Chapter Text
The ebb.
[Wisdom]: "Hold everyone and everything in your heart. If there is no space, fix it or die."
The months after the election were long, tiring and dreary. Patrol manpower requirements had doubled after the coalition announcement — the clerics were now pawns for the Freestriders to move around. To no one's surprise, Ragn drew the short straw here. The story goes, that even Darrow put in a good word for him, for his more than excellent management of the Tea Shop Incident.
Ragn was now in-charge of the Urthguard port patrols. His job? Make sure everything goes smoothly, and that nothing went missing.
He'd appreciate the promotion, if it had come with something more than a meager raise. To the tune of he-still-can't-move-out-yet-please-Urth-help-him. Instead, he sits on the cool bricks of Waterlane at dawn, letting the chilly air whistle through his chainmail. It's quiet, now. He can just sit. Watching people work. The cogs of the city chugging along, no matter who's oiling the wheels.
The days were long. It was one cleric, per district, ideally. In reality, it was just him. The early hours of the Freestrider-Nationalist Coalition were… tumultous, at best. Word had gotten out (as it does) about the extra money lining the pockets of the Magistrates, and the people were not happy, to say the least.
Most of the Urthguard was now spread thin across Norvik, waiting. Nothing had happened, but, they'd been keeping more eyes on the ground. Fine, as far as pulling rank goes. They maintain the peace. And in turn, they remind everyone, there was still a greater presence in the City, and they could make themselves be heard. If they so wished.
Ragn kicked the heels of his boots against the walls. He could care less.
The Towers had left the ports to the Freestriders — they'd turn two eyes away as long as they kept the coffers healthy. He liked Viira, as far as bosses went.
But if he was honest with himself? He was bored of it all. The way the waves lapped at the city walls kept him grounded, but he missed it. Playing with the strings. Toying with the dice. The permutations of choice. He'd seen his God, and all he had to show for it was two shiny boots, and a license to use Dancing Lights after dusk.
Still, the rent needed to be paid, and he needed his position in the Towers. Power made people listen, loathe as he was to admit it. The library access didn't hurt, either. If he stayed, he could give the right people access to power, when they needed. It was valuable. Change was coming, but not just yet.
Ragn still had a deck to build.
He missed Snell.
He can't admit it, not to the goblin's face. He hoped it didn't show in the friendly waves he throws the goblin, whenever he strides on by. Or when he casts one-too-many glances at the goblins muttering behind HWBT crates. Snell caught his eye, sometimes. Threw him a soft smile back. A knowing nod.
That was all Ragn got, these days. Snell was always in a rush now — carrying out the Dragon's biddings. Ragn couldn't help but feel a tiny sense of pride warm his chest, watching the way Snell manouvered, negotiated, and navigated his way through it all: Norvikian, Freestrider and Horde bullshit inclusive. He was in his element.
Ragn could see it in his eyes, though. The toll that all of this was taking on him. The bags beneath his eyes sagged now. The belt across his waist seemed off, some days. A little too much to the center.
…Not that anyone else would notice. He still kept himself on top of his game, as best as he could. The lining of his jacket collar still stood sharp and creaseless. Perfectly curated. It'd take more than paperwork and endless meetings to truly wear this goblin down.
There was a month or so, when the goblin was nowhere to be found. Somewhere in Reeds, was word on the ground. He'd gone to negotiate for some promising goods. A good deal, to be made. Important stuff.
Eventually he returned, a fancy feather peeking out of his jacket pocket to show for his work. Ragn itched to make a snarky comment.
So, when a sending stone proclaimed Lady Sageleaf's request for another Cleric — restoration works, for the Eastern Caverns, kindly sponsored by the Freestriders — Ragn answered. Almost too fast.
The Dragon's smile was smug, upon his arrival. Snell was there too, close to her side. Closer than usual, in fact. He had a seat, now. A freshly-carved stone stool, but a seat nonetheless.
"I have a new quest for you, Cleric. If you're so inclined."
"So I've heard."
"I want you to enact Urth's last wish."
Ragn did a double-take, eyes darting to Snell's. He averted his eyes. Ragn tried to recover quickly, redirecting his attention back to the goblin leader.
He started to speak, anything, anything at all, so that his brain could catch up.
"…So, just to be clear, not to restore the Eastern Caverns? Maybe some extensive, demanding estorical research? Needing the watchful eye of a cleric?"
"No." She smiled. Her eyes crinkled. Snell had a look on his face as he watched the Cleric. Almost a smirk. Then, he straightened up, as if he'd just remembered he was in front of his Lady. Back to his neutral, unreadable face.
"Snell has… kept me updated on your adventures, so far. It would be in the interest of the HWBT, if you were to continue them."
Enacting Urth's will. A dangerous game to play, was it not?
Âkesam will fall, eventually.
"You might not make it. But I want to see how far you can go." She relaxed back into her throne. "This will be my final test for Snell, as well. For my succession."
She said it so casually — yet it held all the weight in the world for her right-hand man. He's frozen in place.
"It shouldn't come as a surprise to you, Snell. I'm not infallible." She cast a look down at him. "This is your chance to prove yourself."
Her words echoed around the Goblin Garden, and into the depths of the ground below. She did this publicly. She trusted him that much.
Ragn noticed the quick gulp Snell took.
"Of course, my Lady. I will do only my best." Not a stutter. Ragn was impressed.
"Good. As you always do."
Snell started breathing again.
Ragn whistled. Snell shot him a look that said: Shut it.
"Snell, the Cleric is yours." Lady Sageleaf smiled. "I want a plan in a week. Figure it out."
She waved a hand as though to dismiss him. He kindly obliged, ducking out of the open garden into the Pillar Crossing. Behind his back, he signaled to Snell to hurry up, too.
Once they were through, Ragn tried to speak, but the goblin shook his head. Not here.
Ragn trailed behind the goblin's light jog up familiar steps. Back to his apartment.
"So. I heard you were the first to answer the Lady's call."
"Was not." Ragn answered too quick.
Snell held his hands up in defense. "Hey, hey, I'm just sharing what I've heard."
"There were others. It's a good gig on paper, no? For those who just want to lay low. Esoteric consulting pays, y'know?"
"Uh-huh."
"I just… got buried under the paperwork. I think." Ragn shuffled on his feet.
"So you were the first." Snell raised his brows.
Was not.
"You do know that Lady Sageleaf specified for you, right? She wouldn't trust anyone else from the Towers. She threw out two Clerics already, and they were doing good work. Heavy lifting, and the such."
The goblin's eyes drifted. "…Well, one tried to charm Moongore into doing their work for them. It didn't go well."
Served the Towers right for sending first-year Clerics Lady Sageleaf's way. She deserved better. Ragn hadn't known he'd been their Third assignment, though. Must've been some wild negotiating going on between the council.
Darrow.
He cursed the human in his head. It should've been easy, otherwise. Working with the goblins wasn't a very profitable skill, to the Towers.
"…Your lady seemed pretty confident an Urthguard Cleric would break his oath."
"Hah," the goblin huffed. "No, no oath-breaking involved. We work between your rules."
"Not even a little treason?"
Snell pretended to ponder on it for a moment, rubbing his chin. In the end he raised his brows and nodded.
"Maybe a little treason, Cleric, yes."
Ragn smiled. He could almost taste it. One more question, though.
"You pushed for this, didn't you?"
The goblin doesn't meet his eyes. His voice changes tone — it sounds practiced now. Professional, and assertive. "Not all the inner workings of the HWBT are privy to a human's ears. Least of all, the Urthguard."
"And yet, your lady called for me."
"That, she did." Snell sighed, hand on his hip. "Are you in, or not?"
"Hm. Risking my entire career to undermine the Magistrates, the people who put the food on my plate? It's a tough choice, Snell."
Ragn shook his head as he pondered the decision. He picked up a lone apple on Snell's desk, casually tossing it up into the air. He looked Snell straight in the eyes, and catching it as it fell back down. "What'd you say to her?"
"That I'm a spineless human, and I'd betray my people the moment the tides turned?"
"Cleric. I —"
"Huh. You did, didn't you?" Ragn's shoulders slumped. Maybe he'd… miscalculated. How their conversations had gone. Maybe they weren't actually that close, huh?
"Stop looking like that, Cleric." The goblin was frowning now, hard. "Of course I didn't. In fact, I—"
"Boasted about how you're the first goblin to handle a Cleric? That you had me wrapped around your finger the whole —"
"Will. You. Just. Let. Me. Speak." Snell barked the words out, sharp and loud.
Ragn stopped. He allowed Snell to take his turn.
"I did not, in fact, do any of that." The goblin's fingers pressed down on the bridge of his nose. "I'm going to pretend you didn't say anything."
He took a breath. "I told her, that you were someone we could trust. You told her about Gorm. Urth. Everything. You didn't have to."
"Cleric, we've been beaten down for decades, now. We need a win. My people need a win." Snell looked fidgety. "Urth's plan is… something we could make work, don't you think? A Cleric and an Azgalist."
Ragn huffed a laugh. "So, who's the Cleric here?"
"You."
A loud guffaw escaped Ragn, who grabbed his stomach as he bent over, laughing.
"And the Azgalist?"
"…We'll see. The Dragon is not keen on handling humans. I think the goblins would never listen without her. Alfoz, maybe. We'll work on his people skills."
"Well. Hey Snell, boy do I have a joke for you."
"…Shoot."
"A goblin and a Cleric walk into a bar. Guess what they order?"
"Ale?"
"Democracy." Ragn slapped his thigh, hard, laughter bouncing off the apartment walls. He held a hand against one to steady himself.
Snell doesn't laugh.
Ah.
"That… wasn't a bit, was it? Oh gods, you're serious. Snell." Ragn tried his best to straighten up.
The goblin tutted, as he tapped his feet. He'd been more than patient, so far.
"Surely you can do better than me."
Snell stared at him, raising a brow. "Name me one, Cleric."
Ragn stayed quiet.
"…Visken?"
"He's not a Cleric."
"Well, I'm pretty sure he could polymorph into one. Get into the Towers. Wouldn't be too hard, would it?"
"Polymorph — for how long, till the next Era? Good luck paying him. Frankly, Cleric, I thought you — you're playing me."
Ragn grinned, tilting his head. "Yep."
The city of Norvik needed to be rewritten.
With Urth's word, Ragn could get the Urthfolk behind him. He trusted the man. And if Urth couldn't reach them? …Well, he could twist the Strings a little. What's not to like about charming people? If he could just get a better sense of why they trusted him — he could make a play there. It'd take time, yes. But this? It called to him. He knew what to do, here.
The Azgalists would fall in line, if he could get Alfoz on his side.
The HWBT was under Snell. It didn't look like it, on the surface — but if push came to shove, and if the Dragon vouched for him? He'd have it in the bag. The years of negotiating, leading, and coordinating with the people — it made him the most familiar face they knew. Someone on the ground. Someone who would fight for them. Trust was everything, here.
The only problem was the Freestriders. They were in the pockets of the Ilym, the Horde, and gods knows what else. Their people knew how to toe the party lines. …And they were the key to the Magistrates.
If they were going to get the Freestriders, they needed collateral. And maybe a devil good with words.
…They'd figure it out.
All their string-meddling eventually led them underground, deep into the dungeons of the City Below. At the end of the day — they needed coin. A comically large amount of it. Spelunking became Ragn's middle name. In a way, he actually was following his assignment on paper.
The nights were long, but Jor kept him on his toes. More often than not, shadows would shift in the corner of his eye. Some lurked, and some felt like a presence creeping across every wall he passed — simply biding its time.
In moments like that, Ragn found his fingers reaching for a well-worn sending stone, faster than he'd have liked.
"Does Master want to call Snell?" piped up a quick, tentative voice around his neck.
"No." Ragn grimaced at himself for snapping. "…Uh. No. We've got this, Meek. Nothing's happened yet. We can manage. We're competent."
He dusted himself off.
"I'm sorry, Cleric. I was going to tell you at some point — there's just… too much to be done in the Garden. We need to handle those missing shipments. The new taxes. The post-election paperwork. I'm sorry." Snell looked genuinely regretful, arms folded around his chest.
"I… need to go." He brushed past Ragn, making it out of his apartment. Then he paused, holding the door ajar as he looked back at him. "…If you ever really need my help, just call." Snell tossed a sending stone his way. "That's my only one. Don't lose it."
"…Don't you need this for your boss?"
"Quick tip — don't ask too many questions down here, Cleric!" Snell's voice trailed off as he broke into a light jog back down the stairs, waving bye, a hand in the air.