Law moved through our temporary sanctuary like a shadow given purpose, his experienced eyes missing nothing. The crevice opened into what seemed to be a natural air chimney, its walls smooth from centuries of wind and water. "There's a drop," he reported, voice barely above a whisper. "About twenty feet down, it connects to what looks like an unused side corridor."
Lady Moira's face was ghostly in the magical light as she considered our options. "We'll need to confirm it's secure before we all descend." Her eyes fell on me, and I knew what was coming. My stomach tightened, and my mind raced through a dozen excuses I could offer, but none would work. "Brendan?"
Her voice was calm but left no room for argument. My pulse quickened, and I felt the weight of everyone's gaze. Why me? Because I’m the lightest, the easiest to lower down? My fingers clenched around my waterskin as I took a slow sip, trying to buy just a few more precious moments before I had to step forward. "Of course," I murmured, my voice steady despite the knot forming in my chest. "Just… give me a moment to catch my breath."
Bron's thick fingers worked with surprising delicacy as he prepared the rope, testing each knot with careful attention. I tried not to think about how much I was about to trust those knots as they lowered me into the darkness. The rough stone scraped against my clothes as I descended, each tiny sound magnified by my nervous imagination into thunderous crashes. The crevice smelled faintly of damp earth and old moss, a reminder of how far we were from safety.
My feet touched bottom, and I pressed myself against the wall, straining my ears. Nothing but the whisper of air through stone and the distant, barely audible murmur of the fortress above. The corridor stretched away into darkness, thick with dust and abandoned memories. Every step felt like an intrusion, the air heavy with the weight of secrets long forgotten.
"It's clear," I called up, pitching my voice just loud enough to reach my companions. "Definitely unused—there's dust everywhere, completely undisturbed."
They joined me one by one, Lady Moira's magical light revealing a T-junction about thirty feet ahead. She gathered us close, her voice hardly more than a breath. "We'll split up—thirty minutes of scouting, no more. Brendan, you're with Law on the left path. Twylla, Bron, with me on the right. If you find anything significant, return immediately. If you hear fighting from the other team, come running."
I nodded, trying to ignore the nervous flutter in my stomach as the walls seemed to press closer. The musty air and enclosed space brought back memories of the Ratmen tunnels—memories I'd been trying to bury beneath countless tavern songs and forced smiles. My throat tightened as phantom echoes of that day threatened to surface: the scrape of claws on stone, a scream cut short, the crushing weight of failure. I pushed those thoughts down, focusing instead on the faint light ahead.
Law and I moved down the left corridor like ghosts—well, he moved like a ghost. I focused on his shadow ahead of me, using it as an anchor against the rising tide of panic. One foot in front of the other. Keep breathing. Don't think about how the walls curve inward, about how the ceiling hangs too low, about how many feet of mountain press down from above.
The passage began to slope upward, eventually revealing a rough-hewn ramp splitting into upper and lower levels. Law gestured for me to take the upper path while he continued below. I wanted to protest—shouldn't we stick together?—but he was already moving with that fluid grace that made me feel like a stumbling child in comparison. His steps were deliberate and soundless, a sharp contrast to my clumsy attempts at stealth.
The upper path curved gently, following the mountain's natural contours, until it dead-ended at what looked like an old cave-in. Perfect. Another failure to add to the growing list. While Law was likely uncovering vital information or uncovering a hidden passage, here I was, stuck at a dead end. My stomach churned with frustration. What was I even doing here? It was as if every step I took only reinforced how out of place I was in this group—a bard among warriors and strategists. I clenched my fists, willing the bitter thoughts away, but they lingered, gnawing at the edges of my focus. With a heavy sigh, I crept back to the ramp's edge, where I could observe the lower level, feeling every bit the amateur I feared I was.
Law was approaching another junction, his movements careful and precise. The faint scuff of his boots against the stone barely reached my ears. The air was cooler here, carrying an almost imperceptible metallic tang that made me instinctively hold my breath. That’s when I saw it—a shadow detaching itself from the oppressive darkness of a side passage. The Black Scale brigand emerged with the smooth, predatory grace of a viper, blade already drawn and glinting faintly in the dim light. My pulse quickened as I took in the sight: the way his movements were almost unnervingly silent, the flicker of intent in his eyes, and the faint rasp of leather as his grip tightened on the hilt. Law, too focused on checking ahead, hadn’t noticed the danger closing in on him like a storm cloud.
My heart jumped into my throat. I couldn't shout—the sound would echo through these passages like a dinner bell for every guard in the fortress. The brigand was three steps from Law. Two steps. My hand found a loose stone, and before I could remind myself about my infamously poor throwing skills, I hurled it at the approaching threat.
The stone missed the brigand completely, because of course it did. Instead, it ricocheted off the wall with a crack and struck Law in the back of the head. He crumpled instantly, and my heart stopped—right until I saw his fall trigger a tripwire I hadn't even noticed. A spear trap released with a deadly whisper, missing Law's prone form and catching the surprised brigand square in the chest.
The brigand died without a sound impaled against the wall. Law lay motionless on the stone floor, and I scrambled down the ramp with all the grace of a drunken goat, my heart pounding so hard I was sure they could hear it up in the fortress proper. Every footstep felt like a betrayal, the sound echoing far too loudly in the eerie silence.
In that moment of heart-stopping tension, I felt something click in my mind—like a new chord finding its place in a complex melody. My chaotic throwing style, which had been more of a liability than a skill, had somehow transformed into something... useful? The universe, it seemed, had a twisted sense of humour. A rush of understanding flooded through me as my mind cataloged my "achievements" with thrown objects: unintended targets hit, bizarre ricochets, and now this deadly dance of stone, spear, and survival. Strange—I don't remember ever convincing someone to surrender through a confusing throw, but what the system giveth, Brendan will taketh.
Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
Chaos Throwing Reached (Common 2)
Chaos Throwing (Common 2)
Effects:
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Chaos Factor: +2 to unpredictability rolls
Requirements for Common 3:
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Skill Usage Requirements:
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Hit three targets with one throw (none of which were intended)
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Make an enemy surrender by confusing them with bizarre throwing patterns
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Law was breathing, thank all the gods, though a nasty bump was already forming where my stone had struck him. I quickly checked the surrounding passages, making sure no other brigands were about to introduce themselves. My pulse was still racing, and I realized I’d been holding my breath.
Right. Time for some cleanup. I dragged the dead brigand into a dusty side tunnel that looked about as frequently used as my high school's library during reading week. The spear jutted out from his chest, grotesque and unyielding, as if mocking my attempt to tidy away the evidence. My breath came in short, ragged gasps, and I realized my hands were trembling—not from exertion, but from the icy shock creeping up my spine. The coarse fabric of his tunic brushed against my fingers, and I recoiled instinctively, nausea curling in my stomach. Jay would be proud of my quick thinking, I thought bitterly, even as that sarcastic voice in my head only made the gravity of the situation settle deeper. The smell of blood, faint but unmistakable, seemed to cling to the air, adding a metallic edge to my already shaky composure. Each movement felt like an eternity, the weight of what I had just done pressing down on me like the mountain above.
After resetting the trap (and nearly triggering it again in the process—whoever designed these things had a sick sense of humour), I dragged Law back a few feet and liberally splashed his face with water from my waterskin. He came to with a groan that suggested he was experiencing the morning after a night at the Drunken Dragon, minus the fun of the actual drinking.
"What... what happened?" He touched the bump on his head, wincing. "Why does it feel like I head-butted a troll?"
I put on my best 'concerned friend' face, which wasn't entirely fake given that I had, in fact, nearly killed him. "The ramp was a dead end, so I headed back down. Got here just in time to see a guard knock you out cold." I reached down and picked up the stone, showing it to him like it was evidence of my heroic deed rather than my terrible aim. "Hit you with this, the bastard."
"Gods, did he have to hit me so hard?" Law grumbled, gingerly probing the growing lump.
"Yeah, well, I made him pay for that," I said, trying to sound appropriately grim and vengeful while my internal voice screamed 'YOU'RE GOING TO THE NINE HELLS FOR THIS LIE.'
Law started to push himself up. "We should search the body—"
No!" I said, perhaps a bit too quickly. "Our thirty minutes are up. We need to get back to the rendezvous point—Lady Moira will be waiting. Don't want to worry them if we're late."
Law nodded, which seemed to hurt him enough to prevent further questions. "Thanks, Brendan. You're a true friend. I owe you my life."
"Don't mention it," I replied, meaning it with every fiber of my being. "Really. Please don't mention it. Ever."
As we made our way back to the others, I had a vivid image of Jay, slow-clapping at my performance. 'Well done,' imaginary Jay said in my head. 'You've graduated from "terrible liar" to "competent deceiver." I'm so proud.'
'Shut up, Jay,' I thought back. 'This is your fault. You and your "sometimes a little lie saves a lot of lives" philosophy. I used to be an honest person.'
But as I watched Law walking ahead of me, very much alive and only slightly concussed, I couldn't bring myself to feel properly guilty. Though I made a mental note to light an extra candle at the next temple we passed. Maybe two. And possibly make a donation to the Honest Merchants' Guild if one existed, just to balance my cosmic scales a bit.
I wondered if the gods gave partial credit for noble intentions with poor execution. Probably not. But hey, at least I'd have an interesting story to tell in the afterlife while I was burning in the Nine Hells. Assuming I could convince the demons to let me keep my lute.
Back at our meeting point, Law couldn't contain himself. "You wouldn't believe what happened," he whispered excitedly to Lady Moira. "Brendan saved my life! A guard got the drop on me, knocked me cold with a stone, and Brendan—"
"It was nothing," I cut in quickly, my stomach churning. "We should focus on what you found on your side."
Lady Moira's sharp eyes caught my discomfort, narrowing for just a moment as if cataloging it for later. Then she straightened, her tone firm and decisive as she addressed the group. "We may have a situation. During our sweep, we witnessed a guard delivering food to a prisoner. It was Master Aldrich."
"The High Archivist of the Imperial Grand Library?" Law's voice carried a mix of surprise and dawning comprehension. "He vanished over a year ago. The official story was that he'd gone to study in the Eastern Kingdoms, but..."
"But nobody believed it," Lady Moira finished, her voice cold and precise. Her expression hardened into one of determination as she glanced around at us. "We need to get him out. He might have crucial information about what the Black Scale Brigade is planning." She spoke with firm authority that left no room for doubt or hesitation, her words a command wrapped in the guise of suggestion.
I couldn’t help but marvel at her composure. Even in the face of a revelation like this, she moved the conversation forward, prioritizing action over sentiment. It was moments like this that reminded me why we followed her—why even the more skeptical members of the group rarely questioned her judgment. She was the anchor that kept us steady, even as the storm raged around us.
I touched my lockpicks, already expecting her next words. "I'll need to get close to his cell. How frequent are the guard rotations?"
Lady Moira outlined the patrol patterns they'd observed, and minutes later I crouched before a heavy iron door, picking its lock. The mechanism was complex but well-maintained—they wanted to keep their prisoner secure but accessible.
When the door swung open, I found a man who barely resembled that of a proud scholar. Master Aldrich's once-immaculate robes were threadbare, his silver hair unkempt. But his eyes—they still held a sharp intelligence. The air in the cell was stifling, carrying the scent of unwashed despair.
"We're here to rescue you," I whispered, glancing back down the corridor. "The guard patrols—"
"Won't be an issue," he interrupted, his voice rough from disuse. "They slide meals under the door. They won't notice I'm gone until tomorrow, at least."
I helped him up, supporting his weight as we made our way back to the others. Lady Moira's dim magical light revealed more details of his condition—the pallor of his skin, the way his bones pressed against his flesh, the slight tremor in his hands. Every step felt heavier as his story began to spill out, each word a dagger against the oppressive silence of the corridor.
"They took me from my study," he began without preamble, his words carrying the weight of a year's imprisonment. "A year ago, I gained a legendary skill—the ability to comprehend almost any written language, no matter how ancient or obscure. Word spread quickly, too quickly."
"The Kandari scrolls," Lady Moira breathed. "They needed you to translate them."
Aldrich nodded. "They threatened my wife, said they'd kill her if I didn't cooperate."
Lady Moira's face softened with grief. "Master Aldrich... your wife... she's dead. When they came for her at your home, she fought back. She wouldn't let them take her."
The scholar's face went still, like a pond freezing over. "I should have known," he whispered. "Marissa would never have gone quietly. And every time I asked to contact her, they had excuses..." His hands clenched into fists. "A year. A year of translating their cursed scrolls, thinking I was keeping her safe..."
"I'm sorry," Lady Moira said gently. "But we need to know what you learned. What are the Black Scale Brigade planning?"
Aldrich's eyes hardened, and I saw grief transform into something harder, colder. "Oh, I'll tell you everything," he said, his voice carrying the weight of vengeance. "Let me tell you what I found in those ancient scrolls, and why they will kill to keep it secret..."