Chapter Five – Wenthe and Monoffa

  Igniday, 9 Tamihr, Year of Folivor the Restful Sloth, 489 AWA

  Candibaru, Andovarra

  Wenthe Quickclaws stood in the mid-morning sun of Candibaru, tail twitching with impatience as she tried to recall which districts she'd already searched. The bustling capital city was a labyrinth of narrow streets and tan stone buildings that all blended together in her memory after two days of fruitless searching.

  "Never been great with landmarks," she muttered to herself, adjusting the alchemical bandolier across her chest. "But I'm great at improvising."

  A merchant's cart rattled past, the driver cursing as he swerved to avoid a stray dog. Wenthe watched the commotion with amusement, her topaz eyes gleaming as she spotted an opening in the crowd. Without hesitation, she picked a northerly direction—not because she had any reason to believe it was correct, but because indecision was worse than potential error in her book.

  "When in doubt, move forward and adjust as needed," she told herself, a philosophy that had served her well since escaping slavery. Her orange tabby fur caught the sunlight as she wove through the crowd with practiced ease.

  The first establishment she came upon was an inn called The Withering Willow, its weathered sign creaking in the breeze. Pleased that it wasn't one she recognized from previous inquiries, Wenthe pushed through the door. The common room smelled of ale and pipe smoke, with a smattering of patrons despite the early hour.

  The innkeeper—a plump, balding man who looked like he enjoyed sampling his own wares—glanced up from wiping down the bar.

  "Well now, don't see many of your kind in these parts," he observed.

  Wenthe approached with confident strides, already analyzing the room's occupants from the corner of her eye. "And yet I'm looking for another one just like me. Well, not just like me." She leaned forward, elbows on the counter. "I'm Wenthe Quickclaws—alchemist, adventurer, and liberator of the oppressed." The last bit was added with a theatrical flourish that made the innkeeper raise an eyebrow.

  "Quite the title."

  "I'm collecting them," she replied with a wink. "More importantly, I'm looking for another Catfolk. Black fur instead of my striking orange tabby pattern and auburn hair, black hair and fur, blue-grey eyes. Probably looking a bit lost, possibly talking in riddles. Seen her?"

  The innkeeper shook his head. "Can't say that I have."

  Wenthe flipped him a few bronze coins. "Well, if she wanders in, tell her Wenthe is looking for her. And that I still have her favorite dagger." This last part was a lie—she owned nothing of Noffa's—but it was the kind of detail that might get remembered and passed along.

  As she turned to leave, a patron at a nearby table called out, "Looking for someone, are ye? Might check The Emerald Cockatrice on the east side. They get all sorts there."

  Wenthe gave him a two-fingered salute of thanks and continued her search.

  By mid-afternoon, Wenthe had visited seven more establishments with no success. The sun beat down mercilessly, and her stomach growled in protest of missed meals. Just as she was contemplating giving up for the day, she spotted a gleaming green sign depicting a rooster-like creature with reptilian features.

  "The Emerald Cockatrice," she read aloud, her whiskers twitching with renewed hope. “Ninth time's the charm, as nobody says."

  Inside, the inn was surprisingly well-appointed, with polished wooden floors and actual tablecloths—a stark contrast to the seedier establishments she'd been frequenting. Wenthe approached the bar, where a stern-faced human woman was keeping meticulous inventory.

  "Afternoon," Wenthe said, drumming her claws lightly on the counter. "I'll spare you my usual theatrics—I'm looking for a black-furred Catfolk. Blue-grey eyes, probably arrived recently, might seem a bit... unconventional."

  The woman's expression shifted subtly. "Yes, we have a patron fitting that description."

  Wenthe's ears perked up so quickly it was almost comical. "Really? You're not just saying that because I look like I might order something expensive if you humor me?"

  "We don't engage in such practices here," the woman replied stiffly. "We can't give you her room number, but we can have a message sent up if you'd like."

  "Yes!" Wenthe practically bounced on her toes, then caught herself and adopted a more casual stance. "I mean, that would be acceptable." She quickly scrawled a note:

  Noffa - Found you at last! It's Wenthe. The one who helped you escape the Drow, not some other Wenthe you might have met since we got separated. Come down if you're not busy plotting world domination or napping. -W

  Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

  She handed it over with instructions to wait for a reply, then paced the common room, analyzing potential escape routes out of habit while mentally rehearsing what to say. Would Noffa even know who she was? What if she'd changed completely?

  Fifteen minutes later, Wenthe spotted a familiar figure descending the stairs, and her heart leapt. It was unmistakably Monoffa—the same raven-black fur and piercing blue-grey eyes—but something was different in the way she moved, more cautious than the bold companion Wenthe remembered.

  Wenthe rushed forward, arms outstretched for an embrace, but stopped short when Monoffa held up a hand.

  "The flowers are dancing pink around you," Monoffa said, her head tilting as if listening to music only she could hear, "although the wolf is gray in your belly, too." Her voice was both familiar and strange. "I'm sorry, but I've lost my memories and I don't remember you. I don't even remember myself, although I do know my name, Monoffa Nightstar. Do you know anything about me?"

  Wenthe blinked, momentarily thrown by the bizarre statement. Flowers dancing pink? Wolf in my belly? What in the nine hells happened to her? She quickly recovered, mind already running through possibilities. Memory loss could be magical, traumatic, or both—and those strange metaphors suggested something even more complex.

  "I'm Wenthe," she replied, ears flattening slightly as she processed the shock. "And yes, I know some things about you. Enough to fill a small book, not enough to fill a large one."

  "Then can you tell me everything you know?" Monoffa's tail swished with undisguised excitement. "It would mean a great deal to me!"

  Wenthe's stomach chose that moment to growl audibly. "I can," she said with a rueful smile, "but I'm rather hungry at the moment. Been searching for you all day." She glanced around at the tavern. "Any chance we could continue this conversation over food?"

  "Have them send the food to my room," Monoffa said, suddenly decisive. "They'll do so if you ask, and I would rather hear what you know away from prying eyes and ears." She paused, studying Wenthe with an intensity that was both familiar and strange. "If I forget your name, I'm going to call you Spice Fur. I can remember that."

  Wenthe's whiskers twitched with amusement. "Spice Fur? I've been called worse, I suppose. Food first, then revelations."

  In Monoffa's room, Wenthe stretched out on the floor despite the offered chair, a habit from their days in captivity when furniture was a luxury rarely afforded to slaves. Monoffa sat cross-legged on the bed, her tail curled around her feet, watching Wenthe with unnerving intensity.

  "So," Wenthe began, "the short version is that we were both kidnapped and sold into slavery when we were teenagers. I was 14, you were 15. We were the only two Catfolk there around that age, and we quickly became close." She tilted her head, studying Monoffa for any sign of recognition. "Your fur was calico-colored then—the black is something you changed intentionally about three months ago. Our first Master called us Calico and Tabby. Ring any bells?"

  "Not a single chime," Monoffa replied, disappointment evident in her drooping whiskers. "Where were we enslaved? Where are we from? How long were we there? How did we escape?" The questions tumbled out in rapid succession, each more urgent than the last.

  Wenthe held up her hands. "Whoa there, one question at a time! I'm all for enthusiasm, but even I can only answer so fast." Her tone was light, but her eyes were calculating, assessing how much Monoffa had truly changed. "We were enslaved on an island called Aleru—nasty place, mostly jungle and Drow living underground. We spent seven years there before escaping about two years ago."

  She sat up straighter, warming to the tale. "We worked for a Drow group called The Luminous Path Monastery. I worked with spores that had catalytic properties—basically, I could tell when they were about to explode, which the Drow found quite useful."

  "And what did I do?" Monoffa leaned forward eagerly.

  "You were their light scout. Parts of their underground complex were affected by wildshards from the Wildstorm Apocalypse." Wenthe's eyes gleamed with the irony. "The Drow, masters of darkness, needed someone who could map light gradients and identify zones where the wildshard luminescence might be too intense even for their adapted eyes. That was you."

  Monoffa's brow furrowed in concentration. "How did we escape?"

  Wenthe grinned, a flash of mischief crossing her features. "Now that's where it gets interesting. We found a dome seal on one of the greenhouses with structural weaknesses. My boss—who I strongly suspect was secretly against slavery—dropped enough hints that we figured out how to enlarge the flaw over several weeks. During a period of low activity, we slipped out and made our way over the jungle canopy to a hidden cove."

  She leaned in, as if sharing a conspiracy. "We lit a signal fire that was visible only to the sea, and a Tabaxi smuggler named Mero came and picked us up. We had to hide in fish barrels for two days. I still can't eat smoked herring because of it."

  A knock at the door interrupted them as a serving girl delivered a tray with Wenthe's food—a hearty stew, crusty bread, and a mug of ale. Wenthe attacked it with gusto.

  "Did I have a family?" Monoffa asked once the serving girl had gone.

  "You talked about your father often," Wenthe replied between bites. "Never mentioned siblings or your mother. I think she died when you were very young. You used to tell me stories about your father teaching you to climb trees faster than the wind could follow."

  "Was I ever in love?" Monoffa's question was soft, almost tentative.

  Wenthe paused, spoon halfway to her mouth. "Not that I remember. We were too busy staying alive to find love, though we sometimes told each other romantic stories while we were slaves." She smiled at the memory. "You would create these elaborate tales about dashing rogues and noble warriors who would sweep us off our feet once we were free. It gave us hope."

  "You said we escaped the Drow about two years ago. What did we do after that? Did we find love once we were free?"

  "We became adventurers," Wenthe replied, tearing off a chunk of bread. "We both wanted to get strong enough to never get taken by slavers again. And..." she hesitated, then decided honesty was best, "we made a pact to eventually return to Aleru and free the other slaves. That was more my obsession than yours, but you supported it."

  She waved the bread dismissively. "As for love, you had a few attractions, but nothing serious as far as I know. You were always more interested in magical theory than romance—once you discovered your sorcerous abilities, that is."

  "What about you, Wenthe? Did you find love?"

  Wenthe grinned, a hint of mischief in her expression. "I'm not really ready to settle down with any one person. Too many interesting people in the world to limit myself. I've had my share of dalliances, but nothing serious."

  "Do you know why my attractions didn't work out?"

  "Not really. You've never talked much about that kind of thing, and I don't pry." Wenthe studied her friend thoughtfully. "You always said that when the right person came along, you'd know it by how they made your mind spark, not just your heart."

  Monoffa frowned in dissatisfaction but seemed to accept Wenthe's answer. "You said that we became adventurers after escaping the Drow. Where did we go first?"

  "Takatari," Wenthe replied, taking a swig of ale. “That’s where Mero’s based out of, and he needed to return there. It’s also the safest of all the islands in the Confederated Islands of Matalis. You enrolled in a magical academy and began training as a sorcerer, while I took alchemy lessons from a Gnome named Zap—brilliant mind, terrible at lab safety." She mimicked an explosion with her hands. "We spent about a year in training there. Does any of this sound familiar?"

  When Monoffa shook her head, Wenthe set down her mug. "Now let me ask you a question. Do you remember anything at all about how you got here? And what's with the talk about dancing flowers and wolves in bellies?"