Chapter Twenty-Three: The Hall and the Last Rations
Dusk paints Oakhaven's western sky as you and Theron stride through its gates and straight for the Hall of Scholars. The city’s stone and bustle press around you, foreign after the quiet wilds, but your purpose is direct. Theron guides you to Master Elara’s study; she waits, eyes bright with equal parts concern and anticipation.
You lay Reynard’s staff upon her desk; Theron places the locket and the blood-stained journal in her hands. Elara traces the runes along the wood with a whisper: Reynard called it a message-weaver, a family heirloom. She recalls mention of a matching slate, long lost or secreted in the Hall’s most restricted archives, a place she seldom treads. Her face hardens with purpose as you relay Heyshem’s directive—that you be her eyes in Oakhaven, to trust Theron, and to move swiftly. She accepts the charge and names the first step: deepen the inquiry into Reynard’s research and Joric’s movements, and search the restricted archives for the missing frame.
You ask plainly about the staff’s frame and state your limits in the city. Elara answers with clarity: the staff may unlock Reynard’s final thoughts if paired with its slate; the slate is likely in the Hall’s sealed stacks. She insists you rest tonight—bath, bed, food not tainted by the boar—and at first light the three of you will begin the search. You add that if the Hall holds texts in the municipality cipher you can read them; you outline the four runic ciphers and their guardians—the Rex Huntsman of the north, the Desert Rats of the south, the Seafarers of the east, and the Horsemen of the plains—and offer, if time and your brother permits, to teach the Huntsmen’s orientation. Elara’s eyes brighten at the prospect; the scribes will be readied for the descent into the archives.
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That night you take a proper bath, a bed, and food provided in the Hall; the forced march’s weariness eases. At dawn you break fast beside the road and lay out your last five strips of blighted boar jerky. With Theron you describe the peculiar effects: dulled fatigue, steadier limbs, an edge to perception, the dog at Hemlock’s calming immediately after eating. You both wonder whether an alchemist or the Hall’s apothecaries might glean anything useful from analysis.
One unsettling contrast remains: unlike the Blighted Wildcat, which dissolved into a sickly mist beneath your axe, the boar’s corruption remained bound to its flesh. The difference sits between you and Theron like an unanswered question as you shoulder packs and prepare to descend into Oakhaven’s old, secret stacks.