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The Silver Raven Chronicles Part Two: From The Ashes

A Hell's Rebels Retelling

By Neal LitherlandPublished 2 years ago Updated 2 years ago 29 min read
7

The opera house sat silently, its beautiful windows gone dark, and its usually welcoming doors closed. It had been quiet before, but in the past it had felt like the peaceful sleep of a diva once her final notes had been sung for the night. Now with the bars on the doors and the closed shutters, as well as the dottari regulars in their black and red armor with weapons close to-hand standing on the steps, the opera looked like a noble lady who had been taken hostage, her lovely voice gagged into silence.

It was a perfect symbol for the new Lord Mayor, and his ideas about bringing Kintargo to heel.

Across from the brooding silence of the opera house, Aria Park buzzed with activity, despite the cold, gray day that had dawned. There were no singers in the park today, though. No tale tellers in their eye-catching colors, no artists with their easels and upturned hats, and no smaller actors plying their trade within sight of the great opera house. Instead, knots of people had gathered across the open space. Some wore the rough clothes of the docks, others the tailored cuts of the city’s middle district. Groups had gathered around the few trees dotting the park, near to the fountain, and covering the benches. Some spoke quietly, keeping their bodies and voices bent close to one another in the chill air. Others grumbled loudly enough to be heard, casting dark glares at the opera house across the way. If one breathed deeply, they could still taste the bitter tang of smoke on the air; the stain of the burning and raids that lingered after what was already being called the Night of Ashes.

A man sat at a wrought iron table on a patio near the southern boundary of Aria Park, watching the gathering unfold from a cafe across the street. Even seated it was clear he was a tall man, with the heavy shoulders and tapered waist of a hunting cat. His long hair was dark, held back with a simple, silver clasp to reveal a ruggedly handsome face that bore the strong lines of his family, marred only by a pair of dueling scars along his cheeks. He wore a fitted doublet of stout wool dyed bloody red, and the surcoat he wore over it was soft, black leather. The surcoat was unadorned except for a badge on his breast; an iron gauntlet clasping a raised sword.

“Another cup, my lord?” a voice inquired from the man’s elbow. Morvius Henderthane turned his gaze to the server, who was doing his best not to shiver in the thin blouse and apron he wore.

“Yes, I think so,” he said, giving he man a smile and nudging the saucer with its empty cup closer to the edge of the table. The dregs of the dark kahve had gone cold in the bottom some time ago. The nobleman gestured with his head toward the park. “Do you know what’s happening?”

“I couldn’t rightly say, my lord,” the server said, swallowing hard as he collected the cup. “The opera house has been closed, and I know of no performances happening in the park.”

Morvius nodded, waving the man off. The server left gladly, his steps slapping against the stones as he retreated to the warmth inside the cafe where the other patrons sat. Most of them were minding their own affairs, hunched over steaming cups of various brews. Some watched the park, whispering quietly about what might be happening with the curious, nervous air of an audience getting ready for a play to begin. A few of them watched the lord sitting by himself in the chill, one leg crossed over the other as if he sat before the fire in his own manse rather than on the edge of a burgeoning storm. A strange man, to be sure, but social custom and hierarchy kept them from approaching his table just as surely as the outside chill.

The server returned a few moments later, carrying a fresh, steaming up of the dark brew on the saucer held in one hand, and a small cup of warm milk in the other. Color had made its way back into his cheeks, but it was quickly being stolen by the breeze. Wings fluttered overhead, beating hard on the cold air. A creature landed hard on the wooden seat of one of the chairs, the iron feet scraping along the paving stones. The server flinched, but Morvius’s hand was already in motion, lifting his cup from the saucer before so much as a drop could spill. The milk wasn’t so fortunate, splattering across the stones as the server flailed his hand.

The creature that had dropped out of the air was an unusual sight, to say the least. Long and lean, at a glance she looked almost like a young girl; if one could ignore the wings sprouting from her back, her clawed raptor feet, and the unusual combination of violet eyes and teal hair, that was. She shuffled along the edge of the seat, frowning as she tried to find a comfortable purchase for her claws. The server looked from the lord, to the creature, and back, unsure what to do. That was when a dull glimmer at her shoulder caught his eye; a patch worked with silver thread bearing the mark of House Henderthane. A servant's badge.

“Tea for my companion,” the nobleman said, sipping at the dark brew and frowning. “Something mild. And would you bring us some honey to go with the milk?”

“Y-yes my lord. Of course,” the server said, beating as hasty a retreat as dignity would allow.

“I would have been very cross with you had he spilled this,” Morvius said, though there was a ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth. The creature ruffled her wings slightly before making a single, low sound. “Your apology is accepted, even though I know you don’t mean it.”

The unusual-looking strix chuffed, which was as close to a laugh as she got most days. Any amusement quickly faded from her face, replaced by worry. Morvius took another sip, and glanced past her to make sure no one had taken an interest in them. Or no more than they usually did, at least.

“I take it you haven’t seen our mysterious friend?” Morvius asked. The strix frowned, and gave a minute shake of her head. He nodded, and held the bottom of his cup with his free hand. The day was chill, and the warmth was welcome through his glove. “I told you, be patient. All we were told is that they would be here, not when.”

The strix glared, but there wasn’t any real fire in the expression. After a moment she huffed, and folded her arms, tucking her hands up into the folds of her clothes. When their server reappeared, she brightened somewhat, holding out her hands for the cup of tea. Morvius took first the milk, then the honey, adding them to his own brew before passing them to his companion. She added a liberal amount of both to her own cup before taking long sips of the hot drink. Morvius recrossed his legs, wincing slightly. He dug his fingers into the old wound in his calf, working out the stiffened muscle as best he could. He sipped at his cup, and watched the park. Waiting was often the worst part of things, but he’d learned from experience that it was also the most necessary.

The crowd on the green didn’t disperse. If anything it only seemed to swell as they morning grew stale around them. Despite the size of the crowd, though, something felt off about it. It took a moment, but Morvius realized there were no merchants in among the people selling sweetmeats or cups of heated cider. There were no jugglers or musicians trying to earn a coin, either. While he couldn't be sure, he'd swear that even the chain snatchers and pocket pickers were giving the gathering a wide berth. All of those people standing in the chill day, presumably with coin in their purses, but no one was getting close to it; that told him all he needed to know. His companion made a curious noise that was halfway between a coo and a hoot.

“Yes, I agree,” Morvius said, grabbing the walking stick he’d leaned against the table. The shaft was stout hardwood, and the head made of grooved brass with his sigil stamped atop it. He levered himself to his feet, and placed a pair of silver coins next to his empty cup. “Let us take a closer look, shall we?”

The strix gathered herself like a spring, launching into the air. She beat her wings thrice, and then wheeled, turning herself toward the gathering. Morvius came at a slower pace, leaning slightly on his stick as he crossed the distance and eased himself into the fringes of those gathered.

As he walked, Morvius parsed the sights and sounds of those who’d gathered. He saw dockworkers and sailors in their watch caps and overcoats, passing flasks around between glares at the opera house. Low towners from Old Kintargo had turned out as well, wrapped in layers of clothes and barely-concealed fury as they stamped between groups and spat their words out. There were Red Roofers, Castlellans, and even one or two members of the Greens come to join the fuss. While some were concerned about the new policies handed down by the recently-named Lord Mayor, and others were seething over the fires and kidnappings, no one had anything kind to say. That simmering anger, if nothing else, seemed to be the glue that was holding such an unusual confederacy of citizens together in a unified cause.

None of the people gathered in the crowd wore a leather glove on only their left hands, though, the sign they had been told to look for according to the letter Morvius's ward had mysteriously received that morning. However, there were several individuals who caught his eye in the milling throng. They wore heavy brown capes, with the hoods pulled up. Not uncommon given the season, but as Morvius watched he noticed these figures never stopped to talk to anyone. They just circulated slowly, before taking up positions near the larger groups of people. He glanced up at the strix, and nodded in the direction he was going, before slowly sidling his way toward one of the brown cloaks. He was almost to them, separated only by a fountain, when the crowd around them stirred. There was movement from the opera house as doors opened and closed, and figures took up position. Then the balcony doors parted, and a figured emerged from the gloom like a primo uono astride the stage.

The man was thick set, and even with the distance to the park it was clear he was bald. Dressed in armor that seemed more artistic than practical, and holding a glass of wine in his hand, he seemed like a figure from a play rather than a real man. Morvius could clearly see that Barzillai Thrune, the new Lord Mayor, was a firm believer in the benefits of the theatrical. The man took a moment to sip from his wine, ensuring that he had the full attention of the crowd before he started to speak.

“Citizens of Kintargo,” he said, his voice echoing through the still air in a way that reeked of magic. “I understand your grievances. I understand your fear. The events of these past few nights have been a trial for us all. But let me take this moment to assure you that as your Lord Mayor these growing pains are necessary for Kintargo to remember what she is; a part of the glory that is Cheliax!”

He seemed pleased with that, pausing to take a longer sip of his wine. The crowd, however, was not pleased in the slightest. Morvius was hardly surprised. The people of Kintargo paid taxes and lip service to the throne, and for that cost expected to be left to their own devices. The last thing they wanted to hear were the empty words of a southern-born, three-times removed cousin of the queen come to lecture them about their duties to the greater nation. It was difficult to tell, but Barzillai seemed genuinely confused by the reaction. He waved a hand for silence, but he didn’t receive it. If anything, the angry buzz grew even louder. He tried to talk over the wave of discontent, but the more he tried, the angrier it got. Someone flung what looked like a handful of horse dung at the balcony. It fell well short of its target, but Barzillai drew back quickly, clutching his robe to him in revulsion. Then he waved a hand, turned on his heel, and left the matter to be dealt with by others.

That was the last straw for the crowd. They had come to air their grievances, and to make it clear they were not going to simply bow their heads and accept these ridiculous strictures from an outsider who’d sauntered in, thinking he could have his way with their city. And to see him dismiss them after a string of empty words because they hadn’t immediately shown him their bellies had touched more than just a nerve. The angry shouts became a roar, and people surged against the gates as if they’d tear them down by weight of numbers. The manure was replaced by stones, and several daggers tumbling end over end. The dottari standing guard on the steps raised their shields, and others took up their bows, prepared to shoot.

Movement caught the corner of Morvius’s gaze, and he turned just in time to see the figure he’d been following throw off their brown cloak to reveal their true colors. It was a man wrapped in boiled leather and carrying a vicious-looking mace; the uniform of the Chelish Citizen’s Group. The weapon looked comfortable in his hands, and he wore the self-satisfied smirk of someone who was going to enjoy using it.

Morvius moved quickly, leaping atop the lip of the fountain and taking two, long strides. The man turned, cocking his arm in preparation for a lethal swing. Before he could deliver it, Morvius slammed the heel of his boot into the man’s jaw. His head snapped back as if he’d been kicked by a mule, and his weapon tumbled to the ground. He blinked once, shaking his head as he tried to clear his vision. When he could see straight once more, he stared at Morvius. The nobleman watched as the enforcer’s eyes went from his surcoat, to his badge, to the glower on his face. The man groped for his weapon, but stopped when Morvius spoke.

“Leave it,” he said. “Turn around, and walk away, or I will make certain you never walk again.”

For a moment Morvius was sure the man would try his luck. But the moment passed, and he stood unsteadily before picking up his cloak and stumbling off into the melee. Morvius let out a long breath, but before he could turn back to the greater melee an arrow tore through his sleeve. The projectile clattered to the pave, bouncing off into the brawl. Morvius leaped down from the fountain, ducking to put as much of the stone between himself and the archers on the upper floor of the opera house as he could. Examining his shoulder, he saw the arrow had ripped his doublet, but the chain shirt he wore beneath it had saved his skin.

A screech from the sky drew his attention upward. His ward was circling, dodging shafts from the archers as she tried to get Morvius’s attention, once she saw she had it, she pointed toward the edge of the park, near the opera house. At first he wasn’t sure what she was directing his attention toward, but then a flash of steel caught his eye. A tiefling with elegant, back-curled horns and a flying mane of white hair parried a hammer blow from another enforcer in black and red. She tried to riposte, but her rapier only dug a furrow through the man’s leather pauldron as he shifted his weight. She was fast, and skilled, but even from where he stood he could see she was tiring. Morvius frowned. Something about her dusky purple skin tugged at his memory. Then her opponent caught her in the side of the head with his elbow, and he watched her fall.

Morvius was in motion before he’d made a conscious decision. He scooped up the dropped mace from where it had fallen on the pavement, shouldering his way through the crowd. He struck out at the enforcers as he came across them, cracking elbows and crunching knees, but he didn’t linger. From above, his ward pelted the leather-clad brute with stones, stopping him from finishing his fallen opponent as he tried to protect himself from the rain of rocks. Morvius was half a dozen steps from the man when one of the strix’s missiles found its target, impacting the side of his head with the sound of an ax sinking into a tree stump. He went down in a boneless heap. Morvius knelt over the fallen tiefling, keeping his body between her and the archers who were still plying their trade with zeal. Her eyes fluttered as she came back to consciousness, lifting her rapier weakly as she blinked the world back into focus.

“What…?” she asked, the word blurred around the edges as her tongue ran over her split lip.

Morvius had his mouth open to answer when he heard a sound that sent a shiver down his spine; a reverberating, snarling growl like a runaway furnace. He whipped his head toward the front of the opera house, where he saw a pair of hellhounds, their burning manes scorching the air and black smoke rising from their paws. Behind the huge beasts stood the twisted, snarling figure of Nox. The woman’s features were warped into a devilish snarl, and she had a hand to her throat. Blood seeped between her fingers, but even at a distance she seemed more annoyed by the wound than hurt by it. She snarled something at the hounds, pointing at the crowd. Fire followed, and what little spirit the crowd had left broke.

“We need to go,” Morvius said, snatching the tiefling onto her feet. “Now.”

They fled through the thinning crowd, the strix leading the way through the air, glancing back at them occasionally to make sure they were keeping up. The sounds of the riot faded as they ducked into the alleys of south Jarvis end, putting stone walls between themselves and the chaos behind them. They’d scarcely gone more than a block into the side streets, though, when they heard the sounds of a scuffle down an alley.

Slowing his pace, his nostrils flaring as he breathed silently, Morvius peered around the edge of the alley mouth. He saw a pack of the same predators who’d hidden themselves among the crowd in Aria Park. They stood over a man who was stretched out on the ground, sprawled like an ox with its throat cut. The man wore a single, leather glove on his left hand. One of the bully boys in boiled leather kicked the man, and rolled him over onto his back. The face was bruised, but handsome, with fine bones and an olive complexion. A dark shock of hair complemented a carefully groomed beard, and though his eyes were closed Morvius knew they would be a soft, warm brown.

It was Rexus Victocora, and he was supposed to be dead. The man who’d rolled him over raised his mace, sniggering to his companions as he took aim at Rexus’s head. Fury sparked in Morvius, and lit his veins on fire as he threw caution to the winds. He pelted down the alley, murder in his eyes as he gripped his stolen weapon.

“Iron and blood!” he bellowed, the old words of his family echoing through the alleyway as he fell on the men who’d thought they had an easy victory.

The enforcers were momentarily dumbstruck, all of them staring uncomprehending at the hulking figure bearing down on them. Then Morvius brought his mace around, slamming it into the ribs of the man who’d been about to splatter Rexus’s skull all over the pavement. Breath whooshed out of him, and he fell, gasping through broken ribs. Morvius lashed out again, driving one of the other men back as his weapon whistled through the air. He stood over Rexus, ensuring the mangy wolves in men’s skin couldn’t reach him.

They regrouped swiftly, splitting as much as the narrow alley allowed. Morvius shattered a shield, parrying an overhead swing, and dodging around a strike from his flank. His opponents were untrained and clumsy, but numbers and viciousness made up for a lot, especially in the narrow confines of the alley. Morvius drove another blow into one of their shields, forcing the man back half a step, when there was a cry from overhead. On instinct the brawlers all looked up. Coruscating light poured over them, inundating their senses. Their mouths dropped open in silent screams, and they stared unseeing into the middle distance. The strix landed a moment later, her spell complete.

For a moment, Morvius considered stoving in every single one of their insensate skulls. Instead he snatched the weapons belt from round the first man’s waist, drawing his arms and legs back, hog-tying him facing the wall. His ward landed on the paving stones behind him, making a curious, hooting sound in her throat.

“No, we’re going to leave them here,” Morvius said over his shoulder, repeating the same process with the second man. “See if you can help Rexus.”

“Allow me,” the tiefling said as she came down the alley. She was still unsteady on her feet, but she wore a determined expression. She took a knee near the unconscious young man, and held out her hand. She spoke soft words that felt heavy on the air, and for just a moment the smell of roses lingered. Then Rexus gasped, his eyes shooting open. He flailed, his hands coming up protectively before he glanced around.

“Where am I?” Rexus asked.

“On your back, in a stinking alley, surrounded by angry men,” Morvius said, binding the last enforcer and rolling him toward the others. He stood, an amused smile on his face that didn’t quite show his teeth. “You lead an interesting life for a dead man.”

Relief washed over Rexus’s face as his eyes fell on Morvius. The bigger man offered a hand, and Rexus clutched it as a drowning man would snatch at a line thrown from a passing ship. Morvius lifted him bodily from the ground, dusting him off. The strix made a low sound in her chest, and Rexus smiled.

“It’s good to see you as well,” he said, nodding to her. His gaze fell on the tiefling, and he frowned. “I don’t believe we’ve met, but you keep good company.”

From their place near the wall, the men began groaning. The groaning turned to outrage as they found themselves trussed like slaughterlings, their faces bare inches from the garbage lining the alley. Rexus swallowed, reflexively touching the side of his head.

“We should go,” he said, nervously glancing back toward the street.

“Lead,” Morvius said, casually tossing his borrowed mace on top of one of the struggling figures. “But I’m not letting you out of my sight until you answer some questions.”

Rexus nodded, and took up his fallen walking stick. He pulled up his hood, making some pretense at hiding his face, and walked deeper into the alleys. The others followed close behind, except for the strix who took to the air and flitted from ledge, to gargoyle, to grotesque as she tracked the progress of those below. Occasional shouts drifted to them, and once or twice people ran down the cross breeze, but they never so much as glanced around. They were too concerned with their own problems. After half a dozen twists and turns, Rexus carefully pushed open an unremarkable wooden door. A small bell dinged, and the familiar scent of books drifted out into the alley.

“Why am I not surprised you brought us here?” Morvius whispered as he sidled past his friend and into the dim interior of Crissali’s Fine Tomes. “To the third reading room?”

“Yes,” Rexus said quietly, glancing out into the alley and waving the others in. “Quickly, before someone sees us.”

Crissali’s was everything one would expect of a book shop run by a noted wizard. The scent of fresh leather and parchment lingered in the air, competing with the smells of polished wood, and the nowhere scent of a clean so absolute it required magic to achieve it. Sturdy shelves held dozens of volumes, and locked cabinets displayed scroll cases neatly labeled in a fine hand. No one stood at the counter near the front door, but there was a black and white cat with high boots and amber eyes that watched them as they went past. Rexus opened the door to one of the side chambers, and held it for the others. The strix carefully climbed onto the back of one of the heavy chairs, making certain not to scratch it with her talons. Morvius turned the chair around backward, straddling it as he waited. The tiefling remained on her feet, her hand idly tucked into her sword belt not far from her rapier. Rexus closed the door, and let out a long, slow breath; the relief of a man who’d fled a battlefield, and finally had a castle gate between himself and his foes.

“My apologies,” he said, pulling back his hood once more as he favored the tiefling with a smile. “My name is-”

“Rexus Victocora,” she said, mischief in her eyes. “Your reputation precedes you somewhat.”

“Yes, well, one does one's best,” he said, licking his lips slightly. “You have me at something of a disadvantage, though.”

“My name is Alesia Farren,” she said, inclining her head slightly.

“The greater daughter of a lesser house,” Morvius said, flashing his teeth in a lupine grin. “I knew I’d seen that swordplay before. You were academy champion some years back, if memory serves.”

“I was,” Alesia said, nodding. “Once. And your reputation precedes you, Paraduke.”

Morvius winced, and made a warding gesture with one hand. “I think we can leave titles behind us after today? I’d rather your steel than your pleasantries, if I had to choose between the two. At least swords are honest.”

“My name is Songbird,” the strix said. Alesia jumped, blinking. Her expression said she was surprised the strix could speak, but the words never passed her lips. Songbird swiveled her head to Rexus, and made an inquisitive, hooting noise.

“Of course I’m the one who sent you the letter,” he said, peeling the one glove off his hand and stowing it in his belt pouch. “Why are you so surprised? I should have thought the meaning was obvious.”

“Zephyr has been missing since the Night of Ashes,” Morvius said. “We thought the letter was from someone who knew where she was.”

Rexus’s face fell. He ran a hand back through his thick brown hair, and sighed. “My apologies. Had I known at the time, I would certainly have phrased things differently. I will, of course, be happy to help in any way I can in the search for her.”

Songbird nodded, but her shoulders slumped. A moment passed, and then another. No sound penetrated the heavy walls, and their shelves of books. Rexus cleared his throat, and moved to the head of the table.

“The reason I reached out to the two of you is that we’ve always known who Thrune was. It seemed unimportant before, when they were far away and uninterested in what we do here in Kintargo. Barzillai has reminded us of just what House Thrune did to achieve their power, though, and the lengths they will go to in order to hold onto it.” Rexus ran his fingers over a series of books on a shelf, before pulling them in a specific order. A drawer opened, and he removed a small chest. The wood was dark and old, the banding dull with time. He set it on the table, and looked around at the three of them. “We have more people volunteering to wear their colors and bend the knee every day. If someone doesn’t do something soon, it will be too late.”

“What are you suggesting?” Alesia asked. Her voice was calm, and her face neutral, but her tail swayed slightly. It gave her the air of a nervous cat trying to keep its cool.

“Our history has been blotted out by Thrune ink so that most of what we think we know is half-truths at best, and outright lies at worst,” Rexus said. He ran his fingers over the small chest like it was a worry stone. “Kintargo tried to fight off Thrune once before. Depending on which stories you believe, they almost managed to do it. As soon as the Thrice-Damned House had its victory, they did everything they could to erase those freedom fighters from the record. They called themselves the Silver Ravens.”

Hesitating for a moment, Rexus flicked open the clasps on the chest, and opened it. Inside, resting on a soft cushion, were tiny silver figures. Each was a raven, meticulously rendered, and gleaming as if they’d just been polished. They were uncanny in a way that was beyond any purely mortal art. Alesia took a step closer, peering into the box. Even Songbird seemed distracted from her worry, the silver reflecting in her eyes.

“Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, Rexus?” Morvius asked.

“That we take back our city,” Rexus said, slapping his hands down on the table. His face was intense as he looked from one person to the next. “They don’t want us to think it’s possible. They want us to think that they have all the power, and we have none. But we can do it!”

For a moment, none of them moved. Then Morvius reached in, and lifted one of the figurines. He turned it this way and that in his hand, lips pursed in thought. No light reflected in his black eyes. Songbird sidled closer, glancing from one man to the other. Morvius chuckled to himself, shaking his head slowly.

“What?” Rexus demanded.

“I’m just imagining the look on your mother’s face if you had told her you were going to take the city back from Thrune’s grasp, and that you were going to have me at your right hand to do it,” Morvius said.

Rexus blinked twice, like a half-sleeping man who’d put his fingers into ice cold water. Then he smiled. It was a small smile, and tinged with sadness, but genuine all the same. He placed a hand on Morvius’s heavy shoulder, and squeezed gently.

“She would have trusted my judgment,” Rexus said. “And she would have trusted you.”

Songbird leaned in, scooping up a statue of her own. She ran her fingers over it, rapidly blinking as if recording every detail of the tiny statue. Alesia took one for herself as well, whispering a cantrip and examining the lines of magic that ran beneath the statue’s shining exterior.

“And how are you proposing that we do what the old Silver Ravens could not?” Alesia asked.

“For that, we should have a more formal meeting,” Rexus said. “Find me at the Long Roads tomorrow morning. As bright and early as you can manage.”

Rexus gestured with one hand, and spoke a single word. The lid of the trunk closed itself, and the clasps snapped back into place. Songbird hooted, delighted at the display. Morvius raised an eyebrow, looking his friend over once more.

“You have changed,” he said.

“More than even you know, my friend,” Rexus said, tucking the trunk under his arm and pulling up his hood once more. “Don’t be late.”

Tune In Next Time on Table Talk!

As I said in my last Table Talk installment, I'm trying something a little different with my group's run through the Hell's Rebels adventure path. Rather than going through a roll-by-roll break down of each session, I'll be putting together snacky, pulpy stories that bring readers on the adventure with me. The current archive of stories is:

- Part One: Devil's Night

- Part Two: From The Ashes

- Part Three: The Raven's Roost

- Part Four: Circles in Salt

So if you want to see more, make sure you share these stories on your social media feeds so I can keep the campaign going! And if you're looking for some additional reading in the mean time don't forget to check out my full Vocal archive, as well as some of my other stories linked below!

- The Irregulars: My official contribution to the Pathfinder Tales, The Irregulars follows an Andoran unit as they throw a wrench into the gears of Molthune's war machine.

- Waking Dogs- A World Eaters Tale: For my fans of Warhammer 40K, this is a story I felt compelled to tell about one of the infamous World Eaters remembering who he once was. It was also dramatized by the channel A Vox in The Void, for those who enjoy audio renditions.

- Crier's Knife: My sword and sorcery novel, we follow Dirk Crier as he sets out to collect his wayward cousin from parts unknown. Dark tidings lie ahead, but those who stand in his way will learn why the mountain folk say only a dead man crosses a Crier.

- Marked Territory and Painted Cats: Join Leo as he gets roped into other people's problems on the mean streets of NYC. A Maine coon with a bad habit of getting curious, explore the world of street beasts in these nasty little noir mysteries!

To stay on top of all my latest releases, follow me on Facebook, Twitter, as well as on Pinterest where I'm building all sorts of boards dedicated to my books, RPG supplements, and greatest hits. Lastly, to help support me and my work, consider Buying Me A Ko-Fi, or heading over to The Literary Mercenary's Patreon page to become a regular, monthly patron! Even a little donation can have a big impact.

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About the Creator

Neal Litherland

Neal Litherland is an author, freelance blogger, and RPG designer. A regular on the Chicago convention circuit, he works in a variety of genres.

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Blog: Improved Initiative and The Literary Mercenary

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