The air in the Grand Lyceum of the Bard's Respite hummed, not just with the lingering resonance of a dozen prior performances, but with anticipation. It was the final recital of the season, the culmination of years of practice for the graduating acolytes. Delores Von Pixieheart adjusted the strap of her hurdy-gurdy, the polished wood warm beneath her small gnome hands. The instrument felt like an extension of her soul, its intricate mechanics a language she understood better than the rigid military drills her parents championed. She stepped onto the stage, the scattered light from the high arched windows catching the vivid red of her hair. A hush fell over the assembled tutors and fellow students. Delores took a breath, ignoring the familiar pang of disappointment as her eyes scanned the reserved family seating near the front. Empty. Again. They hadn't come. Not for her first recital, not for any milestone, and not now, for her final performance as an acolyte. Duty, they'd always said. The garrison needed them more than a concert hall did.
Pushing the thought away, she settled the hurdy-gurdy in her lap. Her fingers found the keys, the crank turning with a smooth, practiced motion. The first complex notes filled the hall, a melancholic melody that spoke of wind through ancient ruins and starlight on forgotten snow. She wasn't just playing; she was weaving. The music flowed from her, effortless, intricate, far beyond the technical mastery expected even of graduates. She was a savant, the tutors whispered, a natural conduit for music. But tonight, Delores let something else bleed through. As the melody swelled, a faint, shimmering mist, invisible to most but tangible to those sensitive to the arcane, began to rise from the stage around her feet. It wasn't part of the score. It was her, the innate sorcery she usually kept carefully suppressed, now subtly enhancing the atmosphere. Tiny motes of light, like captured fireflies, began to dance in the air, swirling in time with the rising arpeggios. The crank turned faster, the drone strings humming with a resonant power that vibrated not just in the air, but in the very stone of the Lyceum. Dust motes hanging in the sunbeams seemed to spin and cluster, forming fleeting images that mirrored the music's theme of a crumbling tower, a lone wolf silhouetted against a moon, a single tear falling like ice.
Her eyes closed, lost in the fusion of sound and nascent magic. It felt right, this blending of her two selves, the musician lauded by the Guild, and the secret sorcerer she barely understood. She poured her longing, her frustration, her quiet defiance into the music, the visual illusions growing slightly bolder, more defined, before she consciously reined them back in just before the final, lingering note faded into profound silence. Applause erupted, louder and longer than for any performer before her. Tutors exchanged impressed, slightly bewildered glances. Students leaned forward, captivated. Delores offered a small, polite bow, the shimmering mist and lights dissipating as if they'd never been. But the effort, the careful control of both music and magic, left her feeling drained, the applause ringing hollow without the one audience she truly craved.
Later, back in the crowded common room, the post-recital buzz was a cacophony Delores struggled to navigate. Praises were offered, critiques given, futures debated. She smiled, nodded, offered polite responses, but felt disconnected. It was then that a liveried Guild messenger approached, clearing his throat pointedly.
"Mistress Pixieheart? A missive. From Arcintor Garrison."
Delores's smile tightened, becoming brittle. She accepted the sealed parchment, the familiar military crest of her family pressing into her palm like a brand. Excusing herself with a murmur, she found a relatively quiet corner, shadowed by a tapestry depicting a heroic, musically-inclined battle scene she found utterly uninspired.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she broke the seal. The script was her father's precise, unyielding, devoid of warmth writing.
Delores,
We trust your studies conclude adequately. Your mother and I expect your return by season's end. Arrangements have been made for your enrollment at the Citadel. The aptitude tests begin shortly thereafter. Your martial heritage demands participation. Duty awaits.
General Jerome Pixieheart.
No mention of her performance. No word of pride, or even acknowledgment. Just duty. Expectation. The familiar weight settled on her chest, cold and heavy. A surge of hot anger flared within her, so intense it made the air around her hands momentarily shimmer with heat. She clenched her fists, forcing the feeling down, smoothing her expression before anyone nearby could notice. Privacy was a luxury the Guild rarely afforded. She wouldn't give them, or her parents, the satisfaction of seeing her crack. She reread the crisp, impersonal lines. Adequately.Expect.Demands. The words echoed the emptiness she'd felt on stage, the sense that her true self, the music and the hidden magic, meant nothing compared to the path they had chosen for her. She was a Pixieheart, destined for shield walls and battle commands, not hurdy-gurdies and concert halls.
And she was seventy years old. A young adult by gnome standards, yes, but no longer a child swayed by parental decree. She wasn't getting any younger, and the thought of spending the rest of her life either performing polite tunes in predictable venues or marching in lockstep at the Citadel felt like a cage tightening around her spirit. This path, the one laid out for her by bloodline and expectation, wasn't hers. It never had been. Maybe... maybe it was time to finally make her own way. A small, rebellious spark ignited within the simmering anger. She loved her parents, truly, in the complex way children often loved stern, distant figures. But sticking it to them, just a little? Proving she could forge her own destiny, find her own adventures, help people because she chose to, not because duty dictated? The thought was terrifying. And exhilarating.
She looked down at the letter again, then carefully folded it, tucking it into a pocket of her performance dress. Decision settled in her eyes, firm and clear. That night, she wouldn't slip away like a thief. She would walk out on her own terms. The hours after the recital stretched long. Delores politely deflected invitations for celebratory drinks and avoided further discussion of future postings within the Guild's network of performance halls. Instead, she sought out a few specific faces in the bustling common areas.
First, she found Elar Meadowlight, the timid half-elf flautist she'd helped shield from Tutor Borin's harshest critiques earlier that week. Elar looked up, startled, as Delores approached.
"Delores! Your performance was magnificent!" Elar stammered, clutching her flute case tightly.
Delores offered a genuine smile. "Thank you, Elar. And thank you for being brave enough to play your own composition during practice. Don't let Borin grind that spirit out of you." She hesitated, then pressed a small pouch of coins into Elar's hand, a significant portion of her meager savings. "For new sheet music. Or maybe just some decent honeycakes."
Elar gasped, eyes wide. "Delores, I couldn't possibly—"
"You can, and you will," Delores said firmly, but kindly. "Keep playing what's in your heart. That's more important than any Guild standard." She gave Elar's shoulder a quick squeeze before turning away, leaving the flautist speechless.
Next, she tracked down Kaelen, a human percussionist with more enthusiasm than rhythm, whom she'd often tutored patiently after hours. He was excitedly recounting the recital to a group of younger students.
"Kaelen," Delores called softly. He turned, beaming.
"Delores! Masterful work tonight! Truly inspiring!"
"Keep practicing those polyrhythms," Delores advised with a wink. "And don't be afraid to find your own beat. The Guild teaches technique, but the soul comes from you." She offered him a respectful nod. "It's been a pleasure sharing music with you."
Kaelen looked slightly confused by the finality in her tone but grinned nonetheless. "You too, Delores! See you at morning practice?"
Delores just smiled enigmatically and moved on.
Her final stop was the office of Headmaster Loridian Melos, a wizened old elf whose passion for music was only matched by his adherence to Guild protocol. She knocked politely.
"Enter," came the familiar, reedy voice.
Delores stepped inside. The Headmaster looked up from a ledger, peering over his spectacles. "Ah, Mistress Pixieheart. An exceptional performance this evening. Truly. The nuanced phrasing in the adagio was particularly noteworthy. Your family must be immensely proud."
Delores kept her expression neutral, ignoring the unintended sting of his words. "Thank you, Headmaster. I came to inform you of my decision. I will not be taking the posting in Silverhaven."
Loridian blinked, lowering his ledger slowly. "Not taking… but Mistress Pixieheart, it's a prestigious position! Head chair hurdy-gurdy! An honor—"
"An honor I must decline, Headmaster," Delores interrupted gently but firmly. "My path lies elsewhere now. Outside the Guild."
The Headmaster adjusted his spectacles, studying her intently. He was old, and he had seen generations of hopeful musicians pass through these halls. He recognized the look in her eyes, not defiance, but quiet, unshakeable resolve. He sighed softly. "The call of the open road claims another promising talent, it seems. A pity for the Guild, but perhaps… perhaps a necessary journey for the artist." He paused. "Your family, the Pixiehearts of Thundertop Garrison… they expect you home. Am I to inform them of your departure?"
Delores met his gaze directly. "You may inform them that I have chosen my own commission, Headmaster. One that requires travel and independence. As for my destination…" She offered a small, polite smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Tell them simply that I follow the music. And please, do not trouble yourself relaying my specific whereabouts should they inquire further. Some journeys are best undertaken without a map dictated by others."
Loridian held her gaze for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Very well, Mistress Pixieheart. The Guild charter respects the paths its members choose, even when they lead away from our halls." He sounded genuinely regretful. "I wish you safety and… inspiration on your travels. May your music find welcoming ears."
"Thank you, Headmaster. For everything," Delores replied sincerely, giving a final bow before exiting the office.
Later that night, under the cloak of a sliver moon, Delores Von Pixieheart gathered her beloved hurdy-gurdy carefully wrapped in oilcloth, a worn satchel containing a few changes of clothes, the last of her coin, and the small, smooth river stone she sometimes used to focus her unpredictable sorcery. She left behind her formal Guild robes, opting instead for practical traveling clothes she'd acquired over time. She didn't sneak. She walked calmly through the now-quiet corridors, nodding respectfully to the night watchman at the main gate, who merely grunted in return, accustomed to students coming and going at odd hours.
Stepping out onto the dew-kissed road beyond the Guild's familiar walls, the world stretched vast and unknown before her. The air tasted different here, it was scented with pine and damp earth, carrying the promise of distant lands. A nervous thrill fluttered in her chest, a counterpoint to the steady resolve hardening within her. She adjusted the hurdy-gurdy on her back, its familiar weight a comfort. Adventure called. Uncertainty beckoned. And for the first time, Delores Von Pixieheart was truly free to answer. The road stretched ahead, winding into the darkness, and she took her first step. The heavy gates of the Bard's Respite closed behind Delores with a soft, final click. She stood on the cobbled road just outside Cerindor, the town that nestled around the prestigious Guild like a supplicant at a temple's steps. The pre-dawn air was cool and carried the scent of damp earth and distant woodsmoke. For a moment, pure, unadulterated freedom washed over her – exhilarating, vast, terrifying. She had done it. She had walked away.
Then, the sheer enormity of that freedom crashed down. She adjusted the hurdy-gurdy strapped to her back, its familiar weight a small anchor in the sudden sea of uncertainty. What now? Where did an adventurous, magically-inclined gnome musician even begin? Her savings, tucked carefully away, wouldn't last forever. Adventure sounded romantic, but practicality had sharp teeth. As the first true rays of dawn painted the eastern sky in hues of rose and gold, Cerindor began to stir. Shutters clattered open, the smell of baking bread wafted from a nearby shop, and early risers started their day. Delores pulled her travel cloak tighter around her shoulders, feeling suddenly conspicuous. She wasn't a Guild acolyte anymore, protected by its name and structure. She was just… Delores.
Deciding purposeful movement was better than bewildered standing, she started walking into the town proper. Cerindor was cleaner and more orderly than the rough-and-tumble garrison towns she occasionally visited with her parents. Its streets were well-maintained, lined with artisan shops displaying intricate instruments, fine silks, and arcane trinkets catering to the Guild's populace. Yet, closer to the town center, the atmosphere shifted subtly. The shops became more practical, smithies, leatherworkers, provisioners and the people moving through the streets had a more weathered, self-reliant look. Adventurers, mercenaries, travelers passing through. This felt more promising. She wandered for nearly an hour, observing, listening. She scanned notice boards outside taverns, but they mostly advertised lost pets, local disputes needing mediation, or requests for mundane escort duty to the next village over. Nothing screamed "adventure." Nothing called to the spark that had driven her out of the Guild. Frustration began to mingle with the dwindling exhilaration. Was this it? Was "adventure" just slightly more dangerous errands?
Her stomach rumbled, reminding her of more immediate needs. She needed coin, food, and lodging soon. With a sigh, she recalled overhearing some older students mention the "Dispatch Hall" near the town square that was a place where contracts, bounties, and less… savory jobs were brokered. It felt a bit beneath the Guild's dignity, perhaps, but Delores wasn't Guild anymore. She found the Hall easily enough, a sturdy stone building identified by a simple wooden sign depicting a crossed sword and quill. Inside, the air smelled faintly of ink, old parchment, and stale ale. A long, scarred wooden counter dominated the room, behind which stood an elf sorting through a stack of scrolls. He had impeccably neat, short-cut blond hair, sharp features, and eyes the colour of faded sea-glass that held an air of profound boredom. He looked up as Delores approached, his gaze flicking dismissively over her small stature before returning to his scrolls.
Delores cleared her throat. "Excuse me?"
The elf sighed, placing a bookmark carefully. "Yes? Looking for work, I presume?" His tone was weary, professional.
"Ah, yes. I am," Delores confirmed, trying to sound more confident than she felt. "Something… worthwhile, if possible? Something beyond chasing goblins out of turnip fields."
The elf raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, giving her a slightly more appraising look this time. He gestured vaguely to a large board behind him, cluttered with yellowed notices. "Local postings are on the board. Caravan guard to Eastwatch, cellar slime removal at the Tipsy Hydra, investigate missing chickens… thrilling opportunities abound." Sarcasm dripped from his voice.
Delores scanned the board, her heart sinking. He wasn't exaggerating. It was all painfully mundane. "Is that… it?" she asked, disappointment heavy in her voice. "Has it been slow lately?"
The elf, Faelar according to the small nameplate on the counter, leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. "Excruciatingly slow, little one. The Guild keeps most high-profile work internal, and the local lords haven't stirred up any decent trouble in months. Most experienced hands have moved on." He paused, tapping a finger on a separate, smaller ledger. "However… there is one outstanding request. Came in a few weeks back via courier. Bit unusual."
Delores leaned closer, intrigued. "Unusual how?"
"It's from a private citizen, not a lord or guild," Faelar explained, flipping open the ledger. "Man named Oleg. Lives out east, few days travel from here. Didn't specify the job."
"He didn't say what the work is?" Delores asked, confused.
"Nope," Faelar said, shrugging elegantly. "Just that he needs 'resourceful individuals' for a matter requiring discretion and travel. Said he'd explain in person to anyone willing to make the journey out to his homestead. Seems he doesn't trust couriers or formal channels." He squinted at the entry. "Ah, here's the part that might interest you. He guarantees 'generous compensation,' and explicitly states he'll provide 'comfortable room and hearty food' upon arrival for those who answer the summons."
Delores considered this. It was vague, certainly. Traveling days just for the details of a job felt risky. But… room and board guaranteed? Away from Cerindor, away from the Guild's shadow, and definitely not missing chickens. It sounded like a real deviation from the expected path. And maybe, just maybe, it was the start of the adventure she craved. A way to prove to herself, and perhaps even subconsciously to her parents, that she could handle the unknown.
"Oleg, you said? A few days east?" Delores asked, straightening up.
Faelar nodded, marking something on the ledger. "That's the one. His homestead is marked clearly on this regional map." He pulled out a worn piece of parchment and pointed to a spot nestled between two lines indicating trade roads, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. "Can't promise it's anything exciting, mind you. Could just be fixing his roof."
Delores grinned, the spark returning to her eyes. "Maybe. But it sounds like a start." She looked at the map, then back at the elf. "Alright. Point me east." "
Faelar raised an eyebrow at the slip but simply nodded, tearing off a small note with the directions and Oleg's name. "Follow the sunrise road out of town, keep to it for two days, then take the southern fork at the Whispering Woods crossroads. His place is another day's travel from there. Safe journey."
With a renewed sense of purpose, vague though it was, Delores thanked the elf and walked out of the Dispatch Hall, Oleg's name a faint promise on the horizon. The uncertainty hadn't vanished, but now it felt less like aimless wandering and more like the first step onto an unwritten map. With the midday sun warming her shoulders and the Dispatch Hall elf's directions clutched in her hand, Delores made her way to Cerindor's eastern gate. The initial thrill of her decision had settled into a more measured determination, though a flutter of nervous energy still danced beneath her ribs. She passed vendors packing up their morning wares and townsfolk heading home for their midday meal, drawing only cursory glances. A lone gnome with a large instrument strapped to her back wasn't the strangest sight in a town adjacent to a Mage Guild.
The eastern gate was less imposing than the grand entrance near the Bard's Respite, clearly designed more for trade caravans and travelers than showcasing arcane might. Two guards, clad in the town's simple blue and grey livery, nodded impassively as she passed beneath the stone archway, their eyes already scanning the road beyond. Once outside the walls, the carefully maintained cobblestones of Cerindor gave way to a wide, well-packed stone road named the Sunrise Road, according to Faelar's note. It stretched eastward, cutting a clean path through rolling green hills dotted with grazing sheep and the occasional farmhouse nestled in the distance. The air felt cleaner here, carrying the scent of wildflowers and warm earth.
Delores set off at a brisk pace, her short legs surprisingly efficient. The hurdy-gurdy, though cumbersome, was a familiar weight, and the sturdy traveling boots she wore felt much better suited to this than the soft slippers required within the Guild. For the first few hours, the journey was pleasant, almost idyllic. The road was smooth, the surrounding woodlands vibrant with life, birdsong filling the air. She passed a few merchant carts heading towards Cerindor, the drivers offering curt nods, and overtook a slow-moving pilgrim leaning heavily on a staff. The sheer normality of it was almost anticlimactic after the high drama of leaving the Guild. As the sun passed its zenith and began its slow descent towards the western horizon, the road traffic dwindled. The farmhouses grew scarcer, replaced by denser stretches of woodland crowding closer to the road. The trees here were older, taller, their branches intertwining overhead, dappling the path in shifting patterns of sunlight and shadow. Delores estimated she had maybe five hours of decent light left, enough to find a suitable spot to make camp well off the road before full dark settled.
She continued walking, the rhythm of her steps a steady beat against the growing quiet. An hour passed, then another, and she realized she hadn't seen another soul. No carts, no travelers, not even a distant farmer. The birdsong seemed to have faded, replaced by the rustle of leaves in a breeze that didn't quite reach the road and the occasional snap of a twig deep within the woods. A subtle tension began to creep into the peaceful afternoon air. It wasn't overtly threatening, just… watchful. Alone. The sun dipped lower, painting the sky in fiery oranges and purples. Long shadows stretched across the road, and the woods on either side took on a deeper, more mysterious cast. Delores found herself glancing more frequently into the trees, her hand instinctively resting near the small pouch where she kept her focusing stone. The silence was no longer peaceful; it felt heavy, expectant.
Just as she was beginning to seriously consider veering off the road to find a defensible campsite for the night, a sound ripped through the twilight stillness. It wasn't the cry of a night bird or the howl of a wolf. It was the unmistakable, brutal clang of metal striking metal, sharp and violent, followed immediately by a guttural roar of pain and fury. Delores froze, every nerve ending alight. The sounds came from somewhere ahead, off the road, deeper within the woods to her right. Another clang echoed, louder this time, accompanied by a sickening, wet crunch and a strangled cry that was abruptly cut off.Her heart hammered against her ribs. Common sense screamed at her to turn back, or at least hide, wait for whatever violence was unfolding ahead to pass. She was one gnome, fresh out of a music academy, armed with a hurdy-gurdy and a handful of unpredictable sorcerous tricks. Rushing towards the sound of a brutal fight was madness.But the memory of the student she'd helped, the feeling of making a small difference, warred with her fear. Her "save everyone" complex, as she wryly thought of it, flared. Someone was in trouble. Maybe someone she could help.
Hesitantly, she drew the smooth river stone from her pouch, its familiar coolness a small comfort. She took a deep breath, steeling her resolve. Gripping the stone tightly, Delores slipped off the main road, moving cautiously into the deepening shadows of the woods, toward the terrifying sounds of battle. Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig underfoot, seemed magnified in the tense silence between the clashes of steel ahead. Delores moved through the underbrush with surprising stealth, her small size an advantage in the encroaching gloom. The sounds of the fight grew louder, closer, the rhythmic clang-shink of heavy steel, punctuated by harsh, guttural curses and strained grunts of effort. She could smell sweat, blood, and the sharp tang of churned earth. Peeking cautiously from behind the thick trunk of an ancient oak, she finally saw the source of the commotion in a small, trampled clearing bathed in the last rays of twilight.
Two figures circled each other warily. One was a full-blooded orc, lean and vicious, clad in patchwork leather armor and wielding a wickedly curved dagger that glinted dully in the dim light. His movements were predatory, quick, darting in and out, looking for an opening.
His opponent was… unexpected. A dwarf, certainly, judging by the broad shoulders and stout build, but there was something distinctly orcish in the set of his jaw and the greenish tinge to his skin beneath layers of grime and sweat. He couldn't have been much taller than Delores herself, maybe four-foot-eight at most, but he was built like a fortress wall. He was encased in heavy, battered full plate armor that looked like it had survived, as Delores's father might say, at least eight different wars, it was dented, scratched, patches of rust showing through worn paint, yet undeniably solid. A thick, diagonal scar cut across his face, bisecting one dark eyebrow and running down to his jawline. In his thick, gauntleted hands, he gripped a massive two-handed falchion, its heavy, curved blade scarred and nicked but held with practiced ease. Dark brown hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat beneath a dented helmet.
"Come on then, ya green-skinned puddle o' goblin piss!" the half-orc dwarf roared, his voice a gravelly bass that echoed through the trees. He spat on the ground. "Thought you'd get an easy mark, did ya? Thought ol' Barin was past his prime?"
The full orc sneered, circling, dagger held low. "Old hybrid breaks easy. Your patrol won't find enough pieces to bury."
Delores frowned, watching the exchange. The half-orc dwarf, Barin, seemed aggressive, his language crude, his stance challenging. The full orc, while menacing, seemed more focused on defense, waiting for a mistake. Her protective instincts flared, overriding her caution. This smaller figure, clearly outmatched in reach by the orc's dagger and agility, was provoking a fight he might not win.
"Hey!" Delores shouted, stepping out from behind the tree, instinctively channeling a touch of sorcerous resonance into her voice to make it carry. "Stop this! There's no need for—"
Her sudden appearance had the desired effect, it startled both combatants. The full orc's head snapped towards the sound of her voice, his eyes widening slightly in surprise at the sight of a small, red-haired gnome emerging from the woods.
It was only a fraction of a second's distraction, but it was all Barin needed.
With a speed that belied his bulk and heavy armor, the half-orc dwarf exploded forward. He didn't swing his massive falchion; instead, he lunged, using his shorter stature to get inside the orc's guard. The heavy blade drove forward in a powerful, precise thrust, punching through the orc's leather armor and deep into his chest with a sickening, wet thunk.
The orc's eyes went wide with shock and agony. A choked gurgle escaped his lips as he stared down at the enormous blade embedded in his sternum.
Delores gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, horrified. She had meant to stop the fight, not provide a fatal opening. She watched, frozen, as Barin twisted the blade brutally, then planted a heavy, armored boot on the dying orc's chest and kicked him away. The orc crumpled to the ground, lifeless, the curved dagger falling from his limp hand.
Barin stood panting heavily, leaning on his falchion, the blade dripping dark blood onto the forest floor. He turned his scarred face towards Delores, his dark eyes narrowed beneath his helmet. He looked exhausted, grim, and utterly terrifying.
Delores swallowed hard, taking an involuntary step back, suddenly very aware of how small and unarmed she was – her hurdy-gurdy offered little protection against a blood-soaked warrior with a giant sword. "I… I didn't mean…" she stammered.
Barin spat again, wiping blood and sweat from his face with the back of his gauntlet, leaving a smear across the jagged scar. "Tried to stop it, did ye?" His voice was rough, weary, but held no immediate malice, only exhaustion. He nudged the dead orc with his boot. "Appreciate the thought, lass, but this piece o' crap wasn't interested in talkin'."
He worked his falchion free from the corpse with a grunt and began wiping the blade clean on the grass. "Border patrol," he explained curtly, nodding back the way Delores had come. "From the Citadel garrison, technically. Supposed to keep the roads clear between here and the mountains." He kicked the orc again, contemptuously. "This unfortunate bastard was a bandit. Jumped me back down the road thinkin' a lone dwarf was an easy target. Didn't count on the orc half bein' tougher than I look." He finally looked directly at Delores, his expression softening slightly from grimness to curiosity. "Name's Barin Strongsunder. And who in the blazin' hells are you, poppin' out the woods like a startled mushroom?"