The Mephit's Tales

Things had been starting out so well. A vacation spent not in some sun-baked tourist trap, but in a pleasantly temperate forest with only his boyfriend for company — that was pretty much perfect in Kevin’s mind. The day was sunny and mild, the breeze just enough to rustle the leaves and keep them cool as they hiked, and the air was full of animal calls; just a wonderful summer day, really.

These woods weren’t entirely natural, of course; the company tending them claimed to offer an Indiana Jones Lite sort of explorer experience, “ancient ruins” to explore, puzzles to solve, though so far, he and Jack hadn’t seen anything more disruptive to the forest than the game trail they were on. It seemed to be wending its way towards a river, though, and that was always a good place to look for “ancient” settlements, wasn’t it? It was, they figured, at least a good starting point.

For the company he kept, the ermine was surprisingly young. The Broken Blade’s usual clientele were hardened, veteran fighters, devoted clerics, and experienced wizards in their late twenties and up; Tasven was still in his late teens. He was taller than most, but slender, even gangly, and, despite a degree of muscle that was uncommon in his kind, still looked somewhat unfinished.

But he moved with confidence and grace, trading smiles and the odd wave with those he knew, as he sauntered up to the bar, swinging his pack off his shoulders and holding it in one hand while the other arm leaned on the bar. There was something intent about his expression that drew the old lupine bartender over to him.

“Vardeniri,” the wolf greeted. “The usual?”

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