Fortune favors the wise, and there was nothing wise about stepping into trouble. As the heavy wooden door swings shut behind him, Jareth gets splashed with an air of spilled ale, sweat, and the hum of low conversation. Dim light flickered from a few hanging lanterns, casting long shadows across the crowded room. He gazes over the place, lingering on the flicker of dice tumbling across scarred wooden tables, coins clinking in greedy hands. Shadows clung to roughened faces, eyes darting to cards and wagers with fevered intensity. Amid the murmur of low voices and the scrape of chairs, no one lifted their head, too consumed by their own vices to notice another set of footsteps crossing the threshold.
He hesitated, adjusting the hem of his cloak as he continued to scan the room. His fingers brushed the note in his pocket, crumpled from being read and re-read as if it would suddenly make sense. But no. There was no hint of who sent it, no signature, nothing. He had encountered his share of scrawled, difficult-to-decipher tomes before, but this riddle, inked in jagged, hurried strokes. It offered no explanation, only a time and a vague hint of a promise of something worth his while.
Why here of all places? he muttered under his breath, his lips curling down. The clamor of dice rattling across worn tables and the uproarious laughter that spilled from shadowy corners clashed with the silent order he was accustomed to. This wasn’t the measured calm of a Circle meeting hall or the hushed reverence of a grand library. This was a den of chaos, and trickery , where often coin decided who held power.
Well, Jareth sighed, glancing around once more with a raised brow, might as well try and get comfortable…
Jareth moves further into the room, trying to shake off the unease crawling up his spine. He eased onto a worn barstool, the creaking of the seat barely audible. Leaning forward, he tapped the bar with a coin, drawing the attention of a tall and strong looking woman.
"What can I get you?" she asked, her voice sharp.
Um— a bit of water is fine, Jareth replied, his discomfort evident.
The woman raised an eyebrow. "You came to the Rogue's fortune for water? If that's what you want, you can throw yourself into the river!"
Jareth's mouth dropped slightly in alarm. He hadn’t intended to draw any attention. I'll take whatever you recommend, he said quickly, just—
"Coming right up," she interrupted, her tone softening as she turned to fetch his drink.
Jareth watched her go, her departure marked by a soft creak of the floor. He let out a slow breath, his shoulders relaxing as the tension eased from his posture.
As Jareth seemed to let his guard down slightly, a shadow seemed to detach itself from the far corner of the room, moving with deliberate grace. Ailwin emerged from the darkness, his sharp eyes assessing the scene with cold precision. The din of the tavern seemed to fade around him, as if the very air respected his presence, shrinking back from his approach.
He slid onto the stool beside Jareth without so much as a whisper, his movement seamless and practised. Ailwin’s presence was subtle yet commanding, the kind that made people glance twice, wondering if they had truly seen anything at all. He waited until the barkeep returned, setting a dark, amber drink in front of Jareth with a small, almost conspiratorial smile.
When she retreated, Ailwin finally spoke, his voice a low murmur barely rising above the ambient noise. Rogue’s Fortune doesn’t seem like your kind of haunt. His tone was smooth, and measured, carrying the weight of someone accustomed to control. Don’t feel obligated to drink that, or pay for it, consider it on the house, and I’m sure if I ask nicely Elwina here would love to get you a glass of water. Elwina off to the side sighed a bit, but since Ailwin was one of her bosses, she wasn’t about to say no.
You must be Jareth, Ailwin continued, a slight smirk playing on his lips. I’ve been looking forward to this meeting.
His eyes flicked around the tavern, the steady hum of voices and clinking glasses dulling his senses. Even the poor of sight would notice how this man did not belong. Shoulders dropped, exhaling soon after but not of relief, of tiredness. The energy of it all seemed like too much for him, not used to the noise and crowd. He shifted in his seat, feeling the weight of his own body pressing down.
As he let his guard drop, something stirred in the corner of his eye. A shadow peeled away, almost unnoticed except for a slight shift in the tavern’s atmosphere. Jareth’s eyes narrowed as Ailwin appeared, his presence barely making a sound. Instinctively, Jareth's muscles tensed, his fingers twitching as if ready to summon a barrier at the slightest provocation.
Jareth didn’t acknowledge him at first, his focus sharpening on the strange, deliberate nature of the encounter. The drink placed before him—a dark amber liquid—caught his attention for only a second before his mind returned to the man at his side.
The mage's eyes remained forward, though his posture shifted slightly, his body still and controlled. He didn’t reach for the drink. Instead, he considered the stranger’s tone, the careful way he seemed to test the waters, as if gauging how much Jareth knew or didn’t know. He didn’t trust him, why should he?
I didn’t come for drinks, Jareth replied impassively, his voice edged with impatience.
Ailwin’s smirk barely registered with Jareth; he was more focused on the undercurrents of the conversation. He wasn’t here to make friends, and whoever had sent for him clearly wanted something more than just a pleasant chat. Why would anyone summon a mage if it's not for trouble?
Jareth finally turned his gaze toward him, meeting his eyes with cold precision. The one and the same, He replied to the man, his tone flat, uninviting.
I wish I could say the same, he muttered, though his tone made it clear he had no such desire."
Now tell me why I’m here. He spoke soon after tossing the peculiar letter he had received, the inked parchment sliding briefly toward the elf.
The tavern’s noise swelled around them, but for Jareth, the world had narrowed down to the figure beside him and the unanswered questions squeezing his throat.
Ailwin’s fingers toyed with the parchment before setting it back down on the bar with a faint smirk, his eyes glinting with a hint of mischief as he settled comfortably back into his seat.
You don’t need to be on edge, Jareth, he said, his voice carrying just a trace of amusement. Believe it or not, you’re here because we’ve got something you’d want to know. Valuable information. Word is, you’ve been looking for… answers. A few puzzle pieces, maybe. Well, I’ve got them. But like anything worth a damn in this city, they’re not exactly free.
He paused, letting that sink in, watching Jareth’s expression shift between guarded curiosity and irritation. Then he continued, his voice smooth, direct.
You’ve got talents we need for a little job, something that requires a... delicate touch and someone who knows their way around a spell or two. Complete the task for us, and this information is yours. Ailwin’s gaze narrowed, assessing. Consider it a fair trade. You get answers, and we get your help—clean and simple.
Unease coiled in his stomach like a tightening noose, a visceral reminder of just how out of place he felt. The noise—laughter, shouts, the clattering of glasses—washed over him in waves, drowning out his thoughts and making his heart race with each clamor. Jareth's gaze darted to the barkeep, Thank you, he said with a genuine smile before snapping back to Ailwin. His grin dropped to pursing lips. He knew better than to trust a stranger, but the promise of answers gnawed at him like an itch he couldn't scratch.
He eyed the dark amber liquid before him, the drink shimmering in the dim light. Strong drinks had never been his style, but the rich scent of the liquor mingling with the stale air of the tavern tempted him. Maybe just a taste to dull the senses a bit- he thought. He took a deep breath, raised the glass slightly, and examined how the light caught its surface. And yet, he set it down again, making it clear that he had no intention of indulging.
Not yet, anyhow…
Leaning back in his seat, he let the tension in his shoulders ease ever so slightly. Charming, yes. So tell me, stranger, how do I know what you’ve got is worth my time? he quipped, his voice dripping with skepticism. Because right now, it’s looking a lot like you’re just playing a game. He replied, his expression resolute. Clearly, he won't be so easily swayed.
Jareth leaned forward, locking eyes with the man.
Magic surged from the mage, causing his eyes to glow briefly with the same intensity as a dragon's fire. And I’m not much of a gambler to put my life on play. A terrifying calm smile rested on his face as he waited for this—shadow, to reply.
Ailwin leaned forward, the flickering lantern light catching his face and casting an eerie gleam in his eyes. He looked calm, unfazed by the mage’s fierce glow. If anything, Jareth’s display seemed to amuse him, like watching a promising but unrefined piece of weaponry.
Fortune favors the wise, they say, Ailwin murmured, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. But stepping into trouble without knowing the full score? That’s not exactly wise, is it?
His gaze dropped to the necklace resting against Jareth’s chest, noting the glint of the sigil etched into it. Ailwin tilted his head ever so slightly, the expression on his face carrying a faint, almost invisible note of pity.
That necklace, he said, his voice as soft as a threat whispered in a dark alley, that’s worth more than you probably realize. In fact, if you knew what it meant, you’d understand why this conversation is long overdue. He let his words hang in the air, inviting Jareth to question, to push, but not giving more. Not yet.
Ailwin slid the note back across the bar, his fingertips lingering for a moment. So no, this isn’t a game. Though, I’ll admit, it’d be a lot more interesting if you treated it like one. He chuckled, a low, dry sound, the kind that suggested he was used to higher stakes than the odd barroom job. I don’t give information away for free. But trust me, if I wanted to waste your time, I’d be in a much better place than this, he gestured around at the murky tavern, and so would you.
He leaned back, still watching Jareth, gauging his reaction as if every flicker of his expression was another piece of the puzzle.
Now, you can try to piece together why your mother wasn’t supposed to leave the way she did… or you can take my offer. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll understand that sigil’s importance before you do something unwise.
He clutched the pendant, fingers tracing its edges, as if summoning some hidden strength from within. His lips moved in silent prayer, each word a whispered offering to the fates. After all these fruitless paths and hollow leads—this was it. A sign, at last. But at what cost? And would he have the courage to face it when the time came?
He bit his lip, a pause that held the weight of a thousand second thoughts, then downed the drink in one searing gulp. It burned through him, steadying the chill that lingered deep within.
Maybe I’m not in the habit of paying for words that circle like a hawk but never dive, he said, voice low, tempered with a calm defiance. But if this—he tapped the necklace, the metal a cold reminder beneath his fingers—is worth as much as you say, then it seems you’re holding back something you’re not ready to offer, either.
He leaned forward, voice steady, gaze unwavering. So let’s hear it, Shadow. What is the price that must be paid?
Ailwin’s eyes sparked with something sharp and calculating, like a flint catching fire. He tilted his head, studying Jareth with the patience of a predator measuring the strength of its prey. The tavern’s noise seemed to dim even further as the tension thickened between them.
There it is, Ailwin said, voice as smooth and cool as polished stone. The right question at last. The price, my dear mage, is exactly what I said—a touch of finesse, a whisper of magic at a place where secrets dance with lies. He folded his hands, fingers laced with a confidence that bordered on arrogance. A party in the Grand Quarter, masquerade attire mandatory. Nobles milling about, masks hiding their true faces, but you, Jareth... you’ll find that not all of them are there for harmless chatter and sips of fine wine.
He leaned in, the distance between them shrinking to a thread. One guest in particular will be there, carrying something we need. I’ll spare you the theatrics—it’s a key. Not just any key, mind you, but one that opens a vault older than any Circle archive, full of treasures and truths that you wouldn’t dare dream of. Ailwin’s eyes narrowed, the ghost of a smile lingering. And I need you to be the shadow that moves unnoticed, weaving spells that only a mage like you can manage. Retrieve it for us, and the knowledge you seek is yours. Every answer, every hidden meaning locked behind that little trinket you hold so dearly.
Ailwin’s voice softened, but the weight of it hit like a storm. So, Jareth... are you willing to trade a night of deception for the truths you've chased for so long?
He reclined again, fingers tapping the bar as if the silence that followed was simply another part of the game.
Hunched over the bar, a tumbler of amber liquid swirling idly in his hand. His reflection stared back at him from the mirror behind the bottles—a face weathered and shadowed, eyes sunken with the weight of choices that never felt like his own. The air around him seemed hefty, stifling, as if the very world pressed against his chest.
The ice clinked softly against the glass as his fingers tightened, not in anger, but in resignation. He could feel it again—the pull. An invisible tether coiled around his soul, dragging him toward the inevitable.
A bad deed for a sliver of hope? He stared at the liquor as if it might offer counsel, but it only gleamed cold and indifferent.
Fine—I'll play the part, but don’t mistake my steps for willing ones, he murmured, his voice low as if confessing. The amber liquid in the glass before him caught the light. He lifted it with steady hands, though his fingers clenched the rim as if holding something far heavier.
A chain may glitter, but it still binds. Without hesitation, he tipped it back, the burn searing his throat, a poor match for the fire kindling in his chest. When the glass hit the table again, empty save for the echo of his decision, he exhaled slowly.
Ailwin’s smirk widened ever so slightly as Jareth’s words settled between them. The mage’s reluctant surrender wasn’t unexpected; in fact, it was precisely what he had counted on. Every crack in the façade, every hesitation, was another step closer to the outcome he’d already envisioned.
He straightened, tugging his cloak tighter against the chill that seemed to creep through the room despite the raucous warmth of the tavern. His voice came softer this time, low and measured, a final turn of the screw.
There’s something you should understand before you make up your mind entirely, mage, Ailwin began, his gaze flicking briefly to the necklace still clutched in Jareth’s hand. That key I mentioned—it doesn’t just unlock a vault of riches or dusty secrets. It unlocks *our* history. My people’s history. The Elvhen.
He straightened, eyes narrowing with something far deeper than the cool detachment he had shown before. This time, his words carried a simmering anger, tempered into razor precision.
Centuries ago, before humans claimed these lands as their own, the artefact tied to that key belonged to the Elvhen. A relic of power and memory, a piece of what was taken when humans decided their dominion was worth more than our lives. His fingers tapped the bar with deliberate slowness, his tone darkening. They stole our homes, our lands, our gods. And now they lock away what little remains, as if keeping it from us could erase the truth of what they’ve done.
Ailwin’s lips pressed into a thin line before he continued, his voice sharp, a blade slipping between armor. The one who holds it now—a noble whose blood is soaked in corruption—is no different from the ones who took everything in the first place. You think I’m asking you to steal something? No. I’m asking you to *return* it. To help right a theft that has lingered far too long unchecked.
The elf let his words settle for a beat, watching Jareth’s reaction like a predator gauging the strength of its prey. Then, his voice softened, though the steel beneath remained.
You may not care about the Elvhen. I wouldn’t expect you to. But you care about that necklace, don’t you? And the questions gnawing at you from every shadow you’ve turned away from? Well, this is your chance. You help us reclaim what’s ours, and I’ll make sure you get the answers you need.
He leaned back, his earlier smirk returning, but this time it carried less mischief and more grim determination. That’s the truth of it, mage. This isn’t just a heist. It’s justice, plain and simple. So tell me—are you willing to be part of something that matters? Or will you keep chasing your tail in circles, hoping the answers fall into your lap?
