Chapter 07 - Rebel Base Crew - Eleri & Hockrup Meet
It was in the frosted weeks before Yuletide, when the snow began to settle like powdered lace on the cobblestones of Kleiner Alter Hof, that Hockrup met once more with Eleri. The streets bustled with townsfolk swaddled in cloaks and woollen scarves, their breath curling in the chill air like dragon smoke. The scent of roasted chestnuts, beeswax candles, and spiced glühwein drifted over the market square, mingling with the sounds of carollers and the clink of coin.
Hockrup, a towering Pitfighter with a
scar-laced jaw and the bearing of one who had spent more time in the
blood-slick sands of the arena than under open sky, moved through the crowd
like a prowling bear. Despite his fearsome reputation—many a tale told of him
breaking a man’s helm with his bare hands—his eyes lit up when he spotted her.
Eleri, the Wizardess of the Hedgerows, stood
by a vendor stall inspecting bundles of dried winter herbs. Clad in emerald and
gold, a wreath of holly tucked into her braided auburn hair, she was the
picture of rustic arcana. Her magic, drawn from the old roots of the land and
the whisper of snow in the branches, had once turned the tide of battles long
since sung into legend.
They embraced like kin long-separated, for
though they were both warriors of the once-famed Rebel Base Crew, many seasons
had passed since they'd last stood side by side in combat or counsel. The crew
had scattered like autumn leaves—some to quiet farms, others to forgotten
paths. Kleiner Alter Hof, once their staging ground, was now a quieter place.
With the markets swelling around them, they
made their way to the Lehmitz Tavern, a place of timber beams, stained-glass
windows, and hearth fires that had burned for centuries. It was a favourite
haunt of adventurers, traders, and traveling minstrels, especially during the
Wintertide Market. Farmers from the surrounding countryside hawked smoked
meats, cheeses wrapped in cloth, and cured leatherwork just outside, while
inside, laughter and songs danced with the flicker of firelight.
At a table near the back, with a clear view of
both door and hearth (old habits never died), they swapped tales over flagons
of hot glühwein and strong Bombalino, the rich, dark spirit of the southern
provinces. Eleri recounted her recent venture into the Blackpine Groves where
she’d staved off a Frostwight incursion with only runestones and wit. Hockrup
spoke of a border pit in the east where he fought a giant berserker barehanded
for a baron's amusement.
Yet for all the cheer and nostalgia, Hockrup’s
eyes kept straying to the tavern door, as if waiting for more of their old
companions to arrive. But none came.
Instead, talk in the tavern turned to the Des
Alten Hofs, a rising crew of younger adventurers whose daring incursions into
the Harksheide Labyrinth were quickly becoming the stuff of legend. Trinkets
from the Labyrinth—fragments of crystal keys, monster teeth, even idols carved
from cursed stone—were being sold at nearby stalls for hefty sums. Songs were
already being written of their battles against the bronze spiders of Deep 3 and
the riddling ghost of the Mirror Stairwell.
But Hockrup had a different prize in mind.
“I’ve heard rumour,” he said, voice low but
urgent, “that the Sword of True Kinship—Aethrale’s Blade, if you remember the
old names—has been sighted. It lies in the Idol Chamber beneath the southern
halls of Harksheide. Just beyond Deep 2.”
Eleri frowned, sipping her drink thoughtfully.
“That’s a cursed place, Hock. The Idol Chamber hasn’t been mapped properly in
decades. The crew that tried last year didn’t come back. The labyrinth shifts.
It eats time.”
“I know,” he replied. “But that sword could
reunite the old crew. It’s said to sing when in the hands of true allies. It
binds oaths with light. I think... I think we need it.”
Eleri watched him for a long moment. She saw
not the pitfighter with bloodied hands, but the man who had once stood
shielding her during the Siege of Moonfire Crossing, who had laughed beside her
at the Ghost Lantern Inn, who had fought and bled for a cause they both
believed in.
“In the spirit of kinship,” she said at last,
raising her flagon, “I’ll go with you. Let’s see what’s become of the Idol
Chamber.”
They spent the rest of the night preparing.
Hockrup packed smoked meats, hard-bread, torches, and a fresh whetstone for his
axes. Eleri gathered her vials, talismans, and a scroll of wayfinding,
enchanted to glow in unseen ink. A final Bombalino to seal their resolve, and
they retired for a few hours' sleep.
Before dawn’s first blush, they set out
through the brittle snow toward the edge of town. The entrance to the Harksheide
Labyrinth yawned beneath the roots of the Ironwood Trees in the Old Quarter,
watched over by a silent stone outpost. There, standing like a monument
himself, was Galadran, Captain of the High Elves. His silver armour gleamed in
the faint moonlight, though his face was grim.
He had lost many of his company in the last
great escape attempt from the Labyrinth—men and elves who had ventured too
deep, too greedily. Since then, his vigilance had become legendary.
As they approached, he stepped forward, long
spear angled across their path.
“Who seeks access to the Labyrinth?” His voice
rang with command and caution. “Step forth and be known.”
Eleri moved forward, drawing back her hood.
“Hail and well met, Galadran. Eleri of the Hedgerows and Hockrup of the Arena,
of the Rebel Base Crew. We seek passage in pursuit of the Sword of True
Kinship.”
Recognition flickered in the elf’s stern gaze,
and for a moment, a smile touched the corners of his lips.
“Well met indeed. It has been many moons since
the Rebel Base Crew stirred. Perhaps the old fires still burn. You may pass,
but beware—there are ogres stirring below. They roam freely now in Deep 2. Not
all of them are mindless.”
He stepped aside, and the great door, marked
with sigils of ancient sealing, creaked open at his gesture.
“Go with honour,” Galadran said. “And should
you return with the sword... know that some of us still remember what it meant
to be a warrior of the old ways.”