Faerunners

The Justicar

Tallis stood by one of the many portals leading into Tuath Den dressed in his best outfit. He paced back and forth in front of the portal, fidgeting, making sure his tie was straight, smoothing the wrinkles from his jacket.

Callan caught him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him to a halt. "Please, Tallis, please stop that. You are driving me crazy."

"Sorry. Just nervous."

"Don't be. The Justicar is here to help and I promise they won't bite unless you give them a good reason."

Tallis pulled a cigarette from his coat pocket and lit it. "Have you worked with this Justicar before?"

Callan sat on the low step in front of the raised platform that housed the portal. "Personally? No. The higher members of our order don't tend to involve themselves in day to day issues. They typically stay in their towers and delegate, unless the situation is exceptionally bad."

Tallis took a long drag on his cigarette. "I'm not sure if that makes me feel any better."

Callan let out a grim chuckle. "San Tempes is a necropolis now where it used to be a home for the living. A city burned to ash, Tallis, I think we passed "exceptionally bad" a few months ago."

"Fair enough," said Tallis. He was about to start pacing again when the portal behind Callan flickered to life, filling the hall with a violet glow.

The High Justicar was the rich gold of a sunset, with orange scales running over their forehead and down the bridge of their nose. Deep wrinkles creased their face and they were bent with age. They were dressed in a simple black robe and carried a knotted walking stick.

Tallis moved to help them down the short flight of steps but the Justicar shooed him away with the walking stick.

"Easy, boys," said the Justicar. "Just stay where you're at and I'll come where you're to."

Callan stood and bowed.

The Justicar hit him in the shin. "None of that fawning and tom foolery now. Spirits of blood and thunder, there's a war on. Spies see you going on like that and kicking up a fuss, I'll wake up tomorrow with a knife in the throat. Best not give me any fancy titles or "yes sirs" or "no sirs" either. Just call me Fionn and treat me plain and we'll be grand."

"I don't think there are any spies here," said Tallis. The comment earned him a rap on the shins of his own. He darted backwards with a wince.

"If you suspected there were spies, they wouldn't be very good spies now, would they?" said Fionn. "Does that little bar on the third level still serve that mulled wine I like?"

Fionn didn't wait for an answer. He shuffled off into the city at the quickest pace he could manage.

Tallis and Callan trailed a few steps behind him.

"He's not quite what I was expecting," Tallis whispered. "I thought he'd be more of a fighter."

"Well, he's certainly good with that damn stick," Callan grumbled.

"And I can hear very well," said Fionn.

A rush of heat crept up Tallis' cheeks and he followed the old man in silence until they found the bar he was looking for. It was a snug little spot grown into a hollow in the city's trunk. The bar was lit with globes or translucent sap filled with glowing grubs, and each table was sat in a private booth made of moss covered wood. The place smelled green and alive, and a muted hush filled the bar, like the deep silence that followed a heavy snowfall.

Fionn ordered a cup of wine for each of them and sat in a booth at the back of the bar. "Smokes, let's go," he said, holding out a hand towards Tallis and snapping his fingers.