April 1, 2025.
Location: Doras Dhagda's Gates, then Western Wilderness near Kilrain, Scotland.
Memory Perspective: Robert MacCallum.
I stopped at the gate, my eyes scanning the forming groups of clansfolk preparing to venture into the sanctum. It was a sight to behold, fledgling fighters and casters, their excitement palpable as they shared nervous laughs and made last-minute checks on their gear.
Snow nudged me playfully. "Look at them, Robert. Like children playing knight and mage for the first time."
I chuckled, but my gaze caught on a familiar figure strutting confidently among the groups. Chaucer, his diminutive form exaggerated by his theatrical gestures, was delivering what sounded like a rousing speech to a group of wide-eyed kobolds. His high-pitched but smooth voice carried 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!"
I suppressed a grin. "Snow, Hamish, wait here."
I strode toward Chaucer, who noticed me immediately and turned with a flourishing bow. "Ah, Laird Robert! To what do I owe the pleasure of this most auspicious moment?"
"I couldn't help but notice your unique approach to rallying kobold morale." I crossed my arms, tilting my head at the ratman. "How would you like to join us on this journey west?"
Chaucer's ears perked up, and his beady eyes gleamed 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," I 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, watching from the gate, 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."
I extended a hand. "All right then, Chaucer. Welcome to the team. Just try not to loot everything we pass, okay?"
Chaucer clasped my hand in both of his 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 we made our way through the gates and toward the road ahead. Snow leaned toward me, whispering with a grin, "You just recruited trouble, you know."
I 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, overhearing, 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 we set off, our spirits high as the journey west began.
The air felt ancient as we continued west, our footsteps muffled on the soft, overgrown path. Around us, cliffs rose high, their jagged edges casting long shadows that seemed to dance with the sun's movement.
The thin, winding trail beneath our feet hadn't been tread upon in years, maybe decades. It was as if the path itself watched us with silent curiosity, alive in some intangible way. The atmosphere pressed upon my senses, the air thick with history.
Snow, ever attuned to the natural world, knelt beside the trail, her fingers brushing over a cluster of small, purple flowers. "Feverfew," she murmured. "Good for treating pain and fever. These look fresh." She plucked a few stems, tucking them carefully into her satchel.
Hamish, trailing just behind her, ran his fingers over the cliff wall as we moved. "This valley's seen better days. Look at the cracks in the stone, like the earth itself has been fighting to hold it all together."
"Observant," I said, scanning the area with my survey skill. A small icon appeared in my vision, marking a cluster of exposed ore a few dozen yards away. "Iron veins here," I noted aloud. "Could be useful for STEVE back at Doras Dhagda. We'll have to mark the location on the map."
Chaucer, ever eager, bounded ahead of us, 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?"
I chuckled, shaking my head. "If you find treasure here, Chaucer, I'll let you keep it."
His whiskers twitched, and he shot me a mischievous grin. "You heard him, witnesses all! No backsies!"
The journey was swift but uneventful. Hours passed as we followed the narrowing trail, stopping only occasionally to catalog herbs, minerals, and other resources. The valley grew quieter with every step, the only sounds coming from the soft crunch of our boots and the occasional call of a distant bird. That is, until the hum of machinery reached our ears.
We 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."
Hamish frowned, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of one of his short swords. "Sounds like quite a few of them. Could be trouble."
"Could be information," I countered, signaling for everyone to move quietly. "Let's take a look."
We pressed on, keeping to the shadows where the cliff walls offered cover. The trail opened into a wider clearing, and we ducked behind a cluster of large boulders for a better vantage point. What I saw made my blood run cold.
A camp was under construction. Portable trailers dotted the area, with men in uniform moving between them. A helicopter sat on a dirt helipad, its rotors still. Cement was being poured into frames that would soon become foundations, and a technician worked to 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."
It was then that I saw him. A man emerged from one of the trailers, his long coat billowing behind him as he strode purposefully toward another. He moved with an air of self-importance, his posture straight and his stride quick.
Hamish hissed through his teeth. "Langston."
My stomach tightened at the name. Langston, of course he was here. My eyes narrowed as I scanned the camp more intently. That's when I saw it: the symbol. It was everywhere.
On the side of the helicopter. Stamped onto the crates of supplies. Painted in bold black on the trailers. A triangle formed by three intersecting beams of light, with the word Enclave etched into its center in stark, block letters.
The sight hit me like a punch to the gut. I knew that symbol well.
"Enclave," I muttered, my voice cold.
Snow shot me a questioning glance. "Enclave? What's that?"
I didn't answer immediately. My mind raced with memories of public announcements portraying the Enclave as humanity's savior, advancing science and progress for the good of all. But I also knew the truth. Behind their altruistic facade lay a ruthlessly efficient organization bent on suppressing anything they deemed a threat to their perfect vision of the world. Magic, in particular, was their greatest fear and their most hunted target.
"They're a scientific organization," I said finally, my voice low. "Publicly, they're known for their humanitarian efforts, curing diseases, advancing technology, that sort of thing. But behind the scenes".
I shook my 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 the hilt of his sword tighter. "Why would they set up here? You think they know about Doras Dhagda?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "But we need to find out. Langston's presence isn't a coincidence."
Chaucer, crouched nearby, tilted 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."
I couldn't help but smirk at his wit, though my mood remained grim. "Stay low. Let's see what we can learn before we decide our next move."
"Stay low," I repeated, peering through the narrow gap between two boulders. The growing activity below was unsettling, the hum of machinery and the constant movement of personnel creating an eerie rhythm of controlled chaos. "Let's see what we can learn."
For the next hour, we remained hidden, carefully observing the Enclave's fledgling base. Trucks arrived intermittently, kicking up dust as they unloaded crates of equipment and supplies.
From time to time, armed guards stepped out, surveying the area before another truck backed up to unload even more. A handful of additional personnel arrived as well: engineers, technicians, and more men in uniform.
The bustle continued as a helicopter roared into view, flying low over the valley. It carried a portable trailer suspended by massive chains, the structure swaying slightly as it was gently deposited alongside the other two already in place. We ducked lower as the chopper hovered for a moment, its rotors kicking up a cloud of dust before it ascended and disappeared into the horizon.
"This isn't good," I muttered, my voice grim. "They're growing rapidly, like a cancer. I need to know what they're doing here. Those turrets they're setting up don't look friendly, and neither do those huge spotlights, practically capable of lighting up an entire city."
Snow, crouched beside me, frowned as her sharp eyes scanned the camp. "I don't see a generator big enough for all that equipment," she whispered. "But you're right, it's only a matter of time before one shows up. They're digging in for the long haul."
Chaucer, ever the curious one, tilted his head as he watched a group of 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 resting on the hilt of one of his short swords. "Aye, but who? Or what? They know something. They don't just build this kind of setup for fun."
I didn't respond immediately, my eyes narrowing as I watched the workers below. A knot of unease twisted in my gut. The Enclave wasn't here by chance. They were preparing for something, and whatever it was, it wasn't good.
Just then, the door to one of the trailers burst open with a loud crash, startling all of us. Langston, his disheveled coat flaring out behind him, came flying out of the trailer, landing hard on the dirt. He sprawled awkwardly, a mix of indignation and panic written across his face.
We froze, watching intently as a massive soldier emerged from the trailer behind him. The man had a fierce, unyielding gaze and a build that made even Hamish look small by comparison. Without hesitation, the soldier strode up 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. His voice rose in an indignant shout, though the words were lost in the noise of the camp. He pointed back at the trailer, clearly demanding something.
The soldier, unimpressed, crossed his arms and pointed sharply toward the edge of the camp, signaling for Langston to leave. The exchange was one-sided, the large man's expression cold and dismissive.
From his knees, Langston spread his arms in frustration, shouting something at the soldier. It was clear he was pleading, begging even, but the soldier merely shrugged and turned his back on him, walking back toward the trailer without a second glance.
Langston's fury boiled over as he grabbed a nearby rock and hurled it with all his might. The stone missed the soldier by a foot, but it struck the trailer's window with a loud crash, shattering the glass.
The soldier didn't even flinch. Instead, he called out to a nearby guard, who strode over with his rifle raised. The guard hauled Langston to his feet roughly, the barrel of the gun pressed against his back as he was marched toward the camp's edge.
"Looks like Langston's luck ran out," Hamish muttered, a hint of satisfaction in his tone.
I nodded, my gaze following Langston's retreat. The guards shoved him beyond the boundary of the camp, leaving him to stumble and fall onto the rocky path. One of them barked a final warning, pointing his rifle in Langston's direction before turning back to his post.
Langston remained on his knees for a moment, his head hanging low as if trying to process his humiliation. Then, slowly, he rose, dusting himself off with shaky hands. His expression was a mix of anger and despair as he staggered away from the camp, disappearing down the trail.
Snow glanced at me, her brows furrowed. "What do you think happened?"
"I don't know," I admitted, my mind racing. "But it's clear Langston's not in charge here. He's expendable."
Chaucer snorted softly. "Poor lad. It seems his grand ambitions have crumbled like stale cheese."
"Stale or not, cheese is still cheese," Hamish quipped. "And Langston's a rodent with no place to scurry now."
Despite the humor, my thoughts remained serious. Langston's fall from grace was troubling. Losing the rune carving must have cost him dearly, and it seemed the Enclave's patience with him had run out. But his humiliation didn't answer the larger question: What was the Enclave building here, and why?
I turned my attention back to the camp, my resolve hardening. "We need more information," I said quietly. "And," I trailed off as my eyes caught movement on the trail below.
Langston, dirty and defeated, trudged away from the camp. His steps were slow, his shoulders slumped under an invisible weight. It was the walk of someone who had nothing left in life but the will to keep moving forward.
"Quiet," I 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. Chaucer's ears twitched with interest, a mischievous glint lighting up his eyes. I pressed myself further behind the boulder, watching as Langston stumbled closer.
Oblivious to our presence, his mind clearly consumed by frustration and bitterness, Langston mumbled darkly to himself. Fragments of his words carried on the wind. "Retired. RETIRED. They'll pay for this. They wouldn't even know if it weren't for me." He kicked a small stone, his muttering continuing, though the rest was lost to the breeze.
I signaled silently to Chaucer, who responded with a toothy grin and an exaggerated bow. Without a sound, he began his approach. Darting into the shadows, he moved like liquid darkness, his agility unmatched as he leapt from one fallen rock to another.
From our vantage point, we could barely track him as he glided silently closer to Langston. He balanced on narrow ledges and jagged stones with ease, his tail acting as a counterweight. The cliffs on either side of the narrow passage cast long shadows that cloaked him perfectly.
Langston continued his muttering, oblivious to the danger above him. He paused for a moment, rubbing his temples as though trying to ward off a headache.
Chaucer crouched low on a high ledge, his body coiled like a spring. His sharp claws dug into the rock as he calculated the perfect moment. Then, with a powerful push, he launched himself into the air, flipping gracefully as he descended toward Langston.
For a split second, Langston stiffened. Perhaps he heard the faintest whistle of air or felt the shadow of movement behind him. He began to turn, but it was too late.
Chaucer's attack was precise. With the flat of his kukri, he struck the back of Langston's head, the blow expertly delivered to knock him out without causing lasting damage. Langston's vision flared white, then red, then black as his legs gave out beneath him. His last thought before unconsciousness claimed him was a bitter, "Now what?"
Langston crumpled to the ground in a heap, his body limp and motionless. Chaucer landed lightly beside him, dusting off his paws and grinning up at us. "And that, m'lords and lady, is how you deal with an actual pest."
Hamish snorted, and Snow rolled her eyes but smiled about a former rat pest saying such.
I stepped out from behind the boulder, 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."
We quickly bound Langston's hands and feet with sturdy rope, making sure he wouldn't be able to slip free when he regained consciousness. Snow checked his pulse, ensuring he was still breathing steadily.
Hamish hoisted Langston's unconscious body over his shoulder, the lanky man dangling awkwardly as we retraced our steps through the narrow crevasse.
The only sounds were the crunch of our boots on loose rocks and the occasional shift of fabric as Langston swayed with each of Hamish's heavy steps. None of us spoke, each lost in our own thoughts about what this unexpected encounter might reveal.
The path was winding, but soon enough, we emerged into a clearing we had passed earlier, a relatively open space nestled among the towering cliffs. Hamish walked to a flat rock near the center of the clearing and laid Langston down against it with a careful thud. The man's head lolled forward, his unkempt hair obscuring his face, and for a moment, he looked oddly vulnerable.
I surveyed the area and sighed, cracking my knuckles. "Best to keep this private." I stepped forward and raised my hands, calling upon the magic coursing through me.
The ground trembled slightly as stone began to rise, forming a circular wall around us. Each piece fused seamlessly together, looking like a natural outcrop of boulders rather than something man-made or magic-made. I left a single narrow opening on one side, just wide enough for someone to exit if necessary, but as the last stones slid into place, the interior grew oppressively dark.
"A bit gloomy in here now, don't you think?" Hamish commented, rubbing the back of his neck.
"I got this!" I declared suddenly, my voice confident. With a powerful leap, I jumped upward, my fingertips grazing the rocky ceiling. As my fingers touched the surface, a soft white light blossomed beneath them.
When I dropped back to the ground, the light stayed, illuminating the enclosed space with a gentle glow.
I gave myself an approving nod. "That'll do."
Chaucer, ever the energetic one, strolled toward the opening and leaned against the edge, peering outside with 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."
Upon hearing Chaucer say "nay, a privilege" for the second time that day, I wondered if this was going to be his catchphrase.
I couldn't help but think about a movie I'd watched once with an amazing musical soundtrack and a character in it named Chaucer as well. He said the same thing, didn't he?
It then dawned on me that perhaps the magic had taken my memories of Chaucer and all the sources I knew the name from and borrowed some of the personality traits to infuse into our rat-man.
I gazed at Chaucer, who seemed implacably content, realizing suddenly that the guy was growing on me, and 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 into a casual stance to watch for any approaching threats.
Inside the makeshift stone circle, we settled ourselves around Langston's inert form. Snow, ever compassionate, knelt and set a flask of water just within his reach. "He'll need this when he wakes up," she said softly, brushing her hair back and tucking it behind her ear.
I leaned back against one of the stone walls, arms crossed, my eyes fixed on Langston. I said nothing, my thoughts racing as I tried to piece together what might have led to this encounter. Beside me, Hamish sat cross-legged, his twin shortswords lying across his lap as he rested his elbows on his knees, watching Langston closely.