It’s the day after their second night watching Tarkus Vell’s warehouse. The camp sits on the ragged edge of Ghanil, tents pitched close but without order. To the west, the Westlands stretch out under a clear sky.
Ethelred keeps his watch, cloth in hand, working over the wooden spyglass. The fittings look sturdier than when they first bought it, the grain smoother, edges tighter, as though time and use had only sharpened it.
Alexis stirs, props himself up, voice low.
“Evening, Red.”
…
“Dreams again,” Alexis says. “Running corridors that turned back on themselves. Always ending where I began. A woman’s pleading voice all the while.”
…
“Red, I’ve been excited for you to finish the scrolls and take your new craft to the next level…” his voice falters, just for a breath, as if there’s more he wants to say — something personal. He pushes on. “…but I need you in the here-and-now too. So much I want to say to so many people.”
He starts counting on his fingers.
“About Zrithrak. The howling winds. The undead on the edge of Ghanil. The Spider of Ilceros. And more.”
He ticks them off the way Ethelred does his inventory: precise.
“We need a way to get word out. A way to send messages over distances. I don’t know when we’ll see another proper town.”
A breath. Then another matter.
“And there’s Verisimus, always watching through his pool. Gustav managed to blunt it for a while, but…” Alexis shrugs “We need cover from Verisimus. Something that moves with us.”
Alexis quietly pushes out of his bedroll. The red jasper at his neck catches the daylight, burning faintly.