Session #5, part 2 as told by Finn

 Two Weeks’ Notice

They put me back in the cell like nothing had happened.

Griggs—twitchy, foam-flecked Griggs—had come to behind the kitchen with eyes full of static and teeth looking for a neck. Took two guards to pry him off the third. Poor bastard ended up with his windpipe half collapsed and a soup ladle lodged where no ladle should ever lodge. Griggs, last I heard, got dragged screaming down to the oubliette.

So, problem solved.

For half a morning, I let myself believe the scales had balanced. Then the new problem strolled in.

By the time the dust settled, we were down one golem and up one campfire. Inez passed around her fancy-packet rations, all neat folds and clean edges like she’d been raised in a bakery. They tasted of citrus and shame, like she was trying to apologize for something unspoken. She was still blinking like she’d seen a ghost—and maybe she had. Us halflings, though, we were already swapping stories like squirrels on too much sugar. Jonathan was going on about which spices paired best with lamb chops, and I chimed in with my theory that slicing direction was more important than seasoning. Then someone brought up the moonstone.That stupid glowing pebble. Of course it was Jonathan who brought it up, all innocent-like.

“Inez still has it, right?” he said.

 

Inez clutched the shiny thing like it was a love letter from home and spun some nonsense about preservation. “We” still had the moonstone, she said, like it had been a team effort. I nodded along, of course. She was pink-cheeked and prickly about it, which meant we’d struck a nerve. Jonathan smiled like a saint. I let it go—for now.

 

Then she said something daft about me setting the course next. And here’s the kicker: nobody argued. I told her I wasn’t in charge of this parade of misfits. I reminded her that the deal was she would take me out of Nook, not the other way around. I had no map, no plan, and no interest in pretending otherwise. This was her show, and she was the director. That seemed to put a bit of color on her cheeks, and I could see the whirlwind of thoughts behind her eyes.

 

Jonathan revisited the carcass of Elkzilla Rex—his god only knows why—I noticed the owlbear chicks had passed out from stuffing themselves, one snoring like a tiny sawmill. I wanted to run. Instead, I cooked.  Ignoring Jonathan’s mutterings, I took some meat from the hind leg and started slicing it down into travel-ready cuts. It felt good to do something normal. Then we realized we had no water.

 

Jonathan, being a walking miracle, summoned some with a flick of his wrist and offered to teach Inez the spell. She tried. Failed. Tried again. Failed harder. I laughed. Said she needed a few good slaps—that’s how I learned. In Grint’s house, failure was met with knuckles, not patience.

 

Apparently, that wasn’t the done thing in gnome high society.

 

She flushed like a beet and nearly bit my head off. I was about to joke about her other cheeks but caught something in her face—tired, sad, the kind of pain that lingers. I let it drop. Told her that’s how I got schooled. She didn’t laugh.

 

When I went to heat up my cookware, I found it had gone cold. A quick check showed every piece of metal except Inez’s gear had lost its heat. In a brilliant attempt to look impressive, I grabbed her knife bare-handed and burned myself like an idiot. Real clever, Finn. Jonathan offered up his axe to see if Inez had some magical metal-heating ability, but it was too heavy for her, and she dropped it like it weighed a hundred pounds. Nearly cost Jonathan a few toes.

 

After the meal, the owlbear cubs perked up and started chasing each other around. Inez announced we’d travel toward Magki and the Light Academic tower. Both Jonathan and I raised the idea of heading back into the dungeon below, just to see if she’d bite. She didn’t.

 

So off we went, across the field and back to the road, making good time without incident. Suspiciously good.

 

Eventually we reached a hamlet so small it looked like it had been sneezed out of the dirt. A handful of buildings. Smallfolk-sized, mostly. Barely a soul in sight. Most of the paint had peeled off long ago, and what was left looked like rust trying to remember color.

 

And then there he was: one sagging gnome slouched on a pile of empty bottles like a wine god gone to seed, greeting us like a king.

 

Now Ross, this bit stuck with me. Inez must’ve thought she looked a right mess—red hair all loose and tangled, catching the sun like it wanted to set her alight. Freckles shone through the grime like starlight on a dirty window. She was missing a stocking, I think—the left one. Fidgeting, fixing her hair, brushing off her dress like she could wipe away the last few days. And still… still, she looked beautiful. Not the polished kind, not the ones they paint in parlors. No, she looked like the kind that grabs your heart. Wild. Honest. Like the world had tried to scuff her up and she just wore it like a badge. Couldn’t look away, if I’m honest. Not then. Still can’t.

 

The gnome introduced himself as Meyon Hiir. Least, that’s what Inez told me later. With his thick gnomish accent and slur, I thought he said “Mayor Here.” Which, for all I knew, he was.

 

Inez bowed like she was meeting royalty. He gave her sass about wine, and she handed him Jonathan’s conjured water. He took one sniff and called it piss. I nearly collapsed laughing. You’d think she’d stabbed him.

 

I saw a chance and snuck off to scout for loot, while they were having their conversation. Old habits. Found the place was even more rickety than it looked. Got my foot caught on a loose board and, trying to steady myself, shoved my hand through the wall. A bottle rolled out—straight into the king’s lap. He gave me the stink eye, claimed it was his by right, and downed it.

 

Inez smoothed over the blunder by introducing us all. Turns out Meyon had heard of the Systemix family from Nook. Gnomes stick together like that. He asked if her family would send more wine. She lied with ease. Not bad.

 

I asked if there was a tavern. He said the nearest one was six or seven days away and launched into a tale about giants, cheese, and cyclopes. Then came the quiz: name the ancient hero who fought giants. Inez froze—looked like a student caught scribbling notes during a sermon. I considered piling on. Briefly. But she didn’t need another slap from me that day.

 

So, I asked if there was a barn or hayloft, we could kip in. He implied we were all shagging and asked about Inez’s chaperone. She turned red again. I might’ve, too, from trying not to laugh.

 

He finally pointed us to a campsite up the road, less than an hour’s walk. Then promptly fell asleep.

 

Behind us, a crowd had gathered. The chicks—our owlbear cubs—had caught up. That sealed it. The townsfolk gave us the boot. Thankfully, no pitchforks or torches.

 

We found the camp just as promised. Inez tried to scrub dignity back onto her soul with a foraged meal of roots and regret. Jonathan and I picked berries—one of us said they were sour, the other said poisonous. We didn’t test it. Inez, still reeling from the wine-piss debacle, didn’t touch them. We dug for grubs to feed the chicks. They scarfed them down. We were gonna need bigger bugs soon.

 

We ate the rations I’d prepped that morning. I made sure we camped well off the road, hidden from view. That annoyed Inez—she seemed to think every traveler needed her approval to pass.

 

Later, she slipped off and came back with that mysterious glow of hers. The cubs loved it. She looked at Jonathan and me like we were supposed to be impressed too. I just don’t think I’ll ever fully understand women.

 

She said she saw someone—on horseback, watching us. Claimed it was the one from the monolith. If that’s true, trouble’s close. Inez seemed to enjoy the mystery and not consider much else.

 

Rosslyn, if you ever find yourself traveling with fools, you’d best consider you might be one yourself.

 

Tomorrow, we march. Probably. Or get eaten. Or murdered by a sentient tea kettle. Honestly, I’ve given up trying to guess. 

He made his entrance during airing time. That sliver of afternoon where they pretend, we’re still human enough to need sunlight.

He walked with the cocky limp of someone who’s earned every one of his scars and still thinks he won the fight. Half-elf, if you squinted, though something heavier lurked in the blood. Broad shoulders, neck like a stump, skin like dried-out hide. One ear gone. Not cut—bitten. Smile like a bad joke left out in the rain. 

Walked straight through the yard like the bricks owed him rent. And when he saw me? He grinned.

I didn’t recognize him, but I recognized the look. The kind of look a man wears when he’s not here to serve his own time—he’s here to serve someone else’s.

Calder sent him. Of course he did. Hanging was too clean for a man like me.

“Finn Slynt,” the half-elf said, crouching beside me like we were old friends at a funeral. “Calder says hi.” Voice like gravel rolled in blood. He smelled like cloves, piss, and powder. The kind of smell that lingers long after the body’s cold.

“I’ve got orders,” he said. “Two weeks of evenings. We’re going to get to know each other. Properly. And then, right before your neck stretches, you’re going to miss that appointment, but I’m going to make you wish you had made it.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but his hand was already on my throat. Fast. Like a snake that’d been coiled too long.

The world narrowed.

Air thinned.

The sky winked out like a dying candle.

I struggled. Useless. My hands couldn’t find purchase. My legs kicked dust. A distant part of me heard Rosslyn squeak—but I couldn’t see her. The world went black.

Then he let go. Just long enough to spit on the ground beside my head.

He stood. Maybe he stamped. I don’t know. Something crunched near me. Was it her? I don’t know.

I gasped like a fish on a dock, watching his boots walk away. Slow. No rush. Why would there be? He had time. Orders, after all.

The guards didn’t see. Or pretended not to. And me? I laid there. Throat burning. Eyes watering. Dust in my teeth.

They say every man’s got a clock in him, ticking down to something. Me? Mine’s loud lately. Fourteen nights. Fourteen reminders. Tick. Tock.

And Rosslyn? Gone.