174. Dawnwick

The Upheaver's foray into the world of Day began by sharing a cozy steamboat with a self-professed serial-killer-catcher, who himself acted more like a serial killer than anyone Serac had ever met. Desperate though she was for anything to distract her from Travertine's brooding presence, the boat ride proved too uneventful for her needs.

DLEE and ORD both settled into a nap, curling next to each other in a perfect, heartwarming circle. Their Oathkeeper sat in silence at the bow, while the Rakshasa guest leaned against the cabin wall, taking in as much of the sepia-toned scenery as she could.

The river remained gold and expansive as the boat chugged its way upstream. Forests lined either side of the bank, as dense and isolating as their Night-side siblings. What Serac had noted to be 'lived-in' had in fact been limited to the pier where Travertine had docked. Several hours into the boat ride now, she'd yet to see any other signs of life, save for the occasional wildlife that poked their heads out of the treeline.

At some point, a falcon darted out of the woods and made straight for their boat. Serac assumed it was just one of the more curious members of the wildlife, until the thing dropped down and perched on Travertine, as casually as if his antler were a tree branch.

The deerherd was just as calm, as he reached up and relieved the falcon of a 'package' tied to its leg. He unfurled it, revealing it to be a small piece of paper. Travertine's expression darkened as he read the message in silence.

Not good news, I take it, Serac mused. She then watched curiously as the Mriga gave the messenger a pat of thanks. The falcon promptly flew away, but not before Serac caught the trailing end of a Pathsighted label. Someone else's Oathborn then?

So many questions, but Serac knew better than to ask them so soon after seeing Travertine's expression. The man himself was in no hurry to fill her in, resuming his brooding silence as if nothing had happened. Once more, the minutes stretched into hours.

"What were you doing anyway, back where you found me?" Serac eventually thought to ask. She wasn't particularly keen to get to know Travertine, but the silence between them only made her antsier. "Seems like you were hours away from anywhere a murder might take place. Don't tell me you were waiting for me, too."

That last bit was an inside joke shared with no one—at least no one on this side of the veils. To her surprise, Travertine met the 'accusation' with a thoughtful pause.

"In a manner of speaking, yes," he revealed. "Although, until you and your Breachspawn arrived, I didn't know what I was waiting for."

"And what does that mean?" Serac snapped, more than a little annoyed. "Listen, if we're gonna be detective partners or whatever, could you start speaking more plainly? I don't mind a bit of suspense now and then, but I do hate having to solve riddles just to have a conversation."

Travertine surprised her some more, this time by letting out a rumbling chuckle. His overall countenance softened considerably, at least compared to when they'd first met. I don't get this guy, Serac thought unhappily. His levels of comfort and chumminess seem inversely proportional to mine…

"Where you come from," Travertine asked by way of explanation, "do you have oracles or prophets or beings of that nature?"

"You mean someone who can tell the future? Not that I know of." Indeed, this might've been the first Serac had ever considered such a notion. "Are you saying a fortuneteller told you to come by the shores this Morning? But from the sounds of it, they were vague on the details, weren't they?"

Travertine visibly bristled at the word 'fortuneteller', but only briefly. His good mood seemed to persist as he chanted, "Realgar aft'Enright."

"Bless you."

"No. That is the name of the Viceroy of Dawnwick. He is the oracle whose twilit vision I followed to the mooring shores, with you being—I have to assume—the reward for my toil. The Viceroy himself is a Wayfarer, but his responsibilities and devotion to the Realm far outweigh yours or mine. And no wonder, for he's the only soul in Tidereign who speaks directly to and for the Keeper."

"There's that word again. That's several times now you've mentioned this Keeper, and if I recall, so did O—ahem." Serac caught herself, absent-mindedly thumbing the envelope in her coat pocket. "Anyway, what is it? Is it like… your Realm Immortal or something?"

A hopeful stab, one Serac didn't expect to yield any concrete results. Not so soon into her Tidereign journey anyway. But Travertine surprised her yet again, this time by giving a straightforward: "Yes."

"Yes?"

"Keeper of the Gloam." The Mriga man elaborated, rumbling baritone hushed by reverence. He then made a curious gesture with his fists: tapping the bases of both antlers before crossing them over his chest. "If anything, Immortal is selling the Keeper short. For it is a primordial being in the truest sense of the word. Its existence cannot be measured by time. At least not by any scale you or I could comprehend. There is no Tidereign without the Keeper and no Keeper without Tidereign. The Gloam keep us all."

Serac, rather easily swayed by 'vibes' at the best of times, found herself taken in by the speech. She very nearly reached up with both fists to tap the bases of her own horns, but managed to stop herself. Just in case it might be off-color if I do it. You never know.

"So, this Realgar fellow," she settled for resuming her interrogation, "he's the only one who gets to talk to this Immortal of yours? Why's he so special?"

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"The Keeper has seen fit to speak to its Day-living herd—that is to say, all Mrigas who call this land home—through Viceroy Enright and him alone."

"Yeah, I got that. But why though?"

"It's not for us to question the Gloam's secret hues."

Serac sank back against the wall of the cabin, instantly deflated and frustrated. There it was. That resigned or at the very least complacent refrain common to all three of the Realms Serac had gotten to know so far. It's not for us to question… It's always been this way…

Well, who died and made the Keeper king? The answer, if one of the Keeper's humble servants were to be believed, would seem to be the universe itself.

Just hours into her Tidereign journey, Serac had already gotten a lead on the path to ascension. But she met the news with equal parts ennui and apprehension. The 'here we go again' feeling was real and undeniable yet also tempered by a fear of the unknown. I've been two-for-two on smiting Realm Immortals. But I somehow doubt challenging this timeless, truly Immortal being would play out the same way…

For whatever reason, Serac didn't quite feel her usual cheery self. Maybe due to the present company, or perhaps more likely, the absence of her usual company. She missed Zacko and Renna, so powerfully as to feel a lump in her throat, but she gulped it down and carried on.

"Let me guess. When you said there was another Mriga better equipped to help with my situation, you meant this Mr Viceroy, didn't you? Is that what we're doing now? Are you taking me to see him?"

Travertine chuckled again, becoming livelier and livelier as the sun rose higher into the Day-side sky.

"I do not recall volunteering myself as your personal guide," he said, but not without humor. "Do not confuse my smiting your Breachspawn as an act of kindness. That is simply what we do here. Cleanse the world of Day of the impurities that seep through from the Night. As for where we're headed presently, I'd call it a shared destination—the same Path that would allow both of us to stay true to our respective [Oaths]."

"Which is?"

"Hm?"

"What is this [Oath] of yours that makes you so sure our Paths are aligned?"

Another chuckle, somehow tinged with genuine amusement.

"I need only to know that your [Oath] required you to say 'yes' to my offer. And you need only to know that my [Oath] demands I follow the trails of this murderer in Dawnwick's midst."

"Hey now," Serac cajoled, herself wearing a thin, humorless smile, "what happened to not speaking in riddles?"

"As an outrealmer, you'll be forgiven for your ignorance of local customs. We Mrigas consider it gauche to inquire about our fellows' [Oaths]. Even were that not so, I reserve the right to withhold information as I see fit"—Travertine's brooding eyes briefly glinted with mockery—"just as you have from me."

"I have? That's funny. Not to brag or anything, but people who know me would say I'm something of an open book. What have I not told you?"

"Who you're delivering that letter to, for one."

The Rakshasa froze, caught quite literally red-handed. The hand in question also froze inside her coat pocket. Only then did she realize she'd been thumbing the envelope for far too long, almost like a nervous tic.

Serac herself couldn't pin down why she felt the need to keep her Night-given mission a secret from the Day-folk. It wasn't like she'd wanted the job in the first place, nor did she much care about the taskgiver. Yet her instincts told her spilling too much baggage from Tidereign's 'other side' could only spell trouble. In her brief yet hectic introduction to the Realm, she'd already clocked the nuances behind how [Oathbind] operated. The less she poked the proverbial bear, the better.

That was to say nothing of how little she trusted this Travertine aft'Nankervis. She couldn't quite put a finger on it, but the man just struck her as creepy, which was somehow worse than Oriole ere'Quinlan being sketchy (there's a real difference, I swear!). In fact, Serac's distaste for Travertine was such she couldn't even bring herself to come up with a nickname… even though calling him Trav or some such would save a lot of time!

All that left her in something of a conundrum. Do I reject Travertine's inquiry now and risk a breach? Or would jeopardizing Oriole's job be the bigger risk? Oh, just why why why did I have to word my [Oath] the way I did?

Thankfully, at least on this occasion, the decision was taken out of her hands.

"Do not fret," the Mriga said, somehow looking like he meant it, "I don't intend to pry. What you do on your own time is not my concern, as long as it doesn't encroach on the welfare of me and mine. See that you keep it so."

"I'm right there with you on that one, chief." Serac said with a finger gun and an insincere wink, hating herself just a tiny bit.

All told, the Wayfaring pair's deckside chat did little to bridge the distance between them. It did, however, serve as the distraction Serac had sought. Travertine shortly stood to fiddle with the engine again, as the boat eased into its approach.

"This is our stop."

Here, the scenery finally did change, and dramatically at that. Entire swaths of trees had been cleared away in favor of rolling farmland. Paved roads divided vast wheat fields into neat, rectangular grids. Even from a distance, Serac could spy scattered, antlered silhouettes working the land. Interesting, she observed to herself. Tidereigners aren't beholden to [Hunger], and yet, they seem just as industrious as Pretjordians about food production. I wonder if this has something to do with their obsession with oaths?

Before Serac could finish her thought, her Mriga host docked his boat and stepped off. DLEE and ORD bounded after him, looking as lively as though they'd been awake the whole time. That left the hooded Rakshasa, also known as a 'shedding doe with a bad case of the mange', with yet another yes-or-no decision.

"What is this place?" she asked by way of stalling. "And what exactly are we doing here?"

"This is Dawnwick," Travertine said, trademark scowl back on in full force, "more specifically her lowland outskirts where much of our agriculture is centered. Do not let the idyllic view fool you. Evil lurks here, just as surely as it walks the city streets further upstream. In fact, I've received word this is where the latest killing took place. Which means it's time for us to hunt. Shall we?"

So, that's what that message was about. Serac raised her eyebrows, but only briefly. This wasn't her first rodeo, nor was Travertine the first edgelord she'd met on her Path. She nearly responded with a 'hell yes', but quickly thought better of it. No need to wonder; that would definitely be off-color…

"I suppose we shall," she settled for a somewhat muted substitute.

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