I cross the muddy track, my boots making soft, sucking sounds in the cold muck. Magwin is hunched over his stall, polishing a tarnished silver locket with a grimy cloth. He doesn't look up until my shadow falls over his wares.
His head snaps up, his single good eye widening in recognition and something else—awe, or perhaps fear. He takes in my appearance, my unflinching gaze, the fact that I have returned from the Everplag Woods looking more focused than frightened.
"The woods... they did not take you," he says, his voice a low rasp. It's not quite a question. He sets the locket down carefully, his movements deliberate. "Others have gone in and come out... changed. Or not at all." He studies me, his gaze sharp and assessing. "You found something. Or it found you."
He doesn't ask about the cultists. He doesn't ask about Oswald. He simply waits, his knobby fingers resting on the counter of his stall. The air between me is thick with unspoken questions.
I tell him I indeed did find a bit of fun.
A slow, knowing smile spreads across Magwin's weathered, toothless face. It is not a pleasant expression.
"A bit of fun," he repeats, the words a dry rustle. "Aye. The kind of fun that leaves the woods quieter than you found 'em, I'd wager." His good eye flicks past me, toward the dark line of trees, then back to me. He leans forward conspiratorially, the smell of old herbs and damp earth wafting from him.
"Fun like that... it often has a price. Or a sequel. The Hand has ears in this mud, and the Sigil... well, they tend to notice when their people stop whispering back." He lets that hang in the air for a moment before continuing, his voice dropping even lower. "So. You've had your fun. What is it you're hunting for now? I doubt you've come back just for the chill and the company."
He is watching me intently, a merchant who senses a serious buyer with exotic tastes and deep pockets. "Do you know the name Bertram?" I ask.
The name lands in the space between us with a distinct, almost physical weight. Magwin's casual, knowing demeanor evaporates instantly. He draws back slightly, his shoulders tensing. His gaze darts to the left and right, ensuring no one else is within earshot.
"Bertram," he whispers, the name sounding like a curse. "Where did you hear that name?" He searches my face, his expression a mixture of deep unease and sharp curiosity. "That is not a name spoken in the light of day. Not for a long, long time."
He leans in again, so close I can see the intricate map of wrinkles around his eyes.
"Magister Alistair Bertram," he clarifies, his voice barely audible. "He was... before the factions. One of the old ones. They say he didn't just study magic; he tried to dissect the gods themselves. His work was on things that are not. On voids and absences." He shivers, and it doesn't seem like an act. "The Obsidian Hand purged every trace of him they could find decades ago. Burned his estate to the ground, scattered his followers. To even speak his name is to invite... scrutiny."
He looks at me, truly seeing mefor the first time—not just as a dangerous wizard, but as someone walking a path that intersects with the most forbidden corners of Atheria's secret history.
"What do you want with the works of a dead ghost?"
I give him a slight grin. "Knowledge of course."
Magwin lets out a short, sharp bark of a laugh that holds no humor. "Knowledge," he echoes, shaking his head. "Aye. The kind that gets you killed. Or worse." He rubs his chin, his eyes never leaving mine, calculating the risk and potential reward of this conversation.
"You won't find Bertram's words in any library the Hand hasn't already salted and burned," he says flatly. "But... there are holes in the world even they can't plug." He pauses, letting the suspense build. "There was a man. A scribe who fled the Hand's purge of Bertram's followers. Name of Berko. Cunning little weasel. He didn't go into the woods or join another faction. He went to ground. Last I heard—and this is old news, mind you—he was holed up in the underbelly of Raven's Perch."
Raven's Perch is a name I know—a larger, denser port city several days' travel to the south, a place known for its cutthroat politics and thriving black markets.
"He'd be an old man now, if he's even still alive," Magwin adds, his tone making it clear this is no guarantee. "And finding him in that rat's nest... that'll be its own kind of hunt. But if anyone kept a scrap of Bertram's true work, it'd be him."
He gives me a long, hard look.
"That's all I have. That name is a heavy coin to spend. I suggest you spend it wisely."
He has given me a name and a location—the next link in my chain of inquiry. "As informative as you are, do you know the faces or location of the prominent factions in the area?" I inquire.
I've just asked the local information broker to point out the spies of the most secretive and ruthless magical factions in the region. Magwin's face goes utterly still, all traces of his previous conspiratorial energy draining away. He looks at me as if I've just suggested he set himself on fire.
His voice drops to a whisper so faint I have to strain to hear it over the wind. "You do not ask that. Not here. Not ever." He begins to slowly, deliberately, pack a few of his more valuable trinkets into a small chest below his counter, a clear signal that this conversation is reaching its end.
"They don't wear badges, son," he hisses, not looking at me. "They are the quiet merchant with surprisingly good security. The town watch captain who seems to know things he shouldn't. The reclusive herbalist who never seems to age." He finally meets my eyes, and there is genuine fear in his. "Asking that question is a fine way to become the answer to it. They watch. They listen. And they do not take kindly to being inquired about."
He closes the chest with a definitive click.
"I think you have all the 'knowledge' I can afford to sell today."
He turns his back, pretending to rearrange a bundle of dried wolfsbane, effectively dismissing me. The flow of information from this source has run dry.
I turn from Magwin's stall without another word and cross the road to the squat, wooden building bearing a sign carved with a crude flame above the words "Maggra's Cold Hearth." I push the heavy door open and step inside.
The air within is thick with the smell of woodsmoke, stale ale, and roasting meat. A few grimy lanterns cast a dim, flickering light over a scene of quiet desolation. A handful of locals huddle at rough-hewn tables, their postures slumped, their conversations hushed. Their eyes lift as I enter, tracking my movement with the wary suspicion reserved for outsiders.
A massive stone hearth dominates one wall, but the fire within is low, giving off more smoke than warmth—living up to the tavern's name. Behind a scarred bar stained with countless rings, a large, grim-faced woman with arms thick as ham hocks is polishing a tankard with a rag. This must be Maggra herself. Her gaze is flat and unwelcoming.
In a shadowy corner, a man in a travel-stained cloak sits alone, his hood drawn up. He doesn't look up as I enter, but his stillness feels deliberate.
I have just walked in. All eyes are on me.
I ignore the weight of the locals' stares and make my way to the bar. The wooden floorboards creak under my boots, each sound marking my progress through the tense silence. I take a seat on a rough-hewn stool, the wood groaning in protest.
Maggra doesn't stop polishing the tankard, her movements slow and deliberate. She finally sets it down with a solid thunk and fixes her impassive gaze on me. Her eyes are the color of flint.
"What'll it be?" she asks, her voice a low rumble. There is no "welcome," no "stranger." It is a simple, transactional question.
The tavern's meager offerings are apparent. A small keg of what is likely thin, bitter ale sits on the counter. A pot hanging in the hearth likely contains a greasy stew, its contents questionable.
"Ale. Stew," I say, my tone flat and devoid of the false camaraderie some travelers might affect.
Maggra gives a single, curt nod. She pulls a dented tin tankard from under the bar, holds it under the spigot of the small keg, and fills it with a dark, cloudy liquid. She slams it down in front of me, a bit of the ale sloshing over the side to form a puddle on the scarred wood.
Without a word, she turns, grabs a wooden bowl, and ladles a generous portion of the steaming stew from the pot in the hearth. The stew is thick and brown, with chunks of unidentifiable meat and pale root vegetables floating in it. She places the bowl and a wooden spoon beside my tankard.
"That'll be three copper," she states, not asking, but telling. Her meaty hand remains outstretched on the bar, waiting for payment.
As I retrieve my coins, I feel the gaze of the other patrons still lingering on me. The man in the hooded cloak in the corner has not moved.
I count out three coppers and drop them into Maggra's waiting palm. She closes her fist around them and returns to her polishing, her job done.
I pick up the bowl of stew and the tankard of ale. The decision to move towards the hooded man is a deliberate one, a small test. As I cross the room, the low murmurs of the other patrons die down completely. I can feel their eyes on my back.
I stop at his table. He does not look up. The shadows from his hood obscure his features entirely, but I can see the lower part of his face—a strong jaw, clean-shaven, set in a neutral line.
Without asking for permission, I set my bowl and tankard down on the rough wooden surface and take the seat opposite him. The stool creaks under my weight.
For a long moment, there is only the crackle of the meager fire and the sound of my own breathing. Then, a low, calm voice emanates from within the hood.
"This seat was not vacant by accident."
He still hasn't looked at me. His hands are resting on the table, empty. They look capable.
I take a bite to eat. "I didn't choose to seat here by accident either."
A slow, deliberate breath escapes from within the hood. One of his hands—the right—turns over, palm resting flat on the table. It is a gesture of readiness, not necessarily aggression.
"Intent is a dangerous currency," the voice replies, its tone still unnervingly level. "It draws attention. And in a place like this, attention is a tax few can afford to pay."
Finally, he lifts his head just enough for the lantern light to catch the lower part of his face. I see a thin, humorless smile.
"So. You have spent your intent to sit at my table. A costly opening move. Now you must place your next wager. State your business, or take your... sustenance... elsewhere." His gaze flicks down to my bowl of greasy stew with a hint of distaste before returning to the shadowed space where my eyes would be.
The air between us is taut. He is no simple traveler.
"I was curious to see if me and you were of similar scholarly pursuits".
The hooded man goes perfectly still. The thin smile vanishes. The air grows colder, as if the meager heat from the hearth has been siphoned away.
"Scholarly pursuits," he repeats, tasting the words. There is no warmth in them. "A careful phrase. A velvet glove." He leans forward infinitesimally, and the light now catches the glint of a single eye within the darkness of his hood. It is a piercing, assessing gaze.
"Let us speak plainly. You emerge from the Everplag Woods, where whispers say the Crimson Sigil nested. You carry the scent of ozone and old blood. And you come to my table speaking of 'scholarly pursuits'." He lets the implication hang in the air like a blade.
"I am a collector," he says, his voice dropping to a thread of sound meant only for me. "Of artifacts. Of lore. Of... quiet truths. I am not here for the local vintage." His gaze flicks meaningfully towards the door, then back to me. "The question is not if our pursuits are similar. The question is if they are compatible. Or if they place us in contention."
He is laying his cards on the table, in his own oblique way. He has identified me as a player and has declared his own hand: he is an agent, almost certainly of the Obsidian Hand, and he knows I have been meddling in affairs that interest his faction.
I stare a him in his eyes, another spoonful of stew raised to my lips. "That depends on if anyone tries to get in the way of my pursuit of knowledge. like the crimson sigil."
A slow, approving nod comes from within the hood. The tension eases, but only slightly, shifting from open confrontation to a wary, predatory truce.
"A practical philosophy," he says. "The Crimson Sigil were fools. Amateurs playing with fire in a room full of kindling. Their removal... tidies the board." He makes a slight gesture with his hand, as if brushing dust from the table. It is a chillingly casual dismissal of the three lives I ended.
"But knowledge is not a single path through the woods. It is a labyrinth. Some corridors are best left unexplored." He leans forward again, his voice dropping even further. "Magister Bertram's work, for instance. That is a corridor lined with bones. Some of them... quite fresh."
He knows. He knows about the vellum fragment, and he knows I asked about Bertram. Magwin was right—they are watching and listening.
"I represent an organization that believes certain knowledge is too volatile for... unvetted hands," he continues smoothly. "We prefer to contain it. Study it. Control it." He lets the word hang in the air, a clear declaration of his allegiance to the Obsidian Hand.
"You have demonstrated a certain... efficacy. And you have an interest in advanced theoretical principles regarding ontological paradoxes." He's referencing the Liber Tenebris without naming it directly. "Perhaps our pursuits could be mutually beneficial. For a time."
He is offering me a deal, or perhaps a test. A chance to walk alongside the Obsidian Hand, rather than be trampled by it.
A dry, almost silent chuckle escapes him. It is the sound of rustling parchment.
"Observation is the first tenet of our order," he says, his gloved finger tracing a slow circle on the tabletop. "We watch the watchers. We listen to the whispers. A man asks dangerous questions at a tinker's stall, then seeks out a notoriously reclusive scholar... it creates ripples. And we are very good at reading ripples."
He tilts his head, and you can sense the sharp intelligence behind the shadow of his hood, assessing me, weighing my potential uses and threats.
"So. The pleasantries are concluded. You have an interest in Bertram's forbidden texts. We have an interest in ensuring such texts do not fall into the hands of those who would misuse them—or, more accurately, misuse them in a way that runs counter to our own designs."
He produces a small, flat piece of polished slate from within his cloak and places it on the table between us. A single, intricate glyph is carved into its surface—a stylized eye surrounded by grasping tendrils.
"Take this. Present it to the quartermaster of the Sea Serpent, a merchant cog docked at Raven's Perch. He will provide you with supplies for your... scholarly expedition. And he will arrange a meeting with someone who can discuss Bertram's more esoteric theories."
He pushes the slate towards me.
"This is not an invitation to join us. It is a probationary contract. Your continued access to our resources will be contingent upon your results, and your discretion."
He stands smoothly, his movement fluid and silent.
"Do not disappoint us."
With that, he turns and walks out of the Cold Hearth without a backward glance, leaving me alone at the table with my cold stew, warm ale, and a token from the most feared magical faction in Atheria.