Dear spellbook volume 2.., p.9
Dear Spellbook, Volume 2: Wizard - A Time Loop Progression Adventure, page 9
Fortunately for the tall guard—whose name I will definitely find out someday—I’d expected something like this. I summoned a Gust that blew the dwarf to the wall, pinning her there under the sustained wind. She fought it, but soon the two guards were able to restrain her.
The Parlor had a small jailhouse set around the back, behind the kitchens and baths, and the two guards dragged the dwarf to it. I followed behind as they threw her into a holding cell.
After the guards left her, I activated Force Armor and sat down.
“Are you ready to talk?” I asked through the bars.
“Go shtup a cave troll,” she responded, spitting at me to emphasize the point.
The spit was deflected off the armor without a noticeable drain on my Will.
Hmm, I wonder if this deflects rain? I suppose I’ll need to escape these resets to try. I was so cautious with my magic before this ordeal that I never considered all the practical everyday uses.
The dwarf continued to stare daggers at me as I thought.
“My name is Tal; can you tell me yours?” I asked after a brief silence.
“Go shtup a cave troll, Tal.”
“Fine, don’t talk, just listen. I’ve been stuck here for months now. I’ve lost count exactly. As far as I can tell, the only person aware of these resets so far—besides me—is you. Also, possibly, some pack rats—unless you did something to them. I was hoping we could work together to figure a way out of this.”
She didn’t respond. I spent an hour trying to convince her that I was in the same situation as she was, but she refused to speak.
Eventually, I gave up and left, determined to try again tomorrow. Not having any other plans for the day, I visited Ren for another training session. Getting beat by the dwarf had lit a fire under me. The golems were such powerful inhuman creatures, so beyond my hope to destroy, that being defeated by them did little to bruise my ego or spur me to revenge. My defeat at the dwarf’s hands stung a lot more though. She was better than me, for sure, but the gap was not so insurmountable that I had no hope of bridging it.
Ren’s training was nearly identical to the last time. Until I exhibited noticeable increases in ability, I didn’t expect it to change. I spent a bit of our practice trying to cast cantrips with Force Armor active, but I still couldn’t release the cantrip without dropping the spell.
On the way back from Ren’s, I poked my head into the Master’s Den and bought their only bottle of dwarven fungal wine. Yeah, it didn’t sound good to me either, so I also got her some of the strongest rum they had and some mushroom stew that was said to be popular amongst the dwarves. The bartender gave me some strange looks at my requests, but a pouch full of gold kept any criticism or questions locked behind pursed lips.
When I entered the detention area, a new security guard greeted me. “Mage Theral I presume? We have some questions for you about the prisoner, if you wouldn’t mind.”
I handed the man a gold coin and said, “Actually I do mind. Can you give us a moment?”
Accepting the bribe with practiced ease, he said, “This’ll only buy you a moment, mind you. Otherwise I got to report you to the boss. I’ll need you to answer some questions, or we will have to let this”—he stalled, choosing his next words carefully while eyeing the filthy dwarf—“fine lady go.”
“A moment’s all I need. Thank you.”
The guard stepped outside with a nod. Looking down, I saw the dwarf sitting on the floor, still staring at the wall.
In a gentle tone, I said, “I brought you something. I’m sorry about ruining your”—I paused, trying to think of a word to describe her manic dash—“plans for the day. I hope this can make up for it.”
I placed the alcohol and food on the floor within reach, then walked out.
Passing the guard, I said, “You know, it’s the strangest thing. There must have been another dwarf out on the road robbing people. What are the odds? Do you mind letting her go?”
As the guard did as I asked, I went into the Parlor without looking back. I didn’t want to risk another incident in case my peace offering was rejected.
I spent the rest of the night at the baths rereading Halflings, Full Hearts and regretting not having picked up a new book from Levar’s while I’d been out.
Riloth 19th the 73rd
The next morning felt strange, like I’d spent longer between resets. It’s even more memorable now, writing about it in your pages. I lay in my bed, eyes still closed, but immediately became aware that something else was amiss—beyond the strange sense of lost time.
Someone else was there. A newly familiar smell of onions and unwashed feet filled the room.
I stilled my breathing, as I did when meditating to enter my vault, and tried to appear asleep. If I took my time, I could cast Force Armor without moving a muscle. It wasn’t something I’d manage quickly in my hungover morning state, but given a minute undisturbed, I could do it.
I opened one eye the barest crack—and saw a blurry figure inches from my face.
“Good morning, Tal. I wanted to repay your hospitality from the other day,” the dwarf said, voice dripping with sarcasm.
I opened my eyes fully to see her standing between my bed and the window, my rapier in one hand and fake-Spellbook in the other.
“I came here planning to murder you in your sleep so I could move on and be done with you. Actually, I did that yesterday.”
She paused to let that sink in.
Could that be true? Is that what’s behind the odd sense I felt?
I focused on that sensation, trying to identify it again, but my mind wasn’t clear enough for such actions.
She smiled. “Imagine my surprise while rifling through your bags next to your corpse when I found a book that you shouldn’t have. How many Hardune did you slay to get it?”
Spellbook? What does it have to do with anything?
I weighed my options.
Do I attack her? I might be able to surprise her, but what then? Even if she didn’t really kill me the today before, which I’m pretty sure she did—she can clearly wake up before me in the resets. Do I try being honest? Maybe she’d listen. Do I lie? I don’t even know what this woman wants, so lying seems unwise. Let’s take a page out of Daulf’s playbook and go with the truth.
“I have no idea what a Hardune is, but what you’re holding is Spellbook, er, my spellbook,” I said.
She put the tip of my sword near my face. “You’re telling me you have this spellbook, and you don’t even know what it is? Bah! I don’t believe that for a second.”
As she held the book up, I feared it might disintegrate. I didn’t know how she might react to such an occurrence, but it wasn’t likely to improve the situation.
“I didn’t say I didn’t know what the spellbook was,” I replied, trying to ignore the sword. “I said I don’t know what a Hardune is. How do you know what Spellbook, er, that spellbook is?”
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t keep the emphasis out of my voice that singled you out as something more than a mundane object.
“You have this and you don’t know the Hardune?” she asked, waving fake-you around.
I should mention, Spellbook, that we’d been speaking in Torcish the whole time. When she said “Hardune,” it was a word I didn’t know, but many Torcish words are just other words mashed together. “Har” means guard and “dune” means prison, so I heard it as “guard prison.”
I tried parsing it aloud. “Guard prison? Prison guard… Warden? I’ve heard the word spoken once and read about it twice, but never with enough context to discern a meaning.”
The dwarf lowered the sword. “Slag. You really don’t know what this is? Either that or you’re a great liar.”
I laughed despite the tension.
“I can assure you, I am not a great liar.”
She started pacing around the room, muttering to herself.
“He’s just a shortbeard. Not a demon… probably, unless this is a long con. But that’s not their style. So why’s this meddling ferret here? Hmmmm…”
She kept pacing, lost in thought.
I sat there in my bed, at her mercy. I thought I could maybe take her in a fight if it started at range, and if she didn’t have my sword to deflect my attacks, and if I was free of a hangover.
Unfortunately, none of those conditions were true. I hoped that wherever her thoughts landed, they wouldn’t result in my eternal death.
After a minute of not-so-silent pacing, she stopped, turned abruptly to me, and said, “Alright, so, you’re probably not a demon. Sorry about killing you.”
“Um, don’t mention it?”
I responded with a very questioning tone, because how do you respond to that?
“I was under the assumption that I was in Fauell, but your appearance makes that less likely. Unless, of course, you’re being punished for some great failing. If this isn’t Fauell, I wasn’t forsaken by Torc, and if I wasn’t forsaken, I don’t have to stay here. That means I can possibly escape. So, you’re going to help me do that.”
Relief flooded me, and I spoke without caution. Finally, there was someone I could get real answers from instead of endless questions.
“Okay, great. I’m glad we’re past the demon thing. And I’m really glad you’ve come around on killing me forever, believe me, but you’re going to have to explain a few things. First things first, what do you know about that spellbook?”
“You really are a shortbeard. You tell me where you found this book, and I’ll tell you about it.”
Emboldened, I pressed on. “No. The way I see it, the only thing I have of value to you is the origin of that spellbook. So as soon as I tell you that, what’s to stop you from killing me each morning to keep me out of your hair? I only locked you up. You killed me. I think you owe me.”
As I spoke, I could see her grip tighten on my sword as her anger began to build, but when I mentioned that she’d killed me, she winced.
“Aye, that’s fair. Fine, I’ll tell you what you want to know,” she said, sounding chastised. “My name is Dagmar Har’Tokar. I am the only surviving member of the Hardune, the guardians of the Avatar, and I fear that Kaltis is doomed.”
“Wait,” I interrupted her. “Can we not do this here?”
“Why not?” she asked, voice full of suspicion.
“I’d rather not explain here,” I emphasized the last word, hoping she’d take the hint. “It isn’t a trick. I think you’ll agree when I tell you. Also, I need to pick up my potions. I won’t be able to recount much without them.”
“Aye, you do look like you spent the night down the waste shaft. Get up, we’ll go—but no scheming, or we’ll repeat this whole ordeal tomorrow.”
I got out of bed and moved to dress. I stared at Dagmar, but she stood there uncaring.
“Are you going to give me some privacy?”
“No,” she said, taking a seat at my desk and flipping through the pages of fake-Spellbook.
I dressed quickly, ignoring the dwarf’s presence, and we headed downstairs. I wrote a note for Trish, which Dagmar insisted on reading, and left it on Simon’s desk.
“I need to pick up a few things. Why don’t you head down to the baths and clean up? Is that something dwarves do? Clean up? I know you worship Torc, but it’s okay to, you know, bathe, right?” I asked, my curiosity getting the better of my caution.
“Aye, we do,” she said with a laugh and a sniff of her armpit. “I have to admit, I’ve let myself go. What do you need potions for?”
“I drank some dwarven ale… yesterday? A few months back? Either way, I’ve been paying for it every morning since. The potions help.”
“BAH HA HA!” she bellowed. “That explains the sorry state. It took you ages to cast that armor spell. Sure, let’s go.”
“I’m going to need the sword,” I said, pointing at it in her hand. “I missed my chance this morning to make enough gold to cover the potions, but I’ve been able to use that as collateral.”
Dagmar looked from the sword, to me, then back to the sword. “Clever. Swear a Will oath of your good intention, and I agree.”
“I, uh…” I said, rubbing the back of my head. “I don’t know how to do that.”
“You don’t know how to swear a Will oath? What do they teach you at that Tower?”
“Ah, no. My mother was a Stormcaller, and I—” I paused, thinking about how to define myself. “I try to emulate her.”
“Hmmm. Well, if that’s true—and I’m not saying I believe you; Fauell, you might still be a demon—but if that’s true, I might not have to take this book from you.”
Choosing to ignore that last comment, I said, “So, the sword?”
She flipped it around and handed it to me hilt-first. “I suppose there’s not much you can do since I know where you sleep. Ha!”
Well, that’s reassuring.
I gave her directions to the baths and told her to charge it to the room of Theral Elmheart. Then, equipped with my sword again, I went to Levar’s and got my potions—and some extra for Dagmar. I picked up some coffee on my way back to the Parlor, expecting to find her outside the baths.
She wasn’t ready when I got there, so I waited.
And waited.
And waited.
After an hour, I gave up and walked in to find her passed out in the changing room, thankfully clothed and bathed. Simon had found her some new clothes at my request.
Still maybe a little peeved about the whole double murder thing, I kicked her off the bench to wake her.
“I brought you some pick-me-ups. Here,” I said, handing her the potions and coffee.
I was about to take my two when Dagmar stopped me. “Wait, take those two,” she said, indicating the two set aside for her.
I let out a sigh and complied, grimacing at the foul taste. Dagmar took the two originally intended for me and downed them without flinching. After drinking the potions, she held the empty vials up to the light.
“These aren’t too bad. You Waatin sure are a backward folk, but one thing you do right is potions. The gnomes come close, but theirs taste awful and aren’t as effective. They’ll never admit it, but you’ve found yourselves a marvel here,” she said, reveling in the absence of fatigue.
“Also,” she continued, looking herself up and down, “this outfit is much nicer than what we get in the Torack. Your fabric variety really puts ours to shame. Moss doesn’t make the best thread.” Probably realizing she’d just said two positive statements in a row, she added, “But it’s a waste of coin. Better off buying slag. How much do you think this cost?”
“I don’t know,” I answered. “Simon said he’d add it to my bill when I check out tomorrow.”
“Bah!” she laughed, surprising me with its sudden and loud nature. “That’s clever, though I don’t condone the shirking of one’s debts.”
I didn’t want to have any conversation where Tilavo could hear us, so we headed out to the Sleeping Owlbear Inn to have a private chat.
By then, it was past two, so the tavern was relatively empty as the wealthier refugees from Landing spread out through the town. I ordered the roasted duck while Dagmar called for an “etney” of ale, which the barkeep, to my surprise, understood, giving her a broad smile.
“Etney, the inverse of ‘end’?” I asked, breaking down the Torcish word. “What’s that?”
Surprisingly, she seemed eager to answer my inquiries into dwarven culture. “Endless. They bring me ale until they run out or I stop. Though the pisswater you Waatin have can hardly be called ale. Where did you get that mushroom wine anyway? It was half decent. The best thing I’ve drunk in months.”
“The Master’s Den.”
On hearing the name, she slammed her fist on the table and shouted, “That racist bastard! I knew they had the good stuff. They said I couldn’t come in because of my appearance, but I knew what that prissy man at the entrance really meant.”
Not wanting to argue or explain dress codes, or remind her of her odor of a few hours past, I just nodded.
“So, you were going to explain some things to me,” I asked as the barkeep brought out Dagmar’s drink.
Still angry, she downed her mug to drown her mood and motioned to the barkeep for another. While he poured, she began her tale.
“My name is Dagmar Har’Tokar. I am the only surviving member of the Hardune, the guardians of the Avatar, and I fear that Kaltis is doomed.”
A Fly in the Ointment
Dear Spellbook,
Dagmar told me her story in the inn that night, but since I recovered you, I’ve been wanting to try something. I gave her a few of your pages—I hope you don’t mind—and had her write down her recollection of those events. Writing my own account of her retelling of the events seemed less than ideal.
To both her surprise and my own hopes, your magic allowed her to recall the night’s events with a clarity that rivaled my own when writing about events from before our meeting.
Luckily for her, she didn’t experience the pain or senses I do when recounting my past.
Honestly, I think she needed to do this. The weight of that night has been a burden on her oddly-proportioned shoulders. Writing in you has helped me, and I think writing down her own thoughts has helped her as well.
She was reluctant, but when I told her that I needed it to have a complete record of events, she softened to the idea. Having made fun of me endlessly for writing in my “diary,” I think she needed the excuse to save face.
I had asked her to write in Rilith, but she still used a lot of Torcish words. While I mostly had her write this as a form of processing her emotions in a way that doesn’t involve harassing or harming me, it does actually serve as a good record of the event.
In light of that, I added footnotes with translations in case we escape these resets and I get the opportunity to publish an account of the Hardune’s fall. Though, if Dagmar is right, there may not be anyone around to read it.
