Tuesday Night at The Cheating Moon

There weren't always dragons in the valley.

At least not as long as the girl could remember. And her memory was as long as an unspooled silken ribbon. She could wind the threads of recollection effortlessly along her tapered fingers, weaving a portrait of time's cocoon, long shuffled off and keened to the seven winds. She breathed deeply, stepping out of the hewn doorway of the inherited family dressmaker boutique. There was a strange scent hanging heavy on one of the several autumn mistrels that caressed her cheek: ochre, ash blossoms, and brimstone.

The bitter stink of sulfur invaded her senses, and she could feel her heart slowly drop to the pit of her gut as if it had been weighted by cold stones. The rumbles that shook the pavement beneath her slippered feet caused a shudder that rippled all the way up the length of her spine to the tips of her ears. She let out an anxious breath between pursed lips, fingers fumbling to grasp a crystal pendant that swung against her breast bone. It felt warm in her grasp now. Almost sticky with residual energy, like sticking one's hand into a patch of corpulent, ripe bilberries.

The energy was shifting along with the shortening of the days, and it hadn't escaped her notice. She stood for so long, absorbing the early evening and the sense of impending calamity, that a visitor standing at her stoop went nearly unnoticed. That is, until the short statured man cleared his throat. Eyes that stood as starkly blue as newborn sapphires against a field of freshly fallen snow snapped down to the figure that barely came to her waist, and she stepped back, quickly coughing up an apology.

"Begging pardons, I must have been lost in my thoughts." She offered a genteel bow. "Welcome to The Cheating Moon Dress Boutique..." She turned on her heel to glide inside the shop, followed by the smaller patron, where a smart low counter of polished teak stood against cupboards bursting with bolts of fabric and lace in any color and make that one might imagine. A dressmaker's dummy stood near the counter with a carefully darted pinafore draped over it. The garment was made of a rich cerulean hued crinoline and trimmed with a scalloped eyelet lace. The seamstress, still distracted by her own turbulent thoughts, rubbed her forehead.

"I'm not taking any new commissions at the moment, but do you have a garment to pick up?"

At that, the small gentleman, dressed snappily in a well-worn tweed overcoat and boots that had seen many a cobblestone smiled and nodded his head. "Why yes indeed, Miss. I am here to pick up the trousers I ordered. The violet corduroy ones." His voice was lowered to an almost surreptitious tone. He then held out his left hand while simultaneously raising his felt cap with his right. A pair of pointed fae ears jutted out among his crown of curly auburn hair. Resting in his outstretched palm was what appeared to be a strange coin made of pure silver, imprinted not with any stoic government official, but instead with a crest of horns that flanked a pan flute. He held it up high enough for her to see it clearly.

"I trust they are done, as you said." The diminutive customer remarked, with a twinkle of mischief and perhaps something else in his eye.

At the appearance of the coin, the seamstress' demeanor changed. All iterations of ill-omens fled her thoughts, and she nodded, a smile curling her lips as she came around the counter to retrieve the coin from his palm. She would artfully conceal it in her own pocket before ushering the man towards the back room of her shop, an archway obscured by black velveteen curtains.

"Of course. Please, follow me if you would. They came out precisely as ordered but I'd like you to try them on to make sure they fit before you take them home."

"Assuredly." he said as he replaced his cap, following the shopkeeper where she led, but not before casting a glance back over his shoulder to make sure he hadn't been followed. A breath of meager relief would pass his lips as he took note of the vacant shopfront at his back before passing through the curtain. One could not be too careful in these times. Magic and magical beings were no longer looked on so kindly as they had been in times before. Those born with it, or cursed with it as the sentiment went nowadays, did their best to keep their heads down and as out of sight as possible.

The streets, once rife with stories of adventure and the ravishing gleam of enchantment, had been gutted of all traces of character and color. Even the shadows that crept up the sides of the buildings as the sun dipped glumly behind distant funereal peaks seemed even more gray and mirthless than usual. The powers that be had condemned magic in all its forms, and any practitioners of it were now considered criminals and outlaws in their eyes. Even if it was born in your blood or you inadvertently wore its mark on your skin by virtue of your very existence, to them, it made not a lick of difference. Your punishment would be swift, and it would be harsh. But that dreary fate hinged on one principle yet naive assumption...

It assumed you would be caught.

And much like any other thing that the lawmakers had ostensibly tried to snuff out under a collective despotic bootheel, instead it drove the activity underground into safe havens, much like The Cheating Moon. When the gnome stepped behind the curtain, drawn back by the cunning seamstress, he was transported to another world beyond the dour magicless one outside. Though, candidly speaking, due to the otherworldly nature of the shop itself, they may well have passed into a fully contained pocket dimension deep in the earth, with narrow magical tethers that linked the world above to the unseen world below. Inside, these secret rooms were much larger, the vaulted ceilings passing far over the gnome traveler's head. So far, in fact, that he was certain he saw kites darting among the crisscrossing beams.

Multiple rooms appeared to branch off of this main one, where a broad stone hearth hosted a troop of dwarves that were carousing and telling ale-fueled tales by the light of a magical conjured fire. A pair of sprites, engaged in an intense game of checkers, flitted about back and forth across a round table plotting their next maneuvers. A brooding elf sat alone at a carved-out booth, nursing a fizzy tonic, all while scribing in a leather-bound book with a floating quill made of chimera bones and roc feathers. The words he wrote on the page glowed in a language long forgotten by any mortal tongue.

Sylphs, harpies and witches' familiars swooped among the rafters, screeching as they soared to preposterous heights. A selkie was perched on the makeshift performance stage, combing her long hair while singing lyrical sea shanties in a hollow yet honeyed voice. It was everything that had been promised and more. And the gnome was startled by this realization. Sweat beamed from his brow as he absorbed the breathtaking vistas before the cold maw of reality brought him back to the somber task at hand.

The seamstress smiled and gestured to the bar, where an open seat was available between a lizard-folk sorcerer who was deeply engaged in eating an entire jar of pickled eggs and a human mage summoning tiny fireballs to dance inside the limits of his cocktail glass. The gnome took the available seat and let out a profound sigh, his slight shoulders slumping in what appeared to be a great and unseen burden slowly settling down upon them. Unprompted, the former seamstress turned hostess placed a glass on the bar in front of the newcomer and filled it halfway with a herbaceous liquor, deep emerald in color, which smelled headily of raindrops striking pine boughs.

"You have come a long way to find me, traveler. And these are dangerous times." She asserted. "But you can rest, the door upstairs is secured as soon as I leave it behind, and this space is well shielded by many spells and cantrips. You are safe. So, what brings you to The Cheating Moon on a fine Tuesday evening?"

He found his mouth dry and the words absent, removing his cap to brush his wavy hair back in a nervous gesture. Something about him was more frantic now than before, which was odd. Once inside the haven, usually fear tended to dissipate, not increase. But still, his energy now was frenzied, and he was restless, shifting about in his seat before grabbing the glass to take an awkward swallow of the drink presented to him. Perhaps it would be a tonic to soothe his suddenly frayed nerves, and the words that had withered on the tip of his tongue could be coaxed out.

It did not.

Instead, he abruptly buckled at the waist and dropped to the floor before he could utter another sound. The seamstress' ebullient smile fled from her face as she slid the bottle of Larthunon Revelation Wine back beneath the bar, a faint curse lodged between her teeth. The bottle was still half full. After hundreds of years, it hadn't lost any of its potency for furrowing out spies.

And it was precisely because of this reaction, which had garnered quite a crowd among the rest of the patrons, that such cautious measures remained in place. She had to be certain. The gnome, or at least what remained of his consciousness as the puppetry spell slipped away, looked up in muted panic. The husk of the intruder was dragged back to its feet with a sickly snap of sinew, and a faint greenish glow would slowly take up residence behind empty eyes. Before whatever had taken hold of the traveler's body completely engulfed it, a few words were squeezed out of pale lips.

"I'm... s-sorry." Tears of pitch fell in hot trails, streaking down his flushed cheeks, but it meant little to her now. They would stop at nothing to get to her and the Cheating Moon, and this latest sacrifice of an innocent was far from beneath them. She'd seen it countless times before. But there was one distinct difference this time... he had the coin. Those were not given lightly. And they were taken from their charges by one means only: by force. She swallowed solemnly, stepping out from behind the bar, as the whimpering from the gnome shifted to a gruff, rumbling baritone. Akin to the sound of iron staves being run over by a freight train, the being that had taken possession of the gnome's body as a disguise began to speak.

"Piper... it's been a while." The voice had a flat, measured tone. And she almost appeared astonished when she heard it. After all, it wasn't the invader she expected; instead, it was someone she knew.

"It's been ages, Gris. But how did you...?" The seamstress spoke, a flame flickering in her gut like an ancient forge rekindled after decades of dormancy and coldness, delivering a sharp glow to those wide livid eyes. Gris wouldn't have used a cadaver courier unless the situation was dire.

"Falcyon was captured. Avalon's Rest has been destroyed." The necromancer spoke in a severe tone. "I was able to secure his passage coin and use this one's body to deliver the message to you. For the good of the resistance and a bit for old time's sake. They are, however, aware of your whereabouts and are en route. You don't have much time. I wish I could do more." Gris spoke through the reanimated lips of the gnome, which still moved in an unsettlingly lifelike manner. When she suddenly heard the rumble overhead of the enemy's iron dragons, her attention was ripped away from the reunion. She could practically see them now, in her mind's eye. Wings that remained motionless, never flapping to receive the breeze's updraft. Great eyeless domes of glass that constantly scanned the landscape below. Not to mention the intimidating and almost impossible monstrous engines, that belched smoke and fire, which kept the great mechanical beasts aloft, flagrantly in the face of all magical reasoning.

They'd never been so near to the haven. They were close enough to shake the building above their heads. Her old acquaintance was, unfortunately, correct. Piper turned her attention back to the gnome with the sickly glowing eyes. Chilly, calloused fingers clutched at her pendant in a vain attempt to settle her raucous nerves. The body of the messenger was forced to bow down.

"Best of luck to you, old friend. I cannot stay..." The necromancer uttered his concern through dead lips.

"You have done more than enough, Gris. Thank you old friend. Drinks are on me next time. You are released."

The gnome corpse's body sank forward as the oath was made, the muted artificial light escaping its eyes as it collapsed unceremoniously like a pike of sodden old rags. It soon dissolved into a midnight-colored slurry that seeped through the flooring below, emitting a caustic haze as it went. After the chaos had subsided and the whispers from frightened patrons began to ebb like the summer tide, there was one more issue to deal with. No matter how the message had been conveyed, the facts were clear as day. There was one less member of the resistance now in their ranks. Falcyon had been as steady as the tick of a clock, and equally as true. He was no pushover. Piper shuddered to think of what brutality had occurred in order to wrench the seal from her former compatriot's grasp.

Nonetheless, there would be time for odes and memorial songs afterwards. Danger was hammering at their door, and she wasn't going to ignore it.

"To your rooms, everyone! Now!" Piper shouted as she reached behind the bar for a satchel that she slung over her shoulder, and a blade that she hoisted down from a bold and visible display plaque on the wall. This time felt different as the guests raced to their rooms, following the security measures they had been drilled through hundreds of times. This time it was real. A genuine threat had arrived at their sanctuary's prestigious entrance. They could hear the thud of heavy boots scuffing the dress shop floorboards above. The enemy sought feverishly for a method to infiltrate the enchanted sanctum, knocking over displays and smashing windows as they went.

But they had overplayed their hand.

It was one thing to demolish her shop. But she'd signed a sacred pledge to protect this sanctuary at all costs, and she'd take no prisoners. The necklace that boldly hung from her neck for so many years would be torn off and hurled to the ground. The whirling center pendant crushed under the weight of her heel. Her full and terrible form would slowly emerge from behind a husk of splintered magic, breaking the masquerade enchantment at last. Silver scales clung to her leathered, hoary flesh. Eyes of the same frigid hue would peer out from beneath a heavy brow, now displaying decidedly reptilian slits for pupils. Those eyes perched over her snout, where her nostrils flared in unadulterated ire. At her rear, a massive tail unfurled and swept the earth. She would gesture a symbol in the air with a flick of her taloned hand, opening a hidden pathway through the wall back into the shop.

As she stepped through the hidden portal, her nearly seven-foot-tall figure straightened to its full height, releasing a hazy mist of ice-shattered air over the troops who had swiftly turned to face the towering menace that had just emerged inside the dressmaker's shop. The air was split effortlessly by the shards of frost that flew from her maw in a deafening roar that shook the very bricks of the building's foundation. A malicious smile twisted Piper's lips as the soldiers' eyes were lit up by the dread of witnessing a beast only spoken of in legends bear down on them savagely with tooth, claw and blade.

These men had arrogantly made their own monsters and tried to chase the ones of antiquity back into the shadows and realms of fable and myth where they would hopefully be forgotten. Clumsily swinging their torch-laden arms, bowed down by the weight of industry and progress, they tried to frighten those from the old times with threats and violence, forgetting that these creatures had sometimes known more violence than mortal memories could ever recall. It was the enemy's fatal flaw. From this moment, they would brutally recompense with the fact that not all magic would disappear so quietly into the night.

No, there hadn't always been dragons in the valley.

But tonight, there was one more than they counted on.