Phealafarian Frontiers : 17 : Consequences
The room hadn’t changed, but the tone had. The sparring ground—dark walls, dirt floors, the faint lingering tang of sweat and magic—felt like a crime scene now. Vyra lay limp, blood soaking through her uniform where Eldrin’s blade had struck. It all happened in seconds, and now those seconds seemed to stretch endlessly.
Tobias was the first to reach her, the gold and white of his magic flaring from his hands. He pressed them to the wound with more urgency than grace. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “You’ll be OK. I’m sorry.” It wasn’t clear if he was speaking to Vyra or to himself.
Chaos erupted. Travan’s voice broke the moment like a thunderclap. “What in the hells were you thinking?!” Crowle’s response followed, louder and sharper. “This is an outrage!” he bellowed. “She could have died! He should be executed!”
Eldrin, facedown in the dust, said nothing. He didn’t fight as Erisa dropped her knee into the back of his neck, pinning him with a vicious efficiency born from training and fury. “Stay down,” she hissed. “Stay down.”
A Final Cut wizard—still wide-eyed from the turn of events—ran from the room to summon the guards. Tobias, seeing Vyra’s state and the frantic cleric struggling beside him, called after them: “And bring a stretcher! Or a cart—whatever you can find!” Others from both teams began coming to, the haze of stun spells and blunt trauma slowly wearing off. Guardian blinked in confusion, murmuring softly to himself, unsure if the match had ended or just changed format.
The Final Cut cleric—still bruised from when Tosk had slammed her into her teammate—staggered to Vyra’s side, robes scuffed and hair falling loose from its tidy braid. She dropped to her knees beside Tobias, her voice catching. “Thank you,” she managed, hands glowing now as she took over the healing magic. “I’ve got her.”
Tosk, standing a few feet back with a vacant expression, finally spoke. “So… did we win?” he asked, tilting his head. “It was a fight, right? There was magic and shit. Means no one would die.”
Travan rounded on him. “Within the arena, Mr. Ettinkue.”
“Well, it’s alright. She’s healed now…”
Tobias spun. “Tosk. Shut the fuck up.”
Crowle was still roaring, voice hoarse from fury. “This is a disgrace! A disaster! I demand immediate justice! They’re all complicit!”
“Everyone will stay here until the guards arrive!” Travan ordered, trying to reassert control. His face was drawn tight with frustration and worry, and he kept a wary eye on Tosk, who looked like he might accidentally make things worse with another misplaced comment.
Erisa leaned down close to Eldrin’s ear. Her voice dropped to a lethal whisper. “What the fuck were you thinking?”
Eldrin didn’t look up. “I needed to prove myself,” he whispered. “Needed to show I wasn’t useless. That I am capable.”
It wasn’t an excuse. It was a confession.
Minutes passed like hours. Then came the sharp stomp of armoured boots. The Final Cut wizard returned, flanked by Sergeant Kira Stonefield and half a dozen guards in polished half-plate. Kira took one look at the mess and sighed audibly.
“I didn’t quite believe what I was being told,” she said, scanning the scene. “What in Vetreon’s name happened here?”
Travan stepped forward, his voice calm but low. He explained everything—no embellishment, no defence, just a clean summary of the events. The mercenaries stood behind him in silence, each grappling with their own mix of guilt, anger, and confusion.
Guardian finally broke the silence. “Are we in trouble?” he asked, his voice barely audible.
Kira’s tone softened. “No, no dear,” she said. “You’re not in trouble. Eldrin is in a lot. Tosk… might be in a little. But the rest of you are fine.”
She took a breath. “That said, you’ll all be under house arrest until this is sorted.”
Thomas frowned. “House arrest?”
“Yes. You’ll have to stay at the Inn. If you’ve got day jobs, you can go—with escort. But mercenary work is suspended for now. No exceptions. Probably not you, Tobias, though—working at the guard’s smithy might be an issue if you’re under investigation.”
Tobias’s expression darkened. “We cannot let Sweets know about this…”
Kira winced. “I’m so sorry, Tobias. The tavern will have to close for a while too. Orders from the top.”
A heavy silence fell over the group.
Then the guards moved in. Eldrin was pulled to his feet, hands bound. His head hung low, but he didn’t resist. As he was led out, one of The Final Cut paused near Tobias.
“Thank you,” the fighter said softly. “For Vyra.”
Tobias only nodded.
And then Steal Team 6—now one short, uncertain of their future and heavy with consequence—were escorted back to the Inn, silent but watched, with two guards shadowing their steps.
House arrest had begun.
Back at the tavern, the air was thick with unspoken tension, but Sweets greeted them with his usual carefree energy, utterly unaware of the events that had transpired.
“Terrible news, guys,” he called from behind the bar, a dishcloth slung over his shoulder. “The Lovely Horse name was taken! Can you believe it? We’ll have to think of something else to rename the tavern. Maybe something with more… local flavour.”
He paused mid-polish, narrowing his eyes at the group as they shuffled in like ghosts. “Wow, you guys look down. Fight not go so well? Where’s Eldrin? Did he get hurt?”
Tosk, ever the blunt instrument, replied with baffling honesty. “Eldrin backstabbed someone and for some reason everyone got angry at that.”
Sweets blinked. “That is weird. His whole fighty style is sneak-sneak-stab, right?”
Tobias stepped forward, voice tight. “He stabbed someone outside of the ring. In the stands.”
“Oh… no… that’s… that’s bad,” Sweets said slowly, the smile falling from his face like a dropped glass. “So where is he now?”
Travan answered calmly, but with weariness behind his eyes. “He is currently in guard custody awaiting trial. The rest of the group will be on house arrest until such time.”
Tobias, silent until now, unhooked his coin pouch and placed it on the bar with a soft clink. The leather was heavy with coin—117 gold in all. “I am so sorry, Sweets. But they’ve ordered the tavern closed for now. Please, take this.”
Sweets looked down at the pouch, then back at Tobias. “Hey, man, it’s OK. It’s not like I would’ve made this much anyway. You don’t owe me anything.”
“Please,” Tobias repeated, the word heavier than gold. “Just take it.”
The next morning dawned grey and cold. Travan returned with his coat buttoned to the collar and a scroll tucked under his arm.
“Good day, all,” he said, stepping into the quiet tavern. “I come bearing news: I have managed—through wit, persistence, and a quite expensive bottle of scotch—to talk Lord Crowle down from wanting all of us executed.”
“All of us?” Guardian asked, incredulous.
“Yes,” Travan confirmed. “Crowle felt that the lot of you were to blame for his embarrassment. Blowhard that he is. As it stands, Eldrin is to be brought forward on charges of attempted murder. Tosk will be charged with assault.”
He let that hang for a moment.
“Do any of you have any inkling as to why this happened?” he asked, scanning the room.
A thick silence settled in. Even the fireplace seemed to crackle more softly.
Eventually, Erisa spoke, her voice quiet but clear. “He said he had to prove himself. To us… to himself.”
Travan nodded grimly and took his leave.
That evening, the group gathered in the main room of the tavern. Normally alive with noise, clinking mugs, and a cheerful fire, the space now felt cavernous.
Guardian leaned forward on the table. “What do you think is going to happen?”
Tobias stared into his mug. “I really don’t know.”
Erisa, who had been unusually quiet, finally stood. She looked at each of them in turn. “I’ve not had friends before. And I actually like you guys. But… I can’t let anything jeopardize my chance to find my mother.”
She disappeared upstairs without another word.
Tobias and Guardian followed a few minutes later.
Left alone, Sweets looked around at the empty tavern, then forced a chuckle. “Well… no use dwelling on it all. Who wants a drink?”
Later that night, Sweets had gone home, and the tavern was dim but not empty. Tosk and Thomas sat at the bar, nursing the dregs of a bottle that had probably been a bad idea three drinks ago.
Tosk let out a sigh that seemed to echo. “I… I should just leave. Hey, hey Tom, keep an eye on the guard, will you?”
Thomas frowned, swaying slightly. “N-no, Tosk. We’re staying here. It’ll only end badly for us. And especially Erisa. You heard what she said. You’re trying to find your dad. You should know.”
Tosk blinked slowly, then nodded as if agreeing—and promptly tripped over a bench on his way to the door. He collapsed face-first to the floor with a dull thud and began snoring within moments.
Thomas laughed, then leaned back against the bar and let sleep take him too.
The following night brought a different companion: Guardian.
Tosk, seemingly no more sober, leaned in conspiratorially. “Hey. You’re nicer than Thomas. Could you keep an eye on the guard outside for me?”
“Uh… sure? Why?”
“I’m getting out of here.”
Guardian blinked. “You’re leaving? But… OK… here.” He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a hunk of slightly stale bread. “Take some with you.”
While Guardian peered nervously out the window, Tosk slipped out the back, pushing the window open with a practiced ease and vanishing into the night.
The next morning, the rest of the party came downstairs expecting trouble.
Instead, they found Tosk, sitting cross-legged by the hearth, happily chewing on the bread.
Guardian rubbed his eyes. “Wait… weren’t you—?”
Tosk smiled sleepily. “Didn’t get far.”
The truth was, he’d only made it a few alleys over before that little voice—what other people call a conscience—got the better of him. And for once, he listened.
Two days later, the morning air hung heavy with expectation. Travan returned to the tavern, this time flanked by Sergeant Kira Stonefield, her armour polished to a high shine and her expression as crisp as the morning chill. “Good morning,” he offered with careful composure. “The trial is set for this afternoon. Tosk. You’ll be taking the stand along with Eldrin. Please leave all weapons and armour here.”
Tosk frowned, mock-serious. “What about my emotional support trident?”
Tobias didn’t miss a beat. “Not the time, Tosk.”
Tosk blinked. “Time for what?”
The party exchanged uneasy glances. The levity didn’t land.
After a moment, Tobias approached Tosk and quietly pressed something into his hand—a small, hand-carved symbol of Ilmater. Rough, simple, and clearly made with care.
Tosk blinked at it. “Ilmatey again? Well… guess he has been looking out for me now and then.”
Tobias gave him a tight, weary smile. “You might need him more than you think today.”
The courtroom was smaller than expected—modestly decorated but lined with symbols of Tyr, the god of justice. Polished woodwork and carved stone gave the room a stern but dignified atmosphere. Scales, hammers, and balanced swords adorned the walls, silent and watchful. A row of windows high above cast angled light onto the bench, making the symbols gleam like solemn witnesses.
Eldrin was already seated near the defence table, looking pale and drawn. He hadn’t shaved, and his cloak was wrinkled, hanging limp from his shoulders. Shadows pooled beneath his eyes from a clear lack of sleep. Across from him, Lord Crowle stood rigid with indignation, surrounded by The Final Cut in formal attire, their uniforms immaculate.
Steal Team 6 entered quietly. A few offered Eldrin hesitant nods, unsure whether comfort was appropriate. They took their places along the back pews, each trying to shrink into the woodwork.
Three judges entered in solemn synchrony, the sound of ceremonial boots echoing across the chamber. First came Judge Brinel Deepbite, a towering shark triton in silver-accented armour and cobalt robes. His demeanour was that of a tidal wave in slow motion: powerful, deliberate, and inevitably crashing. Beside him, Judge Ticktick, a pink-feathered kenku with polished brass spectacles, walked with short, precise steps, every motion exaggerated like punctuation. Finally, Judge Lugg shuffled in—a hunched old goblin whose armour looked more honorary than functional. He clutched a cane in one hand and a steaming mug in the other.
Judge Brinel gavelled the room. “This court is now in session.”
Judge Ticktick tilted his head. “Zones of truth will now be activated beneath you. Do not resist them. Any attempt to do so will be considered contempt of court.”
Lugg said nothing. He scratched his chin, sipped his drink, and squinted out at the room like someone half-guessing the current year.
Travan rose to represent the accused. Calm, articulate, and clearly prepared. Lord Crowle, by contrast, oozed righteous fury and indignation as he prepared to prosecute on behalf of the Final Cut. What followed was a tangle of accusations, rebuttals, and increasingly theatrical exchanges.
Crowle’s opening statements painted Steal Team 6 as barely contained savages. “Deranged. Dangerous. Ill-disciplined adventurers with no understanding of consequence. They should not be permitted within our walls, let alone our arenas.”
Travan countered: “What happened was reckless. Ill-considered. But not rooted in malice. We are dealing with a case of poor judgment under stress, not premeditated violence.”
Crowle argued the sanctity of the fight ring was breached.
Travan countered by raising a point of structure: “If magical protections guard the arena floor, why do they not extend to the spectator stands? Are not those who watch also under our care?”
Ticktick tapped his beak thoughtfully.
“We don’t expect people to fight in the stands,” Brinel grumbled.
Travan gave a diplomatic shrug. “Exactly. But after today, perhaps we should.”
When Tosk took the stand, his attempt at clarity sounded more like folklore than legal testimony.
“Where I come from,” he explained earnestly, “saying ‘please let me go, my friend is in danger’ is something you say to get a giant to lower their guard. Then you hit them in the nuts and leg it. It’s just how you survive—especially when you’re small and they’re not.”
There was a moment of silence before Ticktick gave a thoughtful tilt of the head, feathers fluffing slightly.
“An… unconventional logic. But if what you say is true, then it reflects a reflex learned through hardship, not malice,” the kenku intoned.
Travan leaned forward slightly, adding with a dry smile, “Not exactly the most refined self-defence strategy, but I suppose it’s consistent with everything else we’ve seen from Mr. Ettinkue.”
Tosk blinked. “Thanks?”
Travan nodded. “Don’t mention it. Ever. Especially not in front of nobles again.”
The audience rustled with awkward laughter. Even Judge Brinel’s gills twitched in what might have been restrained amusement.
Time passed. One hour. Two. Three. The back and forth grew more tangled. Arguments from both sides circled like hounds on a hunt but found little fresh ground.
Tosk, increasingly restless, elbowed Travan. “Hey… has that goblin said anything at all?”
Travan glanced sideways. Lugg hadn’t moved. In fact, he seemed… asleep?
“My lords,” Travan said, rising again. “I don’t wish to disrespect the court, but I must point out that one of your number doesn’t appear to be fully engaged.”
Brinel squinted. “Lugg! Wake up this instant!”
Lugg jolted, spilling a bit of tea. “Hrm? Ah yes. Right. I shall now check for magical influences upon you all!”
“You should have done that three hours ago!” Ticktick chirped with a flutter.
“Eh. Better late than never,” Lugg replied.
Crowle slammed his fist on the desk. “What is this farce?!”
Unfazed, Lugg lifted his gnarled hands and began a slow incantation. A pulse of shimmering blue light rippled outward from the bench, washing over every person in the courtroom. A silence fell as everyone waited.
Lugg’s brow furrowed. “Huh… interesting.”
He turned and whispered something to Brinel. The shark triton’s expression darkened.
Brinel gavelled the court again. “Lord Travan, Lord Crowle, Mister Valtorin—approach the bench.”
The three men did so, confusion plain on their faces.
Brinel looked to Eldrin with a new intensity. “Mister Valtorin, how long have you been under the effects of this curse?”
Eldrin blinked. “Curse? What curse?”
Lugg leaned in, more focused than he’d seemed all day. “It’s old. Strong. Feels like vengeance twisted into madness. Not the usual flair. Nasty piece of work.”
“I… I didn’t know,” Eldrin admitted. “I had no idea.”
“Have you disturbed any ruins, stolen anything sacred, broken any oaths?” Brinel pressed.
Eldrin shook his head slowly. “No… not that I can recall.”
Crowle’s face twisted. “This is ridiculous! You expect me to believe this boy—this walking hazard—was cursed this whole time and nobody noticed? Travan, explain yourself!”
Travan stayed composed. “You demanded this fight. And Mister Valtorin, currently within a Zone of Truth, cannot lie about not knowing. Whether it was visible or not, he was cursed—and unknowingly so.”
Brinel sat back, hands steepled. “Then I have no choice. Based on the testimony under magical compulsion and the presence of a confirmed arcane affliction, I find both defendants not guilty of attempted murder and assault.”
Ticktick nodded in curt agreement. Lugg was already sipping tea again.
Brinel continued. “However, this does not clear them entirely. The court will assign minor penalties fitting the disruption caused. And I strongly recommend that the curse be addressed immediately. The temple of Iluney would be best suited.”
He raised the gavel once more.
“Court is adjourned.”
The gavel struck.
The party returned to the tavern long after dusk, shadows stretching beneath their feet. No one spoke. Boots thudded dully against the wood floor. They moved like ghosts, each one haunted by guilt, relief, or something darker.
They turned in, one by one, to their respective rooms.
But Eldrin didn’t sleep.
As he lay still, eyes fixed on the ceiling, a chill passed over him. Then…
A voice. Smooth. Inevitable.
“Ah… a new Valtorin.
It’s well time we had a little talk.”
