Chapter 8: Departures and Disappearances

  The pre-dawn air hung cold and damp over the Resha private docks, thick with the familiar scent of the River Maeve – silt, fish, wet stone, and coal smoke from distant hearths. Torches fixed to weathered pilings cast flickering shadows. Their light struggled against the lingering darkness and patches of mist coiling off the wide, black water. The only sounds were the gentle lapping of the river against the shore, the occasional creak of mooring ropes, and the low commands of dockhands already beginning their labor, their breath pluming white in the chill.

  Standing heavily laden at the dock was the River Maiden. She wasn't a sleek passenger vessel built for speed or comfort, but a broad-beamed, sturdy river barge designed primarily for hauling bulk cargo like timber or grain upriver toward the Veil crossing. Lashed-down crates and tarp-covered mounds cluttered her decks, leaving only narrow walkways. A small, functional-looking cabin structure rose near the stern, presumably containing quarters for the captain, crew, and now, Adon's unusual company. The air around the barge smelled strongly of tar, and the faint aroma of whatever bulk goods lay hidden beneath the canvas.

  Overseeing the final stages of loading was Captain Vorlag, a man whose face looked as weathered and resilient as the timbers of his vessel. His graying beard was braided tightly, his eyes sharp and accustomed to peering through river fog, and his voice, when he barked an order to a deckhand, was a suprisingly high-pitched but cut easily through the pre-dawn quiet. He nodded curtly as Adon and her companions approached, his gaze lingering for a moment on the eclectic mix.

  Elf Montray stood near the gangplank, overseeing the transfer of supplies with quiet efficiency. Servants from the manor finished depositing the last of the bags and bundles provided for the journey. Marik checked the straps securing his own gear, while Jimothy gave terse instructions to the crewman handling his small toolkit chest. Willow adjusted the collection of pots and utensils hanging from her belt, her eyes wide as she took in the bustling dockside scene. Cedric simply observed, seemingly unfazed by the early hour or the rough surroundings.

  Adon did a quick headcount as the final moments before departure ticked away. Marik. Jimothy. Willow. Cedric. Herself. One missing. "Wait," she said, scanning the thinning shadows near the dock entrance. "Where's Agrippa?"

  A ripple of uncertainty passed through the group. Willow looked around anxiously. "He didn't come back to the manor with us... I assumed he was making his own way?"

  Marik frowned. "Unprofessional not to confirm."

  Just as Adon's carefully constructed bright expression threatened to crack with genuine annoyance, Cedric spoke, talking around his pipe. "Master Agrippa is... resourceful, Lady Adon," he murmured, his tone placating. "And he values his independence. I wouldn't fret. Some prefer to make their own arrangements for travel, avoiding unnecessary attention." He gave a slight shrug, leaving it unclear whether he possessed actual knowledge or was simply offering a convenient dismissal of the concern.

  Adon bit back a sharp retort, forcing a smile. "Right! Totally. Agrippa's probably, like, already upriver and halfway to Allurna alread!” she cheered, though a seed of unease was planted. She turned as Elf approached her, holding out a small, sealed oilskin pouch.

  "Final travel documents, My Lady," Elf stated formally, placing the pouch securely in her hand.

  "Thank you, Elf," Adon replied, tucking the pouch away. She kept her tone light for the benefit of the others nearby. "Couldn't have done it without you!"

  "My duty is to serve the Resha household," his yellow eyes meeting hers for a brief, intense moment. Unspoken messages passed between them – Be careful. Stay focused. Report when possible. The Master watches. Adon gave a tiny nod, masked by adjusting her cloak.

  Captain Vorlag's voice pinched through the air. “The hour arrives! Lines away!"

  Deckhands moved quickly, casting off the thick mooring ropes. Adon turned back to Elf. "Well, guess this is it! Wish us luck!" she chirped, giving him a bright, too-enthusiastic wave.

  Elf executed a perfect, formal bow. "I wish you a safe and… productive journey, Lady Adon. May your venture prove successful." His gaze lingered on her for another second before he straightened and stepped back from the gangplank.

  With a groan of straining timbers and the churn of water near the stern from poles pushed by unseen crewmen, the River Maiden pulled away from the dock. Adon stood at the railing, watching Elf's imposing figure shrink against the backdrop of the awakening city. She saw him turn back to the manor. “Stay safe Elf” Adon said, with genuine feeling behind her words.

  She gripped the railing, the wood damp with morning dew beneath her fingers, feeling the gentle thrum of the barge as it battled the main current of the River Maeve. Torches on the receding docks became small points of fire in the languid stretch of dawn light. Fischholme, with its tangled web of secrets, ambitions, and dangers, slowly began to fall away behind them. Adon took a deep breath of the cool river air, tasting the mist and the promise of the unknown journey ahead. She turned from the railing, facing forward, upriver, towards the vast, challenging continent of Lysandril and the distant, dangerous grasslands of Allurna. The first leg had begun.

  Several days passed as the River Maiden blew steadily upstream, leaving the bustling sprawl of Fischholme far behind. The wide mouth of the River Maeve narrowed gradually, the banks growing wilder, lined with dense forests and occasional riverside hamlets instead of endless docks and warehouses. Adon spent much of the time in the small but surprisingly comfortable cabin that Captain Vorlag had assigned her. It was clearly adapted from crew quarters, compact but scrupulously clean, featuring a narrow built-in bunk, a small fold-down desk bolted to the wall, a sturdy chest for her belongings, and a single, thick-glassed porthole offering a perpetually shifting view of muddy river water and green banks sliding by.

  She’d found a routine: reviewing the Allurnan documents and the maps Elf had provided, practicing the subtle influence of the sapphire ring on unsuspecting members of the crew, and carrying on conversation with the new members of her party. Seeking a break from hunching over documents, she found Jimothy on the broad deck late one afternoon. The gnome was seated cross-legged near a stack of timber cargo, meticulously disassembling and cleaning a small, intricate clockwork device with a set of specialized tools laid out on an oilcloth. The river breeze ruffled his brown beard as he worked, humming softly to himself.

  His tinkering reminded Adon of an idea she had previously, but was too worried about how Jimothy would react to bring it up before. Now with the danger of their journey, it wouldn’t seem so out of place to ask. As with all things though, poison just make some people nervous. Deciding to broach the subject, Adon leaned against the railing next to Jimothy. “Impressive," she commented, nodding towards the complex array of tiny gears and springs before him. "What is it?"

  Jimothy looked up, squinting slightly in the afternoon light. Not entirely pleased at the interupption. “Ah, Lady Adon. Just a personal project." He gestured vaguely at the device. "Helps pass the time."

  "Right," Adon said, tucking a stray strand of blonde hair behind her ear. She adopted a thoughtful expression. "Actually, Jimothy, I was thinking… about efficiency, in dire circumstances that may arise on our journey.” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “With the potential dangers of our journey I was thinking about my dagger. Imagine needing to incapacitate someone very quickly, very quietly, without a big fuss or collateral damage. A standard blade works, but isn't always ideal.”

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  Jimothy stopped tinkering, his intelligent eyes focusing on her. “Go on,” he said. His annoyance was fading as his face betrayed curiosity.

  "Poison is often employed for such purposes,” Adon hurried before losing his attention, “though acquiring reliable, fast-acting agents without attracting attention poses its own challenges. And application can be clumsy."

  Jimothy stared at her, waiting for her to continue.

  "So I was wondering… could you maybe design a dagger, with a mechanism? Like, a tiny, sealed reservoir in the hilt, perhaps? And a trigger – a button, pressure plate on the pommel maybe – that releases a single, precise dose of… let's say, a potent sleep draught, or a paralytic agent… through a channel in the blade?" She watched his face closely for his reaction.

  The gnome’s brow furrowed, not in moral judgment, but in intense technical concentration. He picked up a small screwdriver, tapping it against his chin. "Interesting concept. The main challenges would be the reservoir size versus dosage, ensuring a reliable seal to prevent leakage, the delivery mechanism needing to be triggered by impact force without accidental discharge… Pressurized gas? Spring-loaded plunger? Hmm. Difficult, but not impossible. Especially with precisely forged components and perhaps a minor infusion to ensure the channel remains clear…" He seemed genuinely intrigued by the puzzle.

  Before Adon could press further, a shadow fell over them. Marik Gotov stood there, having approached silently. He had likely overheard the tail end of their conversation, his expression carefully neutral, though his eyes lingered on Adon for a moment. What did he hear, Adon wondered, her hand subconciously drifting toward her dirk.

  "Apologies for interrupting," Marik said, his voice low. He looked at Jimothy, then Adon, and then down at the sword sheathed at his own hip. “I overheard you talking about making Adon a poison dagger.” Adon sucked in a quick breath, tensing her core. Marik seemed to hesitate for a moment, then drew the weapon slowly. Adon took a nimble step back, bending her knees slightly.

  “This was my father’s sword.” Marik said, then turned the sword out hilt-first towards Jimothy. “I was wondering… is there anything you could do? To improve it?"

  Adon released the breathe she had been holding. There was a vulnerability in Marik’s voice, a hopefulness beneath the stoic exterior, that Adon hadn't heard before. The sword wasn't ornate, but it was clearly a blade of quality – a classic longsword, its steel shone dimly, the crossguard and pommel simple, functional, the leather grip worn smooth from long use. Clearly a weapon with long history.

  Jimothy carefully set down his clockwork device and took the longsword, his small gnome hands surprisingly steady as he accepted the much larger weapon. He turned it over, sighting down the blade, testing its balance with practiced movements. He ran a thumb gently over the edge, examined the handle, tapped the pommel.

  He hummed thoughtfully for several minutes, Marik watching him quietly. Finally, Jimothy looked up, handing the sword back with care.

  "It's a fine blade, Marik," he said respectfully. "Very well made for its time. The balance is good, the steel holds a fine edge, tempered properly. He paused, meeting the fighter's gaze directly. "Honestly? There's little I could do to 'improve' it without fundamentally changing what it is. Its strength isn't inherent in the metal itself, beyond its excellent forging. Its true value," Jimothy gestured towards Marik, "seems to lie in its history. In who wielded it before, and who wields it now."

  A complex mix of emotions flickered across Marik’s face – a hint of disappointment perhaps, quickly replaced by understanding, and then, pride. He gripped the sword’s hilt firmly. "Thank you, Jimothy. I appreciate your assessment." He gave a curt nod and carefully sheathed the weapon, the sound seeming loud in the relative quiet of the deck. He lingered for another moment, then turned and walked toward the bow of the barge, leaving Adon and Jimothy alone once more.

  Adon watched him go, filing away the interaction. The use of poison didn’t seem to bother Marik, which was good to know. Marik's connection to his father was clearly a powerful motivator, a potential key. And Jimothy's response – honest, respectful, focusing on sentiment over pure technical improvement – spoke volumes about his own character, and perhaps the depth of his friendship with the fighter. Interesting. Very interesting indeed.

  “I’ll look into it,” Jimothy said after a moment. “I can make no guarantees, but the challenge of the weapon you’ve described is intriging. I will make some sketches and see what I can come up with.”

  “Thank you Jimothy,” Adon smiled, genuinely this time. She retreated to her cabin, hopeful that the imminent danger of their voyage would be a stronger mask for her than she expected.

  Night had fallen thick and heavy over the River Maeve, swallowing the dense forests lining its banks into an impenetrable darkness. The moon, nearly full, cast a rippling silver path across the wide, muddy water, but offered little illumination beneath the thick canopy onshore. The rhythmic splash and creak of the River Maiden’s passage was a constant backdrop, punctuated by the chirps and calls of unseen nocturnal creatures from the riverbanks. Most of the barge was asleep; only a couple of lanterns glowed near the bow where the night watch crew kept their vigil, and a faint light emanated from the captain's cabin.

  Adon found herself drawn to the deserted stern deck, the coolest part of the barge, furthest from the minimal crew activity. The river breeze felt cold against her face, carrying the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. Here, with only the churning wake and the vast, uncaring wilderness as witnesses, she could attempt what she dared not reveal to her new companions.

  She leaned against the sturdy wooden railing, taking a few deep breaths, trying to center herself. The frustration from her earlier attempts in the manor cellar still simmered beneath the surface. Elf had counseled patience, subtlety. But the raw potential she felt humming from the sigil on her wrist yearned for expression, for tangible proof of the power she’d bargained her autonomy for.

  Closing her eyes, she reached inward, past the fatigue of the day, past the constant calculations about her crewmates, towards that reservoir of chilling energy. It answered readily, a familiar coldness spreading up her arm. She focused her will, picturing not a crude beam this time, but a simple lance of pure shadow, extending from her outstretched fingers to touch the swirling dark water below. She didn't force it, but invited it, trying to align her intent with the power's inherent shadowy nature, as Elf had suggested.

  Cold energy gathered in her palm, tingling, making the sapphire ring on her finger feel momentarily colder against her skin. The air before her hand shimmered, darkened… fzzt. A pathetic little crackle, a wisp of something blacker than the night dissolving into nothingness less than an inch from her fingertips.

  Adon gritted her teeth, opening her eyes. Failure. Again. She tried repeatedly for the better part of an hour, varying her approach. She visualized different forms – tendrils, bolts, even just a simple sustained glow of dark energy. She tried channeling through the ring, through the sigil alone, focusing on anger, on ambition, on cold calculation. Each time, the result was the same: a brief, faint stirring of power, a near-manifestation that guttered out almost instantly, leaving only the lingering scent of ozone and the bitter taste of frustration. It was like having the key to a vast treasury but being utterly unable to turn the lock.

  Why? The question echoed in the anxious quiet of her mind. Why grant the connection but withhold the means? Since the pact was sealed in that cold chamber beneath the manor, the Bandaged One had been utterly silent. No whispers in her dreams, no intuitive nudges, no sense of its presence observing or guiding her. Was this silence a test? A sign of displeasure? Or simply the detached indifference of an ancient entity whose concerns operated on a scale Adon couldn't comprehend?

  And Elf… back in Fischholme, despite his layers of secrecy and his own unsettling allegiance, he had been a conduit, however flawed. He offered instruction, context, cryptic hints about the Master's ways. He was the only other person who knew what she had become. Now, miles upriver, surrounded by strangers, Adon felt acutely adrift. She had taken command of this expedition, projecting confidence, manipulating alliances, but inwardly, regarding this core aspect of her new existence, she felt utterly alone, navigating by guesswork. The responsibility felt immense, the lack of guidance worrying.

  She finally lowered her hand, slumping against the railing, weariness settling deep in her bones. She stared out at the dark, relentless flow of the River Maeve, mirroring the ceaseless current of her own ambition and the secrets pulling her under. The sapphire ring felt heavy on her finger. She touched the faint sigil on her wrist, feeling only the cold potential, locked away.

  Yet… as she watched the moonlit water slide past, the familiar core of ruthless determination hardened within her. Frustration was useless. Fear was a luxury she couldn't afford. She would master this power. She would find the forger. She would secure her future. Failure simply wasn't an option she was willing to entertain. Straightening up, she took one last look at the dark riverbanks, then turned and walked silently back towards her cabin, the weight of her secrets and the cold promise of her pact her only true companions on the long journey east. She would be back tomorrow night, to try again.