TravelingDreamer
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B7—Chapter 28: Haunted Drinks and Eavesdropping Plans
🕑 Added 2025-10-09 12:03:28 +0000 UTCAfter dinner, we were served the same sangria-like drink. This time, I didn’t drink it; I only pretended to and poured most of it into the remnants of the soup. Mahya and Al did. I watched them and didn’t really see a difference in their demeanor or speech. When I drank it on the first night, I felt out of it, but they seemed completely fine. Since I didn’t have an explanation and didn’t think the witch innkeeper would be forthcoming, I let the subject go with a shrug.
In the morning, Mahya yawned and rubbed her eyes. “Those damn ghosts wouldn’t shut up. I swear they moaned through the walls all night.”
Al gave a stiff nod, his face pinched. “Indeed. Their wailing was most persistent. I have not rested properly at all.”
I raised an eyebrow, but kept my mouth shut. I hadn’t heard a thing. My spidey senses had already done the math: the oooooo sounds from that first night had to be tied to the drink.
Mystery solved.
Since they were thrilled about staying at a haunted inn, I let them have their fun. Personally, I had no intention of touching that stuff again.
After learning the runes of the last three flowerbeds and shaking my head at the witches and their desire to influence visitors, I went to explore the city. Today, Rue joined me. He’d made up all the lost sleep time and got bored with snoozing.
The area around the main square and the inns had plenty of shops, but while exploring the connected circles across the city, I came across others with less of a tourist-trap vibe. Those were the ones I decided to visit. The first shop we stepped into was a candle shop. What caught my attention right away were the faint tendrils of different kinds of magic drifting out of the doorway.
Inside, the air smelled like honey, herbs, and smoke. Shelves and stands lined the room, stacked with candles in every color of the rainbow and then some. Each one gave off a faint pulse of magic. The labels were even stranger. A deep blue one promised restful slumber and freedom from nightmares, while a pale white candle flecked with gold claimed to encourage honest conversation. Another, green with copper swirls, was said to guide travelers so they would not lose their way in unfamiliar places. One crimson candle, shot through with black threads, smelled faintly of roses and iron, and was meant to kindle passion or, if misused, obsession. Then there was a gray-and-violet candle called Whispering Smoke, which promised visions and voices from beyond the veil.
Rue sniffed at the lower shelves and sneezed, sending a puff of sparks off one candle. I tugged him back before we accidentally ended up buying the whole place.
After inspecting all the candles the shop had to offer, I settled on three types. Pink and yellow candles promised “serenity steeped in both heart and spirit” for Mahya. Gray ones with tiny blue specks promised “the soft unbinding of shackles forged within” for Al. And white candles with red flower petals sealed inside promised “the power to follow whispers of thought before they fade” for me. Each shelf only held three of each.
I headed to the woman behind the counter and set the samples down. “Do you have more of those?”
She nodded. “Of course.”
“I’ll take all your stock,” I said.
Her eyebrows shot up, and she stared at me as if I had grown a second head. Still, she pushed aside the beaded curtain at the back and vanished. A few moments later, she returned with a wooden crate balanced in her arms, set it down with a thud, and went back for another. Then another. Soon, three crates stood in a row on the counter, the wood creaking under their combined weight.
“You do realize, distinguished buyer, this is no small sum,” she said carefully, folding her hands on the counter as if waiting for me to back out.
“How much?”
“159 mithril.”
I pulled the coins from my Inventory and slid them across the counter. Her suspicion melted in an instant, replaced with the kind of smile usually reserved for long-lost friends. “Perhaps you would like to see some of our other rare candles?” she asked brightly, already half reaching toward another shelf.
“Not today,” I said, waving her off.
Beside me, Rue tilted his head, ears flicking. “Candle to make food taste better for Rue?”
I sighed and glanced at the shopkeeper. “Do you have candles to enhance food flavor?”
She shook her head. “No such candle exists.”
Rue’s lips curled, and he let out a low, disappointed growl. The two cats lounging on the counter leapt straight into the air, tails puffed like brushes, before they scrambled out of sight.
I collected the crates, thanked her, and headed for the door with Rue padding sulkily at my side.
Outside, the wind picked up, and heavy gray clouds rolled across the sky. I pulled a face at it, scrunching my nose in disgust, and headed back toward the inn. A few people I passed on the street stopped to stare upward, their eyes shining with excitement. They wore giddy expressions, like kids about to see a show, some of them practically on the verge of clapping their hands or bouncing on their toes with glee. Witches didn’t make any sense.
The rain started before we reached the inn, fat drops smacking the cobblestones and splashing cold against my neck, so we broke into a run for the last few streets. Inside, after drying off and changing into fresh clothes, I claimed a chair near the fireplace in the common room. I wasn’t really cold, but the heat sinking into my skin was welcome after the sudden soaking. Flames crackled, and the scent of damp wool drifted from other travelers drying their clothes.
Through the window, I caught sight of people walking past the inn, all dressed in black, gray, and blue mantles. Not many—half a dozen or so—but every single one headed in the same direction, their hoods pulled low against the drizzle. That was enough to stir my curiosity.
I went up to my room and pressed my forehead to the glass. From the third story, I had a wider view, and more figures in the same colored mantles appeared, all moving the same way. I stayed there watching as the flow continued. After an hour, it finally slowed to nothing.
The last thing I wanted was to get soaked again, but curiosity was throwing a full-blown tantrum inside me, pounding its little fists and demanding I go see. Finally, with a long sigh at my inability to rein it in, I gave in. I turned invisible, opened the window, and flew in the direction the crowd had taken. All of them walked west, some in pairs or groups, chatting quietly, others alone and silent, their footsteps lost in the hiss of the rain.
Not only people walked in that direction. Cats slinked along the cobblestones with their tails held high, snakes slid silently across the wet streets, and birds wheeled overhead, trailing after the crowd like living shadows. A few times, I thought one or another of the birds had spotted me, or maybe even sensed me, but when I drifted farther away, it became clear they were chasing something else. They were drawn to an area where the rain didn’t fall. I only hoped the people below wouldn’t notice the strange rainless pockets that opened wherever I moved. The thought made my stomach tighten. I had no idea how to make the rain pass through me, and the last thing I wanted was a big glowing sign in the sky that read: invisible idiot flying here.
The western part of the city was very different from the eastern one. The houses were much bigger and stood far apart, with wide gaps of empty space between them. But that wasn’t the strange part. This side of the city had massive open squares built around various things. The largest one surrounded the Gate we were aiming for, but it wasn’t the only square. One circled a giant fire pit where a high flame burned bright despite the rain. Another enclosed a pond that rippled with the downpour. A third surrounded a gigantic tree that loomed higher than the rooftops. And the one that everybody was heading toward held a towering stone statue shaped to represent lightning. The jagged bolt of rock stood at an angle, about thirty meters tall, a long zig-zag frozen in place. There were other squares too, but I didn’t investigate them all.
At some point, I flew too low, and a few people started glancing around suspiciously. I shot back up, climbing to about half a kilometer above them, and stayed there until they stopped looking. From that height, I could see everything clearly. The rain hammered down in heavy sheets, thunder rattled through the air, and lightning flashed so bright it painted the rooftops in white light. Shitty flight conditions, but I had a feeling they’d be worth it. The crowd’s excitement promised something was coming.
A man stepped into the center of the square and stopped before the stone bolt. He wore the same style of mantle as the rest, but his was far more elaborate, studded with gemstones that shone every time the lightning struck. Lifting his hands, he began to chant. I couldn’t make out the words through the storm, but the cadence was unmistakable. The others soon joined him, their voices weaving into the rhythm.
After a few minutes, they threw off their mantles and began to dance around the statue in slow, synchronized circles. Naked figures of every age and build swayed and stamped, their chants rising higher. The air itself seemed to thrum, each step and syllable tightening the atmosphere. The lightning statue seemed taller, sharper, as if drawing strength from the storm above. The longer I watched, the more the square felt alive, pulsing with a power that pressed against my skin even in the sky and gave me goosebumps.
At that point, I felt embarrassed for intruding on what was clearly a private ritual, and honestly, I wasn’t sure how long I wanted to stay near something like that. I turned away and flew back toward the inn. With most of them caught up in their storm-dance, the way to the Gate was open anyway.
Near the inn, I connected telepathically to the gang and sent, “The witches are busy with some ritual, and the rain will hide us. It’s the best time to go to the Gate. Turn invisible and fly out the window. I don’t trust the innkeeper.”
Two minutes later, they joined me in the air.
“What type of ritual?” Mahya asked.
“Dancing around a statue of lightning,” I said. “Probably witches with storm affinities or something.”
“It would be interesting to witness,” Al said.
“Better not,” I answered quickly. “Some of them sensed me. I had to climb higher to escape their notice. If it’s the four of us, they might pick us up even from farther away.”
Al hummed in agreement, and together we flew through the storm toward the Gate.
Mahya reached it first. Her mental voice cracked like thunder, full of fury. She stomped hard, splashing water everywhere, and spat out a string of curses. At least she had the sense to keep them telepathic. My gut twisted; I had a strong suspicion the witches didn’t let anyone near the Gate, and I worried they might catch us.
“What is the problem?” Al asked.
“I’m not crossing this Gate. Not even for the count. I almost died there,” Mahya said in a sharp tone.
“Nami?” I asked.
“No. Tír na nÓg.”
“Shit,” I breathed. “I’m not crossing it either. I lost too much time there once. Let’s get back to the inn.”
“I do not understand,” Al said, his tone puzzled. “Please elaborate on—”
“I’ll tell you later,” I cut him off. “Right now, let’s get out of here before they catch us.”
Back at the inn, I dried myself again, changed into clean clothes, and rubbed Rue down with a towel. He was still damp, so I channeled the Heat spell on a low output until the last of the moisture evaporated. The problem was, he ended up looking like a giant puffball. His fur stood out in every direction, ridiculously fluffy, so I had to run my hands over him, smoothing it back down. He leaned into it, eyes half-closed, his pleasure flowing through our bond in warm waves. If he’d been a cat, he would’ve been purring like a motor.
Finally, when both of us were completely dry, I headed downstairs and found Mahya and Al in the common room. Rue decided to stay curled up in the room, probably still basking in his cloudlike pleasure. Mahya was already halfway through her story about Tír na nÓg and how I’d rescued her, her voice animated and sharp with old anger. When she finished, I told Al about the two minutes I’d spent there, and how weeks had passed on Earth while I was gone.
When both our tales were done, we opened our Maps. This time, we didn’t pop one out to share, but each studied our own copy.
“The closest one is still days away,” Mahya said, slumping back in her chair and tapping the edge of the table with a fingernail.
“Do you wish to leave tomorrow?” Al asked.
“No,” I said. “I want to find out what they know about the Gate.”
“Me neither,” Mahya added quickly. “I heard about a famous clairvoyant who lives here and made appointments for all of us. I was gonna tell you over dinner. It’s in two days.”
“Isn’t it dangerous?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
Mahya flicked her hand as if brushing the thought aside. “Nah.”
“I do not believe so,” Al said. “I have read about clairvoyants in my family’s archives. They do not see the full truth of a person, only probabilities of fate. And even then, the visions are often unclear to the seer, comprehensible only to the recipient.”
I shrugged. “If you say so.”
Over dinner, the three of us traded ideas on how to learn what the witches knew about the Gate. The best plan we came up with, which was originally mine, was eavesdropping. Now we just had to find the right person to eavesdrop on.
Comments
Silver Beard
Given all the intake the Dungeon has received. I'm super curious what his house will look like if he tells the Dungeon to 'be all you can be' House mode
TravelingDreamer
😂😂😂
Obran
The ritual around the gate https://www.instagram.com/reel/DPKftnHjY8n/?igsh=eW93NGw4dTcxMndx
