The Visit

The tall, slender figure loomed in the dim tavern, casting a long shadow as a dark chuckle escaped him.

"My, my." The figure glanced around before returning his gaze to Meara. "I love what you've done with the place. It's shabby, primitive... so very you." The words came smoothly, each one carrying a quiet, ominous insult.

Meara kept polishing the glass, her weathered face unreadable. "We're closed," she repeated firmly. "And I don't serve Order dogs, especially not those who've betrayed their kind."

The figure tilted his head with a smooth, snake-like grace. "Betrayed?" He repeated, placing a gloved hand over his chest as if he were offended. "Such harsh words for an old friend."

"We were never friends." Meara shot back quickly, but her voice stayed calm and steady. "And whatever business you have here, I suggest you conduct it elsewhere."

He ignored her warning. "The betrayal you speak of... I prefer to call it evolution. Transcendence, even." He paced slowly through the tavern, careful to remain in her sight. "But I wouldn't expect a mere human to understand what it means to surpass their limits." His gaze swept across the room. "Besides, I'm not here on Order business... officially." His eyes narrowed as they settled on Meara. "Consider this a personal... visit."

Meara finally set down the glass. "A personal visit just to harass an old woman in her own tavern? How noble. Even after all this time, you still have no shame." Her voice was stern, edged with sarcasm. "You know the rules, Vexes. Traitors aren't welcome in my home. Now get out."

Vexes. The now-named figure gave another low chuckle and pulled back his hood, revealing sharp, angular elven features twisted by corruption. His red eyes bore cross-shaped pupils, while ashen-gray skin, long dark hair, and pointed ears marked him unmistakably as a corrupted elf.

"Traitor," Vexes repeated, savoring the word. "That label has grown tiresome." He approached the bar without a wasted motion. "Tell me, Meara—when a caterpillar becomes a butterfly, do we call it a traitor to its former self? Or do we see it for what it truly is... an improvement?"

Meara's eyes hardened at the comparison. "A butterfly doesn't slaughter its own kind to earn its wings." She placed both hands flat on the bar and leaned forward. "You sold your soul to those zealots. You helped them burn villages and watched your own people dragged away in chains." Her voice turned cold. "So don't stand in my tavern and speak of improvement. You traded your freedom to become their trained dog. A dark elf serving the Order... disgraceful. Where has your elven pride gone?"

Vexes's grin widened, revealing teeth a little too sharp to be natural. "Pride?" This time, his laugh was genuine. "Oh, Meara, pride has chained my people to their arrogance for centuries. It convinced them they were... what's the phrase? Above it all." He drew out the final words. "Elves, dark elves—it made no difference. They all clung to meaningless traditions and pointless hierarchies."

"And what did abandoning it all earn you?" Meara crossed her arms. "The 'honor' of hunting your own kind? The privilege of being the Order's pet? Is that what you wanted—for their holy hand to stroke that wounded ego of yours?"

"Power." Vexes's eyes gleamed. "True power, Meara—not the fading magic of ancient bloodlines or the empty authority of royal titles." He leaned forward, his presence filling the room. "The Order revealed what my people were too blind to see: divinity itself can be reshaped into something... greater."

"You're insane," Meara stated flatly.

"Perhaps." Vexes shrugged. "But I'm still alive, while many of my 'proud' brothers and sisters are... well..." He waved a hand vaguely. "Let's just say they can no longer judge my choices."

Meara's jaw tightened at that comment. "Get. Out."

"Ah, but I haven't told you why I came," Vexes said, his tone turning almost playful. He tilted his head slightly, studying her with crimson, cross-pupiled eyes. "Aren't you curious?"

"No."

"Pity." He reached into his cloak, and Meara instinctively moved a hand beneath the bar toward something hidden there. Instead, Vexes drew out a small, folded parchment and placed it on the counter between them. "The Order is... curious about certain rumors spreading through this quaint little town."

Meara didn't look at the parchment. Her eyes remained locked on Vexes.

"Rumors," he continued. "About three people, to be precise: a foolish young human with a bleeding heart and a distinctive... bloodline, and two elves who have lost their status." He paused, letting the words linger. "One has pale blond hair. The other has violet hair and... red eyes." His own crimson gaze brightened. "Much like mine, actually. A dark elf. How... nostalgic."

Meara's expression remained carefully neutral. She stared at him for a moment before answering. "Don't know what you're talking about," she said evenly. "Plenty of travelers pass through here. Can't keep track of 'em all."

The dark elf's smile widened, exposing his sharp teeth once more. "Lying doesn't suit you, Meara of the eastern regions," he said softly. "The Order knows where your... sympathies lie. This little tavern of yours has become a favored stop for those fleeing..." He paused, his snake-like tongue slipping between his lips. "Purification..."

Meara remained still, but her eyes hardened like stone. "If you're so certain, why come here at all? Why not storm in with your holy cronies and drag out whoever you're hunting by their necks?"

Vexes chuckled again. "Because, dear Meara... I have interests of my own." He traced a finger along the bar's edge. "The Order wants them alive—for now. But between capture and delivery?" He shrugged. "Accidents happen. Besides, I prefer a more... elegant approach. The Order may be powerful, but it's impatient. Reckless, even."

He paced on, his footsteps nearly silent against the wooden floor. "Over the years, I've learned one valuable lesson: information is far more powerful than brute force." He stopped and faced her. "And you, my dear innkeeper, have always been a rich source of it."

Meara scoffed. "Flattery won't get you anywhere, Vexes. Neither will threats."

"Threats?" He repeated, almost sounding hurt. "Then, how about I try a different angle? Call this me giving you a chance to come clean. A courtesy, if you will."

"A courtesy?" Meara repeated in disbelief.

"Indeed." Vexes clasped his hands behind his back, looking almost regal despite the corruption clinging to him. "Tell me where they are, and I'll ensure the Order's arrival is... swift. Painless—for you and your sweet granddaughter." His smile widened. "Lena, wasn't it? Such a precious child. It would be a shame if she were caught in the crossfire."

The tavern fell deathly still. Meara's composure finally cracked; her brown eyes darkened as something ancient and dangerous stirred within them—a reminder that this woman had survived more conflict than most.

"You dare..." Her voice dropped to a whisper, yet it carried more force than any shout. "You enter my home, threaten me, and then threaten my blood." She uncrossed her arms and fixed Vexes with a murderous glare. "I've buried better men than you—men who believed their power made them untouchable."

Vexes's smirk widened. "Is that so?" He responded, amused.

"The Northern Campaigns. The Siege of Hollow Ridge. The Burning of Merithal." Meara listed each name like a death sentence. "I was there for all of them. Watched empires crumble, and kings fall." She leaned forward, her gaze unwavering. "You think I'm afraid of some corrupted elf playing lapdog for zealots?"

For the briefest moment, something flickered across Vexes's face—recognition, perhaps, or caution.

"Careful, old woman," He murmured, his playful tone fading slightly. "Age has a way of making us forget our limitations."

"And arrogance makes fools forget who they're dealing with." Meara straightened and reached beneath the bar. "Tell me, Vexes. How many years have you known me—since your days at the elven round table?" She slowly withdrew her hand. "Yet you stand before me as if I'm some frail, naive old woman—as if I don't know you didn't set foot in this town alone." She revealed a small wooden token carved with ancient elven symbols. "You know what this is... don't you?" she asked, her voice edged with menace.

Vexes's eyes widened, his confidence faltering as he recognized the wooden token in Meara's hand. The ancient elven symbols carved into its surface pulsed with a faint, otherworldly glow, sending ripples through the tavern. Four cloaked figures emerged as the magic stripped away their concealing shadows, and Vexes gritted his teeth.

"The Mark of Ethuilë," He hissed, taking an involuntary step back. "You're one of the Keepers?! When did the Grove choose you?!"

Meara subtly straightened, newfound strength settling into her stance as she held the token aloft. The old innkeeper seemed taller now, more formidable—a glimpse of who she had been before she began serving ale.

"I swore myself to the Grove long before you sold your soul to the Order, Vexes," she said, newfound power ringing through her voice. "So long as my loyalty holds, where I stand is protected ground. You have no authority here."

The four cloaked figures shifted uneasily, poised to attack. Vexes stopped them with a sharp gesture, then looked from the glowing token to Meara.

"Stand down," Vexes commanded through his teeth. "That artifact... It's connected directly to the World Tree's roots. Any hostile action within its range and..." He trailed off.

"And the Grove answers," Meara finished, a grim smile touching her lips. "Every plant, root, and blade of grass within a mile becomes my weapon." She pressed him. "Care to test how fast your holy magic can save you from being strangled by the very earth beneath your feet?"

Silence hung between them for a moment.

"A keeper..." Vexes snarled, his composure finally cracking slightly. "All these years, and you've been hiding under that pathetic guise of a simple tavern owner?"

"Hiding?" Meara let out a dry laugh, though her eyes remained sharp. "No, Vexes. Living." She lowered the token slightly, but its glow remained steady. "Something you forget how to do the moment you let those zealots carve their symbols into your soul."

For a moment, Vexes had no answer.

One of the cloaked figures behind Vexes edged forward—either eager or foolish. The floorboards beneath him groaned as thin roots crept through the cracks, spreading across the tavern like a tree losing patience.

"I wouldn't," Meara warned without even looking at him. "The Grove doesn't take kindly to those who threaten its Keepers."

The figure froze as roots coiled around his ankles. His companions instinctively stepped back, their confidence giving way to caution.

Vexes gritted his teeth. "You think that trinket will save you?" he spat, though he made no move to advance. "The Grove's power is fading, Meara. The old ways are dying. Soon, that token will be nothing but a worthless scrap of wood."

"Maybe," Meara admitted, her voice steady despite the tension. "But not tonight. And not while I still draw breath." She stepped forward. The token flared brighter, driving Vexes and his companions back another pace.

The roots continued their slow, deliberate crawl across the tavern floor, weaving between tables and chairs like snakes awakening from a long slumber. The air grew thick with the scent of earth and growing things — a primal energy that made the holy symbols on Vexes's garb flicker uncertainly.

"You've made your point, old woman," Vexes hissed, his eyes darting between the encroaching roots and the glowing token. His earlier smugness had evaporated, replaced by a look that clearly showed he was reassessing the situation.

"Have I?" Meara stepped forward. "Because I don't think you're listening." The roots around the frozen figure's ankles tightened, drawing a strangled gasp from beneath his hood. "You entered my home and threatened my granddaughter—for what? To serve as a messenger for zealots who would gladly burn you alongside the rest of your kind?"

Vexes remained quiet for a moment before taking a step back. "This isn't over, Keeper." He growled. "The Grove's power is weakening. It won't protect you forever."

"Maybe," Meara said. "But tonight, it holds. Now leave my tavern and take your dogs with you. Tell your masters that if they want anyone under my roof..." She raised the token, flooding the tavern with its light. "They'll have to face the Grove itself."

For a long moment, nobody moved. The tension was suffocating.

At last, Vexes exhaled, his lips twisting into a sneer. "Very well, Keeper." He spat the title like a curse. "Enjoy your... borrowed time." He turned away as the roots reluctantly released his companion, and the other cloaked figures followed. "But remember—tomorrow is another day, and the Grove can't protect... everything. Sleep well, Keeper. Tonight's victory is yours."

Meara kept the token raised until Vexes and his companions vanished into the night. Even then, she held it a moment longer, her hand trembling—not from fear, but from the energy the artifact had drained from her.

"Damn fool..." she muttered, tucking the token beneath the bar. Its glow faded, returning the tavern to its familiar candlelight.

After the confrontation, the silence felt deafening. Meara sagged against the bar, gripping its edge to steady herself as the roots withdrew through the cracks in the floorboards.

"I'm getting too old for this..." Meara sighed, poured herself a drink, and downed it in one swallow. "It's been years since I called on the Grove. I should've known it wouldn't respond in kind." She gritted her teeth until her breathing steadied. "But I can't stop now." Forcing herself upright, she locked the door and pulled the heavy shutters over every window.

After sealing every entrance, she retrieved a small pouch of herbs from beneath the floorboards behind the counter and carefully scattered them around the room's perimeter.

"Protection of the ancients, shield this dwelling," She murmured in the old Elven tongue, words not spoken aloud in this region for decades.

The herbs glowed faintly as they touched the floor, weaving a protective web through the tavern. Though weaker than the Grove's token, the added ward could buy them time if Vexes returned with reinforcements.

After completing the ritual, Meara paused at the foot of the stairs, gripping the railing. She climbed slowly, her mind racing through everything left to do. On the second floor, she moved quietly down the hall, careful not to wake Lena. She wanted to keep her granddaughter out of this for as long as possible. Lena wasn't ready—far from it.

She turned toward the room where Oreon and the sisters slept. With another sigh, she knelt and pressed a hand to the wooden floor. "These protective spells take a lot out of an old woman," she murmured with a faint smirk.

The ward spread beneath the floorboards like roots seeking water, winding through the wooden beams before settling with a soft hum only those attuned to magic could hear.

Meara felt the drain immediately, but she held her focus until the ward was complete.

"There..." She whispered, pulling her hand back and flexing her stiff fingers. "That should keep them at bay for now. At least for tonight."

She stayed on her knees a moment longer to catch her breath, then rose slowly with a quiet groan. Her knees throbbed and her back burned, but she couldn't afford to show weakness.

Meara glanced towards Oreon's room once again, a sigh escaping her lips as the same smile remained on her face. "Foolish boy." She muttered under her breath as she walked to the room next to Lena's. "Always bringing trouble to my doorstep."

After one final glance to ensure the tavern was secure, she headed to her room. "Get some rest, everyone; we're all going to need it for what's to come." She whispered to herself as she closed her own door behind her, taking her own advice to rest while she could.