The Wolf’s Den

Tales of Mt. Meridias

The evening sun sets just as the first moon rises. The two seem almost to be peeking mischievously at each other through the valleys of the legendary Mt.Meridias. From out of the face of the sun, if one were to be looking, one would see a tall dark figure walking down the path. The person looks to be an elder of a man walking with a staff in hand and a slightly larger pack on his back than what one would think safe for someone of his age. All and all he looks to be your average stereo typical wizard with his long silvery beard and hair, enwisened light green eyes, and rune riddled (to those that can see such things) dark green traveling robes.

He pauses and smiles at the sight of an inn on the horizon. It’s been ages since he has stepped foot out on these lands and memories start flooding his mind. As he draws closer to the inn, he notes the huge batwing styled swinging doors and the sign that read “The Swinging Sword Inn.” The entrance seems big enough for even a giant to enter with ease. Of course, giants and the more well mannered ogres do still roam these mountains. The elder can’t help but wonder if he’ll meet her out here, as unlikely as it might seem.

He enters the inn and makes his way to the bar. As he makes himself comfortable, his gaze is drawn upwards at what seems to be a five foot long great sword hanging from the ceiling by two sturdy chains. Along the blade are four deadly tines curving forward like miniature daggers. The grip looks to be carved of bone and carefully wrapped in a fine copper wire with a polished, though rather scarred, guard arcing back to protect the hands. Above the sword, also fastened to the chains is a narrow plaque that says in a simple decorative lettering “Freeborn,” which is assumably the sword’s name. The wizard chuckles to himself as he realizes how the inn got its name. This explains the lack of guards, bouncers, or the like in such an establishment. Most likely the patrons have come to respect this tavern as a place of peace or pieces with such a reminder set before them, or rather, above them.

He takes a long look about the inn and notes that there are several patrons, though none that he might recognize. The barkeeps appear to be a dainty young lass of a most proper nature and a more laid back but friendly young gentlemen. At the far end of the bar is a white tiger lad enjoying a meal and telling some most horrendous tales to the male barkeep. The wizard smiles as he thinks of another tiger in which this boy puts him in the mind of. He orders his dinner and drink from the bar maiden and absently lays down an ancient coin that most of the cities still take.

Apparently though this young lass has never seen the like of such a coin. “Salen?”, the barmaid beckons, “have you ever seen a coin like this? I’ve no idea how much change to give this gentleman in return.” Salen shakes his head and shrugs. The barmaid sighs and begs the elder of her leave and steps in the doorway to the kitchens. She calls out timidly, “Madame? I. . . could you? I mean, I need some help identifying this coin.” Moments later the lass backs away from the door, as a sturdily built, though shapely woman standing at an impressive eight feet tall, steps up to the bar. Her iron grey hair falls carefree about her shoulders and her blue eyes twinkle with a humor that seems to brighten her otherwise stern face. It soon becomes clear that the sword is not intended as a great sword at all but as a finely made weapon for a giant’s hand to wield. The wizard looks away from the young tiger feral that he had been casually watching and looks up to the giantess with a grin. Well and well, she is still about after all.

“How many times have I told you, Brittany, just call me Ista? We are all friends here. Now, whose coin is in question?” Ista glances up at the sword swinging over the counter and grins at the elder Brittany points to.

“There and you know your coin is worthless here, Nejourin. “How many times have we shared a bite and a bit of trouble, eh?” Ista inquires as she tosses the old coin back to the man.

Nejourin chuckles and tucks his coin away as he answers, “More times than our memories could do justice to, no doubt.” He nods to the feral that Salen is entertaining. “Still taking in cubs I see.”

Ista tilts her head absently, “Hmm . . . Kyle? Can’t say it was I that brought in that young ‘un . . . but aye, it’s good to have an eye on him.”

Nejourin opens his mouth to say something like, “Friend to anyone we might know?”, but before he can get the word to roll off of his tongue the tiger cub sidles up to Ista asks, “Aww, do you -really- have to keep an eye on me? I mean I’ve learned from the best, haven’t I?”

Kyle practically beams with pride as he lets his paw fall to his belt strap, which carries a sai whose edge is hidden in an old leather sheath. The orange and black striped handle gleams as though it had been freshly polished. The wizard cocks an eyebrow at the sight of the finely made weapon and the gesture is not lost on Ista, whom merely chuckles as she replies to Kyle, “That I do, cub, else Salen would have your tail for filching the bar snacks behind his back.”

Kyle huffs and pouts, “I never take -that- many!” Ista arches a brow and the cub’s shoulders sag as realizes he just told on himself. Nejourin smirks in amusement. “How is it that you have such scamps as this running about your inn when you say you are not the one bringing them in?” The young tiger sighs and relaxes, glad to be more or less out of the spotlight. Ista chuckles and sets Freeborn to swinging in its chains. “Everyone ends up in the Swinging Sword sooner or later. Cz just brought this one sooner.”

Nejourin frowns a bit, thinking, then a sparkle comes to his eyes as he asks, “Cz? You do mean that kitten Czara, I assume. I thought that weapon at this cub’s waist looked familiar. You still have contact with her then?” Was that hope Kyle heard in this old man’s voice?

“Just how do -you- know my sis, mister?” Kyle asks with his eyes as wide as dinner plates.

“Sister? Don’t tell me old Zantre is back around and making the rounds? That doesn’t sound much like him.” Kyle’s fur stands up a little at the thought of anyone talking about sis’s dad like that.

Ista fought to keep a straight face as she said, “Hold your tongue, Nej, as if you have any room to be calling him old, really! No, she found this one and they are as close as siblings, especially with Zantre back and looking over them and Kyle’s mother, Becka. Aye, Czara found him again and this time we didn’t let him run off again, but that’s a story for another time. And speaking of stories, Kyle, you might say Cz, Nej, and I have had our fair share of stories together.”Her blue eyes twinkle with mysteries and memories untold.

“How come you never told me these stories before? I want to know everything about sis so I can be just like her!”

“Stories . . . you could say that is part of why I’ve come out this way. I’ve been looking up my old acquaintances to try to flesh out my tales.” Nejourin reaches into his pack and carefully unwraps a thin, soft layer of leather which holds his lute. “Ista, my dear, would you care to help an old wizard and new bard to retell some of our more epic stories?” He grins and winks at Kyle as he lets his fingers strum out a small melodic sound.

“Hmmpff. That depends on which tales ye be a telling. Some things aren’t meant for cubs’ ears”

Nejourin blinks and feigns being insulted, “Oh, tis the story of Czara to be sure. More than worthy of a bard’s tale, don’t you agree?.”

“Indeed. Aye well, I’ll help as I can. There are some things not for my telling, but what is mine to tell I”ll share.”

Nej smiles warmly, “I could ask for nothing more.”

Kyle twitches his tail in agitation as he insists, “Czara’s story? Like her past adventures? You’ll tell it to me too, won’t you Sir? Ista? Pleeaasse!?”

“Easy! Now then, I see no harm in it, if given half a decent chance and Ista to back me up.” laughs Nejourin.

Ista chuckles and leans comfortably on the bar. “Aye, and we’ll see if you are as fair a bard as you are a wizard.”

Nejourin winces slightly at the implications of mishaps long past, but shrugs it from his mind and allows his eyes to twinkle as he begins a pleasant melody again, “Ah, well then, I guess, one should probably start as close to the beginning as they can, so please bear with me as I tell you of how I first came to learn of Czara and the dilemma that brought us together.”

——-//——-

It was a fairly normal afternoon. My familiar was taking a nap and I, in a fit of boredom, was straightening my scrolls and potions for easier access. To say that I was surprised to hear a knock on my door would be an exaggeration. There was almost always someone needing a spell to rid their crops of bugs, bring forth rain, or some such other mundane stuff. To say I was surprised that it was Darek, the trouble hunter extraodinaire, would be only slightly less of an exaggeration for that matter. This tall dark-headed lad with eyes brown enough to tell just how full of it he was, was always hounding me to join him on some expedition or another. I’m not being fair I suppose. It’s not really that he went hunting for trouble, but more that he generally had bad taste in jobs to accept. He wasn’t wholly a mercenary, for he was too nice of a guy to take just any old hit list and run with it. His lean, but sturdy frame made him good for many jobs though. I’ve seen him take anything from knocking snow off of a little old lady’s walk path to her cottage, to playing bodyguard to some important personage; from thieving back stolen items to taking on special hit lists tailored to suit his rules. His jobs just had a tendency for going awry. Generally speaking we would discuss it for about an hour and then I would argue my way out of not going with him. This afternoon proved to be different though.

Derek had received and accepted a job offer to go looking for a missing person. The request was made by Telbrek, himself; one of those suspicious types that you would swear was up to something not exactly legal, if it wasn’t for the fact of how civil he seemed. The man had connections . . . lots of connections. In fact, I was one of Telbrek’s contacts in a round about fashion. He never came to me personally. I think the old tiger had an allergy to the powers of magic. Hmm, no, that just gave me an image of the old feral sneezing so hard that it jiggled his slightly pot belly, made him loose his round, flat, black hat and made all his fur stand on end. That won’t do, rather I should say, he certainly never had much good to say about magic or the users, be they goodly wizards or not. My point is, though, that with as many connections as he had he could have hired just about anyone else for less pay and better results.

Don’t get me wrong, Derek was my friend and all, but to be painfully honest, unless the cash reward was big enough or the person was a friend, he wasn’t much for putting his everything into his job. As I mentioned before, he usually tried to get me to do that for him. This job was a little different though. This time he had already found the missing person, but had received new orders to shadow the person and make himself an invisible bodyguard. Telbrek actually told him outright to seek the aid of a wizard and that was why he was once again at my doorstep. I wasn’t really pleased about being dragged into another one of Derek’s messes, but since Telbrek was offering a sizable reward, I felt I might as will include myself. In the end I am glad that I accepted my end of the job for rarely was there a dull moment and getting to know our unknowing client became a pleasant past time.

The person Telbrek so urgently insisted we shadow, turned out to be his very own 16-yr old granddaughter, Czara; a feral built like a redheaded bombshell. She was, of course, another orange tiger with the usual thin black stripes and bright green eyes that bespoke of much mischief. Her reason for apparently running away from home was to try to track down her father, Zantre. He had been off on one of his adventures, most likely some errand that Telbrek had sent him on, only this time he was gone longer than usual . . . much longer. Now, Zantre was the sort of fellow that, having lost his mate during one of his adventures, had sworn that he would never again risk family or even really close friends. That meant that he had his own father to do most of the raising of our heroine-to-be while he did these errands that his father would send him on. Both Telbrek and Zantre assured Czara many times that living the life of adventure was not what a young lady like her needed. Telbrek, at least, knew that she would have none of it and that this day would come eventually. So he sent us to watch over her, perhaps so that she might learn more of the trade with less of the risk for death. He may have even considered it a part of an unplanned training for her.

She was a bright one for her age. I can give her that. When she left, she had taken her father’s old bits of leather armor, his daggers and a small hand crossbow. (Some people called them bow guns as a pun coming from the blow guns used by the more tribal ferals of this world’s history. I think it was in part because the arrows were not much bigger than the darts from a blow gun and were just as easy to tip with poison, safely.) She also took what she thought she could handle in traveling rations, which unfortunately, was not enough since she forgot that even for a feral, traveling to the city on foot still took longer than traveling by cart.

In fact, by the time I had packed my most useful of potions and spell books she was turned about and hungry enough to try hunting ferally. When we caught up with her, she was soaked to the bone from the nasty storm that had blown up in the otherwise stifling hot region that she was traveling through and temperamental as a fire drake in a waterspout.