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Day 1 - Morning
The dwarven stone is cracked and blackened. Soot sticks to his boots and tickles his nose. The smell of charred wood mingles with the sea breeze, coating the back of his throat with an unpleasant stickiness. It’s a sunny spring day, but the remains of the tea shop fill him with dread.
Snell clears his throat, waiting.
The Cleric surveys the building, tilting his head as if listening to a voice carried on the wind. “So… the blown-up tea shop?”
“Yes. It was quite the racket.” Exhaustion seeps into his voice. He hasn’t slept well all week, and at all in the last forty-eight hours.
He stoically pushes away the thought of the soft bed waiting for him in his apartment, instead snapping his focus back to his government assigned partner.
The Cleric stomps up the crumbling stairs to the barred entrance and starts studying the scene. He moves with purpose, but there is something unstable and clunky about him. Snell wonders if it has to do with the drowning accident the human mentioned when they first met. Or perhaps it’s just the ten kilograms of armour weighing him down.
"Does this include me?" He points to the NO TRESPASSING note nailed to the wooden boards that stand between them and the crime scene.
“You should ask Darrow, Cleric.” Snell has been ordered to cooperate with this man, but his patience is wearing thin.
“I told you, I'm a dashing rogue.” It’s a comment made in passing, but stated with absolute conviction. Snell wonders if he should have asked Visken to check the man for a concussion or severe head trauma.
The Cleric taps the boards with a gloved hand, and an esoteric seal ripples across the surface.
“I would have already entered if it weren't for this. Your boss put it up.” He can’t quite hide the disdain in his voice.
His Lady is a power to be reckoned with, but officially, she doesn’t have the same authority as the Magistrate. The Cleric shouldn’t know that, Snell thinks. He should be afraid of her.
The Cleric is quiet for a beat, then he shrugs. “Guess I should rip these planks off.”
If Snell hadn’t seen the man go elbow deep in a trash can ten minutes ago, he might have thought the Cleric to be a dedicated Urthguard, ready to sacrifice himself for his quest. Currently, he suspects he is simply terrible at controlling his impulses, acting on every intrusive thought a sensible person would ignore.
“Suit yourself.” He is certain the seal is going to blow up in their faces, so he steps back, out of the blast zone. It will be an amusing sight, at least.
Snell watches the Cleric grip the thick wooden planks with both hands and plant his boots wide. The man's entire frame tenses, and Snell can’t help but notice how the heavy chainmail pulls taut over his biceps. He wonders why on earth a Cleric needs muscles like that.
He heaves, throwing his sheer mass into the motion, and the esoteric seal begins to crackle dangerously under the physical assault. The warning hiss of magic blends with his heavy grunts and the sharp screech of metal under stress. He mutters an incantation, and a faint golden light pools at his feet, swirling up his body. With a final burst of brute strength, the Cleric tears backward. The magical seal and the thick wooden boards shatter simultaneously in a violent shower of sparks and splinters.
The Cleric lies flat on his back, a triumphant fist thrust into the air. Snell can’t see his expression under the helmet, but he can practically feel the self satisfied grin radiating from the man.
“That's how a true man does it!” His head snaps toward Snell, fully expecting praise.
Everyone in the vicinity is staring. It is a completely unnecessary show of power, but something primal in Snell likes it nonetheless. Maybe his heritage as a warmongering goblin isn't quite as lost as he’d thought.
He lets his expression soften, slipping into a smile. “Maybe you are a dashing rogue.” After a beat, he adds teasingly, “Cleric.”
Snell extends a hand, the Cleric’s fingers lock around his forearm, and he pulls. He hauls the human up, suddenly finding himself eye to chest armour. He hastily takes a step back, and pointedly ignores the Cleric's continued babbling about peak masculinity and proper form.
It’s just the physical exertion, Snell tells himself, aggressively smoothing down his tunic. Hauling around a human wearing kilograms of iron will make anyone’s heart race. The far more complicated thought stirring in the back of his mind is firmly, ruthlessly pushed down. They have serious work to do now.
Day 3 - Midday
“Hello Citizen, identify yourself.”
The tiefling doesn’t acknowledge them. He stands on the boat's deck, leaning against the handrails, his gaze fixed somewhere over their shoulders. Snell notes that his body language is entirely relaxed – his tail hangs limp, and a faint smile tugs at his lips just enough to reveal sharp fangs.
He isn’t bothered by them the slightest.
The Cleric steps to the edge of the dock, getting as close to the boat as physically possible. “This is an Urthguard investigation. We have some questions.”
He’s using his big boy voice, Snell notes. It’s a pleasant, rumbling bass with just a hint of a rural accent. Usually, his pitch is higher, carrying an almost whiny note – that one he uses for begging pretty women to get his way. Snell has seen him do that more than a few times in the past days, but he does not ruminate on it.
The tiefling finally grants them his attention. He is a towering mass of sculpted muscle and casually unbuckled leather straps, wearing his sheer size with an effortless cool. The sea breeze seems to exist solely to ruffle his hair and carry the faint, sweet haze of smoked spices coming from him.
“I am not a citizen of yours. Just a Hae'Xi trader, waiting for the commotion to clear up.” He motions toward the freestrider administrative building with a sweeping gesture.
Then, he shifts his weight. With one fluid motion, he vaults over the boat’s handrail and drops down onto the dock. He lands without a single sound, stepping deliberately into the Cleric’s personal space.
The tiefling leans down just a fraction, his slit pupils locking dead onto the Clerics eyes. “Though I suppose I could make time for the local authorities,” he purrs and the cleric immediately deflates. A single, clawed finger reaches out to lightly tap the human's chest plate. “Must get terribly hot under all this iron, Urthguard.”
Snell watches the human stare up at the tiefling, the aggressive, coiled tension draining completely out of him.
"Right," the Cleric says. He swallows hard, the commanding tone in his voice completely evaporated. "Right. The authorities. We... are them. Yes."
The tiefling raises a single eyebrow, his tail giving a slow, amused flick.
The Cleric blinks rapidly. He slowly turns his head toward Snell and leans down, though nowhere near enough to conceal the loud, urgent whisper that follows.
"Snell," the Cleric breathes, sounding completely awe-struck. "Snell, I think I like men."
He stares at the side of the human’s helmet. For a fleeting, desperate moment, Snell prays to a god, whichever one of them really, for a sudden sinkhole to swallow him whole. When the ground remains stubbornly solid, he settles for pinching the bridge of his nose, aggressively massaging an incoming migraine.
The tiefling doesn't even try to hide his amusement. A low rumbling chuckle vibrates in his chest.
"Well, congratulations on the epiphany, Cleric," the tiefling drawls with absolute delight. "It is always a pleasure to broaden the horizons of the locals.”
Deciding that his partner is now functionally useless, Snell steps forward, physically wedging himself between the human and the tiefling. "Transit papers," he demands. His voice is flat and bureaucratic. "Now. Before I arrest you both for causing me personal distress."
The tiefling’s smirk only widens, but he slowly reaches into one of his pouches. “Oh, I can assure you they are perfectly valid.”
He extracts a neatly folded transit permit and hands it down to him. Snell reviews it with practiced, cynical efficiency. He checks the watermarks, the magistrate's seal, and the dates, but there isn't a single discrepancy to exploit.
"They're fine," He says, handing the parchment back.
"Naturally." The tiefling slips the papers away with that same languid grace. He turns to leave, but lets his gaze drag slowly up the Cleric's heavy, armored frame one last time.
"Good luck, Urthguard," the tiefling murmurs, his voice cutting easily through the dockyard noise. He doesn't so much as spare a glance for Snell. With a brief, lazy salute of two clawed fingers, he saunters away, and melts into the crowd.
Snell glances sideways. The Cleric is rooted to the spot, staring after the retreating trader in profound, stunned silence.
Personally, Snell finds the whole display somewhat distasteful, but he’s had his fair share of dealing with sultry tieflings, so he can't blame the human too much. It would have been nice to ask at least one question about the actual investigation, but what is done is done.
He waits for a full minute. A passing dockworker carrying a crate of salted fish bumps hard against the Cleric's shoulder, mutters a curse, and skirts around them. The human doesn't even blink.
"Cleric?" Snell finally prompts, snapping his fingers to urge the human into motion.
The Cleric blinks slowly. "Are all tieflings like this?"
"Smug bastards?" Snell offers, already turning to head back down the pier. "Often. It's something of a cultural staple."
"No." The Cleric's voice is hushed, carrying the heavy weight of a profound philosophical discovery. "I meant hot."
Snell bites the inside of his cheek, hard, and deliberately turns his face toward the murky water of the harbor, trying to stifle a laugh. "Ah." He clears his throat, painstakingly regaining his composure. "Then, yes. That is generally the baseline."
“And his shirt…”
"Well, I wouldn't call ten loose leather straps a shirt, per se," Snell points out, letting a dry sigh slip out. "Seems like a severe workplace hazard in a busy port. But yes, he wore it well. Now, can we please get back to work?"
As they head back into the city, his companion is uncharacteristically silent. Snell imagines a thousand new thoughts bouncing around inside the human's helmet, hitting the metal with a hollow thunk.
Snell sees no reason why the revelation of the Cleric’s sexuality should matter to him. Frankly, it comes as no surprise. As if the man hadn’t relentlessly flirted, called Snell ‘pretty boy,’ and then asked to sleep in his bed the very first day they met. Not to mention the dozen other comments Snell has been deliberately, aggressively ignoring ever since.
As much as he detests emotional discussions, there is one question he is absolutely itching to ask.
“Did you really figure out you like men just now?”
The Cleric stops walking. He turns to look at Snell, the tilt of his helmet conveying deep, genuine bewilderment. "What do you mean?" He gestures vaguely back toward the docks. "Did you see the size of him? The... the fangs?"
“I would think after years in the Towers, you have seen plenty of men.” As far as Snell knows, it is an institution composed entirely of men. Just the thought of it sends a shiver down his spine. It must have been hellish.
“Human men. Some dwarves.” The Cleric waves a dismissive hand. “I don’t think I like those.” He looks at Snell, then down at himself, and then back to Snell. “Do you think I should get one of those strappy leather shirts?”
"I am going to walk into the sea," Snell informs him calmly, turning on his heel to resume the trek toward the city centre.
Day 4 - Dusk
The sunset paints the seafoam in bruised purples and warm oranges. A few giant gulls perch on the slick rocks, staring off into the horizon and squawking sporadically.
Snell knows this view from the edge of Waterlane like the back of his own hand. He wonders if the tea shop owner is already out there, bobbing on the waves, off to who knows where. When Snell was younger, he had also wished to leave Tolstad behind. Then life happened, and now he is as rooted here as the old tree in the goblin garden.
They sit on a stone ledge, nothing but the frothy sea beneath their dangling feet. The wind carries up a stray mist of sea spray, and Snell absentmindedly licks the salt from his lips. It tastes like cold brine and incoming rain. Next to him, Ragn is humming a quiet, clumsy tune that Snell doesn’t recognize.
When did I start referring to him by his actual name? Snell asks himself. In the past days he’s heard him call himself a mage, wizard, druid, rogue, but to Snell all of these have melted into the name Ragn. Only four days, and the formal title of Cleric has slipped away in the privacy of Snell’s own mind.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Ragn. The man is a walking contradiction. He possesses the raw strength to tear apart esoteric wards with his bare hands, yet he sulks like a kicked puppy and has public existential crises every hour. Strong, but utterly pathetic.
Snell exhales a slow breath into the evening chill, feeling a distinct, sinking ache in his chest. He knows, with terrifying certainty, that he is going to fall in love with this massive disaster of a man. It is a landslide waiting to happen.
But he can't let himself slip. Not yet.
He tightens his grip on the rough stone beneath him, and lets the cold seep into his fingers. The image of His Lady flashes into his mind, complete with her fiery, expectant gaze. He feels the crushing weight of the bureaucracy, that paperthin line that keeps his tribe from devolving back into a gang, settle firmly onto his shoulders. He has a job to do.
The humming suddenly stops. Ragn leans back on his palms, the metal on him clinking sharply against the stone ledge.
"Do you think we'll actually solve it?" Ragn asks quietly, his voice lacking any of its usual bravado. He stares out at the dark water. "In time, I mean. Before the Freestriders take over, or before someone else gets hurt."
The dark silhouette of the ruined tea shop looms in his mind. "We have to.” It’s as simple as that.
Ragn pulls his knees up slightly, shrinking into himself despite his big frame. He picks at a frayed stitch on his cloak.
"I don't know what I'm doing here, Snell," Ragn confesses, the words spilling out like a fractured dam. "I think I try too hard. How I look, what I do, what I'm saying. I’m not good at following orders, that's why I got sent here, as a disciplinary action."
Snell’s heart gives a traitorous, entirely unprofessional ache. The urge to reach out is almost overwhelming. Not yet, Snell reminds himself. Hold the line.
"A disciplinary action?" Snell repeats. A dry, genuine huff of laughter escapes him. He bumps his shoulder lightly against Ragn’s. "Ragn, look around. If you were actually good at following orders, you would have lost your mind dealing with this on day one."
Ragn stops picking at his cloak. He turns his head slightly, the metallic clink of his armor sounding a little less heavy than before.
“You have an abysmal track record with basic social cues, and you definitely are a kleptomaniac, ”Snell continues, letting a bit of fondness seep into his tone. "Tolstad doesn't need another puppet who plays by the rules," Snell tells him, looking back out at the bruised sky. "The rules here are written in red tape and designed to make us fail. We need someone who isn't afraid to be loud and break things. So, please, keep trying too hard."
The crashing of the waves fills the space between them for a long moment then a chuckle finally vibrates in Ragn's chest, the sound warm and grounding in the evening air. The oppressive weight around him seems to lift, just a little.
"Thank you, Snell," he murmurs, the words soft and hushed.
Snell clears his throat, acutely aware of how dangerously close he is to slipping. He reaches into his satchel, rummages past a stack of transit forms, and pulls out a slightly bruised red apple. He holds it out.
"Ten minutes," Snell says, his voice returning to its familiar rhythm. "We sit here for exactly ten more minutes, and then we go back to work."
Ragn takes the apple. His gloved hands hesitate for a second. Then, with a heavy, metallic scrape, he reaches up to unlatch the clasps at his throat. He pulls the heavy iron helmet off, setting it on the stone between them.
Snell’s breath catches. It is the first time he has actually seen the man beneath the armour.
And Ragn is just that – a man. Messy hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, tired eyes squinting against the stinging coastal wind, and a sharp jaw working as he takes a quiet bite of the apple. It is painfully, remarkably ordinary.
Day ??? - Night
Currently Tolstad is not a single, solid place. With the clerks sequestered away, counting slips of paper behind locked doors, the city has ceased to exist in a fixed state. It is trapped in the dark of the ballot boxes, suspended between a dozen contradictory futures. Until the final tally is announced, Tolstad is simultaneously functioning and burning, saved and completely doomed. Every tick of a charcoal pencil collapses one reality and breathes life into another – some better, but most considerably worse.
In his apartment, Snell finds himself in the exact same state. The past day has felt like a year, which is entirely possible considering that time in the pillar passes differently. Until he has the energy to turn the events over every possible way in his head, he is stuck in a limbo of uncertainty. But that will have to wait. For now, a shower.
He showers in a desultory haze, his mind wandering as he faces the blank white tiles and scrubs his hair. He is due for a haircut.
He throws on a worn, oversized shirt and a pair of loose trousers, desperate to shed the rigidity of the day. He is just reaching for the kettle when three heavy, metallic thuds rattle his front door.
Snell pauses. He contemplates ignoring it, pretending he has already dissolved into the mattress. But the knock comes again, polite but carrying the unmistakable weight of a battering ram.
He unlocks the door and pulls it open.
In the dimly lit street stands Ragn. The coastal drizzle has plastered his hair to his forehead. He is holding his heavy helmet tucked under one arm like a metal pumpkin. Without it, the intimidating Urthguard is completely gone. It’s just Ragn – tired eyes, wet hair, and an uncertain set to his jaw.
"What are you doing here?" Snell asks, staring.
"I had to talk to a few more people down by the plaza," Ragn says, shifting his weight. The chainmail chinks softly. "I'm done for the day."
Snell waits, leaning against the doorframe.
Ragn looks down at his boots. "It's a long way back to the North Wall. I don't think I have the energy to bike back. Can I stay the night?"
Snell stares at him, his tired brain snagging on a single, absurd detail. "You commute on a bicycle?"
"It is a very sturdy bicycle," Ragn defends quietly, looking genuinely self-conscious. "And you have a very plush mattress."
Snell feels the last, fraying threads of his self-restraint threatening to snap. He lets out a long, exhausted sigh and steps back, pulling the door open wider. "Ragn, If you try to tell me we need to share body heat for survival, I am making you sleep on the floor."
"Not gonna," Ragn promises earnestly.
He steps inside and sets his helmet down on the small table by the door, the metal grinding heavily against the wood. When he turns back, he doesn't move further into the room. He just stands there in the narrow entryway, looking down at Snell.
"How are you holding up?" Snell asks, crossing his arms to keep himself from reaching out.
"I don't know." Ragn rubs the back of his neck, looking around the apartment like it’s a sanctuary. "I feel like I'm stumbling in the dark. And with Urth and everything… I don’t know what I’m gonna do."
Snell stares at a frayed thread on his sleeve. He feels tired just listening to him. But underneath the exhaustion, inconveniently, he feels fiercely protective.
"I can’t promise it will be fine." Snell murmurs. "But I will help, Ragn."
Ragn takes a step closer. The sheer warmth of him is a physical pressure in the room. He looks down at Snell, the faint light of the lantern on the stairs catching his eyes. He looks smitten. Utterly, helplessly lost.
"I like it when you say my name," Ragn says, his voice dropping to a rough whisper.
Snell feels a sudden, violent tug in his gut. His pulse hammers beneath his skin. “Are you here to seduce me?”
"Is it working?"
Snell swallows hard. He is standing too close. The smell of rain, cold iron, and warm skin is completely short-circuiting his brain. "I didn't think you were capable of this much forethought."
"I'm not." Ragn gives him a crooked, devastatingly sincere smile. "I don't know what I'm doing. But you're the only thing in this entire city that actually makes sense to me."
And that is too much for Snell. The absolute, unfiltered earnestness of it is too much for his exhausted heart to handle.
Snell reaches out, grabs the tunic on Ragn's chest, and mutters, "Shut up." When Ragn's mouth parts in surprise, Snell grips the leather tighter. "Please, just shut up, Ragn."
The line snaps. Snell pulls him down, and Ragn practically melts into the hold, wrapping his arms around Snell’s waist. The kiss is a desperate collision, the heat of it crushing. There is no turning back now. Snell’s hands find the wet hair at the nape of Ragn's neck, pulling him closer until the chainmail bites into his chest.
Snell breaks the kiss just enough to breathe, his voice dark. "You have no idea, the things I want to do to you."
Ragn’s breath hitches. His grip tightens. "I'll let you."
The same darkness as the night before, the same darkness as the next night, and the night after it. They don't need to see, and they don't need to talk. They are just here, now, and outside the city is just there, too. Tolstad keeps marching on under the rain, suspended in its terrible limbo. With every passing minute behind locked doors, futures are made and unmade. The city holds its breath, waiting for tomorrow.