Deep Sea Embers

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Enshrouded in the inky darkness, Alice and Vanna sought refuge in an obscure alleyway corner. There, they would remain concealed, waiting with bated breath for the directives that were soon to come. As they waited, their eyes attentively monitored the surrounding vicinity of the looming building before them. Concurrently, Duncan and Morris, acting as the advance team, moved with caution towards the structure’s foreboding black door.

The group was bathed in silence – a natural occurrence given that the predawn hours hadn’t yet given way to the light of day. In this realm, the inky blanket of night wasn’t a time for the average person to be stirring. As soon as twilight settled, regular folks would retreat to their abodes, succumbing to the allure of sleep and the promise of a new day at dawn.

Yet, the question arose whether the so-called “clones” returning from their deep-sea voyage would follow the same quotidian rhythms as their ordinary counterparts.

Duncan, eyes scanning the structure, caught sight of an unmistakable button nestled in the nook of the door frame. Upon pressing it twice, the shrill echo of an electric bell emanated from within the building. Against the backdrop of the tranquility of the night, the harsh ringing of the bell cut through the silence like a blade.

“Perhaps we should have reconsidered making a visit during curfew,” Morris commented, a touch of uncertainty coloring his words. He rubbed his forehead fretfully, “If we rouse the neighbors, it might incite suspicion.”

“Your friend may not be in a position to hold on much longer; it’s better to act sooner,” Duncan countered coolly. “And as for raising eyebrows among the Death Church officials or alarming the city-state authorities – well, that’s all part of the life of the stateless. Time you grew accustomed to that.”

Morris opened his mouth, seemingly wanting to respond, but no words came out. As he hesitated, Duncan once again pressed the doorbell twice.

Their persistence was rewarded by the hurried sound of footsteps shuffling inside the building, accompanied by the telltale crash of something being knocked over. Moments later, the lights in the living room flickered on, casting a soft, welcoming glow onto the street outside through a nearby window.

The door creaked open just enough to reveal a cautious eye scanning the scene outside. A young, quavering voice echoed from behind the door, “Who is it?”

It was clearly a woman’s voice.

Duncan and Morris shared a surprised glance – the former taken aback, the latter seeming to put pieces of a puzzle together.

“Is it Garloni?” Morris ventured, “Is Mr. Scott Brown at home? I’m an old acquaintance of your tutor.”

With a hasty whisper to Duncan, he added, “She might be Scott Brown’s apprentice; I recall him mentioning her.”

Duncan reciprocated with a nod of understanding while, simultaneously, the woman behind the door seemed to mull over Morris’s statement. After a moment’s pause, she cautiously responded, “I apologize for the inconvenience, but it’s very late, and my tutor is currently resting. Can we perhaps resume this conversation at sunrise?”

Morris frowned in contemplation, the unfolding situation diverging from his initial expectations. He had not anticipated that Scott Brown’s apprentice would continue to inhabit the property six years after his departure. After a moment of deliberation, he collected his thoughts and began to respond, “Unfortunately, we arrived quite late and have yet to secure lodgings – besides, your tutor did extend an invitation to me in a prior correspondence.”

The scholarly man took a moment before he continued, “My name is Morris Underwood. Your tutor would likely have mentioned my name to you.”

The voice on the other side of the door fell silent. It seemed as if “Garloni” was deep in thought, attempting to remember. A few seconds later, her voice could be heard again, “Then… give me a moment. I’ll remove the chain lock.”

The metallic sound of the lock being undone, coupled with the friction of the chain against the door, added to the orchestra of sounds that pierced the otherwise quiet night. With the chain removed, the door finally opened wide enough for Duncan to catch a glimpse of a figure bathed in the warm, inviting light inside.

Garloni stood just a few centimeters shorter than Vanna, her height of nearly 1.9 meters was an unmistakable characteristic. Unlike Vanna’s slender stature, this young woman possessed a muscular build that was clearly visible. Her grayish-white skin resembled the hue of leathery rock, with faint golden patterns dancing beneath the surface.

Aside from these peculiar, non-human traits, her face bore the familiar features of a typical young human woman and even exuded an air of delicacy. Awoken from her slumber, this warrior-like figure was dressed in a loose nightgown, her brown hair cascading haphazardly behind her. Leaning against the door frame, she scrutinized the unfamiliar faces before her with an air of caution.

While Duncan’s interest was piqued by her appearance, Garloni reciprocated the curiosity. In her eyes, Duncan – the burly stranger cloaked in a black trench coat and sporting a wide-brimmed hat, his face concealed beneath layers of bandages – was an oppressive sight, even for a Frostborn accustomed to “bandages.”

As she tensed up, Morris’s voice broke the uneasy silence that had settled. Turning to Duncan, he announced, “This is Garloni, Brown’s apprentice. She’s an orc – a sight not often seen in the northern city-states.”

Facing Garloni, he continued, “This gentleman is Mr. Duncan, he is…”

“Duncan,” the man in question interjected, “I’m an adventurer and a friend of Mr. Morris. My interest in Mr. Scott Brown’s work has brought me along for this visit. I hope we haven’t caused any inconvenience.”

“… My tutor is resting, and I’m unsure when he’ll awaken. However, he did mention that Mr. Morris might pay us a visit,” Garloni replied. In contrast to her formidable appearance, her voice was soft, hesitant, and somewhat fearful, almost devoid of self-confidence. As she spoke, she avoided eye contact with Duncan and Morris, mumbling to herself while making room for them to enter, “You can come in first. It’s cold outside.”

Upon their entry, Garloni shut the door, her action signifying the resumption of silence in the street.

The living room was rather unassuming, its furnishings showing signs of a decade or two of use. To one side, the kitchen and dining area seamlessly connected to the main living space, while a staircase leading to the upper floor adorned the other. Beneath the stairs, a narrow door hinted at the possibility of a basement or wine cellar.

The living room, brightly lit by the electric lamp, harbored no suspicious shadows or hidden corners. Every visible corner seemed inviting and… normal.

Neither Duncan nor Morris exhibited an excessive interest in their surroundings. Under Garloni’s guidance, they found a place to sit in the living room. Subsequently, the tall orc woman retreated to the kitchen and busied herself preparing tea and snacks.

“Would you like some sweet pancakes and sausages? That’s all I have at the moment…” Garloni’s apologetic voice echoed from the kitchen.

“Only a cup of hot water is necessary, there’s no need to trouble yourself,” Morris responded, waving his hand dismissively. He turned to Garloni when she reemerged from the kitchen, casually asking, “Have you been living here all this time?”

“Yes, I’ve been here the whole time,” she responded with a nod, “My tutor was away for a period, and he entrusted me with his keys to look after the place. I relocated from my rented apartment and have been living here ever since. When he returned recently, I stayed to care for him.”

“Away for a period?” Morris echoed, furrowing his brow, “When was this?”

“About five or six years ago, I think,” Garloni replied uncertainly, her expression hinting at embarrassment, “I’m not very good with keeping track of time. My tutor often points that out.”

Morris and Duncan exchanged a knowing look.

“When did Mr. Brown return?” Duncan probed nonchalantly.

“About a month ago,” Garloni replied, her tone suggesting she perceived the question as casual chit-chat, “He came back suddenly, saying he was weary from his travels and needed some rest… Oh yes, he did mention after his return that he wanted to invite Mr. Morris for a visit.”

“When I received his letter, I was quite taken aback,” Morris continued, “I hadn’t heard from him in years. The last communication I received from him mentioned a journey by sea… Ah yes, he was to board a small steamship known as the ‘Obsidian’?”

As he reminisced, Morris quietly observed Garloni’s reactions.

However, upon hearing the name “Obsidian,” Garloni simply shook her head after a moment of recollection, “I’m not aware of that. He didn’t provide many details when he departed…”

Her tone and demeanor didn’t betray any inconsistencies.

Yet, her response seemed amiss.

She was unaware of which ship her tutor had boarded!

In an ordinary teacher-student relationship, such an oversight could be overlooked. But, Garloni’s relationship with the folklorist was evidently much deeper. Scott Brown trusted her enough to leave his house keys with her, and she had been living there for six years, readily accepting the responsibility of caring for him upon his “return.” Given their close-knit and trusting relationship, it was unlikely that Brown would not have informed Garloni of his plans when he set out.

With an air of serenity and indifference, Garloni faced her guests, her demeanor suggesting that everything transpiring was perfectly natural.