Birds of a Feather

Crispin’s mother lapped up every story we had to tell about her son and our exploits to date. She seemed particularly interested in the goings-on at the Avium and how Crispin had been viewed by the professors.

“My son, a scholar,” she remarked as we concluded our anecdotes.

We had taken turns telling the story to give the others a chance to eat their stew and bread that she had brought us “on the house”. I had to admit Crispin was not mistaken. His Ma really did have a gift for cooking.

“And now we’re here,” said Olive through her last mouthful of bread. “We were wondering if you had seen any suspicious individuals arriving recently? Any unfamiliar faces?”

“Aside from you,” she thought aloud. “Suspicious, no. But interesting, yes. What about him?”

She pointed to a small Strig wearing battered but shining silver armour. He was sat alone at a table near the bar and had his shield propped up on the seat beside him. A shortsword shaped like a feather was buckled at his side. It was the Strig Knight.

“What’s he doing here?” Olive wondered. “The last time we saw him was during the attack on the bandit camp.”

“We should send him some food,” said Crispin assertively. “Ma, could you help us out?”

Crispin’s mother smiled a wry smile and got to her feet. She bustled round the room once more, collecting plates and taking new orders, but after she disappeared back into the kitchen the first order she brought out was for the Strig Knight.

She placed a mountainous ice cream sundae down in front of the little Strig. It must have been five or six balls of ice cream covered in layers of caramel sauce and topped with a cherry and chocolate sprinkles. It was near enough the size of the Strig Knight himself.

I eyed Crispin’s portly form, looked back at the ice cream sundae, then said nothing.

The Strig Knight looked astonished but Crispin’s mother said something to him and pointed in our direction. The Strig Knight peered at us, at first in confusion but then recognition caught quickly in his eyes. He waved at us, thanked Crispin’s mother, and then picked up the sundae with both hands and carried it like a giant trophy over to sit with us.

---

“Hello there, friends!” said the Strig Knight excitedly. “I’ve heard the tales of you fine adventurers from all over Alderheart. My name’s Riffin. You might have heard a few stories about me!”

“We certainly remember you, Riffin,” I said, thankful that he didn’t expect us to already know his name. “You were like a whirlwind on the battlefield fighting those bandits.”

“Oh that?” Riffin laughed in a surprisingly deep baritone for one so small. “That was nothing, child’s play. I think this dessert is going to offer me more of a challenge! How about some help?”

Olive reached eagerly for the cherry but Crispin had already grabbed it and popped it into his mouth. A moment later, Crispin’s mother breezed by and placed three extra spoons on the table. She surreptitiously passed Olive an extra cherry as well under the pretence of collecting our empty bowls.

“What are you doing here in Brackenmill?” asked Riffin between mouthfuls of ice cream. “Sure it’s been drier than usual, but I doubt they need your help bringing in the harvest.”

“We’re actually looking for a way to seal away the Aspect of Fire to prevent wildfires from consuming the whole wood,” said Olive with remarkable energy, considering the bleak subject.

“Oh,” said Riffin thoughtfully. “I have no idea what that is, but I’m glad someone is looking into it. I prefer my adventures to be a bit more straightforward, if you ask me.”

“Me too,” I agreed. “We spent the last weeks at the Avium reading books, so I’m desperate for a good training workout. Would you be interested?”

Riffin looked at me critically. “I’m not sure,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to hurt you.”

“I’m willing to take that risk,” I grinned.

“We hit a dead end with the books and now we’re trying to track down the only expert who can help us,” Olive continued after further quenching her hunger for ice cream. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen a Corvum around, Riffin? Goes by the name of Odwald Ebonheart.”

Riffin’s spoon clattered to the table.

“Odwald Ebonheart?” he repeated in a hoarse whisper. “But that’s who I’m looking for!” He looked around the tavern suspiciously and then continued in hushed tones. “He and I go way back. We’re old adventuring buddies, you see. Our exploits would put you Defenders of Alderheart to shame! We agreed to meet here in Brackenmill, but he hasn’t arrived. I’ve been waiting for him.”

“When we met him at the Avium, he was in disguise,” Olive explained quietly. “Perhaps he’s pulling the same trick.”

“It was an impeccable disguise, too,” I said. “He convinced everyone, even under close inspection. For example, if he was disguised as someone’s mother, not even their own son would be able to tell the difference.”

Crispin gasped and almost inhaled his mouthful of ice cream. He jumped up from the table and ran towards the kitchen.

Riffin nodded. “That’s quite usual for Odwald,” he admitted. “Whenever we’ve met recently he’s liked to arrive in disguise. Something about ‘extra precautions’. I’ve had my eye on a few new faces around here that I think are the most likely options.”

“We don’t have time to waste,” I said. “If you point them out then we’ll split up and do the talking.”

---

I sat down at the bar next to a rugged Strig outlander. He fixed a weary eye on me, grunted, then returned to his tankard.

“So,” I began awkwardly. “Do you come here often?”

The Strig didn’t react.

“I only ask because I’m not sure what to order,” I explained, suddenly concerned he might think I was flirting with him. “You seem to be enjoying your drink. What is it?”

The Strig clucked grumpily and took another drink.

I gestured to the barman. “I’ll have what he’s having.”

The Strig seemed to ignore me even more intently when my drink arrived.

“Cheers,” I said hopelessly and took a swallow. The liquid was fiery with a taste of ginger and some strong spirits. It burned down my throat and fizzed in my stomach. “Wow,” I said. “That’s actually pretty good.”

The Strig finally looked at me again. He took a long draught and finished his tankard without breaking eye contact. Then he signalled to the barman and immediately received a second drink.

“You have to be strong to drink this stuff,” I said. “Just like I have to be strong to use a weapon like this.” I pointed to the great axe strapped to my back.

At this, the Strig spoke. “Looks home-made.”

“Yes,” I said, thankful for an end to my embarrassing monologue. “One of my friends made it. Out of a quarterstaff and a… frying pan.”

“Frying pan,” repeated the Strig without emotion. “Very home-made.”

He held out his hand expectantly. I unhooked the great axe from my back and passed it to him. Immediately afterwards I cursed inwardly. If this was Odwald in disguise then I had just given away my only weapon.

The Strig hefted the great axe and felt the balance. “Is,” he paused for a moment and ran his hands over the bindings, “is not bad.”

“My friend will be pleased to hear that,” I said, accepting the axe when the Strig handed it back to me.

This was obviously not Odwald. There was no way he would miss an opportunity to disarm the strongest member of our party.

“Is not bad,” repeated the Strig. “For home-made.”

“I might leave that last bit out.”

We returned to our drinks and his silence.

---

Olive approached a Luma sat at the corner table furthest from the bar. Before she had even got within arms reach of the table the Luma addressed her with a haughty and imperious voice.

“Excuse me, can I help you?” said the Luma, somehow making this sound like an insult.

“Actually yes,” said Olive eagerly. “I’m wondering—”

“The question was rhetorical,” snapped the Luma. She waved Olive away without looking at her. “So, if you’re quite done, be off.”

“What are you drinking?” Olive persisted, clearly taking inspiration from my tavern conversation playbook.

“Beeswax,” said the Luma. “And it’s none of yours.”

Olive approached the table and took a sniff of the drink. The Luma looked at Olive with a mixture of shock and intense disgust. She moved her glass across to the far side of the table.

“It’s just wine,” the Luma clarified. “Do not sniff it.”

“What’s the best stew you’ve ever eaten?” Olive asked.

The Luma shut her eyes and held her head in her hand. “What exactly do you think is happening here?” she asked, voice high with exasperation. “Do you think we’re going to ‘make a connection’? That you’re going to ask the right question in the right way and suddenly we’ll be the best of friends?”

Olive took a step back.

“No!” said the Luma. “So read the room and take a long leap off a short branch!”

---

Crispin settled down right next to a Gallus monk in what can only be described as a total invasion of the poor Birdfolk’s personal space. He gazed openly at the monk’s tonsure and rough-spun robe.

“It’s such a delight to see another monk in town,” said Crispin to the astonished Gallus. “Tell me, what is your name?”

“J-Julius,” stammered the monk.

Crispin reached to shake the monk’s hand but relented when Julius flinched away from him.

“Well, I’m Crispin,” said Crispin. “What convent are you from?”

“From d-down south,” said Julius.

“Down south?” Crispin took a moment to think. “I don’t recall any monasteries built south of here. Are you a sea-faring monk?”

Julius looked at him with panicked eyes. “Um, yes. We mostly give sermons to fish.”

Crispin shook his head. “That’s a pity, I’ve always found that fish make a poor congregation. Perhaps you’d like to visit the Brackenmill church with me?”

“I-I think I’d rather just finish my b-beer,” said Julius, clutching his drink.

Crispin looked again at Julius’ robes and the way they moved as the monk backed away. The rough-spun threads twitched, almost vibrated as they slid past the table.

“That’s an excellent suggestion,” said Crispin. “I’ll have one too! Olive, Plume, come meet my new friend!”

As I crossed the room I beckoned for Riffin to follow us. Olive elbowed me and struck up a fake ending to a conversation as we arrived.

“–which is why I feel so awful about what happened,” finished Olive mournfully. “We should have listened to Odwald. We could have worked together, if only we had known what he was trying to do for Alderheart.”

“But the servitors attacked first,” said Crispin indignantly.

“Ahem,” Julius coughed and replied in a jarringly different voice. “Actually, I think you’ll find they were defending me.”