Divine Justice

The market district of Thradnyss is alive with the hustle and bustle of merchants and customers and travelers. Spices and the aroma of roasting fish perfume the sea-salt air. Music from street performers competes with people haggling over prices. And for the first time since any of them arrived in Thradnyss, Darrak and the rest of his comrades-at-arms get to enjoy the marketplace as ordinary folk, rather than working any sort of job.

Busy public spaces have never been Darrak’s favorite place to be. He prefers to be alone–whether praying to Heironeous or practicing masonry, the profession of his youth–or else on a job, where there’s a purpose in all of his interactions that goes beyond himself. He finds himself walking in step with Lorilla, whom he expects to share his feelings about the marketplace. To his surprise, though, the forest gnome druid seems to be enjoying herself, as do their other comrades. Rhogar clearly revels in the way his imposing form makes others steer clear of him, and Vladislak has already struck up conversations with multiple street performers, comparing notes on preferred musical instruments. Even Naivara, the reticent wood elf rogue, wears an expression that might almost be a smile as they meander between merchant booths.

“What’s got you so glum, Darrak?” Vladislak asks the dwarven paladin. “It’s a beautiful day in Thradnyss, and your new warhammer from Silverswords’ is sure to be glorious.”

Darrak frowns at the half-elf bard and tugs on his beard. “Aye, that I don’t doubt. But it’d be a far sight prettier day in a smithy or mason’s shop.”

“Plenty of those about.” Vladislak makes a sweeping gesture to the marketplace with one arm.

“I have the herbs I needed,” Lorilla adds, somehow audible over the din around them despite her characteristic whispery tones. “We can go wherever you’d like next.”

“I’ll gladly try my arm in a forge,” Rhogar grins as he rolls out his massive, scaly shoulders.

“Don’t know what forge would allow that,” Darrak mutters, but he follows the hulking dragonborn barbarian to the sector of the marketplace that houses stone- and metal-workers. There, scents of fire and earth overwhelm and crowd out the other odors of the marketplace. Naivara wrinkles her nose a bit as she glides alongside the others, but Darrak inhales deeply, appreciating the reminder of home.

He would never admit it to his companions, but Darrak misses his clan’s dwelling beneath the sandy hills of Kvashtun. Decades ago, before he took up arms to train as a warrior, Darrak himself worked in the family stone-cutting business and occasionally helped mine for gemstones.

“Oh, these are lovely,” Lorilla remarks beside Darrak, pulling him out of his reverie. She points to some green and purple crystals lying against dark blue velvet in a case under a merchant’s tent. Darrak looks them over and grunts.

“Middling quality. We can find you better,” he tells her in a low tone, speaking rough Gnomic instead of common so that the shopkeeper won’t take offense.

“Even for casting? I don’t mean to wear them.”

“Especially for casting. No powerful aura to them.”

Lorilla makes an apologetic smile to the shopkeeper and the two of them continue through the marketplace. Across the narrow street, Rhogar is trying to persuade a blacksmith to give him a turn with the hammer and anvil.

“It’s not yer brawn I doubt, it’s yer skill,” the smith argues, “an’ I ain’t plannin’ to take no apprentice t’day.” 

“Foolish,” Darrak grumbles.

“Let him have his fun,” Lorilla advises, “and help me find some crystals that meet your standards. I had no idea you were a connoisseur of casting materials.”

“Just stones and metals.” Darrak’s tone is gruff; he’s unused to sharing about himself with people outside his clan. For a moment, he feels a twinge of guilt about the pressure they put on Naivara the day before to speak about her past. But then the wares at another merchant’s booth catch his eye and he pushes through the crowd to examine them more closely. Lorilla follows at his elbow, navigating the pressing throngs of the marketplace with remarkable ease for such a Small being.

“How can I help you?” the high elf behind the counter asks as they approach, looking down his long, thin nose at them with an air of disdain.

Darrak bites his tongue to keep from being rude in reply. His clan has an unpleasant history with high elves because of precisely this kind of condescension.

“I seek some crystals for casting certain spells,” Lorilla replies with a disarming smile before consulting a scrap of paper from one pocket. “Perhaps lepidolite or charoite, and jade or malachite?”

The elf harrumphs and looks at Lorilla skeptically. “What spells are you thinking to cast with rocks like that? Surely an emerald or amethyst would be better?”

“Better for your purse, maybe, but not for her casting,” Darrak interjects with a harrowing glare. “These pendants and rings look to be dwarven-made, but you’re no dwarf. Do you know what clan they come from?” He gestures to the pieces on the merchant’s display table. To his expert eye, they seem to bear the signature of one of his distant cousin’s style of metalwork and gem-setting.

“Clan?” the elf scoffs. “Some grand house or other of Kvashtun, that’s certain, but I don’t trouble myself about particulars. See something you aim to buy? Perhaps for some bearded lady friend of yours?”

Darrak bristles at the racist insult and takes a moment to tamp down his rage before replying. “Merchant such as yourself ought to take more interest in sourcing his wares. These are sound quality–” he gestures to the ones he believes came from one of his relations, “–but these, on the other hand…are frauds.” Darrak crushes the stone of one ruby pendant beneath his fist, revealing it to be glass.

The elf sputters and fumes. “How dare you– Are you going to pay for that?”

“Certainly not,” Lorilla answers on Darrak’s behalf. “I believe he has done you a favor by revealing a fake amongst your wares. Imagine if word had gotten out that you were selling poor merchandise. Surely the guild would have grave consequences in store for you.”

The elf mutters something under his breath that Darrak is fairly certain is an insult before redirecting his attention to the diminutive druid. “Perhaps you are right. And are you still interested in purchasing your crystals here?”

Lorilla answers the elf merchant, but Darrak doesn’t hear her reply, so focused is he on slipping the finest dwarven jewelry pieces from the display table into his pocket. To see his kinsman’s work in the hands of such a rude, unappreciative wretch of an elf is more than he can bear. He has committed such thefts before from time to time, under similar circumstances, and though sleight of hand is not his strong suit, he has never been held accountable for the crime. He only confiscates two rings and one pendant before Lorilla tugs him away from the scornful merchant’s booth.

“I understand, for the first time, the scorn many dwarves I’ve met have held for elves,” the druid remarks under her breath to Darrak. “It is a wonder you kept your temper under control, the way he baited you. Others who fight with us could not have done the same.”

“I’m not convinced he did,” Naivara cuts in, sidling up to the two of them with a hint of a wry smile playing about her mouth. “May I ask what’s in your pocket, Darrak?”

“Nothing that concerns you,” he answers shortly.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say I’m concerned.” Naivara’s tone holds a hint of lilting laughter. “But by my eye, you left that stand with more than you brought to it, and no money changed hands.”

“Hold your tongue, elf, lest I count you in league with him.”

Naivara rolls her eyes. “The business dealings between you and Aquilan Liazeiros do not concern me in the slightest. He’s no friend of mine.”

Darrak scoffs. “Even his name is pretentious.”

“Who are we beating up?” Rhogar asks as he rejoins the group, his dark scales gleaming in the afternoon sun.

“Maybe the merchant Darrak and Lorilla just left,” Naivara answers. “Unless Darrak feels he’s been punished enough?”

“What did you do to him?” Rhogar demands. “If there was a fight and I missed it–”

“Nothing of the kind. Did you get to try your hand at smithing?” Darrak asks, wanting nothing more than to change the subject.

“Briefly, but it won’t have been worth it if you had a good fight without me.”

“No fight at all,” Lorilla replies. “Though perhaps there should have been. The merchant was quite rude.”

“Ask Darrak what’s in his pocket,” Naivara suggests as Vladislak approaches the rest of them.

“What do you mean, what’s in Darrak’s pocket?” the bard asks. “Did Darrak pilfer some goods?”

“Never,” Rhogar dismisses the idea out of hand. “Darrak the paladin? The straight-edge, no-violence-without-just-cause person? Not a chance in any of the nine hells.”

Naivara shoots Darrak a knowing look, and though he wants to deny it, the oaths he swore to Heironeous still the dwarf’s tongue. Dishonesty is deeply distasteful to him.

“Stars above, you did, didn’t you?” Vladislak guesses, and when Darrak still says nothing, the handsome half-elf bursts out cackling. “By the gods, that’s the funniest thing–”

“You. Stole?!” Rhogar hisses at Darrak, who is thankful that for once the barbarian is keeping his voice down.

“Out of the marketplace,” Darrak snaps before walking away as quickly as he can. The others have no trouble keeping up with him; dwarf legs are meant for endurance, not speed. Only once they are outside the city limits, on their way to Lorilla’s home in the forest, does he say anything else, despite the repeated questions and mocking from his comrades.

“I just…liberated a few pieces one of my clansmen made from a merchant who doesn’t appreciate their value,” Darrak says by way of explanation, keeping his voice low.

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing!” Rhogar protests. “You’re always insisting that we keep the law, do things the ‘right’ way. But it’s okay for you to steal–”

“Liberate,” Darrak corrects through clenched teeth. “As Lorilla said, the shopkeeper was insufferable. Perhaps through my hand Heironeous visited a kind of divine justice upon him.”

Vladislak cackles again at this idea. “Divine justice?! You’re trying to bill petty theft as divine justice?! Oh, this just gets better and better!”

“If Naivara hadn’t said anything, none of you would know anything about it,” the dwarf grumbles.

The rogue arches an eyebrow and smiles thinly. “Aye, I’d warrant that’s true. The way you handled yourself, it’s not the first time you’ve meted out divine justice by liberating dwarven-made goods, I’d guess.”

“Not the first time?!” Rhogar squalls. “If we can’t trust Darrak to keep the law, then what’s even the point of laws? Who can possibly be trustworthy?”

“I think you may be blowing this out of proportion, Rhogar,” Lorilla chides gently. “The elf–Aquilan Liazeiros, I think Naivara said–was quite rude to both of us and sorely tested Darrak’s temper. And besides, who among us is without their vices?”

“It’s not that the rest of us are without vices. Just that we own up to them,” Rhogar growls.

“Well, now you know. Wasn’t relevant before,” Darrak relents peevishly. “Are you happier for the knowing?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Naivara asserts before anyone else can speak. “You all clawed my secrets from me yesterday. It’s time someone else had a turn of that. Not as nice on the other side, is it, Darrak?”

The dwarf regards the wood elf with a mixture of irritation and grudging respect. “No. It isn’t. I suppose you have a point.”

“Another kind of divine justice, I suppose,” Vladislak snickers.

“And not anything worth breaking our partnership over,” Lorilla adds with a meaningful look at Rhogar.

“I suppose not. None so bad as speaking snake, anyway, stealing from rude merchants,” Rhogar admits.

“Your turn will come, Rhogar,” Naivara says. Though her tone is light and airy, Darrak senses her words are part threat, part promise.