flashed gold once more. “You’re as crazy as you are bonnie. Tell me more.”

So she relayed the broad shapes of the opportunity. Her in with the dwarves, the fracturing of the union, the threat posed by the portal. She dangled just enough to keep him interested, while leaving enough for herself; all the while, guards ran back and forth just beyond the ferns.

“Well. That’s certainly an interesting bit o’ jaw, but only an eejit would call that a plan.”

Just then, hope tickled at her wrist. Her stillness had confused the magic rope against all odds, and it had loosened just a touch. It wasn’t much, but for Felicity’s deft fingers it was more than enough.

“That’s fair Murdok, but the thing is, that’s all you’re getting.” She reached down behind her, grabbed a handful of mud with her now freed hand and flung it square into the mercenary’s crazed eyes. She tumbled over backwards just out of reach from his slashing dagger, rolled onto her feet and darted into the thickening understory.

He roared in surprised anger. “This ‘ent over lassie, you’ll be seein’ me!” Behind him, Lachlan Needledown pushed into their little clearing, sword flashing in the silver light, only to see a ripple in the far ferns where the thief he didn’t know that he didn’t want to seek had just disappeared.

Felicity dashed silently through the forest for half a league before she called Buckley and considered her position. Some nasty day. All that and she only came away with was a length of tattered sailor’s rope. And she’d compromised Greyweather, worse and worse and worse. Her mind turned and turned as she hid in the towering ferns. Maybe not all was lost, she could stay a step ahead of Murdok, and a man in the elves’ employ could be an asset, if she played him right. Just then a little green shadow separated from the foliage a short ways away. The gnome, sly and dark and green. He barely came up past her knee, but he hauled three bulging purses with him. Including the chubby little fellow that had found himself so happy in her pocket before the damned mercenary had to get in the way. But then something most unexpected happened, something without which Felicity Broadfeather may well have headed back to the Chippy Cup to lick her wounds, have a pint, and give up the whole venture. The gnome opened her purse, all fat and happy, and poured half of its coins out into the loamy dirt. He gave a deep bow towards her which she could only repay with a dumbfounded nod as the little fellow disappeared once more. A wisp of mist gone to rejoin the ever-shifting clouds.

Well maybe it’s not so bad as all that, a little ray of sunlight flooded Felicity’s mind as she gathered the coins. Maybe it’s all going according to plan, she thought as Buckley whisked her up into the periwinkle fog above. Now I just need to figure out what plan that is, exactly, and they flew off to the Cup to dry off by the fire and have a pint and a ponder. No place better to do it.

A few pints, a good ponder, and then a couple of days later Felicity and Bonnie found themselves walking into a most unsettling bit of the Wilder Wood. Their paths had been charted, in a way, as Felicity sat bound beside the convoy days before. Watching the gnome flip and twist, slide and slither amongst a fully guarded caravan, all nearly invisible to the human eye, had set the flywheel of her mind in motion. And once it was in motion, very little could stop it. Not Bonnie’s flailing protests that’s for sure, after all they were just going for a chat, if the gnome said no that would be the end of it. And Bonnie was the one who knew the way to Gnomish Glen, so she had to come.

It shouldn’t have been so hard to find, but the glen was just so small, and in the wood that made it very tricky to find. Bonnie had led them up three wrong rivulets that ran down to the Crystal before they’d found the right track. As they walked along the faint path with Buckley following curious behind, the wood they’d known for their whole lives turned wrong, wrong, and wronger. Overhead the height of the canopy began to descend, now instead of two hundred fathoms above, the trees only loomed a few stories above. The upper rooms of the Two Talons would barely have fit beneath the branches. And yet they were still redwoods. Below, the ferns dwindled from where they were meant to be arcing well overhead, now they merely brushed their waists. And yet they were still ferns. The mushrooms instead of fat dinner plates for heads, were little fingerlike follicles. And yet they were still mushrooms. It was the whole forest wrought miniature, and the wrongness of it all itched along the skins of our two woodswomen.

And all that was before the eyes. Eyes peering out as they wandered unwelcomed into the Glen. Eyes that were only seen at the corners of their vision, but still as the forest shrunk they knew one thing for certain: they were being watched. Now here’s the thing about forest gnomes, you’ll never see one unless they want you to. More than being only knee-high and clever, they are part of the wood itself, and to disappear amongst the roots and leaves is as natural as anything for a gnome. Their villages were mostly secreted away in secluded bits of forest where they largely kept to themselves. If they wish to trade, which they do regularly enough given how high a price they can fetch for their lace and instruments, what with the small fingers and all crafting as finely as anyone the whole world over, then they’d send a little wagon pulled by a littler ass into town. For two humans to walk into Gnomish Glen unannounced and uninvited was far from the best plan Felicity had ever contrived. The eyes peering from behind branches, within boles, and around fronds only served to confirm the feeling of unease.

“That will be far enough for today, friends.” A deep voice boomed out to break the forest’s humming quiet and stop them in their tracks.

That’s another thing you should know about gnomes, you shouldn’t let their small stature fool you, they produce as good of a baritone singer as any people the whole world over. Everyone knows that a true acapella outfit should have both a dwarf and a gnome in their bass section. Still, for those without much experience with gnomes in their lives it can be a bit tough to reconcile the small folk with such large voices. As was presently happening in the befuddled minds of our woodswomen. Their eyes crossed in confusion when the tiny fellow all clad in green with skin the color of tree bark and a tidy pointed beard the color of moss steeped out from behind the trunk of a tree that was barely ten fathoms to the canopy, but had all the proportions of a proper tree, and intoned “What brings two woodswomen into our humble Glen today?” 

It was him, Felicity knew as soon as she met his shining miniscule eyes the color of rushing water, the same gnome who’d taken pity on her after her botched job.

“Looking for you in fact, Mr....” she pried as friendly as she could.

“Mr. Moss, if you please.” His rumbling voice seemed to shake the very air of the still Glen. Though he stood only knee-high he held the proportions of a lithe and athletic man, the only notable difference aside from size was the large aquiline nose that all gnomes shared dividing their diminutive faces like a hatchet. His cloth was incredibly fine. A cloak of crushed velvet the color of damp leaves, and meticulously embroidered to share leafs’ patterns as well. His boots were polished and hewn of dark oiled leather, and the hat he held in his hands blended seamlessly in with the small fern he walked past.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance Mr.Moss, though we’ve met before.” Felicity bowed slightly, compelled by the gravitas of his presence.

“Yes, I recall. I’ll ask again, what brings you to our Glen?”

“Right, of course.” Felicity felt a flush rush to her face, not expecting to be chided by so tiny a being. “Well, I suppose to say thank you, for the cut of the gold I mean.”

“You suppose?”

“Well, uh, not suppose. Definitely, to say thank you, but also to ask you why.”

“You both distracted the one keen-eyed guard, and have placed all the blame for my pull on yourself, or at least the woodsfolk at large, presuming you weren’t made. The gold was a fair trade for making my job easier. I won’t say ‘you’re welcome’, we gnomes are fair in our dealings and that was a fair share.”

Felicity’s fluster turned to indignancy, learning she’d been used by a gnome, a gnome much better than her at her own game.

“Is that why you came all this way?” Mr. Moss asked, tiny face inscrutable.

Bonnie looked at her as well, bemused in watching her friend get crossed up so quickly by the gnome. “Er, no. Not exactly. You see, Moss.”

“Mr. Moss.” He cut in, stern as stone.

“Uh, yes, sorry. Mr. Moss, I have a proposition for you.”

The corners of his miniscule mouth turned up almost imperceptibly. “I see, well in that case we’d best have some tea. Follow me, if you will.”

They followed their Lilliputian leader further into the Glen and the woodswomen went from feeling wrong to absolutely uncanny. The little trees opened up into a small clearing around which rose the village of Gnomish Glen. But for the size, they may well have been looking at the buildings of Twelvetrees, hewn as they were as part of the trees to which they clung. Along the ground level buildings rose up a couple stories to nearly shoulder height; above, canopy houses swayed in the branches, the lowest of which were very much in peril of being knocked by Bonnie’s head. The little stables nestled into the little roots, were home to little asses being fixed to little carts. Felicity felt more than anything like she had suddenly become a giant in her own home, unfitting, and at great risk of causing catastrophe with every step. Her eyes knew what she was seeing as well as anything, so quickly it wasn’t so much that the buildings looked small, but that her own hands looked enormous on the ends of her gargantuan wrists. She became a giant lumbering through her forest. Meanwhile Buckley tiptoed lightly along behind, but the cunning gnomes bowed slightly and kept easily out of his path.

Now that they followed Mr. Moss the gnomes were no longer only tiny eyes peering at the corners of their vision; they were splendid people lustily driving through a fine foggy day in the Wilder Wood. They darted and danced like a traveling ballet, all tending to business you and I couldn’t understand in a hundred years. Mr. Moss proved not to be exceptional in the cut and quality of his cloth. They were all adorned lavishly in all the patterns and colors of the wood. Clearly the lace they traded with the woodsfolk was merely the beginning of their craft.

“Please, have a seat.” Mr. Moss gestured to a clear spot between the unoccupied roots of a tree where they might contain their great, oafish bodies with minimal risk of calamity. Buckley laid down a ways away and began to preen, chirping happily to himself, seemingly unperturbed by the change in scenery or the little folk who whisked past him. “Will you have some tea?” The gnome asked, resonating. A tiny lady gnome bustled out from the building across the clearing, which looked to be a sort of inn though what sort of travelers they might host Felicity could not imagine, with a black kettle that looked formidably large in her hands and poured a microscopic cup for their host, and two large tankards for Bonnie and Felicity which revealed themselves to be little more than thimbles once they met their gargantuan hands.

“Thank you.” The woodswomen both nodded gratefully, enjoying the intoxicating aroma that could only be crafted by such meticulous fingers.

Felicity couldn’t help her curiosity. “You all seem to be doing quite well here in your glen Mr. Moss, forgive my intrusion, but why are you knocking off caravans?”

He sipped somberly from his little cup. “Justice. If you have to know.”

“Justice?”

“Indeed. We need metals and gems just like anyone for our artificiers. For ages we had good trade with the dwarves, and for a while after that we had good trade with the elves. But now they’ve begun importing with their seaside kin, and refuse an honest bargain with us.”

Felicity was a bit relieved the gnomish sense of fairness went beyond her own hapless incursion. “So you take your share either way.”

“It’s not as though they're hard up for it.” He sipped slowly, eyes twinkling, impish, in the grey light. “I suppose you’d say the same, Miss...?”

“Broadfeather. And yes I suppose I would.”

“Very well Miss Broadfeather, if you wouldn’t mind getting on with your proposition, a gnome’s cup doesn’t stay hot for long.”

“Oh, uh yes of course...” so Felicity spun again the filaments of her plan that felt only slightly less flimsy now than when she’d first conceived it, as the little glen carried on around them, seemingly uncaring of the open discussion of theft in their central square. Apparently the gnomish sense of justice spread beyond Mr. Moss.

He listened intently and nodded as he finished his tea and she finished her story. “So you need a grease man, for recon and exit?”

Felicity and Bonnie looked at each other, perplexed. “Sorry, a what?”

“A grease man, someone to slide in and out of hard to reach places. Have you not worked with a proper crew before?”

“Er, no, I mean we’ve worked pulls together.”

“Years ago.” Bonnie cut in brusquely, still maintaining her posture against the whole endeavour.

“Yes, a little while back. But also yes, that’s exactly what we need. Could you be our man?”
He turned around and looked pensively out at the glen around him bustling on this soft grey day, and sighed. “Your gnome.” He corrected, booming, and shook his head. “If what you say is true about the portal, I suppose you’re my best shot. And you’ve told the mercenary this already?”

“Yes, but, but I’ll deal with him.”

“Yes, you’ll cut him in.”

Felicity’s words caught in surprise. “I’ll what?”

“Your instincts were right, we’ll need the muscle, and someone with up-to-date intel on operations at Greyweather. We’ll have to manage him, but he’ll be useful if we play him right.”

“So you’re in?”
“I’m in, for a double stake.”

“Deal.” Bonnie cut in before Felicity could protest, catching her angry look with square-jawed calm. “He’s the key to your best plan yet Felicity, and you’ve never done a job with a real crew, clearly he has. That’s the best double stake you’ll ever pay.”

“Thank you for your vote of confidence...I’m sorry I don’t know your name.” The gnome smiled.

“Bonnie Twotalons.”

“I look forward to working with you, Miss Twotalons.”

She began to protest as he walked towards where Buckley lay in the mulch straightening his feathers. “Sounds like a choice is in front of you still. But this is a big job, and we’ll need a solid crew, and given that you already are in the know on it and our hard limit on time, if you’re not in then neither am I...but I think you are.” Buckley stood, proud and tall and gloriously purple in the misty light. “From what I understand you have the most to lose of us all, after all.” 

He looked up at the griffin, Felicity could only imagine what it must feel like to look up at such a beast from his height. Approaching a strange griffin was a dubious proposition at the best of times, worse still when they could take your arm off as easily as chomping a grub. Still the gnome carried himself with gentle confidence. In a swift motion, Mr. Moss whisked back his cape and arced a deep, graceful bow towards the griffin, nearly placing his brow into the fallen needles at his feet.

“Hey, uh, he’s usually not amazing with strang-” Felicity’s words caught again as Buckley stuck out one taloned foot and bowed back at the pocket-sized fellow, then kept his head low so that Mr. Moss could run tiny, dexterous hands through the feathers surrounding his sharp beak. Buckley rarely let her touch his face so intimately, let alone a stranger, Felicity found herself dumbfounded.

“We are both creatures of the wood, we understand one another.” The gnome reverberated as the air of the Glen held its breath. “I look forward to working with you as well my friend.” Buckley cooed back and closed his eyes, enjoying the tiny fingers running along his beak.

“Working with the bleedin’ bird?” Bonnie broke in, confused. “What do you mean?”

“Have you not worked that bit out yet Miss Twotalons? Or has Miss Broadfeather just not told you?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t see how griffins fit into this plan.”

“It seems you two have much to discuss, I look forward to working with you if that’s your decision.” He bowed another deep bow to Buckley, who again returned in kind. “Leave me a note when you’ve made a decision and I’ll meet you in Ramshackle.” He turned to leave and walked a few paces before stopping and intoning ominously. “Oh, and my good woodswomen, thank you for your visit, but do not visit our glen again without invite.”

In three quick steps he rounded a root and was out of sight, Felicity and Bonnie stood at this sudden departure, and then looked about in awe. Not just Mr. Moss had disappeared, but all of the bustling gnomes of the Glen had vanished as quick as morning mist and the woodswomen were left gaping at the shuttered windows of the diminutive town that almost seemed to dissolve back into the forest before their eyes.

Felicity finally caught back up with her friend about the time they made it to the road, after the moment of shock Bonnie had turned on an angry heel and drove back through the wood with a vengeance.

“Bonnie, for the gods’ sake hold on a minute.”

“I think I’ve given you more than enough minutes for this insanity, Felicity.” The broad-shouldered woodswoman fumed. “You tell me you’re done and next thing I know you’ve cooked up half a plan that will only serve to have us both in an elvish cell till the end of time.”

“I know, I know.” Felicity held her hands up and stepped back, retreating strategically. “But listen, Bon. You know I love you, you know I wouldn’t ask this of you if it didn’t matter. But it’s not just the job, and it’s not just the pull. If we don’t do something before they get the portal open the town won’t last long. The whole Wilder Wood will be left out in the cold.”

“If!” Bonnie roared. “If the dwarf wasn’t just spinning tales. If such a contraption can even work. Even then the town could be fine, we’d find a way. And what’s this about using the birds?”

This had always been a sticking point between the two of them, what were griffins really reliable for? Felicity attempted to avert the losing ground, “Look it’s minimal involvement, but elves have air power of their own, we’ll need our own to match. But we keep it simple, flown legs with them, recon and exit only, I swear to you Althea won’t have to sully her feathers with anything more than she’d do for an afternoon fly in the Wood.”

“And Buckley?!” she pointed a calloused finger at the griffin who followed Felicity, clueless as to their disagreement.

“Well he’ll have a slightly more complicated job or two, but he can handle it, we’ve done more difficult work together.” On cue her amaranthine aviline trumpeted an excited call, a gang of chipmunks had caught his eye and he took off into the undergrowth after them.

“And I suppose you’ll be flying these more complicated jobs with him.” Bonnie arched a skeptical eye over her shoulder as Buckley chirped and cawed, streaking back and forth through the ferns in single-minded pursuit of the chipmunks which he failed to gain even an inch on.

“Er, well not all of them. Mr. Moss will have to fly a critical leg...but they seemed to get on well.” Felicity smiled sheepishly, while behind her the tables had turned and the chipmunks banded together to hold a line and chip angrily up at Buckley who reared up and cried pitifully at his change in fortune.

Bonnie shook her square head. “We’ve been over this a thousand times, they’re not people Felicity. I know you work with the birds all the time, but they can’t understand you, not really, not like this.”

“Althea seems to understand you well enough.” she shot back in reproach.

“Althea has served my family well for one hundred and fifty years because she’s been a guardian for one hundred and fifty years. Not a co-conspirator, not a friend, not a pet. A guardian, like griffins are meant to be.” She turned back on her angry heel and careened back down the road toward Twelvetrees. “You can carry on with this craziness as long as you like Felicity, but leave me out of it, my family and I have a whole lot more to lose.”

“Bonnie, we both know they can be more than that.” Felicity’s hopes were fading fast, if she had a card this was the time to play it. “And yes, all you Twotalons have more to lose, you’ve done the best out of the whole village with the hands we’ve been dealt, but it’s already at stake Bonnie whether you’d risk it or not. If the portal works and the caravans dry up, you all will be left hat in hand with the rest of us. Look if we get a nice pull, great, that will help the town too. But this is about protecting the place we love. If they can find a way to hollow out a mountain, the Wood is right on their doorstep, what makes you think they’ll stop there? Would you please just hold on for a minute?” Felicity paused her pursuit.

This afternoon the forest was once again on Felicity’s side. Bonnie stopped and turned as the straw-colored shafts of afternoon sun made their way through the upper branches to set ablaze the mists caught in the canopy. Around them, the great red trunks rose as columns holding up an ever-shifting mosaic. The air was crisp and fresh, the river clear and pure, Buckley pranced out of the undergrowth, quickly regaining his majesty as only griffins could. Felicity and Bonnie’s connection to the Wood and to each other was beyond love, but on an afternoon like this it was impossible not to love the Wilder Wood.

“Listen Bonnie, I won’t do this without you. I need you. I need your smarts, and your restraint, but mostly I need your friendship. Friendship saw our parents through back in their day, pulling jobs almost as risky but nowhere near as important.” Felicity wasn’t above playing the walked-out parents card, it was the best one she had. And she especially wasn’t above pulling it to remind  a Twotalons where the money for their growing Inn had came from.

Bonnie looked up into the swirling light with her forest green eyes and let out an exhausted groan. “Gods be damned woman, alright. But if I say we’ve gotta pull out, we pull out. Got it?”

Felicity’s hands went back up as she bowed slightly, but she couldn’t keep herself from smiling. “Got it. Got it. Yeah.”

“And that gnome...” she pointed again with a wide finger. “Seems to be the only character in this with an ounce of sense to him. Moss is calling the shots.”

“I do believe it’s Mr.Moss to us.” Felicity replied impishly.

“You know damned well what I mean. Now let’s go.” Bonnie bowled Felicity forward with a strong, caring arm. “I want to be done with this whole thing before the Ingathering.” 

And with that the two woodswomen walked in companionable silence through the most beautiful corner of the whole wide world. At least the most beautiful corner they’d seen yet.

---

Ramshackle was the right name for this town.

Many words might describe this carnival of barely contained chaos hewn from wood, stone, and whatever else was at hand. Not sloppy. Not poorly-made. But hasty, that’s for certain. Unbridled that’s another. Vital, vibrant, rough, and wild. All for sure. It sits upon a wide flat apron of the mountain, just below her trees, gleaming in the sun, glowing with the gold of its wood and its wealth. The town was new and bustling and exposed to the whole wide world and all of her elements out on her flank before the foothills tumbled away to the wood far in the distance. It was everything that Twelvetrees was not and our Miss Broadfeather found all that rather intoxicating as she alit in town, ready for a job of a lifetime.

She and Bonnie walked along the crazy crook-backed street that passed for main street in this crazy crook-backed town dodging darting folks of all stripes and colors as they whisked about on just another late summer day. They smelled the dust, felt the bright sun on their soft woodswoman skin, gawked at the three-story buildings all fronted by square faced facades advising of business of all kinds alchemists and apothecaries, hoofers and roofers, banks, brothels, outfitters, provisioners, stables, and saloons saloons saloons. You might think that two striking woodswomen fresh off their griffins would draw some attention and in any other place you’d likely be right. But not in Ramshackle. Ramshackle had more than its share of griffin-riders and horse riders and miners and artificers and hawkers and harlots. Felicity looked about, dizzy with eager anticipation at the faces of men of elves of dwarves, even some merfolk and centaurs, and even more folk she didn’t have words for. All of them rendering Felicity and Bonnie delightfully anonymous. This wasn’t the first time either had been to Ramshackle, but past visits had been laden with harvest goods, joining a troupe of woodsfolk as they sought to trade at the market. Then, they were with Twelvetrees elders, on business, working stalls at the market that filled up the town’s central square. They approached it now, the one area clear of crazed construction. Today, without the market in town it somehow seemed even more chaotic. Caravans pulled around the edge as they rolled into town either provisioning for a return trip or gearing up for the grind up the hill to Greyweather. Vendors flocked about, all chasing the same thing, a little of that elven gold. For Felicity today this felt different, this felt alive.

In the middle of the square a great clocktower rose four stories up, shining in the beaming sun, the only thing in the whole town where a bit of decor was spared, with a bright golden dome sitting over four faces that shone pearly to each cardinal direction. The clock, like so much else in the town, was run on water. Channels and gunnels and runnels and ditches, sluices and fountains and wheels and wells, they clung to the side of every building every porch and every eve. Always the sparkling waters of the river sang happily through them, diverted down a thousand little aqueducts gamely running some errand for this shopkeep or that mill. Some of the world’s finest artificers had come to Ramshackle as she sprung out of the ground, and their work certainly helped the town run, but it was the water that did the work. Just now the waters turned the clock over to the noon bell and the bright brass bells rang out merilly to fill the soft air with their music.

“Just on time missies, seein’ yeh makes me happier then a prairie dog diggin’ up a nugget.” A rough voice cracked between Felicity and Bonnie sending them both jumping sky high.

“Oh jeez hey Barnaby,” Felicity attempted to recover, “you snuck up on us.”

“Gotta keep yer heads ‘tween your shoulders in these parts, she seems a big town, but she’s smaller than she looks. Youse was easy to pick out as a high dame down at the saloon.” Across the square, out of view of any of the three, in the shadow of a building, one crazy-eyed mercenary watched the meeting with fitting interest and smiled.

“Will do, Barnaby this is my partner Bonnie Twotalons who’ll be on the job with us.”

“Pleasure to meet yeh lass.” He stuck out a grubby hand craning his neck to meet her eye, but somehow seeming the person larger as they shook massive mitts.

“You as well Barnaby. You have a place arranged for us?”

“Yes ma’am, follow me if yeh please.” He gestured them down a small, crooked street that wound away from the square, always in shadow between the buildings that towered and overhung above. “She ‘ent pretty but she’s safe, and she’ll do the job fer us.”

Three turns to the left, one to the right, half a stairway, and ducks below half a dozen water flumes later they were facing a small cellar door in the side of an anonymous alley. The birds that followed their riders barely squeezed through, especially Althea who sent everyone who looked her way scurrying as they squeezed along. Buckley quickly go the idea and decided to head up to the rooftops for a clearer view and some more room. But not Althea, ever the dedicated protector to Bonnie, followed along and sat sphinx-like on the stoop, imposing. A bird of her size would certainly draw attention, but then again no one was very likely to want to pry into what she was guarding. They ducked down into the cellar that would serve as their base of operations as they geared up for the job. It wasn’t much, as Barnaby had said, a low bare cellar where Bonnie constantly had to duck out of the way of floor beams overhead, a little cook chimney in the corner and a couple of cots. Felicity smiled, it was perfect, safety is what they needed and it seemed like Barnaby knew the town perfectly to have chosen this place. From outside, the door seemed to almost disappear into the wall, covered with vines, you wouldn’t think anyone had opened it in twenty years thanks to some clever artificing.

Inside were surprises as well. Mr. Moss nodded welcome from the corner as they entered, which left Felicity scratching her head, they’d left him a note not two days back and flown hard to make it here. How the diminutive gnome could have beat them here, and made the connection with Barnaby was beyond her, but he kept his secrets. Whatsmore it appeared Bonnie wasn’t the tallest of their company, a mysterious blue robed figure stood a ways off and looked at them inscrutably. He was azure and weather-beaten, a mane of wild dark hair and a hat in one hand that would droop down his back in a long peak when he put it on, a gnarled staff of black wood in the other, beneath his hair his eyes shone like two discs of polished silver. He looked like, well he looked like no one Felicity had ever met before. Strange silver eyes, strange grey skin, strange flowing blue robes, strange unreadable smirk as she eyed him up.

“Who’s this then?” She asked.

He spoke the people’s tongue with an accent unlike any she’d ever heard, “I am Caeliro of the Heavenly Enclave.” He waved a hand and the light from the room seemed to drain around his stern face.

“Oh, so an illusionist then, who brought him in?” Felicity quipped unimpressed.

“Do not take me for–” Caeliro started only to be cut off by the gnome.

“I did,” Mr. Moss cut in no nonsense. “Crew needs him. Good for explosives, better for pulls, best for distractions.”

“I’m not entirely sure we need some street magici–” Felicity protested only to receive an sharp elbow to the ribs from Bonnie, a reminder of her agreement to defer to the gnome.

“We of the Heavenly Enclave do not deal in tricks! We channel the power of the skyward god and bend the world to our holy purpose!” The illusionist objected, red color rising into his grey cheeks.

“And where is this Heavenly Enclave then?” Bonnie questioned, roughly.

“Far and beyond the Mountains of the Morning.”

That was a laugh. Everyone knew there was nothing beyond the Morning Mountains they rose and rose up to the very edge of the world. And more importantly the gods left their world well alone, they didn’t create some odd magic. Only metals and gems could do that. Everyone knew that. Felicity and Bonnie both stifled a laugh. “Alright magician, keep your secrets then, seems like you have some tricks up your sleeves.”

The illusionist fumed as his cheeks turned full red.

“Anyone else we’re missing I should know about?” Felicity asked.

“Only our mercenary friend.” Mr. Moss added.

“You’re still sure about that?”

“I have reason to believe he’s already set himself up in a most advantageous position up at Greyweather. I’m sure he’ll make himself known before too long.”

“Very well. Bonnie and I will head to the recruiter in a few days to pick up some guard work to get us up there. Barnaby how comes reclaiming your post?”

“Went back hat ‘n hand two weeks back and theys was only too happy to have a brow beaten dwarf back on the payroll for half what we used to make. Just near killed me to take it but, I’m back up there. Been puttin’ feelers out with the union as well, them boys seem ready for some agitatin’ to me.” The dwarf put in with glinting eyes.

“Easy for now if you please Barnaby, the time will come, but we can’t have you getting ahead of the plan.” Felicity cautioned. “And our illustrious illusionist, how will you be joining us up at the mine?”

“If you must know, I’ve been in their employ for these past several months.” He spat, indignant. “Now some of us would very much like to hear this plan we’ve come all this way for.”

“Very well...” Felicity began with a flourish and spun once more the tapestry she’d been weaving in her head for weeks, now here in Ramshackle, with a proper crew at the ready for the first time it seemed more than a girl’s dream. It seemed like a plan, and one that could work. She fielded questions, where they would need to gain access, how they would divert their loot, how the key as ever was to not get greedy, and how they would cause a diversion for exit. Always she left out just enough information to hold her position at the center of this job. Her audience nodded along, knowing, professional, game.

“As easy as that.” Mr. Moss rumbled deeply from beneath his wide hat with an impish smile. “So where do we start?”

“Intel, supplies, and recon.” Felicity affirmed. “Given I’m financing this operation, Bonnie and I will handle supply runs. For intel we’ll need to learn as much as we can about the portal, how it works, and how long till it’s operational. Barnaby I was hoping you might have a lead for us.”

“Yes’m I do believe I just might.” He nodded eagerly.

“Great, and for recon, that’s where things get a little exciting. Mr. Moss I was hoping to use your professional eye. We’ll have a full moon in a few nights and I believe that’ll be an excellent opportunity.”

“It will be my pleasure Miss Broadfeather.”

“Great, to keep heat off this place, we’ll all find lodging in town and only come back when we have work to do. Take these Summon Sticks, they’ll buzz when we’re ready to get back together.”

Around the room, a series of solemn nods as they steeled themselves for the job of a lifetime. The illusionist raised his staff, whispered an incantation and disappeared into a blue-grey mist.

“I’ll have to figure out how he does that, you’d almost think it was magic.” Felicity smiled, “I’ve gotta hand it to you Mr. Moss, you chose one hell of an illusionist.” He only smiled knowingly in return.

The rest of them used the door. Like normal folk.

The next afternoon found our woodswomen hot, dusty, and growing more than a little disheartened. Ramshackle, for all its old-western gold rush charm, was in the end a place powered by capital. Scratch. Dosh. Cabbage. Moolah. Cold, hard gold or get the fuck out please ladies. Their list of supplies wasn’t outrageous, but the prices at every artificer, apothecary, and alchemist they’d visited certainly had been. The day was wearing on hot and bright, their list remained nearly as long as when they’d started including the two most important items out there, and frankly they were running out of options. The town just wasn’t that big at the end of the day.

“Bon, I think we should circle back to the first place just off the square,” Felicity hopefully chipped, “I think I can haggle that old wench down.”

Her broad-shouldered friend sighed, exhausted with the day, and with Felicity’s irrepressible, borderline irresponsible optimism. “Felicity, it’s time.” Bonnie stated simply.

Felicity let out a nervous chuckle. “What do you mean it’s time?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

“Not a clue, Bon.” Felicity feigned obstinance.

“Come on.” Bonnie, bowled her friend gently down a side street she’d been conveniently seeming to miss all day. “It’s time to pay an old acquaintance of yours a visit.”

“Oh nonononono.” Felicity dug her worn heels into the dirt, only to be pushed along sliding by Bonnie’s strong arms. “Anyone but him.”

“You want to do this job, yeah? Well it’s time to put on your big girl pants and pay the price.”

“I’d gladly pay twice anywhere else.”

“We both know Eustace will do a fair bit better than that for you.” Bonnie smirked. “You’ve been dragging me around in the dust all day, frankly I’m more than a little annoyed that you played around it this long.”

Felicity reluctantly released what little purchase her heels held and took a hesitant step forward. “...Fine. But I’m not going to like it.”

“No one’s asking you to.”

They wound down the street, left onto a lane, and finally right onto a narrow, dark, crooked alley that only ever received fifteen minutes of sun even in the middle of summer. Halfway down was a creaky sign hung over the dark purple door of a cellar-level shop, in harsh blackletters it read The Leaky Lizard. Fine potions, tinctures, and ethereals. Eustace Hindhair, master alchemist. Out front stood a griffin, and one not unfamiliar with our heroine, a scrawny creature of yellow greens over a purple-black leopard’s rump who had the distinct misfortune of favoring roadrunner in his look. Much like his rider, if they ever did actually ride, this bird was not a creature for the air. Least fortunate of all for the poor beast his name, as his rider had bestowed upon him the self-serious, act-so-tough-as-to-be-fully-laughable name of Grimm. He perked up as the woodswomen walked down the alley and began to croak excitedly when he recognized Felicity.

Grimm croaked because, and this is the rub of it you must know, Eustace Hindhair was more than just a second-rate alchemist selling himself as “master”, he was also Felicity’s former lover from a time in her life that she would much rather forget. The whole scene, the alley, the sign, the name (which he kept from his time working in Twelvetrees), the notion of the forthcoming interaction it all set Felicity’s skin to crawling with disgust. And disgust with herself, which is the worst sort.

“Hello Grimm...it’s...good to see you too.” She begrudgingly mumbled as he attempted to nuzzle in and say hello. She couldn’t hold it against the griffin that his rider just happened to be one of the lowermost, cellar-dwelling, shady, slimy bastards about. The Hindhairs were all cellar-dwellars, it was her youngerself’s fault for getting mixed up with them to start with.

They stepped through the shaded door, and right into a memory from Felicity’s younger years she very much would rather not relive. The artificed bell at the door rang out a ponderous and deep gallows toll. The shop was exactly as she remembered from years ago back in Twelvetrees. Shaded windows let in only a dim purple, leaving the low floor flooded in effectively blacklight. On tables bubbled pots and beakers and flasks, all of it for show only, just another attempt of Eustace to build whatever passed in his mind for a sophisticated allure. Upon the walls paintings of crushed velvet, all imbued with artificed paints allowing them to glow in the blacklight, all of them displaying the sort of soft eroticism that only a fellow who knew too few women could find artistic. The pièce de résistance hung behind the counter, a memory straight from Felicity’s fool years, a massive glowing piece, a great orgy of half-naked nymphs, elves, merwomen, and centaurs all writhed in the oozing light. The first time she’d seen it she was entranced by the depth and detail, even the memory of the thought sent a shiver down her spine.

Beside the counter a beaded curtain clacked open, “Well, well, well look what the bird’s dragged in.”

“Hello Eustace.”

He smiled a crooked smile through a wispy beard that as always he refused to properly shave and could not properly grow. His strawberry hair fell lank and greasy nearly to his shoulders which hunched under a weight they’d never known, as Eustace never held nor carried anything resembling substantial weight. His dark eyes glinted in the purple light, opportunistic. Gods what did I ever see in this man? Felicity thought in dismay. In the five years since Eustace had left Twelvetrees Felicity liked to think that she’d grown, grown into herself, grown some taste, grown out her bangs. And in truth she had. Eustace on the other hand, looked exactly the same. He saw that weasley, slump-shouldered profile in the mirror and thought, Job done. No notes.

“I always knew you’d come back.” His yellow-toothed smile spread wider. “Once the ladies get a taste of the Hindhair they always come–.”

“Ok, that’s enough of that!” Felicity turned on a hot heel and made one half stride toward the door before Bonnie caught her by the elbow and turned her back round.

In the moment he thought Felicity might walk out, Eustace’s face blinked from greasy and self-assured to pallid and scared. “Sorrysorrysorrysorry.” He supplicated. “It’s just, it’s really nice to see you again Felicity.” He tried a sheepish smile that suited him even less than his false cockiness.

Bonnie coughed, and did not let go of Felicity’s elbow.

“And you too, of course, Bonnie.” He added, not taking his eyes off Felicity. “What brings you two fine woodswomen into my humble shop today?”

“Humble shop?” Felicity barked a laugh, “What’s this with the Master Alchemist on your sign Eustace?”

He let out a nervous laugh and scratched the back of his head, “Well, you know, it’s a fake-it-till-you-make-it kind of town.”

“More like a town where the constables are too busy to handle vendors with outright lies on their signs.” Felicity needled, more aggressively than she really needed to, something about the face from her past just put her on the defensive. Because here’s the rub of it, she had been into him. The long hair, the alchemy, the cellar haunt he’d had in Twelvetrees, even the fucking glowing velvet painting of the mystical orgy. She had thought it was all so cool, he was a little older, already had a business of his own up and running, and a place of his own to match it. But now to see him here, frozen in time, drew something out of her deep lizard brain that screamed No! Not back that way!

Bonnie, fortunately, was more composed. “What she means to say, is that it’s nice to see you as well, Eustace. We come in need of some of your wares.”

“Er, yeah, what she said.” Felicity equivocated, this was going to need to be a two way street.

“Oh well yes of course. Always happy to help old friends, what do you guys need?”

“A top-up tincture for my purse, three flasks of ReddyIce™, and a dose of Truth Teller.” Felicity rattled off, as if saying it faster would make it less of an outlandish ask.

“Whoa three flasks of ReddyIce™? That’ll be my whole supply and you’re lucky I have that much. What are you guys planning to do? Freeze the freaking Crystal or something?”

“None of your business, and we’ll need it all for fifteen silvers.” Felicity hoped moving on to a lowball price would distract Eustace from the scent of a job.

“You guys are planning a job aren’t you?” His excited eyes flashed gold in the dim, purple light. Gambit failed. “You guys know a flask of ReddyIce™ alone is fifteen silvers, but cut me in and it’s all on the house.”

“Oh don’t give me that Hindhair!” Felicity forgot herself, “That’s what you charge rich tourists from the coast who need to keep their beverages cold, not real people.”

“The price is the price, so cut me in.” His yellow-toothed wolf smile returned as he leaned eagerly over his counter.

Fortunately Felicity had brought along Bonnie Twotalons, who lumbered up to the counter and loomed over the man posing as a Master Alchemist.

“Eustace, we all go way back.” She growled, “Which is why we’re going to work this out real easy.” She leaned in so that he had to crane his neck just to meet her stern eyes, and she placed a large rough hand on his shoulder squeezing gently, to start. “Because we’re old friends, you’re going to set us up with what we need, we’re going to pay you twenty silvers and three gold.”

Felicity began to protest, three gold would nearly bankrupt the whole enterprise, but was met with the back of Bonnie’s other massive mitt in her face.

“That’s a fair deal by any measure.” She went on. “And you’re going to forget any notions of us doing a job. We’re here buying honest merchandise for an honest price. Understood?”

By now Eustace Hindhair was trembling beneath the squeeze Bonnie was putting on his shoulder. “Understood.” He squeaked, and shuffled off behind his beaded curtain to collect their supplies as Bonnie set payment on the counter.

He rustled in the back room as Bonnie met Felicity’s eyes with a glare that said, Not one word out of you.

“Well it was nice to see you two ladies, thanks for coming in.” Eustace said as he handed over the flasks and vials. “Hey Felicity, while you’re in town, I was thinking, maybe we could go grab a pint sometime? I can close up shop whenever.”

Bonnie turned her large frame back on him. “Don’t fucking push it Hindhair.” He slunk back behind his curtain and they headed for the street to breathe some free air again.

The air was growing crisp in the late summer evening, as the light fled from the already darkened crookback streets. Out of the corner of her eye Felicity saw a shadow detach itself from its wall and begin to follow behind them. With the slightest of gestures, something that could only be borne of a lifetime of friendship Felicity signaled Bonnie to split off down a side street, as she continued on and turned into an alley. There, on cue, the shadow grabbed her roughly by the shoulders and shoved her against the wall.

“Bet yeh thought yeh saw the last of me, didn’t yeh missy?” The shadow hissed with it’s seaman’s voice.

“Hello Murdok.” Felicity replied, cool as anyone you’ve ever seen.

He unsheathed his large, curved dagger and dragged it up from her knee to navel. “How’s the job coming together? Got the crew? But youse weren’t thinkin’ on leavin’ out ol’ Murdok were you?” His black eyes flashed gold in the darkening evening. “Let’s see what all goodies you have to play with.”

The crazy-eye mercenary, sheathed his blade and ripped a small velvet satchel off Felicity’s belt. Murdok had a keen eye, the satchel was in fact a thief’s purse. A thief’s purse was a very handy piece of equipment for just about anyone. Small as a coin purse, these cleverly artificed satchels would only show its true contents to its owner, when properly made. Such a thing clearly had a million uses for all sorts of folks, they just happened to be most useful for thieves. Hence the name. Felicity’s, like most thieve’s purses, was not properly made. That would require a diamond in the artificing to make it work correctly, and who had that kind of money? She’d been hoping to use Eustace’s top-up tincture on it, which would use a bit of distillate gold to help it behave more predictably, for a time. Unfortunately, Murdok had caught her a little too quickly. So it was anyone’s guess what he’d find inside. Maybe some spare clothes she always kept in there. Maybe the flasks of ReddyIce™ they’d just spent so much of their coin on. Maybe what was left of their coin entirely.

Instead when Murdok peered down into its secreted depths, a wily smile spread across his face. Sitting in the bottom was a coiled length of sailor’s rope, the very same Felicity had nicked off him out in the Wilder Wood.

“Oh lass...” He grinned, “You shouldn’t have. It warms ol’ Murdok’s heart that you’d remember him so.” He drew it out and made to take her wrist. “We’ll see if we cain’t have a more productive bit of jaw than our last meetin’ shall we?”

“Actually Murdok.” Felicity replied with a cool smile. “I was thinking this time maybe I’d tie you up.”

The mercenary felt a light tap on his shoulder and he turned to see the broad-shouldered silhouette standing behind him, which maybe he would have tried his luck with, if not for the great looming mass of feather and fur behind her that was Althea. White feathers glinted lapis in the evening light as she puffed up and spread her wings to her full size. A fearsome guardian ready to play her part.

Murdok dropped the rope and put his hands up. “Easy easy easy missies, I den’t mean nothin’ by it. Just gettin’ reacquainted with ol’ Felicity.”

Felicity wasted no time, bound his hands and shoved him down to sit on a crate deep in the shadows. She grinned as she plucked the dagger off his belt and slid it into her purse.

“Well Murdok, it just so happens we have use for you after all. Our sources say you’ve recently taken up some work up at Greyweather. That wouldn’t happen to be true now would it?”

Across his scarred and battered face a nine-toothed smile spread from ear to ear. “Why yes missies, it just so happens to be...” And Murdok sang. Sang about his new guard job at the mine, sang about the latest in operations and rumblings from the dwarves, and sang about a portal that was very near to completion. At least if you could trust a crazy-eyed cutthroat about such things.

By the time they made it back to the hideout Felicity wanted nothing so much as to drop their goods and head back to the room she shared with Bonnie tucked away a few blocks away. Ramshackle had quickly gone from exhilarating to exhausting. The noise, the dust, the stingy shopkeeps, the Eustace, the mercenary. All of it left her bone-tired and thinking of a night rocking away up in her canopy house back in the wood. Which is to say, that she was none too thrilled to find the door of their hideout nearly up to its handle with flooded water. Mr. Moss sat on the stoop and only shook his head at them as they approached.

She shot Bonnie a worried glance and shouldered in. Inside, well there’s no better way to describe it, it was a fucking pool. Tepid, thigh-deep water filled the whole of their secreted cellar from wall to wall, it glimmered in the weak light of a few artificed lights that hung in between the trusses overhead. Through it, waded one very excited, very wet dwarf.

“About time with you missies!” He exclaimed, “What took ye all dern day?”

“We were getting the right price.” Felicity offered, still struggling to take the scene in. “What the hell happened here?”

“I found our artificer.” Barnaby puffed out proudly. “Tried to make ‘im feel a bit more at home, but our illusionist, well we wasn’t on the same track and he took a bit o’ water to mean flood the whole derned cellar.” In the far corner Caeliro sat cross-legged, meditating in serene repose, seemingly undisturbed, appearing to float a few inches above the shining surface. Not for the last time Felicity thought she’d have to learn some of this illusionist’s tricks, she’d really never seen anything like it. “Anyhow don’t matter none, if he can bring it he can take it away, for now it is my pleasure to introduce Declan Keel.”

From the waters in the middle of the cellar a bald, seafoam green head emerged through the surface. The artificer was a merman. Bald as a cue, eyes deep and dark as the depths of the ocean, nose broad and flat, mouth a bare hint of a slash, skin a shimmering array of fine scales that ranged from seafoam to peach. He rose out of the water then rushed forward excitedly.

“Oh ho, hi hello!” He called out in a soft sing song voice. “I’m Declan, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Mr. Barnaby has been so kind making me comfortable here while we waited, I was enjoying a nice soak. I didn’t mean to be rude. Was I rude?” He babbeled without a breath as he hurried forward to offer Felicity and Bonnie a webbed hand to shake.

“Um, no?” Felicity shook his hand, surprisingly warm for waterfolk. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Oh ok, goodgoodgood. Sir always says not to be rude.” He continued to shake her hand vigorously. He was young, bright eyed, bushy tailed. If a merfolk could ever rightly be called bushy. They were, as a rule, slight, slender and sleek, what with the swimming and underwater towns and all that. Merfolk were amphibious, but walking on dry land for them was much like diving underwater for you or I. Could be done in spurts, some even got quite good at it, but it wasn’t where they were meant to be.

“Sir?” Felicity asked, as he moved on to vigorously shake Bonnie’s hand.

“Declan here is apprentice to Eoin Onloch, who was workin’ on the portal project up there at Greyweather.” Barnaby added helpfully, this pricked up Felicity’s ears. Eoin was known from the mountain to the sea for his skill in aquatic artificing.

“Well it’s a pleasure to meet you Declan.”

“I told ‘im ‘bout that there story yer workin’ on...” Barnaby added, leading. “Yeh know fer the paper.”

“Oh yesyes, Mr. Barnaby told me all about it, I’m happy to help.” Declan chirupped in, still not having released Bonnie’s hand. “It’s such an exciting story, can’t you just imagine a whole world of portals?! I could have breakfast here in the Crystal, go for a swim out on the reefs way out at sea, and go back to my loch to have supper with da and granda. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? I think the whole world should know about the portal, and they will soon!”

As a cover story, it wouldn’t have passed the remotest of sniff tests, but apparently it didn’t need to. Felicity didn’t miss a beat. “I couldn’t agree with you more Declan, I’m excited to tell the world about it. But before that, you worked up on the device, what can you tell me?”

“Oh yes of course!” he lept back to the middle of the room and pulled a small vial from the bandolier of potions and tools he wore across his body. The tincture slid out thin and silvery into the waiting water below. The lights seemed to dim even further, and then glowing strands of silver wove themselves into a great patterned ring that surrounded Declan by five fathoms on all sides. “Well it’s not much of a sketch and I’m sorry about that, but no one knows the whole design of the portal. Those elves they sure are clever aren’t they? So smart just using folks for what they’re best at. Sir and I were most pleased to come and help with the water element artificing.”

Declan clearly had no idea the wisdom he contained. This was beyond Felicity’s wildest dreams of detail, and she didn’t mind in the least needing to take it in while soaked to the waist. The silvery lines showed the whole portal structure, locations of all the major gem interlacings, denoted what metals were used where, and even indicated many of the larger runes. You couldn’t make a new portal from this waterborne sketch, but you could certainly cause havoc to a current one fairly efficiently with this knowledge.

Barnaby smiled to himself as he watched Felicity soak in the value of the gem he’d brought in. “Eoin sure is the true color of the craftsman, they hads plenty o’ other merfolk on the project, but none so much as him, and by extension our young Declan.”

“You and your master truly have something to be proud of here.” Felicity marveled, making a mental map and filling in the details as quickly as she could absorb them. And it was the truth, the structure and ambition of the portal was like no artifice ever created in the whole wide world. “How well do you understand it’s workings?”

“Oh fairly well fairly well, but not so much as some. Sir certainly knows more, and of course none so much as Master Kelem. He gleaned the whole plan from the stars they say, isn’t that amazing? We merfolks sometimes take hints at our artificing from the rivers and lakes and oceans. But to be guided by the stars, well that would be something wouldn’t it?” The young merman chattered. “But there were artificers of all sorts up there. Sir and I were the only merfolk lately, but a couple dwarves of course doing most of the inlay work, humans from all over working with the runes all around, even a gnome seeing to some of the finest details, and then there is-”

Bonnie cut in, hoping to move things along. “So I’m seeing big groupings of gems at the cardinal directions. What do they do?”

Declan beamed and whisked over and pointing out gems and how they powered the portal, quickly devolving into artificing jargon they could barely comprehend. Eoin Onloch, clearly had himself a brilliant apprentice.

“I see...” Felicity nudged when she’d heard more than she could effectively use. “And am I seeing inlaid runes that match the seven heavens?”

Declan lithely jumped over to the nearest one, and began busily describing how the portal used the seven most prominent constellations of their heavens to orient itself and establish where the portal would lead.

“So the portal isn’t tied to another of its kind. It could point anywhere?” Felicity asked.

“Oh nononono no other half, you simply align the rings for each of the sevens and that will open it wherever the stars so align on the other side. A real brilliant bit of artifice design by Master Kelem I have to say.”

“And have they been able to open the portal successfully? Where did they align it?”

“Oh yesyesyesyes. I was there myself, it was quite something to behold.” Declan smiled revealing a row of sharp teeth. “One moment we were looking at the stone of the portal courtyard, the next moment the mother ocean, she was right below us, salt spray and all. I would have jumped right through for a swim if Sir hadn’t caught me.” He chuckled nervously. “For the best of course, they’ve barely begun testing sending rock through, no one knows yet what would happen to a person going through a portal. But I’ll tell you, I felt like I could have jumped right through, sure as anything I’ve ever felt. I could feel the mother’s waves, taste her wind, hear her gulls.”

Felicity’s heart began to hammer in her chest. They were much further along than she’d hoped. The great twisting plan in her head began to shift and adapt. She’d hoped it portal would still be incomplete for some time yet, so she could do her job, kneecap the artifice and get out without too much trouble. “Over the ocean you say. So are they testing it and honing it in on...?”

“Lunesia, yes, the port. Nowhere else those elves want to send all their treasure. They didn’t want to open it right up there first and accidentally catch someone on the other side in it.” Declan added, seemingly unaware of just how much he knew, “But now they know it works, and they have riders headed to the port to clear space to receive their goods. Should be there and set up in a couple of days.”

Her heart beat skipped and then sped even faster, time was short and short and short. “Well this has all been incredibly useful for my jo– er story, for my story Declan thank you.” Her keen mind jumped back in their conversation picking up one naggling loose thread. “You mentioned someone else working on the portal. Who was it?”

“Oh well Miss Felicity, I thought you would have known.” He pointed across the room at Caeliro where he meditated and seemingly floated above the water. “It was him.”

The illusionist’s silvery eyes flared open. In one rushing instant the lights all went black, there was a powerful sucking noise, and when the light returned water and merman were gone, and the portal design was laying in filigreed silver on the damp stone floor of their cellar.

Felicity reeled for a moment then turned on the illusionist. “Ok, when we’re done with this job you absolutely are teaching me how to do that.” She fumed. “And where you get your tinctures. Anything that gets rid of that much water that quickly has to be seriously high grade.”

“You are not of the Heavenly Enclave, so you will never learn.” The illusionist said indignantly, “Besides it would take longer than your lifetime, to even begin to comprehend our ways. And we do not trifle in tinctures or artifices, we channel the–”

Felicity sighed, “Fine goddamnit, keep your tricks magician.” She turned back to the sketch of the portal that lay shining in the dim light. “You could have told us you were working on the portal and saved Barnaby tracking down the merman. Where’d he go by the way? If you don’t deal with artifices, why did they have you?”

“He’s back with his master.” Caeliro hotly replied. “And I could not begin to tell you of this outlandish contrivance.” He gestured with disgust at the floor. “That fool Kelem thought he could capture some power of the Heavenly Enclave and brought me in. Of course he couldn’t, but it appears he got what he wanted all the same. Even in this uncivilized way.” His argentine eyes considered the runes at his feet with disdain.

The door creaked open and Mr. Moss stepped in. “I take this to mean we got what we needed out of the merman?”

“I do believe we did.” Felicity smiled, feeling her banshee joy rising in her chest as the warping plan in her mind settled into an adapted and beautiful path. “Now here’s what I’m thinking...”

Exhaustion forgotten, wet toes ignored, they passed the night circling around the imparted wisdom of young Declan Keel, laying plans for turning the elves’ contraption against them before kneecapping it for good. They parted ways as the first glimmers of sunrise tickled the eaves of Ramshackle, tired, exhilarated, and ready to move into position.

--

Felicity Broadfeather was a thief but no liar.

She liked to tell herself that was for the best, and likely it probably was, but at times like this she certainly wished she were both. Even the notion of a lie would quicken her heart by a couple of paces, beginning to formulate one in her mind would set her fingers to twitching, envisioning saying one aloud and her brow would break out in a cold sweat. Which was fine for an honest thief, which she always tried to be, but at times a job could not avoid a lie, and at times like this she cursed her good virtue.

Our woodswomen had set off from Ramshackle that morning on the mountain road. The day had risen warm and cheery with sun glistening off the town’s troughs and sluices as they burbled about their morning business. By the time the road began to climb in earnest they had already left the sun behind. Greyweather was not idly named. Most days you could see it from Ramshackle, but just barely. The banks of clouds that coasted easily over the Wilder Wood hit the mountains with their full bulk and backed up into great heaving mists that almost always cloaked the mountain in a regal scarf of grey. Greyweather sat just below the usual level of the clouds, ever shifting in and out of focus for the world below. The craggy spines that plunged from the heights above to make up the canyon where the mine stood cut jagged bones out of the sky, ever hinting at the mountain and her sisters that loomed even higher behind, up and up and up until the very edge of the world. Unless the illusionist was to be believed after all. But really, who would believe him?

On this day the clouds sat a bit higher, the proud curtain wall of the castle above stood smooth and slate against the ghost fog above. The cloud bank always tried to reach out and cover Ramshackle, but the east winds ever thwarted their efforts. Still, inevitably as one began to climb the mountain’s wide flank you would have to bid the sun adieu. As our woodswomen did today; they had business to attend to.

Just before the mountain went from steep to staggering in its climb up towoards Greyweather, tucked amongst the pines, with the ravenous, leaping Crystal River cutting a slot canyon a hundred fathoms below, sat the forecastle. A stately guardhouse, straddling the road, fluted and elegant, accented with arching eaves and slender spires. A hint of the beauty yet to come, for those permitted to pass. And critically, where you went if you, like so many others, were interested in a bit of employment up at Greyweather.

Bonnie and Felicity were not alone on the road that morning, nor would they have been on any morning. There were ever caravans heading up and down, eager applicants looking for a bit of the bounty, and sackee’s heading back to Ramshackle to lick their wounds after their services were found wanting for the elves. Bonnie strode in her quiet confidence, enjoying the lovely morning walk, and trying not to get her friend more in her head than she already was. For Bonnie this was all a bit of a given. She could grab guard’s work wherever she wanted with her wide shoulders, her lead jaw, her confidence, and the light scar under her left eye that told the story of someone who tried their luck with her and had it fail them.

For Felicity claiming to be suitable guardstock was a bit of a leap. Sure she was quick and clever, but hardly imposing. Her bright green eyes over a spray of soft freckles spoke more to a curious drinking in of the world, than a hard resilience to its worse parts. And that was before you got to the fact that her hands would not keep still as she attempted to rehearse the story she needed to spin.

She’d taken Eustace’s Truth Teller tincture on their way out of town, and it should have kicked in by now but her heart continued to hammer, her fingers continued to dance with their unease. Truth Teller was a complex tincture, but really should have been within Eustace’s capabilities by now. He was no master alchemist, but he had trained in the arts since he was a boy. But now the forecastle was looming around the corner as they continued the inexorable, all-too-fast trek up toward their applications. Felicity’s brow broke out in a row of cold beads of sweat. Goddamned Eustace, useless for all things, she cursed as the gates came into view.

Already the flow of applicants, petitioners, traders, beggars, and a few employees that marched up the road began to form a queue, funneling into the gatehouse. Felicity’s heart quickened a step further. Not now, not today, I’ll give it away, anywhere but here, anywhen but now. Her mind slid near to panic and she began to look around, ready to dart back to Ramshackle and come up with some other, any other, plan. Bonnie caught her arm as she began to turn, nodding to one of the fluted spires of the forecastle. Perched there, scouring the growing crowd with piercing black eyes rimmed in flashing gold, was a falcon. An immense, sinister, all-seeing falcon, bigger than Althea on her best day, with a curved beak splattered in dried entrails, barred feathers of black and white, and most of all with those terrible black eyes that drank in all, saw all, knew all. If she turned back now the falcon would know her, and would know her falseness.

Falcons, you should know, were known as the guardians of Greyweather, a whole unholy roost of them. Massive and cunning, they had made their home up in the mountains for eons, but like so many others they too had been tempted down by the wealth of the elves. In one sense, and one sense only, they were like griffins, in that they had little use for the contrivances of man, dwarf, or elf, be they treasure or language. But the elvish treasure had brought in delicacies from far away lands, and the falcons certainly had use for those. In all other senses, they gave Felicity the chills. All bird and no cat. Uncut, unmitigated, unmanaged reptilian minds clad in feather. She knew eventually on this job she was going to have to contend with the falcons, but she didn’t imagine this soon. The beast peered down at her from up there amongst the clouds with its penetrating eyes and seemed to look right into her very marrow. The shaking from her fingers worked its way up and ran a convulsing chill up and down her whole body.

“We’re in it now, Felicity.” Bonnie whispered under her breath as she gripped her arm. “How’s that tincture working?”

“G-g-godamned use-less E-eustace.” She stammered willing with all her might for her body to be still. “C-can’t make a-anything right.”

Bonnie slid her huge, calloused, warm hand down and took Felicity’s trembling one, solidarity the only thing she could offer as they waded ever further into the press of people under the gaze of the falcon. “It’ll be ok, just give it time.”

Felicity trudged forward, terrified in every step, hearing the bells of doom toll, echoing through her panicked mind. But then the clouds shifted. Just a bit, but enough to let slip a few beams of gold sunlight down onto the gathering crowd. The falcon squawked his displeasure and looked away. And suddenly it was alright. The shifting sunbeams reminded Felicity of the way they slipped through the boughs of the Wilder Wood at sunset, a sight that was ever on her side. She wiped her brow with still fingers as her heart settled into a leisurely amble.

She smiled as she watched the sun dance over the crowd, suddenly unsure of what exactly had made her so unsure just moments ago. A hundred applicants showed up to the gatehouse every day, why was she any different? They didn’t know what she knew, they always needed more workers, they were at the disadvantage. The woodswomen slipped into the gatehouse proper before the falcon could return its razor gaze. Quickly the press of people was divided and processed, by humans in the elves’ employ of course, if you wanted something done quickly you always needed a human, they only had a little while in the world after all. Employees passed through the gate with artificed totems that allowed them access through and onto the road that climbed to the mine. Caravans waited in a sweating queue for an escort up the perilous road. Petitioners, beggars, and vagabonds were all quickly sorted and turned away. Proper applicants were brought into a cavernous side chamber to wait for their chance to apply.

They sat on a long wood bench, waiting. One by one applicants were brought through the door at the end of the chamber, and not seen again. Whether anyone wound up with a job, in a cell, or sent away was a mystery as Felicity and Bonnie slid along the pine. Bonnie began to show the faintest signs of unease as they waited one by one. Felicity on the other hand had grown into an orb of quiet confidence. She looked around with her keen eyes at the beautiful architecture of the gatehouse, if this is what they had in a forecastle she could only imagine what the fortress proper was like. She looked and saw the nervous faces off her fellow applicants, and took pity on them. Truth Teller was well known, and well out of reach for most who would be considering walk-up work at Greyweather. If only they’d had a dose, they’d see just how trivial it all was. Bonnie slid silently down the bench and worked her jaw with incessant nervousness as they drew closer and closer.

Finally Bonnie was called and she disappeared behind the heavy wood door at the end of the chamber. Moments later, Felicity was called. See? Piece of cake, they always need workers. She thought, more sinister outcomes not even crossing her mind.

Felicity sat down in front of three interviewers, all human, who despite the early hour all looked exhausted. If you wanted something done quickly you left it to humans, but sometimes it was too quickly. They ran down the list of questions that sat on a worn piece of parchment before them on the table with tired eyes and tireder lips. Felicity danced her way through all of them. To hear her tell it she was the most experienced guardswoman who had ever set foot through their gates. And they believed it too, her story sang so sweetly into the weary minds of these people too long in the elves’ employ.

The central interviewer had just raised her stamp of approval over Felicity's application when a door behind their table banged open. In stepped an elf. But not an elf like many you’ve seen. Thick-necked and thick-shouldered, no braids or waving curls for her hair but a harsh bob, wearing as ever her ornate breastplate and long anthracite cape. Legends said she was a quarter human, but she looked to be more a quarter ogre as she scowled at the application and the slight woodswoman before her. She was Celestine Cerberia, Chief Orchestrator of the Ethereal Harmonies. Or for those with heads not inflated and floating in the clouds, the head of security at Greyweather.

Even in her sunny, absolutely overconfident state, Felicity felt a tinge of unease at the unexpected entrance. She expected Chief Orchestrator Celestine to spend her time up at the mine, maybe scrutinizing the runework on their locks, if not just spending her time sighing away like all the others of her kind. She did not expect the head of security to be down overseeing applications in the forecastle. Yet here she was.

“So a guardswoman are you?” Celestine’s deep, harsh voice still somehow held an elf’s lyricism as she looked over Felicity’s application.

“Yes ma’am...” and Felicity forgot her apprehensions, and spun the same story she’d told to the interviewers, only better this time as she’d had a chance to practice.

Celestine Cerberia was not convinced. She couldn’t be sure, but she did not see a guardswoman in the scrawny woodswoman who sat before her. Not matter how prettily she spoke. Still, Greyweather always needed people.

“You say you’re from the Wilder Wood?” Celestine asked. “Do you have any experience with griffins?”

“Oh yes,” Felicity replied eagerly. “I have one of my own roosting back in Ramshackle, and I’ve worked as a trainer for years.”

Something in this story didn’t line up for Celestine, but a griffin trainer was a tough applicant to pass on. “Well I can’t get you guardwork.” She decided, “But we always need help with the falcons if you’re willing to work in the aerie.”

Sunny-minded Felicity scarcely remembered the evil-eyed bird that looked so deeply inside her only a little while ago. “Well that would be an honor!” she gladly accepted.

“Very well, we’ll see you in two day’s time,” the brooding elf consented, “Get her a uniform and a totem. And Miss Broadfeather?”

“Yes?” Felicity smiled back, all rainbows.

“I’ll be keeping my eye on you.” The square-jawed elf said with more than a little foreboding.

Minutes later Felicity was strutting out of the forecastle with a bundled uniform under her arm and a gate totem in her pocket, not thinking for a moment about the promise she’d just been made by Celestine Cerberia. Bonnie, squatted on the roadside, waiting, trying to recollect herself.

“You get the gig?” Bonnie asked.

“Even better,” Felicity smiled. “I’ll be working with the falcons.”

Bonnie turned around and glanced at the falcon who still perched atop the forecastle, scouring, and shivered down her spine. “What? We were meant to try and get on the same guard shift.” She whispered as they slipped out of sight down the path.

“Relax Bon,” Felicity clapped her friend on the back. “I think I’ll be right where I need to be.”

The trouble with Truth Teller, wasn’t the confidence, it was the overconfidence. Almost every being who’d ever set their lips to the tincture found the initial peak to be an addicting experience. You were on top of the world, everything seemed to go your way, all the worries and fixations that held you back day in and day out vanished in a sip. If you could take the tincture and just get that first peak I imagine a good few folks would be addicted. Tellerheads, if you will. But Truth Teller was not that type of tincture. That first peak was just the beginning, and the best of what you were about to experience, in the long hours that followed even the most experienced users would turn from confident to cocky to reckless. You’d take it with a plan, I just need to tell XYZ lie and then I’m good; four hours and twelve very regrettable decisions later you’d find yourself questioning all those conservative “rules” you had set out for yourself. Confidence turning catastrophic as you got up for an unrehearsed bit of comedy at open stage night, or paid your boss a late night visit for a heart to heart about the future of the company, or decided that what those acrobats were up to surely couldn’t be that hard, or some othersuch tomfoolery. Then in the final hours, your inner mind would slowly come back in touch with reality, even as your tongue kept its cockiness. Finally a full twelve hours later you’d fall asleep, exhausted, and unsure if you ever wanted to feel confident again.

So you’ll understand why, when Felicity burst back into the hideout with the sun going down outside, ready as anything to get out on the recon flight that was the next phase of the plan, Mr. Moss raised one very skeptical eyebrow at her beaming smile.

“I take it the tincture worked then.” He queried, with a deep dryness.

“And then some!” she burst, “Now come on Mr. Moss, our little gnomie friend, the moon is coming out, the weather is clearing, we have work to do!”

Mr. Moss sighed the sigh of someone who knows an idiot is right and can’t do anything about it. The chances of them getting this good of a weather window again before the portal was fully operational were essentially zero. He pinched the thin bridge of his nose with his dexterous fingers. “First of all Miss Broadfeather, if you ever call me gnomie again, I walk. Second of all... I’m flying.” He stated, with no room for dissent.

“To the skies! To the skies!” sang our overconfident woodswoman, as she danced around preparing for an invigorating bit of nighttime flying.

Foll she may have been, but she was right to be optimistic, it was a glorious evening to see the world on griffinback. The heat of the day was dissipating, giving way to a calm and pleasant evening with only a touch of chill to let you know about the season that waited around the corner. The moon rose over the mountains, fat and wide and yellow, laden with summer’s butter. A few lazy bunches of clouds drifted in, but largely the sky was a blanket of velvet back broken only by the stars that could resist the moon in her full splendor. Even Mr. Moss had to smile to himself as they saddled up on Buckley. The gnome tucked between Felicity’s knees, with his hands woven into the bird’s smooth, warm feathers, ready to take direction. And they were off. The ground plunged away, along with their companions, the river, and all of Ramshackle. With a few powerful thrusts of Buckley’s wings they were soaring, hearts flying, through the soft night under the full splendor of a harvest moon.

The town quickly dwindled to a little smudge of glowing windows and artificed lights, and a heartbeat later they were soaring past the forecastle now blessedly devoid of its guardian. The griffinrider’s thrill rose in Felicity’s chest once more as they covered ground that would take ages to walk in only a few spare blinks. Up and up and up Buckley brought them, leaving the zig-zagging path which wound through the pines up to Greyweather behind, gliding smoothly past the waterfall which plummeted from the castle’s high wall, a roaring cascade of silver plunging in the moonlight to disappear in the dark of the wood far, far below. Then in a flash they were leaving the castle and its narrow canyon behind, rounding the craggy ridge to the south for a more subtle approach.

The mountain struck further west than her sisters, but as they cleared the ridge the placid night presented a sight that only a rare few would ever bear witness to, the Mountains Of The Morning, jutting through their blanket of clouds, beaming white fangs in the moonlight, marching south into lands unknown. They only rose and rose and rose. The mountain of the mine was but a runt of this monumental litter, even as her head was ever cased in snow and lost in the clouds. Behind, her sisters showed the true meaning of height, reaching up to scrape the sky itself, and form the very edge of their world. Buckley cried with joy at the sight, as he circled higher and higher. Even Mr. Moss, that worldly enigma, felt his heart skip a beat as his razor sharp eyes drank in every ridge, cliff, and glacier. Up they flew, well past the height of Greyweather, until the air cut through their cloaks with a chill that never went away. Mr. Moss directed Buckly to a craggy knob on the ridge, where they alit to take a peek at their target. Here the few trees that clung on were scraggy, stumpy things, twisted by the winds which blessedly sat still for the moment, above them was only alpine scrub, and above that nothing but rock, ice, and moonlight.

From their cloud-piercing perch they looked down a thousand fathoms and more. In the narrow valley before them Greyweather filled between the walls with its masterfully crafted beauty. The spires of the towers pricked the night with honed peaks, flying buttresses soared through the air making a mockery of gravity’s feeble pull, gardens descended in elegant tiers down the walls of the canyon. In the center of it all sat a deep, narrow lake. The river sprang forth from the mountain above and set in motion all the many people who came to grab her riches. And there were many, even now as the night wore on, Greyweather was ever abuzz with miners, artisans, and overseers. Running sluices, running orecarts, digging mineshafts, raising walls, changing shifts no matter the time nor the weather. The mine looked to be a city of its own from their perch, out glowing the feeble shine of Ramshackle below. Walkways bustled, carts rolled on laden, and there roosting comfortably on a high spire sat another falcon, keeping a sharp eye on all. No matter, Felicity thought peacefully with her addled mind, that’s not tonight’s target anyhow.

“All look as the dwarf described it?” Mr. Moss asked with his keen eyes, committing the place to memory.

Greyweather occupied the mouth of a high hanging valley, clinging right where the mountain fell more steeply away in a plummeting canyon. From their high vantage the castle itself glimmered in artificed light on the far valley wall, with a wide apron wall that swept across to the wall closer to them; with the precipitous drop beyond, the wall the edge of the castle appeared to be the edge of the world itself. Further up the hanging valley which they sat up on the bowl-like rim of, the mines glowed lively and orange, arteries carved down to the heart of the mountain.

“Sure enough.” Felicity smiled. “The river is the key to it all. It comes out of the high caves from around the upper valley and carves away at the narrow canyon below to get at all the ore and gem deposits. Now as I understand it, the elves’ first mistake, at least the first thing they did to get sideways with the dwarves back in the day, was damming up the river and using it to help power more mining artifices. An affront to the nature of the mountain and all that.” She pointed down to the lake that shone back the moon on its hammered surface. “The key to it all is balance, the lake looks big, but it’s a narrow canyon they’ve dammed up, so if the water level drops they start running out of power. Fast. And with it most of the big machinery for the whole operation seizes up.”

“And we’re here to help things along in that direction?”

“Precisely.” A wolf’s smile sparkled below her drawn hood. “Let’s go see what we’re working with, shall we?”

The trio dove off their crag and soared silently over the precipitous wood of scrubby trees that filled the high valley, scarcely above the treetops, to keep as low a profile as possible. Up the valley the trees gave way to bulging stony cliffs, the true vaults of the mine, everything down below all danced in service of the mazing mass of mines that wove through the mountain’s most fertile flank. Through it the very headwaters of the Crystal River rushed icy white and furious fast, harrying down from higher still. Buckley soared up to the high valley where the cliffs were laced with a thousand and more caves, all yawning black in the night. They landed at the mouth of one where most of the river’s headwaters rushed forth. Above the mountain soared up to her glacier-clad peak, rising too steeply from their cave to show her heights, only baring one icy shoulder above.

Felicity looked at the cave with nearly frozen waters spewing forth in a great gout. She could have barely fit in the mouth, let alone make it any distance inside. Even her over-courageous heart faltered at the site.

“You sure you’re up for this?”

It was the gnome’s turn for a little cocksurety, he grinned with his tiny, perfect teeth. “Miss Broadfeather, I was born for it.” He tied a length of fine rope he’d brought along around his waist and to a rock at the cave’s mouth, then turned on the nifty artificed light he’d strapped to his hat. Turning back only briefly. “You’re out of sight, so stay here.” With that they tiny, bold master thief plunged into the darkness leaving Felicity and Buckley alone on the mountain’s high shoulder.

Felicity sat with feet dangling over the ledge at the cave’s mouth, fear not entering her woodswoman’s mind despite the staggering heights below. It was a beautiful night to be out and she sat in idle happiness...for all of five minutes. The moon beamed, the river raged, the wind whispered, and time stubbornly refused to crawl by. Before long Felicity found herself thinking, you know there really won’t be a better night for recon, and this isn’t the only cave we could target, I should go have a peek at some of the others, I’ll be back before Mr. Moss knows I left, and she flashed off, black amethyst in the moonlight, on the back of her griffin before a better thought could cross her mind.

They popped and hopped between half a dozen different cave mouths that littered the precipitous wall of the high valley. All very much similar to the one the gnome was exploring but putting out less water, provided he found a good place to deploy the ethereals, they’d likely found their spot. Oh well, Felicity pondered happily, better to check and be sure. She guided Buckley back out into a soaring flight, drinking in the intoxication of the beautiful night around her, a warm updraft pushed up from the lands below, setting her soul to smiling as woman and griffin savored the gift of flight in one of the few places that could rival the titan trees of their home. And then, upon that same warm breeze, drifted a sound. A much less welcome sound. A screeching falcon, sounding the alarm.

Woman and griffin both looked down to see the falcon spread its massive wings and take to the air, honed eyes easily spotting Buckley’s glinting feathers in the full moon light. Oh dear, that’s not great, was all the more admittance of fallibility Felicity’s doped mind could muster. They alit at the mouth of the cave to pick up one very wet, very angry gnome.

“Damnit Broadfeather, I told you to stay still.” He growled as he climbed up and took charge of directing Buckley, who much more acutely felt their peril than his rider.

“Oh relax Boss Moss,” she breezed, attempting to retake control of the bird as they took flight once more. “Buckley and I are the quickest around, we can make it past one lazy falcon no problem.”

On cue, on the canyon wall below the door to the Greyweather rookery blew open and a dozen more falcons soared into the night, all screeching their displeasure, all immediately targeting the very out of place griffin attempting to clear out of their valley over the ridge.

Mr. Moss turned a wrathful eye on Felicity. “First of all, if you ever call me ‘Boss Moss’ again I’ll turn you into the elves myself.” His deep, stern voice, cutting right to Felicity’s marrow. “Second of all, if we make it out of here, you are not taking one step, not talking to one single person until this goddamned Truth Teller has run its course.” He deftly forced her hands out of guiding position on Buckley’s shoulders and retook control, steering them for the spiny ridge to the south he hoped might be their salvation.

Buckley was fast, but the falcons were faster. Driven by sleek, powerful wings and indignation at the notion that a griffin would set foot in their aerie. They crested the ridge just before their pursuers, but it wasn’t enough, the falcons were hot on their tail and their razor eyes followed their every move. All around, the mountains were of no help. South the mountains marched away further west, head toward them and they’d be out in the wide open air, exposed, just waiting for the slashing talons of the fastest falcon. Back north and they were simply back where they started in the valley of the mine, only now with even angrier falcons. Mr. Moss drove them down and down, darting, streaking through the cutting air till their eyes nearly froze over with tears and their hands clung to Buckley like icicles. At the last moment, he dove the griffin below a little canopy of scrubby trees that held on to the side of the ridge, here they looked out at a circling, crying, cast of angry falcons. The massive birds couldn’t get them below the treetops, but they’d draw the elves’ eventually and that was just as bad.

“I don’t suppose anywhere in that Teller-addled mind of yours Miss Broadfeather,” the gnome growled, “That you have a plan to get out of this predicament.”

Felicity’s mind, as it had since she set foot through the door of the forecastle that morning, followed its same sure, glorious track, and her attention fell right upon her pocket. Or more precisely, upon the totem in her pocket, placed there by none other than Celestine Cerberia when she’d been hired as a falconer that morning. 

Felicity held up the small figurine, a falcon in repose on a perch, carved in onyx, inlaid with silver, opal, and jade. She had no idea exactly what areas the totem was likely to grant access to, but she had a pretty good guess at one that it would. The aerie itself. “As a matter of fact Mr. Moss, I believe I do.”

He considered the totem for only a moment. “This had better work.”

Griffin and two riders broke cover in a flash, surprise granting a moment’s distance from the circling falcons as they raced back around the spiny ridge of the mountain. Before the falcon’s could give chase, they banked as hard as they could, Buckley’s wingtips grazing the grey cliffs as they darted with all caution to the wind toward the door of the aerie carved into the high wall of the vale. Like a treat, the totem coaxed the door to pop open as they approached, and the three slipped into the shadowy confines of the aerie.

When the falcons cleared the ridge there was no sign of griffin or riders. Falcons were keen-eyed and ruthless, but they were no tricksters, and their stubborn minds could not contemplate the sudden disappearance of their quarry. They cried their displeasure and circled a moment in the air above Greyweather before deciding the most likely place their targets had disappeared to was north past the far ridge. Felicity, Buckley, and Mr. Moss watched the falcons fly off; two of them with relief, one with a completely unearned feeling of I-told-you-so. You can guess who was who. Once the air was clear, they slipped back out into the night and plunged discreetly back to the cheery town, waiting below.

Just as the town clock was chiming midnight the trio swooped silently back into the softly buzzing streets of Ramshackle. Felicity jumped off lively and smiling. Mr. Moss, knowing how lucky they’d just gotten, slid off and paid Buckley a deep bow of thanks. Buckley, who had no idea they were possibly going to be harried by giant falcons when they took off for what he thought was an evening’s pleasure cruise, appreciated the thanks from the curious little fellow, and eyed Felicity mistrustfully before flapping up to the rooftops to find a roost for the night, and put some distance between himself and his rider.

“You, Miss Broadfeather.” The gnome boomed, brokering no argument. “Are going straight into your inn, and up to your room till morning and this damned Truth Teller has worn off. No excursions, understood?”

Felicity mocked a salute. “Yes Moss Bo–” a stern eye from knee high caught her voice in her throat one syllable from dire error. “Understood Mr. Moss...” She corrected, chastened, for the first time in nearly half a day Felicity’s normal thinking mind returned to her skull, and she considered for a moment, if only in a distant and abstract way, how lucky she’d gotten that day.

The gnome only shook his damp head and whisked off to find some more reasonable company for his evening. Felicity turned and ambled slowly towards the glowing inn up the street, her mind on a teeter totter, between groggily returning clarity and the last gasps of the tincture’s euphoria. The warm and pleasant evening air, the residual glow of adrenaline in her veins, the cheery, ingenious town of Ramshackle with its tidy wooden eaves and bubbling sluices running every which way, tipped her back towards intoxication as she opened the door to the inn.

Felicity Broadfeather’s luck almost lasted as long as the potion, which is really saying something, because the potion lasted an awfully long time. With her clarity barely holding on she walked straight through the still bustling public house that comprised the bottom floor of the inn. She didn’t look around, didn’t stay for a drink, didn’t say hi to a friendly stranger. She was two steps from the stairs when her luck ran out. But what a beautiful way for it to run out. Over the soft babble of the bar drifted a laugh that carried her right back home to Twelvetrees, right back to her blushing girlhood. The sound of Lachlan Needledown’s laughter.

Her clear mind yanked and yanked on the reigns, trying desperately to get her to take those final two steps, head upstairs, before she could cause herself any more trouble. But it was too late, the Truth Teller wasn’t done yet, after all in all this time hadn’t she really just needed a little more confidence to make her move? A lioness’ smile split her face, and she cut through the crowd toward her prey.

“Of all the gin joints in all the world...” She slid in suave and seductive next to the smiling sculpture of a young man, mustled sandy hair, face glowing bronzed fresh off the road. Ignoring the group he was talking to she slid in close. Closer than she’d ever been to him, and false confidence or not, his warmth, his scent made her heart flutter.

“Felicity! Hi!” He cracked a broad white smile that would have melted her in her normal mind. “...Uh, what’s gin?”

“Nevermind that,” she growled and leaned in even closer. “I am very happy to see you here. I’ve been wanting to get that drink with you for some time now.” She signaled to the barkeep and took a sip of the paltry straw colored brew that passed for ale in this ramshackle town. “I hope you don’t mind fellas.” She nodded to his friends and they scurried off at the glint in her eyes, unsure what exactly young Lachlan had got himself tangled up in.

“Oh yeah, of course!” He raised his mug in cheers. “I thought I’d have to wait a few more weeks till we were back in Twelves for it. What are you doing in Ramshackle?”

She drank deeply, eyes locked into his savoring their green hue that almost turned the corner into blue. “Oh, just out for a little exploration. A girl can’t spend all her life in the wood. Besides, you made it all seem so exciting.” She ran her hand up from his elbow to his shoulder, fingering all the little divots and bulges of muscle that lay just beneath his thin shirt. Meanwhile her clear mind screamed in helpless protest. For god’s sake you maniac, back up! Get out of there, you’re coming on too strong, you’ll blow it with him, worse you’ll blow the whole job! But it was much too late, the potion, the ale, the pheromones were in control now.

“I don’t know about that,” he guffawed shyly, rubbing the back of his head. “Mostly it’s just a lot of walking. And the mountains are pretty and all, but nothing so pretty as the Wilder Wood.” He slid back, trying to regain a bit of personal space, unsure what had gotten into Felicity this evening, and honestly he wouldn’t have believed it if you told him. Blessed soul. “That’s great you’re out for a little travel though, I have to imagine it’s pretty easy with a griffin.”

Felicity smiled, swaggering, sipping her ale, fingers now walking lightly over his collarbone and down over his broad chest. “Oh yeah, you know it. A hop, a flap, a glide and here we are. Not sure why I hadn’t come sooner.” In reality traveling by griffin was one of the easiest ways, depending on where you were going, but like all things came with trade offs. Sure you got to fly, but you had to travel incredibly light, and had to deal with the mercurial attitudes of the fickle birds. Some days you’d make it fifty miles, others you’d be lucky to make five.

“Well I imagine you have a hard time leaving your birds.” He offered, as always looking for ways to find the best in Felicity. “Say though, aren’t you working with some fledgecubs now? Shouldn’t you be working to get them bonded soon?”

“Psssh. They’ll be just fine.” She leaned in further, hand dancing up to tousle his shining hair. Behind her the door of the inn opened, and a large, disgruntled figure stepped through to immediately lay eyes upon what was occurring. “I’ll tell you a little griffin trainer’s secret Lachy, the key to the birds is sometimes you gotta know when to let them go free.” Her finger slid over his very confused lips. “And sometimes, you gotta know when to bring ‘em in closer than ever.” She leaned forward, determined, ready to finally see how those sculpted lips would feel against her own, how his roadside stubble would prickle at her cheek. She closed her eyes and leaned in, as Lachlan stayed still, utterly bewildered.

“Oh no ya don’t!” Came crashing in the voice of Bonnie Twotalons, much to the chagrin of Felicity’s hormones, and relief of her beaten and battered clear mind. A broad hand pulled her back and off her stool, and slid her half drunk mug of ale back across the bar.

“Uh, hi Bonnie!” Lachlan smiled up at her. “Felicity didn’t say you were here too!”

“No I don’t imagine she would have.” Bonnie glowered down at her friend whose still puckered lips were protesting their cruel denial.

“That’s not fair,” Felicity complained. “I was going to tell him all about our time here and our plans for Grey–.” This time it was a swift elbow to the ribs that caught Felicity’s tongue just on the edge of catastrophe.

“I hope you don’t mind if I borrow her Lachlan.” Bonnie smiled, pulling Felicity back and into her strong, unforgiving arm. “It’s been a very long day of travel. Felicity’s not quite herself. We’ll be here for a couple of days, maybe we’ll see you later?”

“Oh yes of course, that’s all fine Bonnie. I should be getting to bed as well. I won’t be able to see you guys though, I’m shipping back west in the morning, they have me running boomerangs lately.”

“Oh is that so? Too bad.” Said one very relieved Bonnie Twotalons and the sober part of Felicity’s mind in unison. The last thing they needed was Lachlan Needledown in town while they tried to get this job done.

“But I’ll see you guys back in Twelves soon, yeah?” He offered helpfully. “Ingathering is just around the corner!”

“That it is!” Bonnie agreed, pushing Felicity towards the stairs. “We’ll see you there!”

“Buh-bye Lach-” Felicity feebly attempted as she was shoved unceremoniously up the stairs.

“You’re damn lucky I was at the hideout waiting for you and not up in bed asleep. You’d have given up this whole damn job to that boy.” Bonnie cursed.

Felicity tried to protest but her clear mind finally had enough reins to still her tongue so she only stammered and fell silent.

“That’s what I thought. Now to bed with you, and you’re not going anywhere till morning.” Bonnie declared with unquestionable finality as she prodded Felicity into their room. Then she took a chair and placed it in the hall under the knob and then placed herself on top of it, arms crossed, sitting guard. Just to be safe.

--

The difference was in the eyes.

Between falcons and griffins that is. Felicity learned as much on her first day in the falcon’s aerie. Of course working as a trainer she’d met plenty of birds that favored falcons of all stripes over the years. Many had been some of the most splendid griffins she’d ever worked with. But there was a difference between being part bird and being all bird. And in the end the difference was in the eyes.

Griffins were bright, curious, clever, a little conniving, but generally kind. The falcons on the other hand were razor sharp, penetrating, far-seeing, and detached, they’d look right through to your very soul if you let them, and they still wouldn’t find much of interest. The falcons, of course, weren’t evil. They just knew a good deal when it came to them, and the elves, well they could cut the best deals around. That much was evident the moment Felicity stepped into their aerie with the sun streaming in, it was truly magnificent.

Getting to the aerie for everyone but the falcons was rather an ordeal, even getting to Greyweather itself not on griffinback was tough. Rather than a few flaps from the forecastle as it was on their nighttime recon, the castle proper proved to be an arduous trek by foot. Felicity and Bonnie’s totems had blinked open the employee gates as they approached, but there was no help from there. The road switchbacked again and again, carved wide and tame enough into the mountain to allow convoys to move precariously down, which meant that day workers on foot had to endure no less than fifty two switchbacks up as the waterfall that spilled out of the bottom of the castle and fell one hundred and two dwarvish feet down in a blaze of white mist and a roar of thunder. No wonder no one lasts here, Felicity mused, the hike alone isn’t worth the pay. 

The woodswomen, for once, fit in perfectly. Clad in uniforms which had certainly been worn by many before them, all of fitting grey. Grey breeches, grey tunic, boots of faded grey leather, for Bonnie a guardsman’s breastplate of grey over a shirt of grey boiled leather, for Felicity a grey padded vest, and holey grey gloves. Over all of it for them both, cloaks of roughspun wool, drained of all color. Grey. Grey stone beneath their feet, grey clouds swirling revealing only snatches of the grey castle that loomed above. A fitting first day at Greyweather. The only color in the world, they carried themselves.

After nearly a full, sweaty hour they finally cleared the last of the trees and passed through the fanged portcullis of the castle proper. The main facade of Greyweather was certainly its most imposing, especially dwarfed as one was walking up the path. To the left, the wide apron wall arced out through the open air smooth and unbroken for a hundred fathoms and more, it held back the very lake of Greyweather itself, the only break between the portcullis and the far canyon wall was the drain which spilled forth the frothing river. To the right the near canyon wall loomed up craggy and untamed until it plunged into the cloudbank not far overhead. Dead ahead, Greyweather proper, the bulk of which was hewn into the northern canyon wall. From the path it was only a yawning, crenelated portcullis, a hungry maw of silver teeth jealously guarding its horde.

 Once they passed through Bonnie nodded and peeled off to her post for the day, an ideal position, walking the broad apron wall that spanned the mouth of the canyon. From there she’d have a good eye on the mines as they spewed forth their wealth, the lake as it continued its delicate balance of powering the whole operation, and most importantly, if Barnaby was right, she’d be able to see into the portal courtyard, the portyard if you will, itself where the portal sat surrounded by high walls. Felicity had somewhat more climbing to do.

She might begrudge the elves their greed, but she certainly couldn’t deny their taste. Taste which was on full display as she hiked, in no particular hurry, through the full splendor of their castle. Greyweather was tiered and terraced, fluted and filigreed, spired, crenelated, gargoyled, ivied, and plated. With mists swirling between the towers it was impossible to tell where castle, mountain, and sky began or ended. Each wall was carved, inlaid, and immaculately set. Felicity constantly needed to remind herself that none of it would be possible without the craftsmanship of the dwarves, but even so, the vision itself was staggering. She had to resist the urge to succumb with slack jawed awe at every turn as the castle constantly unveiled new spires, new buttresses, new battlements, hewn seamlessly into the northern canyon wall, all floating otherworldly amongst the mist from which they took their name. 

Fortunately, finding her way was easy in the maze of the castle. With the totem in her pocket she walked on; if she was meant to pass through a door on her journey it would open, if not it would not. She passed along the shores of the lake, through courtyards, and halls of equipment. Up, up, always up. Finally the castle gave way and the few morning shift workers still with her headed through a gate that led into the belly of the mountain herself, the mines. Confused, she asked one of the fellows the way to the aerie. “No ma’am, not quite yet.” the dwarf admonished kindly, “You’ve a ways to go, I’m afraid.”  Pointing to a small path up the steepening far wall of the valley, carved steps ascending precipitously into the blind clouds. Not for the first time, Felicity Broadfeather was glad of her woodswoman’s nerves as she climbed the vertiginous heights through the wind and the wet and the grey grey grey.

Finally, nearly two hours since she began her climb from the forecastle, Felicity found herself face to face with the door of the aerie. Under the moonlight and dark, pumped full of adrenaline and no small amount of Truth Teller, she hadn’t really considered the place. Here in the shifting morning light, panting, and humbled she could only be awestruck. In a sheer wall of cliff, high upon the side of Greyweather’s staggering hanging valley the aerie was carved into the rock, a row of gargantuan windows, and at the end a door of beaten steel the same color as the rock but inlaid a thousand times over. Veins of silver, white gold, and platinum. As much as Felicity had seen in her whole life coursed through the door that soared ten fathoms over her head. The rest of the castle was marvelous and imposing, this was something all together different. She couldn’t believe she’d been so cavalier only a few nights prior as to treat this as her hideout. As she approached the totem in her pocket worked its subtle magic and the door popped slightly open and she slid inside.

Within the aerie was nothing short of a marvel. Despite the windows open to the high mountain airs the place was snug and pleasant, no doubt the effect of all the incredible artificing which covered each wall, sill, perch and ceiling. A long, wide hall stretched ahead following the gentle curve of the mountain, glowing softly in the streaming grey light. To her right the windows spilled in the light of the obscured sun, to the left massive alcoves tucked back neatly into the heart of the mountain. A few birds roosted lazily as she stepped carefully by. In each alcove was a comfortable perch, a tray of crystal water, a tray of fresh meat, and fresh threshes to catch any droppings. All of it powered by the unfathomable wealth of the elves, and the ingenuity of the incredible artificers in their employ. In front of each alcove was a wide window, so the bird could take to the sky whenever the mood took them. No, falcons weren’t evil, but neither were the elves, and certainly no one was likely to offer them a better deal than the opulence of this aerie.

“Who’s this then?” a sharp voice called from down the hall. “New girl, what did you come from the sea this morning?” Down strolled a tall woman, similarly clad in all grey, with a steel brooch closing her cloak wrought like a screeching falcon. Her eyes and hair told a different story though, green and red now chased with the grey of age. This was a woodswoman. “Hmm? What do you have to say for being so late on your first day?”

Felicity stammered, “Oh sorry ma’am. It was further than I had thought to get all the way up here.”

“Ma’am...” The older woman considered Felicity for a long moment. “Well at least you have some manners. You can call me Madam Wingtip, or ma’am if it suits you. I am head of this aerie, and if you hope to keep your employment I suggest you get an earlier start tomorrow.” She took Felicity’s chin in her hand and looked her over, a small smile softening the corner of her stern eyes. “A young woodswoman, are you? What’s your name? From where in the wood do you come?”

“Felicity Broadfeather, from Twelvetrees ma’am.” Felicity replied humbly.

“Ah, lovely little town,” the smile deepened just a touch. “Haven’t been there in twenty years, were you even born then?”

“Just by a few years.” Felicity admitted.

“A young woodswoman indeed... I am from rather further north, by the university, Silvia.” She released Felicity, turned, and began to walk along the long corridor. “And tell me young Felicity, have you a mount?”

“Yes ma’am, a young bird named Buckley, I left him roosting in Ramshackle.”

“A smart thing you did.” Wingtip offered as she continued on, Felicity hurrying to keep up with her long strides. “Falcons and griffins...well they have a contentious relationship at the best of times.” A massive bird hopped down from its perch up in an alcove and waddled over to Wingtip. It loomed two heads higher than the tall woodswoman, but she stood comfortably in its shadow, reached up and scratched at the soft feathers underneath its beak. “You’ll do well to leave your bird well away, but I believe you’ll find, in time, that falcons are noble creatures of their own right.” She scratched deeply into the downy feathers as the bird closed its eyes and hummed softly in pleasure. “And tell me Miss Broadfeather, what did you do back in Twelvetrees?”
“I was a griffin trainer ma’am.”

“Ah, typical that they would steer you to me then. For all the good it will do you.” She stopped scratching and the bird took flight out of the wide window in front of its roost. “We have little need for training here. Falcons take no riders, and given their deal with the elves is for security, we are here mainly to keep them happy.” Wingtip walked on, curtly explaining as she went. “Water, meat, and threshes are all changed twice a day. Threshes and water you’ll haul down from the end of the hall here, meat must come up from the castle by hand I’m afraid. You’re not afraid of heights are you?”

“No ma’am.” Felicity offered.

“Good.” Wingtip accepted with a nod, “Be a shame on the woodsfolk if you were. Hauling the meat up can be a bit precarious, but if you worked as a trainer it shouldn’t be anything you can’t handle.”

“No, I don’t think so.” So the job was manual labor, Felicity wasn’t sure what else she expected, at least she’d have an excuse to make runs down to the castle regularly.

“Very well, get to it.” Madam Wingtip said with a sharp nod.

“Ma’am?”

“Yes?”

“Do you have a mount?” Felicity asked hopefully.

Wingtip caught her long step midstride, and looked over her shoulder. “Aye young lady, I did. Once.” She shook her head and sighed. “But that was a long time ago, now I have the falcons. Now get to work.”

The days that followed passed grey and uniform, not even the arc of the sun visible to mark the passing of time, only a slow dimming to tell when it was time to begin the long descent back into Ramshackle. There was only mist and stone and wind and wet. Beauty too, if you’re into that kind of a quiet and forlorn aesthetic. Working up amidst the endless clouds proved to be a source of endless surprise. With each new turn Felicity would be taken aback by some new spire reaching up from levels below to break free of the vapors for a moment before being swallowed once more. Other times she’d find herself scurrying over some new buttress and look down expecting to see stone but instead be greeted by mist, or expecting to see mist and she’d see the waters of the lake.

The cloud gardens that the elves had cultivated proved particularly exceptional. Flora and small fauna from all ends of the world were brought in and thriving under their immortal eyes. The gardens clung to the sides of the mountain and stepped their way down in narrow tiers. Here sculpture mixed with the profusion of stolid greenery, drinking in the mists. Flues of water wove in and out of the stone, ever descending in a gentle weave. To walk the paths was to ever be intentionally, blissfully lost. The gardens slowed your steps, opened your eyes, and never revealed the same path twice. It was nothing short of magical. Unless of course, you were like Felicity, and had stepped in unintentionally while you were already late and rather needed to not get lost in a cloud-filled maze. No matter how lovely it was.

All things considered though, being a lackey falconer proved to be a rather handy position for Felicity. Wingtip ever seemed to find errands that needed running on account of the birds, and within a week Felicity’s mental map of the labyrinthine castle was beginning to come into real clarity. She saw Bonnie walking her endless rounds up on the battlements who seemed to be getting on with the other guards but Felicity did not envy the range of her role. She saw Barnaby, putting his head admirably down amongst his fellow dwarves while they did as they were bid and headed bravely into the deep mines. And she saw Murdok, crazy-eyed and menacing, working the carts that carried treasure from the refinery out to the caravans, or all too soon, to the portal. She even saw mysterious Caeliro a time or two, always in the company of a host of elves, going about some business she could not fathom. Once she could have sworn that she watched a jade brooch unfasten itself from an elf’s cloak, traipse lazily through the air, and land silently in the illusionist’s pocket, all with nothing more than a flick of his staff. Someday she’d get him to show her his tricks.

Each coconspirator she’d acknowledge only with a subtle nod, or more often with nothing at all. Days were for subtlety. Nights were for scheming, when they would gather in their little cellar hideout and work though the finer points of their plan again and again, until they’d all stagger away well past midnight and sorely in need of sleep. Each evening they’d all return with more intel, more details, more plans. And they’d practice, practice, practice. Passing totems, clearing security, diverting carts, and corrupting the portal. Soon with Felicity’s now humming plan, and under the shrewd guidance of Mr. Moss, each and every one of them could run through their whole part with eyes closed.

But for all her adventures, Felicity’s days were filled mostly with Falcons. Filling bowls, changing threshes, building fires to keep the chill out of their aerie. Always she stepped quietly under the unflinching, unwavering gazes of the falcons which made the high halls their home. For a woodswoman it was rather disturbing. The birds were huge and beautiful, standing two heads higher than Felicity and that was before they got up on their perches, with feathers on their downy chests that were barred between ivory and obsidian. Over their wings and heads it was only obsidian, smooth, and shining in the grey light. And they were certainly smart too. That much was evident from the luxury provided in the aerie. Through the use of no words, and only reliable service to the elves, they found themselves living in a work of art. No expense was spared in carving out the curving hall, the alcoves where they perched, or windows that let them out into the free skies. All of it was carved and inlaid with symbols in every precious metal. One to help the water drain, one to keep the fires from making too much smoke, another to keep the wind at bay, and a hundred more you could only guess at. But for all the falcon’s beauty and all their intelligence, Felicity found herself unnerved. And it came down to the eyes.

Plenty of griffins were plenty bigger than Felicity, but griffins were always creatures of two hearts. One of bird. One of cat. Somedays one would outshine the other, but there was always both, always balance. Not so with the falcons. It was all bird all the time, and Felicity could feel in the crawling up her back, all bird that was wrong. Wrong and probably dangerous. Their eyes, thin yellow rims around two pools of bottomless black, saw all, absorbed all, and their sharp minds processed it all in ancient lizard-brain calculus. All was either food or it wasn’t, and Felicity did not care for how much she felt like food walking through their halls, even when their bowls overflowed with fresh goat. A hungry griffin might get a look like that in its eye when it saw a distant snack, but never for long, their other heart would come back in time and there would again be curiosity, familiarity, kindness even, if Felicity was to be believed.

She was looking up, with more than a little fear in her heart, into the eyes of a falcon as she swept the floors one afternoon. The door to the aerie opened, Wingtip was gone on an errand so Felicity’s attention snapped over quick, and in stepped a god.

Well a god as far as she knew and could see. The towering grey figure seemed to float down the hall in a cloud of drifting robes. Silent steps, imperceptible movement. Only there one moment, here the next. Their face was smooth and sharp, chiseled marble. Arms drifting in and out of visibility in the swirling robes, but pale, smooth, flawless. Hair flowed like a resplendent plume of pure jet. Light itself seemed to shine from behind this being as they approached the awestruck Felicity. She was struck, like so many before her, by the aura of none other than Lysander Sunhorn, Grand Curator of The Clouded Halls, and Lord of Greyweather.

“Marvelous creatures aren’t they?” His silken voice asked rhetorically. “There are many ways I could have chosen to guard my castle, but none quite so...beautiful.” The bird hopped down and cooed softly, letting the elf stroke beneath its beak. “And of course beauty is what I sought in crafting Greyweather, so in the end it was no choice at all.”

The pieces clicked together in Felicity’s mind, the only elf she wanted to see less than Celestine Cerberia had just stepped into the aerie. Her grip tightened on her broom. And her tongue held tight in her mouth, not trusting herself with even one word.

The soft light streamed in, illuminating the godlike elf, magnificent bird, and exquisite aerie in a dazzling display. Lysander smiled to himself. “A few short, human, generations later, my friend, and I think no one could deny. Here we have made beauty.” He looked down to lock eyes with Felicity, a gut-dropping thought bolted through her mind, they have the same eyes. Two pools of pitch sat amidst thin rimming irises of yellow gold. Drinking in all that the world would show to him. “You, young falconer, I hope you will enjoy some of my beauty, in whatever...short...time you have here.”

My beauty? Felicity thought, I wonder what old Barnaby would have to say to that. Nevermind all the dwarves and humans and gnomes and merfolk and more who actually built this place. She gripped her broom harder and bit her tongue to keep it from getting any smart ideas.

“Human lives are after all...so sadly short.” Lysander went on, not seeming to notice that he was the only one talking. “You could spend the rest of your days here and I doubt if you’d even be able to fully contemplate even one cloud garden.” He grabbed a handful of meat and began to feet the preening falcon, blood unwilling to sully his sculpted fingers. “But perhaps...that adds some sad sweetness to your days...knowing you’ll only have the chance to see but a little beauty in the world.” The bird cooed happily. “And perhaps that is what humble role elvenkind can play for man, to help show you some beauty with what little time you have...Surely that would appease the Starfaced god. Surely...”

Humble role? Now Felicity’s knuckles gripped her broom, white, indignant. I suppose that justifies any usury you could think of then, oh wise elf?

The Grand Curator pondered on, unconcerned with her silence. “Yes, surely that is the path, and that is why the stars have shown us the path forward. With The Lightweaver’s device Greyweather today will be but a glimmer of the future. I will remake the whole of the mountain in beautiful perfection. Just like my beautiful falcons...The world will bow to its majesty.”

Well it’s helpful when your mark proves to be exactly who you think they are, and says so in just a few words, Felicity fumed. If ever Felicity held any doubts about the justice of her job, those were now well out of harbor and riding the stiff wind of her rankled rage out into the sunset.

Lysander finished feeding the falcon and whispered in his silvery voice. “Fly my friend. Enjoy the mountain airs. Tomorrow Master Kelem’s device will be complete, and we will remake the world together in beauty.” The falcon spread its great, shining wings and burst forth through the window to join its brethren in the mountain skies which their keen minds could not understand they were helping to destroy. Without a word or a glance, Lysander Sunhorn turned and drifted back down the wide, tiled hall, inlaid in all the world’s most cunning patterns; patterns that his mind could not create. Only curate.

Felicity stayed perfectly still until the door closed softly behind the airy elf. In her mind a great clock had begun to tick. Tomorrow the portal would be complete. Tomorrow it was on, the job of a lifetime; it would leave her rich and free, or it would leave her in one of Greyweather’s beautiful hanging cells till the end of her days. Tomorrow it was time.

---

Timing is everything for a thief.

Time to plan. Time to grab. Time to get out. The elves had determined Felicity Broadfeather’s timing for the Greyweather job, which was less than ideal, but for mother nature the timing was just right. At least that’s how it seemed as they approached the forecastle the morning of the day that would make or break their lives. Above them, Greyweather sat a proud anthracite jewel wedged in the bosom of the mountain, gleaming in the sunlight. The clouds had lifted overnight, and now instead of an impenetrable grey curtain only peeling back to give glimpses of the skirt of the castle, the whole magnificent structure shown proudly in the sky. A few sluggish clouds meandered higher up, dragging tendrils caught on the canyon’s craggy, spined rims. Timing is everything for a thief, and Felicity Broadfeather knew how to make her own.

Felicity, Bonnie, Barnaby, Murdok, and Caeliro walked dispersed amongst the morning shift workers who were all heading up in a loose crowd under the gaze of the falcon sitting perched atop the forecastle. It was a good day to put two of Felicity’s favorite distractions to good use: splendor and hunger. Nature herself took care of the splendor just fine today. Even though everyone in the crowd did this hike every day, the crew could see, today eyes were elsewhere. Ordinarily eyes would be down on the trail, maybe looking out at the trees or at a friend during a bit of morning chat. Today though each and every eyeball was drinking in the beauty of the mountain on a clear morning, twin spines of rock running into the sky with the castle all glittering facets between them at the mouth of her hanging valley. Behind it all, the mountain pierced through the highest clouds to erupt, glacier-capped and glorious into the pale morning sky. Felicity had to take care not to be taken in by the view herself. The Wilder Wood always provided much in the way of breathtaking views, but this was a different thing altogether. A sight, rare even for the locals, a true privilege to behold. And old Lysander will wring every last jewel out of her and turn it all into a great tiered city of his own self-importance if he gets his way, Felicity thought. Sure that might be beautiful, but Felicity reckoned there were enough cities in the world already, what they needed were more mountains.

The spectacle only increased as they cleared into the castle proper, and now wove along battlements and buttresses that no longer swam in a sea of mist, but flew through the crisp mountain airs. Walking through the very sky itself. Murdok and Barnaby nodded subtly as they headed back toward the entrances to the mines, where they would pass the morning. Bonnie walked along the great apron wall that spanned the canyon mouth to her guard post, and Felicity joined her. The lake sparkled in a deep azure unlike any other in the whole wide world. To the left, the river spilled forth in a dazzle of white diamonds as it tumbled toward Ramshackle, and...Felicity’s breath caught in her throat, for the first time the view was clear enough. Out past Ramshackle and all the rolling foothills, just at the edge of perception looked to be a great green ocean on the horizon. The Wilder Wood, spanning as far as the eye could see, pulsing vibrant in the rising morning mist.

Bonnie nodded and stepped into her guardhouse, and it was only then that Felicity realized Caeliro had vanished without a trace. No matter, the illusionist knew where to be and when. She continued her journey alone up toward the aerie high on the canyon wall. Past the end of the lake, streams braided their way down through the scree of the high valley, down from the caves that had set this whole incredible place in motion. The whole hanging valley sat like a cup of calm crystalline air as the last clouds clung only to the few crags that could hold them up on the rim. And above the caves, the mountain reared her proud head, a great wall of glacier formed a rim around the upper valley a hundred feet thick before climbing the staggering heights up into the sky. In the warmth of the clear sun the ice calved, sending frozen soldiers crashing down through stream and scree in a great tumult that filled the valley with rolling blows of glacial thunder.

Just before Felicity lost sight of the canyon rim as she approached its sheer wall that held the aerie, she looked up toward a rocky outcrop that held onto one of the last clouds. In the shifting vapors, if she squinted her eyes, she could make out the forms of two griffins waiting patiently. Purple and white. Between them was an imperceptible gnome, whose keen eyes had no problem perceiving her. But then the clouds shifted again and the mirage was gone.

In the aerie the morning passed in syrupy slowness, the air seemingly turned to amber by the golden light that streamed in through the window. Wingtip buzzed about happily, tending to the falcons, talking pleasantly all the while though whether to Felicity, the falcons, or herself, no one was quite sure. Felicity kept her head down and swept the already immaculate floor, mosaic patterns beaming back in the sun they so rarely saw. On her hip, innocently, hung her purse, her thief’s purse, today filled with more than ever before; topped up with a new tincture it still hung lightly on her belt, for now. Inside, everything Felicity could think to bring, tools, totems, and a towel, changes of clothes for the whole crew, a tent, a trowel, and a few emergency tinctures of various effects. In case things really got ugly. And of course one shabby length of sailor’s rope, taken off one snaggle-toothed mercenary.

Of course Plan A had less to do with tools and tinctures, and a whole lot more to do with a double distraction and the backdoor Kelem the Lightweaver had woven into the castle, seemingly unaware of its potential nefarious uses. Felicity ran through the plan again and again in her mind as she swept floors that didn’t need sweeping. Finally, the bright brass bells of Greyweather sang out the lunch hour. It was time.

“You go on, girl.” Wingtip called from down the hall, affectionately grooming a falcon in the pleasant sun. “I can’t bear to leave the aerie on days like today. I need to drink up every last drop of the sun.”

Things were starting off nicely. Felicity didn’t even need to fight her way through some lame excuse to slip away from her boss. So she scurried back down the switchbacking stairs to the path towards the canteen, just beginning to fill with hungry workers. On the far side she saw Murdok waiting in the shadows and hurried over to him. They signaled to Barnaby who waited at the mouth of the mines, and then followed the cart tracks back to the emptying refinery.

Felicity’s heart somersaulted with panicked exhilaration. The mercenary had done well in staging their loot. Possibly too well. Six carts sat ready to roll on the tracks. Heaped with ingots of every color. Platinum and silver, bronze and gold, coins of copper and pounds of palladium. It all shone dazzling and sinister in the dim light of the refinery.

“Do yeh think that’ll do lassie?” Murdok smiled, his eyes flashing gold as he chuckled.

“Hell Murdok, the whole idea was to keep this low key.” She protested, but weakly. Not only was it too late now, leaving a cart would only give away the game sooner; besides if they could make off with this much, why shouldn’t they? “Nothing they would miss remember?...” she trailed off, not believing her own protest.

“Oh den’t yeh worry yer litt’l copper head o’er it.” His flashing crazy eyes were not helping reassure the situation. “There ‘ent one gem in the lot o’ it. Ol’ Lysander has metals coming out his ears, they wen’t miss a few cart fulls o’ bullion. Now let’s get to it.”

They loaded into the driver platform on the lead cart and Murdok set the artificed contraption into motion. The whole train glided almost silently down the polished tracks as they rumbled toward the sunlight. Murdok pulled the train to a halt a beat before they broke out into the castle grounds, and just in time. A pair of elves and a half dozen guardsman bolted past. They peered around the corner, across the lake, to see Barnaby gleefully leading a host of agitated dwarves out of the mines to flood the castle. Further up the valley, on their side, more dwarves seemed to catch onto the notion rather quickly and turned into a tumult themselves, sending more guards scattering. The Dwarvish Mining Union was being reborn.

Murdok eased the train along through the opening and into the maze of Greyweather castle. They could have walked every step of their route blindfolded, and they proceeded forward with a professional efficiency that Felicity liked to think would make Mr. Moss proud. At every gate they encountered Felicity fished up to her elbow in her little thief’s purse to fish out a stolen totem, jammed it into the lock, and Murdock smashed it with the hilt of his dagger, leaving the ordinarily secure doors of the castle swinging in the wind and open to the avalanche of hairy, sweaty, swearing, union dwarves as they surged forth into the halls and courts.

After a few doors passed Bonnie and Caeliro joined them with slick professional nods, and they worked their way through the castle in surgical proficiency. Stopping, scouting, slipping-through, then sabotaging. All the castle workers were off in the canteen, blissfully unaware this was likely to be their last day of employment, enjoying some particularly well balanced dumplings. Which made sense, the chef Miss Merriman had been working on them for some time. And to get to enjoy the fruits of her labor on a day like today out on the wide patio of the canteen, well it’s no mystery why they may have chosen to ignore any unusual sounds coming from down below. The guards, on the other hand, were in fact on high alert, but heading in precisely the wrong direction. Well, at least the wrong direction to stop the thieves.

Felicity was feeling rather pleased with herself as they worked their way along, slipping by any unworthy gazes without notice. Until, one single gate before they were in the portyard, she looked one way and saw the ignorant backsides of both Lysander Sunhorn and Celestine Cerberia, as they whisked off indignant that dwarves would dare raise a stink in their mine, which made the pride rise in her chest all the higher. She turned the other way and stepped out into the hall...and right into the chiseled chest of the very last person in the world she wanted to see. Lachlan Needledown looked at her for a confused moment then beamed a bright smile at her.

“Felicity? Hi!” His hair waved lazily in the sun turning it golden, and once more the formidable machinery of Felicity Broadfeather’s mind ground to a halt and began to overheat.

“L-la-lach-Lachlan! Hi!” She stammered, far too loudly. “Wh-what are you doing here?! Yousaidyouweregoingbacktoport!” The words came out all wrong as her mind searched for anything plausible she could say. Mercifully, some mammalian part of her deepest mind took hold of her legs and had her stagger around the towering, beautiful woodsman and lead him back down the hall a few paces. More mercifully, he followed her lead.

“I got reassigned to a caravan coming back in almost as soon as we made it to the wood, but I could ask the same question of you!” He smiled. “You said you were just in town for some sightseeing. And now here you are all in grey! Is that a falconer’s hood? That’s so cool, the falcons scare me a bit, but I’d love to meet them.”

“Ah yep, well you know...” she fished around as her mind turned over blank card after blank card. Behind Lachlan, the train slid out on the tracks with Bonnie creeping ahead on tiptoe. Caeliro waved his long staff and the train all but disappeared into a shimmering mirage. It was unlike any ethereal Felicity had ever seen, almost like magic. “...I, uh, figured I’d give it a shot for a little while. Pays well with experience from the birds and all that...” The mirage reached the far door to the portyard and Felicity coughed just as the crew used Caeliro’s totem to open the mammoth doors. Lachlan turned around but with eyes not looking for it, how could he have seen a train of loot dissolved into a soft mirage?

“Oh I’m sure!” Credulous, wholesome, and kind as always Lachlan turned back to Felicity. “Well that’s incredible. The grey makes your hair look stunning by the way.” And Felicity’s heart skipped a beat just as she needed to disengage by any means necessary; she found her feet firmly planted, chin tilted up, imagining what it would be like to lean in and close the little distance between them.

“Oh, uh thanks,” she stammered with a shy smile, as the train slipped through the door. “The uh...light, makes uh you look...incredible.” Her mind protested in horrified embarrassment. That was several categories higher of unpaid compliment; that wasn’t even flirting, what the hell was that?

“Oh, um, thanks.” He blushed and rubbed the back of his head, “It is a beautiful day after all. Very rare up here.” 

Then from behind the glowing, golden, god of a man, came Felicity’s guardian angel, in the form of a snaggle-toothed, lump-headed, crazy-eyed mercenary.

“Oy lassie!” Murdok barked. “We’re on the clock here if yeh den’t mind!” He strutted up beside Lachlan. “Places to be with all this ‘ado.”

“Oh yes boss.” Felicity supplicated and gratefully took a step back. “GoodtoseeyouLachlan!” she fibbed breathlessly.

“Lad, if yer on the clock as well, there’s some kind o’ hubbub up in the mines. You’d best go up and lend a hand.” Murdok portended.

Lachlan looked at Murdok for a long moment, as Felicity held her breath. He’s worked dozens of caravans, he won’t remember one ugly mercenary, will he? She prayed.

“Oh yes sir, I’ll head right up there.” He nodded, and Felicity thanked every lucky star she’d ever had. “Good to see you Felicity, I’d love to come see the falcons soon.”

Murdok thrust her through the doorway before she could respond, and closed the great gilded gates meant to defend the prime work of Kelem Lightweaver, and the actual work of a hundred of the world’s finest artificiers. The portal.

“That boy, he goin’ ta be the death of yeh lassie.” Murdok admonished as she caught her breath, and let her mind come back up to speed.

High above all that, a sliver of sylvan shadow alit from the back of Buckley, strapped on a pack no bigger than your fist, filled with the tools that would bring all of Greyweather to its knees. Mr. Moss, professional he was, needed no training, but had rehearsed his route a hundred times nonetheless in the streets of Ramshackle. He stepped into the mouth of a cave that would only come up to your waist, but loomed well over his head, and vaulted perfectly over the rushing water. One immaculate leap, then another, then a dozen more. Flipping, twisting, climbing, sliding. He disappeared into the darkness to find the very headwaters of the Crystal, and see if one rather small gnome had what it took to stop even the river itself. He certainly did.

As Felicity looked up and emerged from her embarrassed mortification, her mind was struck by a new obstacle. Just as the minds of all her crew had been. The portal. The portyard all around it was much like the rest of Greyweather, hewn from grey stone, today the sun shone in filling it with pleasant mountain airs, over the tops of the walls the mountain’s peaks poked out into the clear sky. But the crew, they did not see those peaks, their eyes were transfixed on the ocean’s waves that undulated beneath their feet. They did not enjoy those pleasant mountain airs, all they could smell was brine and sea spray. They could barely hear the tumult that the striking dwarves were beginning to make out in the halls, transfixed as their ears were on the sound of gulls and waves in this least likely of places. The portal was exactly as Declan had described it for them. A circle of fifteen fathoms in the middle of the courtyard. The major hubs of gems that powered and directed the device sat just as described. Truly staggering inlay work weaved around the rim of the portal on a series of sliding rings which, when matched to the stars, set the whole device in motion. The artifice itself was a thing of nearly incomparable beauty, the spinning rim so delicately crafted with the very blood of the mountain herself. But no one was paying it much mind, as they were too busy being gobsmacked by the visceral feeling of the ocean being right there. Just as Declan said, if you trusted the portal you could jump right through from here high on the mountain to take a swim in the seventh sea. It was staggering, it was entrancing, it was more than a little bit wrong.

After too long a moment Felicity’s mind finally came back online. “Alright, looks like they never got it tuned in to Lunesia. Bully for us. They don’t have a good wrap on what this thing can do. Let’s get to it.” She nodded and the crew snapped to attention, taking places practiced over and again in the dim light of their now abandoned hideout.

The portal, Declan had shown them, was best operated by three. Bonnie, Caeliro, and Murdok took places near the three navigational gem clusters around the rim, Felicity took up position at the far end of the portal where the main cluster of power gems glowed, eager to tear new holes in reality. She took a deep breath and looked up at the sky, now a deep indigo that seemed you could almost look clear out to space. But there were no stars, their movements would be coordinated based on the best guess position of the key constellations they’d gotten from astronomers back in Ramshackle. Worse, the merman had also shown them, it all had to happen in a rather precise dance for successful locating. Felicity dug up to her elbow in her little purse and after a good bit of rummaging came out with her notebook that walked them through all the steps of this otherworldly ballet.

“Alright, grab your rings.” Felicity looked and saw eager faces all around. “Move to Position A, in three...two...on–”

A moment early Bonnie began to slide her ring around to its next position, and the world below through the portal sprinted by in a flash. Waves rushed by, then harbor, then city itself. Before they could even breathe, the portal shifted and now looked down, of all places, on the courtyard the elves were preparing in Lunesia. The crew now looked a few fathoms down on the elves and aritificers that were busy putting the finishing touches on the courtyard there, who felt the change of air above. They looked up, perplexed, to see four unknown humans looking down on them. A guardsman raised his horn to lips and let forth a fearsome blare. It rose and echoed into the portyard and surrounding castle.

“Bonnie! Change it ba–.” Felicity barked. Bonnie moved the ring back, almost imperceptibly, and they once again looked down at the soothing waves of the sea.

“Gods alive.” Bonnie shook her head. “These things are bloody sensitive.”

Outside the portyard, no further alarm had been raised it seemed, all they could hear was the increasing din of the dwarves as they marched their merry way down from the mines.

“Ok,” Felicity centered herself again. “On my signal, to position A, three...two...one. Move.”

This time, all three rings slid around on their tracks in an effortless twirl. Once more the world sped by beneath their feet, this time landing just above a beach which according to their calculations sat several leagues up the coast from the port city. In place of alarmed elves, now there were only crabs scuttling in the sand, they seemed not to notice the four strange humans hanging in the sky above.

“Alright, well that’s a little better. Now position B, three...two...one. Move.”

Again the rings slid in practiced coordination and the world whisked by before snapping onto a new location. This time the scrubby forest just inland from the coast. The abrupt change in pressure above the bushes startled some birds, and one shot straight up and through the portal. One moment he was having a nice sandy worm in the afternoon sun, next thing he knew he was flying up out of the courtyard in between snowy peaks he was never meant to see in all his days.

“Guess that answers the question about transporting living creatures.” Bonnie gibed. This had been a subject of some debate, and one that Declan could not provide an answer on. For as much as he was tempted to jump through for a swim, he hadn’t; to his knowledge they hadn’t actually tested the portal on a living being.

“Doesn’t matter.” Felicity shook off the barb. “Wouldn’t have worked for an exit anyhow, too easy to track, besides our deal with Barnaby is to wreck the thing. We can’t very well do that looking up at a patch of bare air from five fathoms below now can we?”

“...Wouldn’t have worked for your exit.” Bonnie muttered under her breath.

“Position C.” Felicity barked. “Three, two, one. Move.”

This jump was bigger, each ring slid a solid quarter of the way around the portal’s rim. Below the world traded cool and humid coast for dry and sunny scrubland. If their star charts were worth a damn they should be looking down just past the edge of the Wilder Wood, where the hills started climbing up toward Ramshackle.

Outside the dwarven din was turning into full bedlam. What was once a low rumble at the edge of their hearing, now spilled over the walls of the portyard filling it with mad cacophony. Felicity breathed deep and tried to focus.

“Position D.” She now had to yell. “Three. Two. One. Mo–”

This time Murdok had moved too early. The world through the portal shot by and they found themselves looking down at the white ice of a glacier. Likely they were now looking down at the peak of one of the Morning Mountains, really there wasn’t much way to know. At times small moves would make big jumps, at other times whole turns worked only to focus in the portal on a small area. It all depended which constellations the gems were mapping to at a given moment.

“Murdok! Too far! Bring it back.” Felicity yelled over the tumult. Before she could finish the mercenary slid his ring back and the view snapped to what looked like the mirrored surface of Greyweather Lake.

“Keep going!”

He slid it a little more, and in a sickening moment the world below slid by as the world above opened up in a blink. The portal’s exit now sat squarely over its entrance, hovering overhead just out of reach. There was nothing to delineate the backside of the portal, no edge, no rim. Just here was up and there was down in a wide circle that just matched the portal at their feet. They looked down past their shoes at the tops of their own heads and recoiled in horror. No one quite knew what a paradox-inducing configuration such as this would cause. And if things hadn’t been bad enough for our poor lost coastal bird, whose nice sandy worm was only a distant memory in his stomach, he flew back into the courtyard hoping to find a way home, and without much thought, flew right into the portal paradox the crew had just inadvertently made. He flew up and it took him down, he flew down and it took him up. Round and round, in a vortex of confusion. Surrounded by four humans who seemed to comprehend what was happening to him even less than he did.

“Move it! Move it! Move it!” Bonnie cried, and Murdok regained himself and set his ring back where it was and once more they looked down again on the sunny scrub at the edge of the wood. The bird, now rather thoroughly sick of this portal business, flew through one last time and vanished out of sight. Hopefully heading off where these meddling humans couldn’t disturb his day any further.

Meanwhile the noise of the striking dwarves only continued to grow, until they all could barely hear themselves think.

“Alright!” Felicity barked. “We have some time, our target isn’t that far from this position, slide one ring one notch at a time and we’ll get it honed in. I’m going to go see what’s going on outside.” The three others nodded sternly and set about a now painstakingly slow rendition of the dance they’d practiced so many times.

Felicity slid the massive door to the portyard open just enough to peek through, and in the monotone halls of Greyweather castle she saw an avalanche of color heading her way. The Dwarvish Mining Union was back, in all its sweaty glory. The dwarves had cast off the grey coveralls that the elves had assigned as uniforms, and now they showed the true colors of a hundred dwarvish clans. Tartans of every hue and pattern flew proudly on their broad, hairy chests. He-dwarf and she-dwarf alike rampaged down the halls in boisterous discontent. Felicity duked back in just before the crowd passed by her door and carried her along for a ride through the castle.

“Any sign o’ the dwarf?” Murdok asked behind her, peering out into the passing tumult.

“Not yet...there’s still time.” She replied, Barnaby was meant to meet them after getting his strike started to help move the loot and then make the most of their exit plan.

“Not bleedin’ much time lassie.” The mercenary scowled. “I’ll go find the hairy bugger.”

Felicity stepped aside, “Good luck. Be quick about it.”

“Aye.” He nodded, eyes no longer black, but full of flashing gold, and stepped out into the coursing river of exquisitely agitated dwarves.

Turning back, Felicity knelt beside the massive array of gems that provided power for the portal and placed a small package, delivered to her by Caeliro two days before, among the faceted jewels. Bonnie and Caeliro meticulously honed in on their drop location. The rings around the rim of the portal were massive, twenty fathoms in diameter and nested within each other. But they all slid along their masterfully artificed tracks with little resistance but for faint notches hewn specifically to make such fine calibration possible. With each click now the world below their feet jumped a little less, and a little less. They were working their way through the deeps of the Wilder Wood. Looking down at ferns looming over the ground, unable to see the trees towering above the view of the portal. Then there it was, a clearing with a miniscule mannequin carved and placed in the center, looking almost as though it was going to catch the treasure about to come down upon it. Felicity looked around and smiled, just barely perceptible, little sets of eyes glared up from under ferns and in tree boles. Hidden, watching, waiting.

“That’s it, hold there!” She called happily. Mr. Moss had established the drop point, a place only gnomes could find, but the perfect place deep in the woods to hide some particularly hot loot for a while. “Let’s get loading!”

“What the hell Felicity?” Bonnie moaned. “We’re down two people, how are we supposed to unload?”

Just then, a drifting light raced along the far wall. Felicity ran over to it and looked up. Barely over the edge of the portyard wall she could see the mouth of the caves where the river sprung forth, there flashing in the sun was a mirror. A signal from Mr. Moss, the exit plan was in motion.

“Well that’s Moss!” She yelled, “We’ve got time, but not a lot of it. Let’s get what we can.”

Behind the carts Caeliro snapped his fingers with a loud pop and a puff of smoke, and all the carts in their laden weight rolled forward and bumped up against the end of the track right by the portal. Whatever alchemist he was working with for these tricks, seriously deserved a raise.

“Easy enough for you Bon?”

Her friend scowled an eager grin and opened the front of the cart. The trio formed a line and brick by brick dropped into her dirt more wealth than the Wilder Wood had seen in all the years of Greyweather’s mining combined. Soon the little mannequin in the clearing was up to his shoulders in ingots of gold, copper, silver, and platinum. Then only his little hand stayed above the flood. Then he was gone altogether as the pile continued to grow. One cart, two carts, three carts they emptied into the forest below. Moving all this loot was going to be a real task when the job was done, Felicity smiled a big wolfish grin while she worked.

Then just as they were nearing the end of the third cart the hairs on Felicity’s arms raised all at once as she heard the heavy door to the portyard swing open. Right on time, she thought. With one sly kick of her toe, she knocked the outer guidance ring out of place.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t our falconer.” The words slid across the perfect, harsh lips of Celestine Cerberia, and though they were sinister, contained no small amount of joy. “I told you that I’d have my eye on you.”

Felicity, Bonnie and Caeliro all turned to face the elf and two of her guards as they stepped out of the tumult. Behind them was an all too recognizable shadow, lumpheaded, dark, and devious. Murdok smiled with flashing eyes as he accepted a small purse from the elf. “Nothin’ against yeh lass, I just found meself a better deal.” He explained, with only a little less joy than the elf as he slunk into the shadows.

With a breathless incantation and a flick of his wrist, Caeliro vanished in a flash of light. Not a trace of the tall illusionist remained.

“Where’d he go?!” Celestine demanded. “Seize them.” The guards rushed across and bound the woodswomen. “How’d he do that? I’ve never seen an etheral do such a thing!”

“He’s of the Heavenly Enclave, beyond the Morning Mountains.” Felicity mocked, meeting naked joy with contempt. “He has no need for our trinkets or tinctures.”

“Very funny. No matter, he can’t have gotten far. We’ll find him, the castle is fully locked down thanks to the dwarves.” She turned her head and looked at Felicity. “Or was that you as well? A little distraction while you tried to make off with someone else’s treasure? A lot of good it did you, we’ve locked it all down, we’ll deal with the dwarves right after dealing with you.” She looked down through the portal. “And what was the plan? Throw some treasure through Master Kelem’s creation and hop through after it? A bold plan, if a bit simple.” Through the portal, at her feet a swamp sat misty and smelly below them, a great warty toad looked up and croaked loudly before hopping off his lilypad to spend his afternoon in peace.

“Something like that.” Felicity teased.

“And where have the goods in those carts gone then?” The elf nodded at the emptied carts, with three more, conspicuously full, behind them.

Felicity only nodded her proud copper head down towards the swap, bubbling and murky, cloudy waters revealing nothing of what may lay beneath.

“Nevermind that.” Celestine declared, indignant. “We’ll get to the bottom of your mischief before long, but better to have the pair of you in cells for all that. Take them up.”

The fine craftsmanship of the elves’ cuffs didn’t make them sting any less as they clamped around Felicity’s wrists.

--

The river ceased to tumble down the mountainside.

But it wasn’t evident quite yet as the caves emptied of the water that hadn’t been caught up by the trapping ethereal. Chief Orchestrator Celestine Cerberia and her two guards walked the woodswomen along the wide apron wall of Greyweather, which spanned across the mouth of the canyon. To the left, a bank of low clouds had rolled in to plow against the low flanks of the mountain. Thick, heavy drifts of vapor smothered town and wood both, leaving only a sea of pulsing white out for as far as the eye could see. They walked along the smooth stone beach of an island in the sky, capped by the blazing white of the mountain. To the right, Greyweather castle had filled with a riot of color. Every last sweating, stinking, smelly, beautiful dwarf had left the mines in unison and flooded the halls of the elves. All proudly wearing the tartans of their forefathers. All demanding the same thing. Justice.

When the group cleared up onto the battlement of the outer wall, Felicity looked down at the swarming, swearing kaleidoscope below and smiled. But then she looked past, past the overrun castle, past the shining lake, up to where the waters sprung out of the mountain and her smile faded. It had been nearly fifteen minutes since Mr. Moss had sent his signal and still the waters rushed forth from the high caves just as they did every day. A trickle of panic began to climb its way up her spine. The rioting dwarves were only the distraction, never the exit. Goddamned useless Eustace Hindhair, calls himself a master alchemist, can’t even make a ReddyIce™ right. Without the next phase of the plan the elves would succeed in quelling the dwarven strike, and our woodswomen would spend the rest of their days freezing in a hanging cell. Felicity could make out the cells’ small doors perched up on the far canyon walls, dark windows cut in so you could watch the world pass by as your life faded in an elvish blink. Felicity dragged her feet as much as she could, all she could do at this point was buy her plan time to unspool.

She looked out into the waves of fog that rolled in and crashed against the castle, spilling through the battlements in thin tendrils. She breathed in the free air, closing her eyes, willing the world into action.

“Captain!” the square and rather dull-seeming guard called and pulled her up short. “Look! The portal!”

Three elves and two humans looked down easily into the open portyard below. Three with fury, two with rising hope. There was Murdok, doing his worst. Which for Felicity, in this moment, happened to be his best. The mercenary was attempting to recalibrate the portal, glimpses of the world flashed by as he paused between moves. Now the sea, now rolling plains, now bare stone. He seemed to be attempting to hone back in on their stash in the woods, but without two others to help tune the rings he was jumping unpredictably all over the world, and wasting precious time in doing it. Oh Murdok, you snaggletoothed, bowlegged, slump-shouldered, crazy-eyed, utterly, gloriously predictable man, Felicity thought with something approaching relief, thank you.

Up on the battlement, the Chief Orchestrator cried “Stop! Thief!” She gestured harshly at her guards. “Get down there and stop him, I’ll handle these two.”

At the alarm Murdok looked up, even from afar they could see his eyes flashing greedy gold. He turned the rings again, and the world jumped once more, this time landing on a patch of desert that could be no less that two thousand leagues away. Three, two, one, Felicity counted with her thief’s impeccable timing. On cue the small charge she’d placed in the gems exploded in a charged cloud. It was small, but targeted. The bulk of the gems powering the portal were dislodged or shattered, repairs would take months, if they were possible at all. But then something Felicity could not have predicted happened. The portal began to fail in a catastrophic chain reaction. From the cluster of gems at the top, pulsing currents chased around the rim, shattering smaller stones, smelting off inlaid metals, and fusing the rings in place. Murdok attempted to turn them and looked up furious at Felicity.

Yet the portal stayed open. Fixed on a random patch of desert a hundred leagues from the nearest outpost and more than three thousand from the nearest coast. The elves would have their portal, to the middle of nowhere. Having seen the guards take off towards him, Murdok decided to try his chances. He turned on the carts’ motive and jammed the accelerator forward. The carts careened off the end of the track and through the waiting, hungry mouth of the portal, sending them crashing into the shifting sands below. The crazy-eyed mercenary looked up a final time and sent Felicity a mocking salute, before jumping through.

This time one elf and two humans held their breath. Murdok jumped, landed...and arose. Limping but seemingly otherwise unharmed. Portals it seemed, did not struggle with moving living beings. Murdok gathered what of the treasure he could into a satchel and limped off into the winding maze of sand and rock that was the northern deserts. Just as he slipped out of view, the two guards crashed through the door, looked down to see the carts laying in the sand, and began a vigorous debate as to who would be the first ever elf to cross a portal. Neither seemed too keen on the notion.

“What was that?!” Celestine demanded. “Was this your plan all along? Was he working with you?”

Felicity raised her cuffed wrists. “On the contrary, Chief Orchestrator, I believe he was working with you.”

The elf let forth a rather unfitting scream of rage before shoving Felicity and Bonnie along. “Star-damned humans! No respect! No sense of beauty! Or reason! Or decency!” The woodswomen shuffled along slowly, taking the abuse and holding their breath.

Then finally, mercifully, miraculously, the rushing streams in the high valley began to slow. First merely less furious, then down to a light pour, then a slight trickle, then stopped all together. For the first time in a thousand years the waters that powered Greyweather ceased to flow. Felicity looked over the battlement at the surface of the lake, as predicted the level was dropping precipitously.

Greyweather castle, refinery, and mine certainly had been built, maintained, and largely operated thanks to the tireless work of the world’s best artificers, supplied by all the wealth of the mountain. But in truth they were powered by the river. The endless rushing power fed through channels and races and pipes and flues, diverted and directed to add raw force to the many incredible devices which made Greyweather the wonder it was. As the water level in the lake dropped, the first affected were the mines, now billowing steam out of their entrances. Then it was the refinery, machinery clanging, jammed up and seized tight. Then finally the castle itself, every last clever artifice either rendered inert or now susceptible to the wily unpredictability of simple inlay artificing.

The elf had failed to notice the change as they all proceeded over toward the far wall of the canyon. She was too busy swearing to all the heavens her frustrations with humans. On this far side where the battlements of the apron wall met the canyon, a wide promenade circled around the far side of the lake. Ordinarily it would be filled with all sorts of guards trading off between posts. Today it shone empty in the sunlight, with all the guards off attempting to quell the unquellable dwarves. To the left, at the end of the battlement, a tall dark door was cut into the cliff face, sinister and metal. The door to the hanging cells of Greyweather. Celestine marched up to it, full of fine frustration, and held her totem up to the great silver lock.

And nothing happened. Not a click. Not a pop. Not a turning of a lock. Inert. She held her totem up again. Again nothing. With a frustrated shout she shoved at the huge iron door, and it swung loose on its hinges. She stepped back and looked up at the narrow crookback stairs that climbed to the many higher doors of the cells themselves where they hung a thousand fathoms above the valley floor far below. One by one they creaked open as their occupants saw what happened below and tried their luck.

“YOU!” The elf turned on Felicity, now fully collapsed into frothing rage. “What have you done?!”

“I don’t know what you mean, Chief Orchestrator.” She held up her cuffed wrists again. “I’ve been with you this whole time.”

Celestine Cerberia’s face twisted into a mask of fury, and just as she was about to hurl her worst at our two beloved woodswomen, there was a flash and a blast of cold air. Behind them loomed tall and blue, Caeliro of the Heavenly Enclave, serene and noble in the mountain air. The elf stumbled backwards into the door and it swung open even further. He reached down and with a pop both of their cuffs fell to the ground with liberating clanks.

“Wh–wh–how?” The elf struggled, face gone an unseemly red in this place of grey.

“You could not know the power of the Heavenly Enclave even if I had all your long elvish years to show it to you.” The illusionist flourished with no small amount of mystery, and Felicity had to admit it was a pretty good schtick, and the commitment to the bit was outstanding.

In a flash Felicity tossed Bonnie the length of sailor’s rope she fished out of her little purse, and Bonnie wrestled the outraged elf over to the far edge of the doorway where she could tie her up. The elf fought, indignant, but one on one was no match for the brawny woodswoman. She held her tongue as she was bound sitting on the smooth stone, but then looked up and smiled. Above them on the canyon wall, a massive shadow flew forth out of the aerie. The falcons had had enough of the hubbub.

Felicity glanced over her shoulder, turned and said with an impish grin “Well Chief Orchestrator, I do believe that’s our cue. It’s been a pleasure working with you.” She turned on a practiced heel and walked along the promenade.

“Felicity!” Bonnie barked with an uncompromising glare. “The tincture.”

“Oh come on! Do we have to?” Felicity turned, protested. This part she was hoping to avoid, the tincture was meant as a backup, and things had gone to plan...well more or less to plan. To use a tincture to wriggle out at the end of a job was just so unseemly. So amateurish.

“Felicity, now!” Bonnie commanded, leaving no room for protest. “Those other goons have nothing, even if they ever make it back from the desert, but she can make us.”

The cunning, aspiring, master thief harrumphed impotently as he fished up to her elbow in her little artificed bag and pulled forth a tiny vial of silvery tincture. Forget Me Not, was interesting in the world of memory tinctures. It was tough to make and so fairly expensive, it also had a maximum effect of erasing memories from only the past half hour or so. So for most folks it was too pricey to be useful, there were cruder options with longer effect lengths out there. But they generally offered a less complete erasure. Critically Forget Me Not was not only a blank-slate memory eraser, it also had a rather useful side effect for times such as these. The recipient would lose their very recent memories cleanly, and they would also lose their memories that memory potions themselves existed at all, completely. Once the tincture did its work, Celestine Cerberia, head of Greyweather security would have no memory of the thieves, nor any memories that using a memory potion on her was even a possibility. When the other elves found her bound by the hanging cells, they certainly would realize that a memory tincture had been used on her, they would tell her so. And she would simply refuse to believe them.

“Oh nonononono. Stars damn you! You scheming, slinking, human, thief!” the elf protested against the rope but it only tightened its grip around her wrists, imagining itself holding fast around a mast whipping in the wind, but doing a perfectly bang up job on the struggling elf.

Felicity placed a small drop on the elf’s proud forehead and walked away. That was all that was needed. Really, if you weren’t so busy trying to outfox everyone with your plan it was a quite tidy way to handle an unexpected witness.

This time Felicity turned on her practiced heel and began to stroll away down the promenade. Celestine writhed and protested, but before Felicity had made it five steps, the struggles subsided as the tincture did its work. The elf would wake up in a few minutes a bit giddy and full of the wide-eyed gullibility that the potion produced as an after effect. She’d regain her true self in a few hours and by then, Felicity hoped, they’d be a long, long way away. 

Unfortunately Felicity was only able to enjoy her practiced walk away for ten paces or so before Bonnie and Caeliro caught her up with a considerable amount more haste, and they all pelted down the promenade. Above, more falcons poured out of the aerie and where circling in the skies deciding which bit of the chaos below to deal with first. Below, the lake had drained notably and the water intakes that focused the rushing power into the many uses of Greyweather now sucked in only air. Around the castle, machinery wound down and hung slack. Wheels turned with only their residual interia, carts ground to a halt, lights dimmed, and most critically for their plan, every door in Greyweather Castle opened with a small pop and hung loose as the locking artificery failed.

The swarming dwarves across the lake took notice immediately and overran all quarters of the castle. Behind the sprinting thieves those poor souls who had been condemned to hanging cells made their way down the crookback stairs on shaky legs, bewildered as to their change of fortune. The elves, now outnumbered and overpowered, hid wherever they could find refuge. Maybe not so useless after all Eustace, Felicity smirked and Bonnie caught it, returning a grin with a glimpse of joy beaming in her eyes.

Yes, all seemed to be going just to plan for Felicity Broadfeather. But then something quite unexpected happened. Our thieves hadn’t exactly noticed that the streams down from the mountain’s high caves weren’t merely slowed, they were stopped up completely. You see Eustace Hindhair, for whatever else he may have been, was also in point of fact a Master Alchemist. When you bought a vial of ReddyIce™ from his shop you could rely on it to be as efficient as any in all the land, even if it took a time to get going. And that is just what was happening deep in the twisting caves of the mountain where Mr. Moss had so carefully planted the ethereals. The ice had spread in an exponential wave through every crack and fissure of the rock, all the while pressure of the now trapped groundwater built and built and built.

Of course none of our trio knew anything about all that. They merely knew that quite unexpectedly the ground had begun to shake.

“What’s that?” Bonnie yelped, stumbling to a halt.

“Earthquake?” Felicity offered, very unsure, her mind racing to adjust to this new development.

“Do they have those up here?”

“I guess so!”

“Ladies!” Caeliro called pointing up at the bowl of the high valley where the streams had ceased to run.

At the end of his thin, blue-tipped finger chaos was erupting. The groaning, shaking mountain began calving off hundreds of new bergs from her glacier which tumbled joyously down to meet the now rapidly receding waters of the lake below. The valley filled with an endless, furious roll of glacial thunder unlike anything that has ever been heard in all the world since. The trio watched mouths agape as the mountain twisted and protested, seemingly trying to throw off her icy cloak. Then they staggered back as the scene went from chaos to bedlam. The rock around the caves cracked open with the still expanding ReddyIce™ sending tumbling boulders to join the glacial calves in their riotous descent.

And then, finally, the waters of the river found their way down the mountain, just as they always had and always will. The river roared as it erupted from the mountain side in a torrent of water, ice, and stone. Heavier elements barreled down through the nearly drained lake to slam into the apron wall of Greyweather and send great cracks up the proud stone edifice. Water rushed in all directions, into the lake, into the mines, into the castle, and along the promenade. 

As always the river flashed gold as it tumbled down the mountain side. It flashed with gold, and silver, and copper. It flashed with opals, and rubies, and sapphires, and diamonds. Naturally, today, folks were a little less eager to see it. Rushing as it was towards them in their precarious perch up in the hanging valley. Fortunately the valley sucked down the majority of the water and only a few early waves washed down the promenade and on the far side down into the castle swarming with dwarves.

“Felicity, with me!” Bonnie wrapped a brawny, scarred arm around her friend and dove into a nearby guard shack as the first waves of water rushed past. They held tight in the little shack tucked into the cliff wall until the stream settled down, then stumbled out into a river of luck that would make the gods themselves blush.

On this day, the Crystal River lived fully up to its name as it shone in the mountain sun. Coursing through its waters were gems. Gems of every size and color the mind could fathom. Felicity waded out into the water stunned, giddy, reeling. She bent down and reached into the water rushing around her boots and plucked out a chunky sapphire, rough and uncut, but glinting brilliant blue all the same. She turned to her compatriots as a stunned smile spread across her face.

This though, this was more than the falcons could countenance. Their sharp eyes saw the glinting gem in the thief’s hand and several of them peeled off from their swarm above the dwarves and banked toward the promenade, raising a shrill warning call. Klee-klee-k-k-klee!

“Felicity go!” Bonnie shouted and grabbed a tall shield out of the guard shack. Caeliro stepped out and waved his staff as he’d done earlier with the carts, but his illusions this time seemed to have no effect against the keen eyes of the falcons. He turned and bolted off, hot on Felicity’s heels.

In a flash, the fearsome falcons were upon them. Bonnie swung at their tearing talons with her shield, sending them screeching off to wheel about and dive at them once more. They continued their sprint towards the upper valley seeking any refuge they might find from the terrible raptors.

But Felicity was a clever thief. She could walk and chew gum at the same time. Or rather, make an escape and grab a few gems while she was at it. As she ran she reached into the now ebbing water and scooped up whatever gems were at her feet. A couple handfuls of opals. A fist’s worth of emeralds. A riot of topaz, sapphire, and rubies. All of them she dumped into the safest place she had. Her thief’s purse.

The only problem with the purse was it was prone to reacting unpredictably when encountering new gems, and its top-up tincture was wearing off. The artificing that allowed it to carry so much more than its size and hide its contents from prying eyes, was also perfectly eager to try and incorporate the gems into its magical weave, with unknowable results. So as Bonnie and Caeliro battled the birds, Felicity scooped up gem after gem. She dropped in a sapphire and the purse sagged as though filled with wet sand a hundred times the weight of the gem. She dropped in an emerald and the weight vanished but a spray of palm fronds shot forth out of the little sack’s mouth. She dropped in a topaz and the bag turned all at once to look as though made of kaleidoscopic crystal. She dropped in a handful of opals and the purse inflated like a balloon and she had to jump up and grab the strings before it floated off into the air, narrowly escaping the swooping talons of a pursuing falcon.

“Felicity!” Bonnie barked as she batted and batted at the birds. “Seriously?!”

Felicity smiled back, impish, but quickened her pace as she continued to scoop up gems. She took a deep breath and cried out a sound of the Wilder Wood. Ki-ki-karrooo! She cried, faithfully, joyously. Ki-ki-karrooo!

But the falcons continued to swarm, pinning them against the cliff wall, taking turns swooping in with their flashing talons. Bonnie and Caeliro battled back admirably but the birds had turned the tide. They cried out in fury as the falcons slashed away at their arms.

Down at Felicity’s heel, she felt the bump of a stone rolling along in the little wash of water that remained on the promenade. She spared a look down, as she crouched behind her redoubtable friends, there rolling along in the waters of the Crystal River, was an uncut gem. A gem of pure light. Big as her little finger, and a touch wider. It was rough and tumble, only moments freed from the rock where it had lived for millennia beyond count, but there was no doubt. A diamond. Felicity bent down and dropped it into her purse and it immediately hung limpley on its strings, as though merely empty and waiting for more.

Thrill chased through her veins as she inhaled and cried out finally at the top of her lungs. Ki-ki-karrooo!!!

An amethyst flash shot by, a flurry of screeching glory, drawing off several of the menacing falcons in less than a blink. Keeeeeer! The remaining falcons cried their displeasure. K-k-klee-klee! And redoubled their attack, Caeliro fell back against the wall, slouching next to Felicity, spent. Bonnie fell to a knee, holding the shield above them with the last of her might that waned with each furious slash from above. Until, whomph. A silent, white, shadow plummeted down to the promenade with deadly power. Under one taloned claw a falcon crumpled, the rest raised up in startled fury. Althea, the mightiest beast of all the Wilder Wood, roared no call. She was only silent fury, rearing up over her battered rider. Talons flashed, beaks cut and clacked, wings beat a furious wind all around them. But in the end, the Falcons were birds, and the griffin was bird and cat both. They were no match. The falcons cried one last despondent call and circled away to try and regroup.

“Althea!” Bonnie cried, hugging the great, white creature around a neck that even her huge arms could only encircle just a portion. Bonnie nuzzled her face into the downy, silver tipped feathers, joyed beyond all hope or expectation to be reunited with her companion.

“Seems as though you all could use a hand.” A deep voice boomed from atop the griffin. They looked up to see the smiling, well-trimmed face of Mr. Moss, straddling the back of his wood’s most fearsome protector.

“Could have come a bit sooner!” Felicity shot up at the little figure with a glad smile.

“On the contrary Miss Broadfeather, I’m exactly on time. And timing is everything for a thief.” He parried. For the first time a flashing, sharp smile crossed his fine face. “Best not dally in any case.”

Buckley circled back around and landed beside Althea; above them the crying, furious falcons had joined with those harrying the dwarves, and collected the cast of birds seemed ready put aside the dwarves for the moment until the egregious intercision of griffins within their mountain had been dealt with. Felicity and Bonnie hopped lightly onto their mounts, and Bonnie reached down to help up Caeliro.

“If it’s all the same to you all, I’ll find my own way from here.” The illusionist said, refusing her hand.

“Suit yourself, what about your cut?” Bonnie asked.

“I am renegade from the Heavenly Enclave, I see no reason why I should not come visit your Wilder Wood to see you about my portion.”

“Travel safe, magician.” Felicity poked, “Because when you come visit, you’re teaching me about the tinctures you’ve been using.”

A small smile turned up the corners of the azure illusionist’s mouth. “No tinctures, woodswoman. Only the power of the Enclave.” He met her eyes warmly, “Perhaps, with a great deal of patience, you could learn a small grain of our ways.”

“I’ll hold you to it, wizard.”

Caeliro nodded, swirled in his robe and seemed to vanish in a cold flash of light. It really was remarkable, almost like magic. He really could get better use out of his tricks as a thief, Felicity thought as she nudged Buckley back into the sky.

The cantankerous cast of falcons banked through the sky, organized and ready to do their worst. They flushed the griffins up the end of the promenade and toward the upper valley where the great angry force of the river still roared down in a cascade of water, ice, and stone filling the lake with a livid froth that glowed glacine in the sun. Fortunately these were griffins of the Wilder Wood, second to none in nimbleness on the wing.

Felicity drew Buckley steeply upwards, past the wide windows of the aerie carved into the cliff face. As she flashed skyward the red head of Madam Wingtip peered out of the aerie door, and she shot Felicity a wink. The lady of the aerie reached inside and flipped and artificed switch, one of the few still working in all of Greyweather. In a blink, silver bars shot over the windows, trapping the falcons in who had yet to join the fray. They screeched their indignant displeasure as they clawed at the bars which almost never covered their windows. It seemed the old woodswoman had a lion’s heart after all.

They then turned sharply over the raging waters and back toward the castle as the falcons reeled and attempted to give chase. Below all was a riot. In the lake, a riot of foaming water. In the castle, still a riot of colorful dwarves who’d made the most of the doors swinging open. They overran the halls, the stairs, the buttresses, and battlements. They swarmed around the portal, and through the gardens, and up onto the wall. Leading the charge along the apron wall was the dwarf who had set all this cacophonic glory into motion, Barnaby Lamplighter IV sang joyously with his union brothers as they retook their mine. The air seemed to vibrate with the baritone of their work song. He turned toward the griffins as they streaked away from the falcons and waved, with a grin large enough to eat all the hopes of his former elven overlords.

On the other end of the wall, a few elves who hadn’t found anywhere to hide scurried away from the sweaty, singing dwarves. Among them, Felicity could just make out at the edge of her vision, Lysander Sunhorn Grand Curator of the Clouded Halls. His guards seemed to be attempting to shake Celestine Cerberia back into her senses, and were just now probably realizing a memory tincture had been used on her. Above them hanging cell doors swung open in the wind revealing empty cells, occupants having wasted no time in using the chaos to hurry away.

For a moment, Felicity was a bit concerned about what would become of the elves when the striking dwarves caught up to them, but her concern was quickly interrupted. C-c-craaack! The raging water battering the inside of the apron wall that had acted as a dam for the lake finally found purchase. The river wanted to be free once more. With booms that outroared the glacial thunder a hundred to one, the center of the wall split with a great crack and crumbled before the rushing might of the Crystal River. On one side, the dwarves halted and moved back as the river swept away more and more of the wall. On the far side, the elves huddled up on the promenade, taking what little refuge they could find. Even for immortal beings, this surely had to be an exceptionally bad day.

The thieves dove over the far battlement of the castle and chased the rushing river down, down, and down. Down one hundred and two dwarvish feet and more the frothing, glaucous fury tore down the mountain side. They dove through the low bank of clouds that had rolled in and turned all the world into a sea of mist to bear witness to the freedom of the river. As they passed the empty forecastle they watched as the round tower which had worked as a falcon perch was torn away in a clean sweep by the hungry river. The falcons tore on in furious pursuit, gaining moment by moment. While griffins were the nimbler, the falcons certainly had them in speed.

So they wove through the tips of the towering pines that clad the side of the mountain, forcing the pursuing raptors to keep their distance. Then, up on a rise ahead, Ramshackle appeared chaotic, messy, beautiful, and blissfully unaware of the recent management change up at Greyweather. Fortunately the town sat up on a rise above the main channel of the river and were safe from the fury closing in. But the sluices they’d built to capture some of the river filled to overflowing in a flash. Water wheels went from lazy spin to frenetic vortex. Strainers filled quickly with glacial flour and soon water spilled over into the streets. In the town square the water-powered clock tower blew its golden top off with the pressure and turned into a great fountain. And where there came water, there came gold and silver and copper and gems. Sluices that would catch flakes now caught nuggets. Stunned citizens stumbled out into the streets, ankle deep in the glacier-blue water, and they leaned down to find opal, topaz, emerald and more drifting down their streets. Whoops and cheers of unbridled celebration rose up from the town as they looked up to see the two griffins racing away from the crazed cast of falcons. The only one unlikely to realize their turn of good fortune was likely to be Eustace Hindhair, holed up as he was in his cellar shop. Even still, with any luck some stones would find their way down to rattle against his windows. This was his handiwork afterall.

Past Ramshackle Felicity drove Buckley once more into the clouds, seeking any cover she could find. It was a scant hope, but all that she had at the moment. The road from Ramshackle back to the wood arced north and east, but the nearest part of the wood was dead east, so they banked that way through the thickening fog. It was an empty bit of wood that wove out a bit higher into the foothills, but getting back amongst their trees was their best shot of proper escape. But by now the falcons with their greater speed nipped right at their heels. Flashing talons careened out of the fog only to disappear in a flush of feathers and mist a heartbeat later. All they could do was hold tight and hope for the best as the falcons tightened in their attacks. Talons rent the air just above their heads, razor beaks clacked at hindquarters and wingtips. Closer, closer, closer with each passing breath.

Just barely, through the fog, Felicity saw the terrain turn from scraggy scrub to the very first of the stunted redwoods at the wood’s edge. She guided Buckley into a spiraling climb, seeking to flash above the clouds once more, hoping both to confuse the falcons and get a count on their number. The griffins punched out of the clouds in a blazing streak of silver and amethyst, mists falling off their wings in a spiral cascade to rejoin the clouds below. Half a breath later a falcon streaked forth, then another and two more and more and more. A dozen giant, dark falcons coursed with broad powerful wings, making up air on the griffins with every flap.

“Not good Felicity!” Bonnie called, looking back, the little gnome sitting between her legs grit his teeth in agreement.

“Into the trees! We can lose ‘em!” Felicity cried. Ahead the first proper sized trees of the Wilder Wood poked out of the bank of clouds, a churning mass of grey and green, all blazing bright in the lowering, streaking sunlight.

The griffins arced out of their climb and prepared one last all-or-nothing dive into the trees. Just then there was a flash of cobalt amongst the treetops. Then of carmine. Then of saffron. Then of russet, mauve, peach, plum and porphyry. Griffins. A great guard of griffins burst forth from the treetops of their wood in a clangor of color. The birds shot out fresh and furious at the encroaching falcons. Through Felicity’s wind-stung, tear-filled eyes they streaked past in a joyous rainbow. The falcons had flown too far, this was the griffin’s wood, and they didn’t stand a chance.

And below two battered griffins, their riders, and one very hearty forest gnome slipped into the waiting cover of cloud and canopy.

--

The air glowed gold as it sifted through the canopy.

It glowed golden and gracious and good as it filtered down upon the people of Twelvetrees. There was always something magical about the light of the Wilder Wood, but there was something especially magical about the light of the Ingathering, the harvest. The sun slid just far enough south to dance through the canopy in shifting angles at all hours of the day. The air, still remembering summer’s warmth, held resilient against the coming cold that the light’s angle promised, and instead turned every beam into soft amber. The shafts slipped through the leaves above, many of which mimicked the light and slid from green into auburn into tangerine into terracotta into gold. A final flourish before the short days ahead. Down the aureate light poured into the cathedral of trees, plunging a hundred fathoms and more through the placid air that today rang with laughter. Because today the air wasn’t alone in carrying gold.

In the glittering waters of the Crystal River the children of the town splashed joyously all through the soft afternoon as they panned her waters. For the first time in longer than anyone could remember the river flashed once more with gold. The flood from Greyweather hadn’t brought more than a momentary surge this far down stream, but ever since all the mines and sluices upstream still couldn’t pick out all her treasure. For the first time there was something left for the good people of Twelvetrees.

Well more than a little something, Felicity Broadfeather thought with more than a little self-satisfaction as she sipped her tea and looked down upon the happy scene. She sat on the edge of her porch high up in the canopy, feet dangling in the honey air, fragrant tea steaming merrily, as her griffin dozed regally beside her in the sunshine. To her left a smaller pair of feet hung in the air, beneath a smaller mug steaming with the same fulsome tea.

“Well, Miss Broadfeather. It has been a pleasure working with you.” Mr. Moss rumbled with his unfittingly deep voice. “I imagine now that we have our partners paid out, that will conclude our business.”

She smiled as only one truly relieved at a job done, and rather well done at that, can smile. But not without a little sadness. The sum they all walked away with would change each of their lives forever. It would likely take years before Felicity and Bonnie could funnel their cuts into good use for the town, but even what little they’d been able to put in so far was making a difference. And that was still the case even considering Murdok’s excessive portion pilfered out; the last anyone had heard the elves were still chasing him around the desert after trying in vain to find a way to reorient the portal. To hear it from Declan it seemed unlikely they’d ever find a fix. So maybe the mercenary’s portion wasn’t so excessive afterall. But for all that, the inspiration, the plan, the job, the excitement, now it sat all safely in the past, and for a young mind like Felicity’s that brought just a little sadness to her happy relief.

“Yes Mr. Moss,” she sighed as she sipped. “That it has been...” and trailed off.

“Feeling a little wistful for a job gone-by?” He nodded his sharp-featured head knowingly.

“You’ll think me foolish,” she sighed, soaking in the bucolic scene below. “But...”

“I know the feeling all too well, Miss Broadfeather.” He said sagely. “Not in a hundred years and more have I learned to resist it.”

“...a hundred years?” she wondered with a sideways glance at the diminutive figure next to her with his neat dark beard and smooth, reddened skin.

He chuckled deeply and finished his tea. “Indeed, and just getting started.” He stood up and came nearly to meet her face to face. “But fear not, there’s always more to be done. Especially if you do it to help those you love.” He nodded down at the river full of splashing children, laughter drifting up amongst the mighty trunks of their trees. “Until next time, my friend.” He flourished his sharp little cape and arced a deep bow.

Felicity nodded deeply, gratefully accepting his hard-won respect. Just as he was walking away, about to round the corner of the house she stumbled out. “Next time?”

“Oh yes, we thieves have to look out for each other. We’ll be in touch.” He shot her a miniscule white smile. “Oh, and Miss Broadfeather. If you find yourself near the Gnomish Glen, just be sure to knock thrice, we’ll be glad to see you.” He invited, just before he turned the corner and disappeared once more into the forest.

How the hell is he going to get down from here? Felicity wondered, but she left the gnome to his own devices. She had places to be. The woodswoman stood up, stretched catlike in the sun, and gave a quick whistle to rouse her mount. Buckley’s eyes drank in the golden light set in his amaranthine face, looking like all the treasure in the world. He chirruped happily and dove off the porch; Felicity dove after him catching him midair. Together they spiralled lazily through the radiant understory, savoring each flap of wing, each stroke of feather caressing the buttery air. All around them, griffins were flying, joining in on the festivities taking shape down below. Three quick streaks came out of the rookery and joined them, her fledglings, now looking more like proper birds. The time away had done them well, it was strange to think it was only weeks back she’d taken off on her adventure. She’d said she’d be back for the Ingathering, and now here she was. Right on time. The fledglings had taken to the wing and were eager to train, but that could wait. Autumn was going nowhere fast.

Three more streaks came in, joining the soaring chorus of color, these ones all solid and primary. “Howdy Miss Felicity!” the Howdy Bunch called, laughing from the back of their curious, bobble-head birds.

Together they spiraled down right to the crossroads in the middle of town out front of the Two Talons and into a bustling crowd. The triplets rolled off into the hubbub with a chorus of laughter. Ingathering was always a time of joyous celebration in the Wilder Wood, a revelry of a harvest well-collected and a winter ready to be well-lived. No caravans or travellers would be able to pass for three full days, but why would they want to? The people of Twelvetrees filled the road with long trestle tables, piled high with a continuous feast. There would be games and music and costumes and dancing. Pillowy loaves of bread steaming out of the ovens. Fresh cheeses right out of the cellar. Late summer fruits still holding onto their ripeness, paired with the hearty vegetables of fall. And of course, tankards of the finest ale for a hundred leagues in any direction, as many as you could want. The townsfolk hustled to and fro readying for the festivities. The Ingathering proper would kick off tomorrow, so now the wood just buzzed with heady anticipation.

This year would be particularly marvelous, thanks to the kindly donation from the elves. The ovens at the bakery had already been gussied up with a bit of artificing and were producing three times their usual capacity. The lanterns set down the tables would glow happily all through the festival with not a candle needed. And Felicity had it on good authority that though they wouldn’t enjoy them now, the brewers would be able to turn out three new brews thanks to their freshly artificed kit. That was truly just the beginning. Declan was set to come pay them a visit, as the leaves finished falling, to see to it that the roofs of Twelvetrees didn’t leak, and the hearths warmed happy toes with ease all winter. Come spring, tinctures and etherals would supplement their gardens, bringing forth even more bountiful harvests for decades to come. Slowly but surely under the careful eyes of Felicity and Bonnie, Twelvetrees would become the town it always deserved to be.

For now though, Twelvetrees bustled as merrily as she ever could, and among all this coming and going stood a tall blue illusionist who looked rather displeased at the situation he’d found himself in. Surrounded by a flock of woodschildren who barely came up to his waist.

“The power of the Heavenly Enclave is not to be sullied with such party tricks!” He protested without a hope of success.

“Again! Again! Again!” The sea of little burnished heads demanded.

Felicity could just barely see the slightest hint of a smile on Caeliro’s face as she caught his eye. He waved his staff above his head in a great circle, sending a dazzling swarm of sparkling silver butterflies darting in all directions. The children chased them with impish zeal, running amok to all points of the compass, butterflies bursting in a bubble of shining sparks when caught, and soon Caeliro quickly found himself once more beset.

“Again! Again Again!” They chanted, and Felicity could only laugh as she turned toward the inn.

There, upon the fence around the inn’s yard sat two more familiar faces, laughing at the besieged illusionist. Bonnie and Barnaby reveled in the scene as Althea loomed behind watching over all, once more a pale sentinel. No doubt the griffin felt something resembling satisfaction deep in her marrow at watching the same festivities unfold over three human generations.

“Afternoon missy!” Barnaby called hoisting a tankard of ale in salute, already a good bit spilled down the front of his tartan shirt. It was a good thing the festival was only three days, otherwise the brewery would have trouble keeping up with the dwarf.

“Happy Ingathering.” She offered and perched up on the fence beside them, Bonnie throwing a huge arm over Felicity’s shoulders in familiar embrace.

For a moment they simply experienced the town through the eyes of a visitor. From down on the ground the vaulted airs of the wood only rose more impressively as shafts of radiant light shown through the trees in shifting beams. To their right, the trail down to the river bustled just as much as the road if not more so, above it the buildings of the heights teemed with buzzing fervor. Bridges swung carrying people carrying armfuls of goods, hoists spun gracefully down from the canopy bringing down the harvest from up high, every door swung open on its hinges as every house spilled forth with laughter and music and the sweet scents of a hundred secret recipes all being prepared at once. It seemed as though everyone had somewhere to be, but even if you didn’t you’d pretend you did just to be a part of the festivities.

“What’s the latest from the mine Barnaby?” Felicity asked.

He took a grinning swig. “The mountain’s ours once more missy, that’s today’s bulletin. The elves held out fer a few spins o’ the sun, tried to get their derned portal back to rights. But with no real help, and no prospect of getting the mines running it was just a matter of time. They’ve been called back to the coast, said it was all star-guided and happy horseshit. Long n’ short of it is this, ol’ Lysander’s run off with his tail ‘tween his legs and dwarves once more have the run o’ Greyweather.” He raised again in cheers. “Thanks to you.”

“Happy to help how we could Barnaby.” Felicity nodded. “Mr. Moss has you and Caeliro paid out?”

“Oh yes ma’am, a nice bit o’ seed capital for the new Morning Mountain Mining Union that’ll be.”

“Having another go at collective ownership?” She raised a curious eyebrow.

“No better way to do it missy,” the dwarf assured. “B‘sides, now we know what we’re workin’ with up there, we got ourselves a proper collective structure, and a bunch o’ plans that er sharper’n a prospector’s pick.”

“Glad to hear it, we’ll have to come pay you all a visit, once you’ve rebuilt.”

“Aye we’ll rebuild some, but none o’ this dam, none o’ this over-artificed nonsense. We’ll be running her proper. But yes’m, you and Miss Bonnie come visit any ol’ time you like.” He let out a prodigious belch. “We’ll owe you after I avail myself o’ this here Wilder Wood hospitality.”

“You’re always welcome to join us Barnaby. Think our illusionist will stay for the festivities as well?” She nodded to the blue-clad conjuror who had now somehow produced a sparkling snake that slithered through the air above his head as he strode along in what could certainly not be an earnest attempt to rid himself of the ragamuffin mob that followed cheering behind.

The hearty dwarf let forth a deep, rolling laugh. “If that feller ‘ent down harder than a mineshaft, drunk under the table each night of yer here festival, I tell yeh missy, I’ll eat my hat, and that’d take a full elvish week, that would.” He sidled away laughing, swaying through the crowd to find himself a fresh tankard.

The woodswomen watched the dwarf and magician disappear into the happy crowd, and sat for a while in companionable silence. Bonnie finally broke it, “You know of all the things Felicity, I’m most surprised we actually made it back for the festival.”

“Ah yes well...timing is everything for a thief.” Felicity shot back, waggish.

Bonnie socked her lightly on the shoulder. “You’re the worst. And you’re lucky I was there to save you from yourself or we’d still be in that goddamned basement.”

“I liked our hideout!” Felicity protested.

“I know you did.” Bonnie chuckled, sighed and looked around at the festivities. “I can’t believe it actually worked.”

“Well if I was going to come back for a job it had to be a good one.”

Bonnie barked her warm laugh, “You would’ve had to stop to come back to anything Felicity.”

“You may have a point there.” She followed her friend’s eyes out into the town they both loved so well and sighed. “Hey Bonnie...thank you.”

“Hey Felicity...you’re welcome...even if you don’t deserve it.” Bonnie grinned and took a soft slug on her shoulder this time. Together they breathed in a collective respect and love that went beyond words.

“Amazing what a little artificing can do...”

“And so much more yet to come...”

They sat and let their minds’ eyes wander into the future they both envisioned for their town. Finally Bonnie broke the reverie. She pointed up to one of the houses in the heights. “Well, well. Look who it is.”

Drifting down from the heights a great carved chair floated lightly to the forest floor. It was hewn from the same smooth, red wood as all else in the Wilder Wood. The seat back arched high up into the light, all through it was woven and inlaid with patterns and runes. Copper, gold, silver traced back and forth in eye-crossing complexity. The seat was wide and deep with soft cushions for both bum and back. A footrest and carrying baskets arrayed around the base appropriately. It was an artificed marvel, a proper sky chair. It would never go fast, but it could cruise short distances and climb up and down height with ease. And this chair, needed no guide ropes, required no concern nor special knowledge to operate, all thanks to the handsome diamond embedded below the seat into the inlays, ensuring this artifice would always perform as intended.

Best of all though, was who it carried. Gran, Madam Broadfeather, the lady of Twelvetrees. She drifted down lazily through the soft air and alit just next to Felicity and Bonnie where they sat perched on the fence. The proud, little crone stepped forth easily onto the ground, old joints rested and happy after their journey down, rather than beaten and exhausted. She smiled the smile of a woman twenty years younger, a glint in her eye told Felicity all she needed to know about her Gran’s intentions this Ingathering.

“Hello Bonnie. Hello my Little luck.” Gran cooed happily and kissed them each on the cheek.

“Hello Gran.” They replied in unison, beaming.

“How are you liking your chair?” Bonnie asked.

“Girls, it’s a marvel.” Gran glowed. “I went to the market this morning, then down to the river, then I went and visited Gretel up in the heights, and my knees still feel fresh as daisies. So fresh in fact, I think once we get this Ingathering going you both will find out why they call me the Twirler of Twelvetrees.”

They all rolled with laughter. “Gran,” Bonnie chuckled, “I think I speak for the whole town when I say, we can’t wait to see that.”

Felicity slid off the fence and kissed her Gran once more. “I certainly can’t. But for now, I’m off.”

“Where to?” Bonnie asked.

“A fine little establishment called The Chippy Cup, you may have heard of it.” Felicity Broadfeather smirked and turned on her well-practiced heel. “I have a date.”

And so our heroine walked off toward the future, and more specifically toward one handsome former caravaner who eagerly awaited her in The Cup, for a pint or two that were long overdue. Tonight, she was buying.