Chaucer the Ratsassin

Chapter 49: Adventure Calls

April 1, 2025. Location: Doras Dagda's Gates, then Western Wilderness near Kilrain, Scotland.

Robert stopped at the gate, his eyes scanning the forming groups of clansfolk preparing to venture into the sanctum. The sight was striking, fledgling fighters and casters sharing nervous laughs as they checked their gear. Snow nudged him playfully.

"Look at them, Robert. Like children playing knight and mage for the first time," she said.

Robert chuckled, but his gaze caught a familiar figure strutting among the groups. Chaucer's diminutive form was exaggerated by theatrical gestures, delivering a rousing speech to wide-eyed kobolds. Robert heard his high-pitched but smooth voice carry across the yard.

"Ah, but remember, my dear compatriots," Chaucer declared, placing a hand on his furry chest, "a treasure chest unopened is a story left untold! Each lock, each trap, is a challenge begging to be conquered by the likes of us daring few! We are not mere hunters of gold, no! We are discoverers of legends!"

Robert suppressed a grin. "Snow, Hamish, wait here," he said.

He strode toward Chaucer, who noticed him and turned with a flourishing bow.

"Ah, Laird Robert! To what do I owe the pleasure of this most auspicious moment?" Chaucer asked.

"I couldn't help but notice your unique approach to rallying kobold morale," Robert said, crossing his arms and tilting his head. "How would you like to join us on this journey west?"

Robert saw Chaucer's ears perk up, his beady eyes gleaming with excitement. "Join you? On a journey of discovery and peril? Why, my lord, it would be an honor! Nay, a privilege! What better way to hone my craft and perhaps, dare I say, make history?"

"You'd get plenty of chances to indulge your treasure-hunting tendencies," Robert added with a smirk. "And we could use someone with your unique skill set."

Chaucer pressed a paw to his chest, his tail flicking dramatically. "Ah, you flatter me, my lord! But you are wise beyond measure to recognize the value of a humble Ratsassin such as myself. I accept your offer with all the grace I can muster!"

Hamish watched from the gate and called out, "Careful, Robert, that one's trouble. I can see it in his twitchy little face."

Chaucer spun to face Hamish, placing his hands on his hips. "Trouble? Nay, sir, I am the very embodiment of sophistication! And might I add, without my 'trouble,' many treasures would remain locked behind infernal traps and mechanisms."

Snow laughed. "He's got a point, Hamish. Besides, he'll make things interesting."

Robert extended a hand. "All right then, Chaucer. Welcome to the team. Just try not to loot everything we pass, okay?"

Chaucer clasped Robert's hand in both paws, shaking it vigorously. "Fear not, Laird Robert! I shall keep my treasure-hunting inclinations in check. At least, as much as my noble nature allows."

With that, Chaucer joined the group, his tail flicking with excitement as they passed through the gates toward the road ahead. Snow leaned toward Robert and whispered with a grin, "You just recruited trouble, you know."

Robert smirked. "We'll see. Something tells me he's worth it."

Hamish rolled his eyes. "Worth it until he's filching your coin purse."

Chaucer overheard and spun dramatically on one heel. "Sir Hamish, you wound me! I would never, unless, of course, the coin purse was abandoned and in dire need of rescuing!"

The group burst into laughter as they set off, their spirits high as the journey west began.

The air felt ancient as they continued west, their footsteps muffled on the soft, overgrown path. Cliffs rose high around them, jagged edges casting long shadows that danced with the sun's movement. The thin, winding trail beneath their feet hadn't been trodden in years, perhaps decades. Robert felt the path watching them with silent curiosity, alive in some intangible way. The atmosphere pressed upon his senses, the air thick with history.

Snow, ever attuned to the natural world, knelt beside the trail and brushed her fingers over a cluster of small, purple flowers. "Feverfew," she murmured. "Good for treating pain and fever. These look fresh."

She plucked a few stems and tucked them into her satchel. Hamish trailed behind her, running his fingers over the cliff wall as they moved.

"This valley's seen better days. Look at the cracks in the stone, like the earth itself's been fighting to hold it all together," Hamish said.

"Observant," Robert said, scanning the area with his survey skill. A small icon appeared in his vision, marking a cluster of exposed ore a few dozen yards away.

"Iron veins here," he noted aloud. "Could be useful for STEVE back at Doras Dagda. We'll have to mark the location on the map."

Chaucer bounded ahead, his tail flicking as he hopped from rock to rock. "And what treasures might we find hidden in these walls, hmm? Surely there's more than iron to be discovered, Laird Robert. Ancient secrets, perhaps?"

Robert chuckled and shook his head. "If you find treasure here, Chaucer, I'll let you keep it."

Robert saw Chaucer's whiskers twitch, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "You heard him, witnesses all! No backsies!"

The journey was swift but uneventful. Hours passed as they followed the narrowing trail, stopping occasionally to catalog herbs, minerals, and other resources. The valley grew quieter with each step, the only sounds the soft crunch of their boots and the occasional call of a distant bird. Then a low rumble shook the ground, followed by a sharp screech.

They froze, glancing at one another. The sound echoed off the cliffs, accompanied by muffled voices, indistinct but unmistakably human. Snow crouched low, her hand hovering near her warstaff.

"Voices. They're up ahead, around the bend," she whispered.

Hamish frowned, his hand resting on the hilt of one of his short swords. "Sounds like quite a few of 'em. Could be trouble."

"Could be information," Robert countered, signaling for quiet movement. "Let's take a look."

They pressed on, keeping to the shadows where the cliff walls offered cover. The trail opened into a wider clearing, and they ducked behind a cluster of large boulders for a better vantage point. Robert's blood ran cold at the sight below.

A camp was under construction, portable trailers dotting the area. Men in uniform moved between them, and a helicopter sat on a dirt helipad, its rotors still after dropping a trailer. Cement poured into frames hinted at permanent foundations. A technician set up a military-style turret.

"This is no ordinary camp," Snow whispered, her green eyes narrowing. "Military-grade gear, cement foundations, they're building something permanent."

Hamish crouched beside her, his face darkening. "They're not just passing through. Look, armed guards. Uniforms."

Then Robert saw him. A man emerged from a trailer, his long coat billowing as he strode toward another. He moved with self-importance, his posture straight, stride quick. Hamish hissed through his teeth.

"Langston," he muttered.

Robert's stomach tightened at the name. His eyes narrowed, scanning the camp intently. That's when he saw it: the symbol, everywhere—on the helicopter, stamped on supply crates, painted boldly on trailers. A triangle formed by three intersecting beams of light, with "Enclave" etched in stark block letters at its center.

The sight hit Robert like a punch to the gut. He knew that symbol well.

"Enclave," he muttered, his voice cold.

Snow shot him a questioning glance. "Enclave? What's that?"

Robert didn't answer immediately, his mind racing with memories of public announcements portraying the Enclave as humanity's savior, advancing science and progress. But he knew the truth: behind their altruistic facade, they suppressed anything threatening their vision, especially magic.

"They're a scientific organization," Robert said finally, his voice low. "Publicly, they're known for humanitarian efforts, curing diseases, advancing technology. But behind the scenes…"

He shook his head. "They suppress anything that doesn't fit their worldview. And magic? They've been working to stamp it out for years."

Hamish's hand gripped his sword hilt tighter. "Why would they set up here? You think they know about Doras Dagda?"

"I don't know," Robert admitted. "But Langston's presence isn't a coincidence."

Chaucer crouched nearby, tilting his head curiously. "Suppressors of magic, eh? And yet, here they are, practically swimming in it, setting up shop in a place reeking of the stuff."

Robert smirked at Chaucer's wit, though his mood remained grim. "Stay low. Let's see what we can learn before we decide our next move."

They remained hidden, observing the Enclave's base for the next hour. Trucks arrived, unloading crates of equipment and supplies. Armed guards surveyed the area, and a helicopter delivered another trailer, its rotors kicking up dust before it ascended. Robert ducked lower as it hovered.

"This isn't good," he muttered grimly. "They're growing rapidly, like a cancer. I need to know what they're doing here. Those turrets don't look friendly, nor do those huge spotlights, capable of lighting up an entire city."

Snow frowned, her sharp eyes scanning the camp. "I don't see a generator big enough for all that equipment, but you're right, it's only a matter of time before one shows up. They're digging in for the long haul."

Chaucer tilted his head, watching technicians unload a large crate. "Why turrets, though? And those lights? This is no defensive perimeter, they're setting up to hunt something. Or someone."

Hamish nodded, his hand on his sword. "Aye, but who? Or what? They know somethin'. They don't build this kind of setup for fun."

Robert's eyes narrowed, watching the workers below, a knot of unease twisting in his gut. The Enclave wasn't here by chance. They were preparing for something, and it wasn't good.

The trailer door burst open with a crash, startling them. Langston's disheveled coat flared as he flew out, landing hard on the dirt, sprawling awkwardly with indignation and panic on his face.

They froze, watching as a massive soldier emerged, his fierce gaze unyielding, his build dwarfing even Hamish. The soldier strode to Langston and delivered a brutal kick to his side, sending him rolling across the ground.

Langston struggled to rise, his movements sluggish and painful. Robert heard his indignant shout, though the words were lost in the camp's noise. He pointed back at the trailer, demanding something.

The soldier crossed his arms, unimpressed, and pointed sharply toward the camp's edge, signaling Langston to leave. The exchange was one-sided, the soldier's expression cold.

Langston, on his knees, spread his arms in frustration, shouting a plea, but the soldier shrugged and turned away, walking back to the trailer without a glance.

Langston's fury boiled over. He grabbed a rock and hurled it, missing the soldier but shattering the trailer's window with a crash.

The soldier didn't flinch, calling a guard who raised his rifle, hauled Langston to his feet, and pressed the barrel against his back, marching him toward the camp's edge.

"Looks like Langston's luck ran out," Hamish muttered, satisfaction in his tone.

Robert nodded, his gaze following Langston's retreat. Guards shoved him beyond the camp, leaving him to stumble onto the rocky path. One barked a warning, pointing his rifle before returning to his post.

Langston remained on his knees, head hung low, processing his humiliation. Slowly, he rose, dusting himself off with shaky hands, his expression a mix of anger and despair as he staggered down the trail.

Snow glanced at Robert, her brows furrowed. "What do you think happened?"

"I don't know," Robert admitted, his mind racing. "But it's clear Langston's not in charge here. He's expendable."

Chaucer snorted softly. "Poor lad. Seems his grand ambitions have crumbled like stale cheese."

Hamish quipped, "Stale or not, cheese is still cheese. And Langston's a rodent with no place to scurry now."

Despite the humor, Robert's thoughts remained serious. Langston's fall was troubling. Losing the rune carving must have cost him dearly, and the Enclave's patience had run out. But it didn't answer why they were here.

Robert turned back to the camp, his resolve hardening. "We need more information," he said quietly. "And…"

He trailed off, catching movement on the trail below. Langston, dirty and defeated, trudged away, his steps slow, shoulders slumped under an invisible weight.

"Quiet," Robert whispered, holding up a hand. "Shh. He's coming this way. We're getting ourselves a prisoner."

Snow and Hamish exchanged glances but didn't argue. Robert saw Chaucer's ears twitch with interest, a mischievous glint in his eyes. They pressed further behind the boulder, watching Langston stumble closer.

Langston was oblivious, consumed by frustration, mumbling darkly. Robert caught fragments of his words on the wind.

"Retired. RETIRED. They'll pay for this. They wouldn't even know if it wasn't for me," Langston muttered, kicking a stone.

Robert signaled to Chaucer, who responded with a toothy grin and an exaggerated bow. Silently, Chaucer darted into the shadows, moving like liquid darkness, leaping from rock to rock with unmatched agility. His tail balanced him as he glided closer to Langston, crouching low on a high ledge, claws digging into the rock.

Langston paused, rubbing his temples as if warding off a headache. Chaucer coiled like a spring, then launched into the air, flipping gracefully toward Langston.

Langston stiffened, perhaps hearing a faint whistle or feeling a shadow. He began to turn, but too late. Chaucer struck the back of Langston's head with the flat of his kukri, knocking him out without lasting damage.

Langston crumpled in a heap, his body limp. Chaucer landed lightly, dusting off his paws and grinning up at them.

"And that, m'lords and lady, is how you deal with an actual pest," Chaucer said.

Hamish snorted. Snow rolled her eyes but smiled. Robert stepped out, nodding in approval.

"Good work, Chaucer. Let's secure him before he wakes up. He might just have the answers we need."

Chaucer gave an exaggerated bow. "At your service, Master Robert. Now, let's see what this poor sod has rattling around in that noggin of his."

They bound Langston's hands and feet with sturdy rope, ensuring he couldn't slip free. Snow checked his pulse, confirming steady breathing. Hamish hoisted Langston's unconscious body over his shoulder, the lanky man dangling awkwardly as they retraced their steps through the crevasse.

The crunch of boots on loose rocks and the shift of Langston's fabric were the only sounds, each lost in thoughts about what this encounter might reveal. The path wound to a clearing nestled among the cliffs.

Hamish laid Langston against a flat rock with a careful thud, his head lolling forward, hair obscuring his face, looking oddly vulnerable. Robert surveyed the area and sighed, cracking his knuckles.

"Best to keep this private," he said.

He raised his hands, calling upon his magic. The ground trembled as stone rose, forming a circular wall around them, fusing seamlessly like a natural outcrop. Robert left a narrow opening, just wide enough for exit, but the interior grew dark.

"Bit gloomy in here now, don't you think?" Hamish commented, rubbing his neck.

"I got this!" Robert declared confidently.

He leaped upward, fingertips grazing the rocky ceiling. A soft white light blossomed beneath them, illuminating the space gently as he dropped back. Robert nodded approvingly.

"That'll do," he said.

Chaucer strolled to the opening, leaning against the edge and peering outside, his tail flicking lazily. "Ah, the grand honor of guarding gateways!" he proclaimed theatrically, throwing his arms wide. "No finer duty for a humble rat-man. Tis a noble burden, nay, a privilege, to stand sentinel whilst others deliberate the fate of fools and villains. Truly, I am the gatekeeper of destiny."

Robert wondered if "nay, a privilege" was becoming Chaucer's catchphrase, recalling a movie with a similar character. Perhaps his memories had shaped this Chaucer's personality, blending traits from various sources. Robert gazed at Chaucer, content and growing on him quickly.

Snow giggled softly, shaking her head. "You've got a way with words, Chaucer. Never change."

"Why, m'lady, I could never dream of it," Chaucer replied, giving her a flourishing bow before settling to watch for threats.

Inside the stone circle, they settled around Langston's inert form. Snow knelt, setting a flask of water within his reach. "He'll need this when he wakes up," she said softly, brushing her hair back.

Robert leaned against a stone wall, arms crossed, eyes fixed on Langston. His thoughts raced, piecing together what led to this encounter. Hamish sat cross-legged, his twin shortswords across his lap, watching Langston closely.