Diffraction

Interlude - Jahrin

In the main hall of the Friar's Folly in Northridge, following the bandit assault and fires, two dozen men and a few women sat alone, staring into their mugs as if seeking answers. Muted conversation and whispers broke the silence now and then. But all the patrons pointedly ignored the showdown in the middle of the room.

At a central table, a mountain of muscle hunkered on a stool like an avalanche come to rest: Jahrin of House Falsted, head of the modest guard employed by the popular merchant. Long black hair hung down to his chin like a cowl around a face speckled with stubble and dominated by its hard jawline. His expression betrayed no emotion, but his narrowed grey eyes watched Josephine stomp toward the doorway.

She locked eyes with him, then strode out into the night.

He let her threat sink in and considered his options, which seemed fewer than usual.

The human across from him shook his head, his gaunt cheeks and short-cropped blonde hair adding years to his face. "Well that's a kick in the seat," Kristophe said as he lifted a foamy mug to his lips.

To his right, Ellers paused his meal, the tines of his fork piercing a pink cube of stewed beef. He was thinner than most Mudborn, but sported the unruly flow of curly hair and slick brown skin of his Aquamental heritage. Ellers seemed to mull over Kristophe's comment and looked ready to respond. But then he shrugged and returned his attention to the plate.

Northridge's ale-slinger and tavern-tender Keyhrie loosed her trademark laugh at a comment from a patron, and smiles bloomed on a few faces. Tonight, her optimism filled a desperate need. In the absence of Gaffrey, the tavernkeep whose father Gammin fell in battle, Keyhrie managed the Folly alone. The woman could hold her own with a drunk or rabble-rouser, but most came to the Folly for her listening ear and contagious grin.

A murmur of conversation returned to the crowd. The events of the attack subdued
any semblance of celebration, in spite of attempts to drown the memories with ale.

Jahrin sighed. The attack disturbed him little. He knew the world beyond the Woodwall to be full of wild beasts and far more dangerous men. He'd grown accustomed long ago to the dark thoughts and fears brooding in the minds of the people of Northridge.

But Josephine's demand occupied his mind. "You'll have both of us, or neither," she'd said before departing. Another link is added to the chain, another factor to consider.

An image of curved metal trinkets came to mind, parts to a blacksmith's puzzle, spinning and clinking together. He'd studied several as an apprentice in Haven twenty years earlier, when the Ghostskins of Meneldor came to trade. Mannit, the town metalsmith, purchased one for Jahrin as a gift.

"Three broken links—crafted, reshaped and twisted to fit together only one way," he'd explained while Jahrin fumbled with one puzzle. "Do you see it, boy? Even the smallest bulge, or a too-sharp curve, they prevent the pieces from joining when it looks like a perfect match. Takes skill to figure it out. Takes mastery to craft such a thing in the first place."

Reflecting on the past would get nothing done. Jahrin addressed his companions. "What do we know of this girl Lyllithe?" He took a sip of ale and savored the taste.

Kristophe scoffed. "Outcast Devoted, amateur Arcanist, useless in the first role, redundant in the second. What more do we need to know?"

Ellers cocked his head as he chewed, then nodded as if that summed everything up.

"I share your concerns, Kris," Jahrin said. "What are your thoughts on the Soulforged? Does the woman's threat hold weight?"