Fog-Drenched and Nameless

The hare stood at the edge of the Fogs District, gripping his holy staff with a trembling paw. Brother Callithin was fresh from the ivory spires of the Tyrian Church and had just gotten off the slowboat to Vulane that morning... or was it night?

The staff in his paw glowed with a comforting golden light, casting the narrow street ahead in pale, flickering light. “Tyr’s holy blessing,” they had called it at the Temple, where priests assured him the Light of Justice would guide and protect him. But here in Vulane, the light seemed faint, swallowed by an oppressive darkness that was less the absence of illumination and more a tangible, malevolent force.

Cold rain lashed the “City of Lies,” and Brother Callithin huddled inside his leather rain slick as he held his Blessing Staff ahead of him. Vulane was dark, even at noon, and the darkness was oppressive.

A river was running down the cobblestones into a cloud of purple fog where his next assignment would begin: “The Fog District”. He hesitated at the threshold but pushed forward. “To spread Tyr’s Light,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. His voice faltered as the staff’s glow dimmed further, seeming to recede from him like a wary animal. “To spread His Light…”

The violet mist surged toward the staff’s light, almost being sucked in by it.

A tentative smile began to spread on the young hare’s face - maybe the stories he had heard back at the monastery were exaggerated. His steps a little more confident, Callithin stepped a little farther into the mist, his grip on his staff relaxing a little.

Ahead, the broad, cobble-stoned street narrowed into an alleyway. At the end was a lopsided inn that sported a swinging sign of a silver-faced fox, his finger up against his lips as if to silence any secrets. The sign, nameless, swung in the heavy rain and wind like a drunk, the dim, yellow lights in the windows flickering like possessed eyes.

Callithin, unsure of the path ahead but unable to retreat - due to his steadfast nature - held his own against the elements, wrapping his ears down around his chin, as he made his way to the door. The place hummed with life, but it was not the joyous din of camaraderie. It was fractured, chaotic—laughter mingling with sobbing, shouts punctuated by an eerie silence that seemed to swallow sound itself.

He hesitated at the threshold but pushed forward. “To spread Tyr’s Light,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. His voice faltered as the staff’s glow dimmed further, seeming to recede from him like a wary animal. “To spread His Light...”

The patrons failed to acknowledge his entrance. One was singing, swigging from a cup that did not seem to empy, no matter how much he drank. On the other side was a badger having a loud argument with himself in a broken mirror. A group of predators were conspiring over drinks in another corner while near the bar was a vixen and a female cat with black-and-white fur in what must have once been noble’s dresses - now tattered and too-well traveled. But Callithin’s eyes settled on a welcoming sight:

At the far end of the dark, unnamed tavern stood a female hare - like himself - almost at attention, wearing a strange-yet-ornate silver mask and holding a halberd. Callithin, still holding his staff, exhaled as he strode in, eager to make friends in a place as cold as the Fogs.

When the young cleric was face-to-face with his brethren, he hadn’t even noticed that the rest of the tavern had gone as silent as the grave, with the only sounds being the wind and rain lashing the little tavern outside - and the mumblings of the half-crazed badger at the entrance.

“Well met, sister!” Callithin said cheerfully, holding out his paw. The female hare he was facing - tall and athletic - continued staring at him. Behind her mask were the glint of violet eyes, with just enough of a sparkle to increase Callithin’s curiosity. She continued standing, but now her head was following his, her gaze locked on him. He slowly lowered his paw...

Must be from the Southern Tribes, he said to himself. He cleared his throat.

“I am Brother Callithin from Altarhome...”

...a snicker from somewhere in the tavern...

“...And... And I am here to spread the Light of Tyr!” He announced proudly, after a slight hesitation. No response followed.

“I hail from Altarhome as well!” The ragged-dressed vixen at the bar offered, raising a glass of some strange blue liquid in his direction. “Don’t mind her, sir Callithin - she does not speak much since she lost all her gold at the betting tables.”

“Be gone with you, wench!” Callithin snapped, waving his glowing staff at her. “Can’t you see I’m having a conversation with the young lady?”

The vixen, instead of being perturbed, widened the smile on her muzzle. “Of course, sir.”

Callithin turned back to the silver-masked beauty - she had to be beautiful - in front of him, and found that she was watching him intently. “I would... be honored if I had your name, m’lady.”

The female hare tilted her head like she was curious about what he was saying, the warm gold light from Callithin’s staff reflecting off her mask.

“We just told you she’s mute you numpty!” Came a shout from the bar. 

“I don’t recall asking you!” Callithin snapped. 

There were mutters among the patrons, and a giggle. The giggle really infuriated the hare missionary. 

“Please my dear, give me some sign you can understand me,” he said trying to soften his tone. 

Suddenly she stood straight up, looked into the middle distance, and seemed to soften, tilting her head in a playful way and switching her halberd to her left handpaw, offering her armored right handpaw to the gentle-hare. His voice caught in his throat. Gently, Callithin took the hand of the mysterious female as she lead him to the bar.

The silver mask put the halberd in the crook of her right arm and slapped the bar twice. Immediately, emerging out of the floor was what Callithin immediately recognized as an Unmoored Spirit in the shape of a raccoon in a shabby overcoat.

“No! Begone with you!” He said, pointing his staff forward. The apparition’s ghostly eyes expanded, beholding the light of the God of Justice. Terrified, it fled through the floor. His companion turned her masked head slowly toward him, like a predator who just noticed its prey standing in its stewpot.

Callithin smiled proudly.

“You’re welcome, my dear.”

“That was the bartender, idiot!” the female feline called out. 

“O-Oh, not a problem,” the young cleric said, hopping over the bar. “I’m not seeing any Tyrian ale... perhaps another time, my sweet?”

The silver masked hare slammed her fist down on the bar.

“My dear, there is nothing here but... Reynardian drinks. Come, let’s find you something more suitable?”

Two slams.

“No no no, I insist that—”

This time the pointy end of the halberd drove Callithin to the back of the bar.

“Okay! Okay! What would you like?”

“The blue bottle,” the vixen ‘harlot’ from before said. “The one that twinkles like it has been mixed with stars.”

Callithin looked and held up a large bottle filled with blue, sparkling liquid. The label had nothing except the outline of two vixens - one white and one black - holding aloft a clutch of grapes.

“This one?”

“Yes,” the vixen said. “Now drink a glass and offer her one.”

“What... what is it?”

Without missing a beat, the harlot’s friend answered. “Taste it and you’ll recognize it.”

The entire bar was watching as he inelegantly poured a glass for himself and his new lady friend, spilling some on the bar itself.

“Oy!” A weasel from the table of predators said. “Drink e’ry last drop.”

Callithin toasted his mysterious female friend and drank the whole glass. It flowed down his gullet smoothly, like a velvet noose. He licked his lips afterward.

“Oh... oh my... Well, how was that my dear? Shall we go?”

Her armored fist slammed on the table. The Harlot spoke up.

“I think she wants another.”

Hesitating, Callithin looked around... and then poured another glass, and toasted her again. A few drinks later, and Callithin - who usually only drank in the evening with his brothers - was somewhat more relaxed.

“...And how did you come to be here, brother Callithin?” The Harlot asked softly. “This seems like a difficult place to proselytize.”

“Funny... Funny story, Avandra,” he said casually, swilling his wine. “I was making my way to Justiciar Undemar’s office... my brother and I were having a debate regarding— *URP* —regarding a matter of textual interpretation in the Scriptures ...for his guidance. I knocked on the door to his private— *URP* —private quarters and I heard a ruckus within.”

“A ruckus?” Avandra’s friend asked, her green eyes sparkling, her long tail swaying back and forth behind her.

“A n-noise, like a struggle,” he said, taking another deep sip of wine. “This is very good. This reminds me: Tyr... Tyr teaches us that... uh... what does he teach us?”

Callithin’s staff was casting a bright violet glow on the eager faces of the patrons, who were now all gathered around the bar. The hare poured another round of the spectacular wine for them when Avandra spoke up again.

“Go on, go on, brother Callithin: You heard a struggle in the office of your Justiciar?”

Callithin shook his head, startling himself back awake. “Yes! Yes, I knocked on his door, heard the sounds of struggle and asked, ‘Cleric Undemar! Are you all right?’ Then I heard the strangest sound...”

Callithin then stopped and took another deep sip of wine.

“What didja hear, ya’ bastard?” The badger asked. He had stopped arguing with himself in the broken mirror hours ago: he had lost.

“...Giggling. And before I could react, the door opened and out stepped one of my sisters from the nunnery, her fur mussed, her habit askew. She ran past me and within was Brother Undemar, his own fur mussed, his shirt undone... I was flabbergast... flabberg... flaggerbasted!”

The snickering grew and grew and grew until the laughter was louder than the rain and wind. Callithin had never had someone laugh at one of his jokes before, let alone laugh at one of his simple stories.

Avandra, wiping her own sparkling green eyes, finally settled down. “What happened next, my dear hare?”

“Well, I asked Cleric Undemar if he was all right - if he had been accosted or some such thing. He assured me that he was fine, but the next day... Justiciar Undemar promoted me! And... sent me out...” he gestured, “...here.”

The laughter that exploded out of the gathered crowd wasn’t exactly warm - it was more akin to the cackling of scoundrels who had just evaded the constables - but a slow smile spread over Callithin’s muzzle nonetheless.

“Yes, yes,” he said uncertain, taking another sip of the smooth blue liquid as the laughter continued. “I’ll... drink to that?”

“To your... promotion,” Avandra said delicately, raising a glass of blue Veilwinter wine to the wayward hare. 

“And to seeing things one was never meant to see,” her feline friend said, raising her own glass.

“And broken mirrors,” the badger added, slumped over the bar.

The endless night in that nameless tavern continued. Lips were blue, the violet light from Callithin’s staff was shining, and the shadows in the little den had never been brighter.