Duct Work

Each branch on an elvan tree-manse was immaculately tended to, shaped into stairs, irrigation passageways to drain fresh drinking water right from leaf dew. Another form the old elvan tree-masters had devised was a sort of snaking air-duct. A hollowed-out branch that doubled back into the tree’s interior and could move cool air about.

Skott, then Lucy, then the half-orc brothers all shimmied through one such duct on a snaking route through the lower levels. Slits in the bark allowed for air to waft through, and for the group to spy on the ballroom below.

Who could be responsible for this sudden attack? Skott wondered as he moved.

Per Lucy’s description, this kind of ritual teleportation magic would be restricted to family lineages. Since this was one of late elvan despot High King Auron’s many tree-mansions, well, there was only one person it could really be. Skott gulped at the revelation. Best to cross that bridge when we come to it… or her…

They were over the target. The ballroom was divided in half, with hasty barricades thrown up every which way. A group of elvan had thrown some desert tables in front of the primary exit doors, while Lamora’s ‘secret service’ had done something similar up on a raised platform. Nobody was chucking fireballs at each other yet, so that was a good sign.

“Hmm. These knife-ears,” Skottson began.

“Psst. Language,” Skott chided.

“Sorry. These elvan aren’t wearing hoods,” the younger Skottson added.

“Good catch.” Skott peeked through a gap in the bark to confirm the find. “But be careful. Acoustics probably carry easily in here.”

Onward they crawled. Mercifully, these weren’t metal ducts, for their moving about would alert the guards downstairs. If the people below could hear the party’s talking, they gave no indication. Likewise, the sounds from the ballroom were but a murmur. Perhaps Skott misjudged the acoustics of the thick construction-grade wood.

“Almost… over the delegation,” Lucy said.

How were they going to get down? Skott hadn’t planned it out that far yet. The branch should loop down closer to the ground floor to allow for ‘maintenance’ access. Which is to say goblins were the perfect size to crawl around in here and clean twice-yearly. For humans and half-orcs, it was a mite bit cramped.

A groan of wood creaking caused Skott to hold his hand up in the universal symbol of ‘stop’. The duct angled down slightly, sloping towards the ground floor. The groaning did not abate.

“Uh-oh,” Skott managed before the branch gave way.

Skott, Lucy, Sethset, and then Skottson fell to the floor between the hefty barricades of the two antagonistic parties. The children were all unhurt, as their human father handily broke their fall.

The commotion nearly sent the two sides into a spell-chucking firefight. Lucy jumped to her feet.

“Everyone stay calm!” The young woman bellowed, producing a surprising room-silence acoustics from powerful half-orc lungs. “We are here to secure our mother’s well-being. Nothing more.”

The children of the ruling prime ministers falling through a broken air duct did not cow the elvan intruders into silence. Indeed, if anything this just meant they had more potential hostages. A band of face-obscured Redeemer types moved near the barricade, ready to rush out and pull Lucy and her brothers through.

“Everyone, make no sudden movements,” yelled a voice from up on the high stage.

Skott briefly thought this commanding voice, too, was Lucy. But no, the voice belonged to Lamora. Like mother, like daughter, he supposed.

“Bully to you,” yelled some crude-accented elvan. “They’re our hostages, fair and square.”

“Lay a finger upon them, and you will incur the wrath of Skott of Omaha.” Lamora motioned to Skott, still on the floor.

“The old hero is here?!”

Murmurs spread throughout the elvan. That name still held purchase, and cowed even the masked Redeemers.

“Going to… be a moment,” Skott managed, out of breath. “Back ain’t what it used to be.”

The room spun. Having three grown half-orcs land atop Skott really took the wind off his sails.

“Thanks… for the vote of confidence though, honey,” he managed, still winded.

Honey. Huh, he hadn’t called Lamora that since just before they’d parted ways at Crossroads Ford.

The two sons pulled their father back behind a flipped over table while Lucy held her sword out in a threatening display. Lamora met them behind the friendly barricades.

“Lucy, dear. Use healing magic on Skott. Just like I showed you.”

“That’s my weakest subject,” Lucy grumbled. “Are you sure you don’t want me to summon forth a napalm ball and immolate these fools?”

“Heal your father,” Lamora said, “We’ll need him on his feet.”

Lucy knelt down and held her hands over Skott. She muttered out an incantation. Most Aeirun magic was nature magic and so was elvan in origin. It was how they tended to these elaborate tree-manses.

In an instant, Skott could feel all the various cricks in his back and neck and various microfractures from the fall heal themselves up. His lungs re-inflated. He was reasonably certain he broke a rib, but it squirmed back into place and fused back together with only a slight queasy feeling.

“Wow.” Skott exhaled. “Healing is your mother’s speciality. You said this was your weak subject?”

Lucy nodded.

The human dusted himself off. “Well, it seems about as thorough as what she could do back in the day.”

Where was he? Oh, right, the standoff. Skott jumped to his feet, then onto the hastily-assembled barricade of tables.

“Whatever it is you’re planning, we have already foiled your attempt,” Skott announced. “The lobby is clear and your way out is cut off.”

That last part was a bluff; the elvan mob had teleported in, surely they could teleport out.

The elvan group was about 1/4th ringldeaders dressed in finery and 3/4ths redeemers here to bust heads. As for how they teleported in via the blood rite magic, Skott strongly suspected the culprit but was hoping they wouldn’t show their face.

This hope was dashed, as a figure wielding a lacy elvan parasol emerged from the crowd. She jumped over a barrier, then used the parasol to glide gently to the ground.

Of all the times, Skott thought with a frown.

“Hello once again, Skott of Omaha…” came a lithe, elflike, and feminine voice.

The figure’s pointy ears were exceptionally long, fitting an elvan of the highestmost ruling caste. Truly, there was only one person alive who could still tap into the late High King Auron’s bloodline-based backdoor security magic.

“… welcome back, you traitor.”

Vivian, daughter of High King Auron and the very first other sentient humanoid Skott had ever encountered in Aeirun, looked from beneath the parasol with a withering and scornful gaze.”