Upcoming Journey

"Why out here, though?" Kesta murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, glancing around at the empty landscape surrounding the stable. "Wouldn't it save time to just… take the horses from the city?" He voiced the question that was clearly on all their minds. Why this isolated stable, so far removed from the bustling Holy Temple?

As if Joffrah had been eavesdropping, the small man in the simple robe stepped forward, a friendly smile on his face. "Name's Joffrah," he announced, pulling off the robe with a flourish, revealing surprisingly fine clothes underneath. "I help old Roldan, head stableman, you know?" He gestured around the yard, a slight swagger in his step that belied his unassuming appearance. Joffrah was… round, Sorken noted, a generous belly straining the buttons of his tunic. His hair was a mess of brown curls, his beard long and untamed, but his eyes were sharp and knowing. He looked like a man who enjoyed a good chat and knew how to get information.

"Why's the stable so far from the city?" Sorken asked, seizing the opportunity. His curiosity had been piqued, and Joffrah seemed like a font of local knowledge.

Joffrah gave Sorken a long, considering look, head to toe, before answering, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Keeps accidents out of the city, see? These ain't your average nags, lads." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Want to cause chaos? Let a few of these loose in the city streets. Temple elders… they frown on that sort of thing. Bad for business, bad for the faithful." He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "So, Roldan keeps 'em out here. Treats 'em like his own kids, he does. Been here twenty years, that old man. Never even married, you know." Joffrah shook his head, a mixture of pity and admiration in his eyes.

Sorken was about to press him about the ruins, his real interest, but Varakh's impatient voice cut through the air. "Slaves! Stop dawdling! We haven't got all day!"

"Annoying bloke, that one," Joffrah muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes. "Punchable, if you ask me. If I wasn't just a stable hand, I'd tell him to shut his gob." He sighed, his momentary flash of defiance fading. "You're slaves, right? Try to… survive. Haven't seen one come back from the ruins since I started here. Ruins eat slaves, seems like. Must taste better, eh?" Joffrah laughed again, a flash of teeth in his beard, though there was something unsettling in his amusement. He clapped Sorken on the shoulder, a surprisingly heavy hand, then turned towards Roldan, leaving Sorken to ponder his words.

Sorken hurried to catch up with the others, Varakh already ushering them into a small, dusty room adjacent to the stables. Varakh's face was set in a scowl. "Expedition," he snapped, his voice sharp, "not a social gathering. Wasting time gossiping with stable hands… almost forgot you're one of them now." He gestured dismissively at Sorken's roughspun clothes. "Why are you staring? Sit. Ground. Now. Listen." Varakh's usual nonchalance was gone, replaced by a hard, serious edge.

Sorken suppressed a surge of anger, reminding himself of the need for caution. If I get a chance, he thought, his jaw tight, believe me, I know a few things about pain. You'll wish you'd never crossed me. He sat on the dusty floor, Jorah and Kesta settling beside him, their expressions wary.

"Right," Varakh began, unrolling a piece of parchment on a rough wooden table. "We're starting. Powers, roles – covered that already. Ruins. Enemies. Questions at the end. No interruptions." He tapped the parchment, a crude map of some kind. "Layout's rough. Nobody's mapped the whole place. Ancient ruins, castle from the old era. Main castle's rubble, entrance we're using – courtyard, looks like, from the design." Varakh pointed to a marked area.

"Entrance," he continued, tracing a line with his finger. "First few sections, clear. Explored before. Seventh room in – that's where it gets tricky." He tapped another mark. "Courtyard, big one. Connects to loads of other rooms, basements even. Wraiths hit us there last time. Lost Elara to the… abyss." Varakh's voice was flat, devoid of emotion as he spoke of Elara's death.

"Goal this time – reach the end. Chest. Mana markings underneath, located it on previous trips, but couldn't get to it. That's the objective." He emphasized the last word, as if they might forget.

"Enemies." Varakh's tone shifted, becoming more clinical. "Spirits. Won't be a problem. Light magic – Tamara, Azim, me. Wraiths. Problem. Undead-ish. Physical. Light doesn't work. Fire does. If they haven't drained too much mana from previous… visitors." He glanced pointedly at Sorken and the other slaves. "Then fire works. Ted, me – fire magic. Tamara, constant healing. Limited healing magic, limited mana. Healing for slaves – once. Maybe. Only if absolutely necessary. Got it?"

Control freak, Sorken thought, his anger simmering. Trying to control Tamara, even her healing. What if she wants to help me? He'd stop her. Bastard. He fought to keep his face neutral, not letting his fury show.

"Questions," Varakh said, folding his arms, his gaze sweeping over them, a challenge in his eyes. He looked bored already, impatient to be done with this.

Sorken raised his hand, forcing himself to meet Varakh's gaze, keeping his voice steady. "The abyss," he said, "Elara… you said she fell into it?"

Varakh sighed, as if Sorken were deliberately being obtuse. "Abyss. Hole. In the ground. Ancient ruins, they get them. Dangerous, yeah. But it's there. Static. Not going to jump out and bite you. Avoid it. Don't get close. Don't play around it. Simple. Anything else? Relevant?" Varakh's tone dripped with condescension, dismissing Sorken's question as trivial, unimportant. He glanced around the room, his gaze lingering on each of them, daring them to ask another question, to challenge his authority.