Badges

Twelve girls sat in a semicircle on itchy, scratchy carpet in the center of a poorly lit room that smelled faintly of pickled onions. Each of them looked about ready to shriek with excitement, a trait they all shared though they did not yet know it. Agatha would, over the course of the coming decade, come to loathe it when little girls shrieked.

Today was the day she first realized simply how much she hated the sound.

Even before she opened her mouth to introduce herself, the room vibrated with that unchecked, shrill intensity. “Good evening, girls. Welcome to your first meeting as Dungeon Scouts—” It was over before it began, the floodgates opening at once and despite being perfect strangers, every last one of them let out a blood-chilling scream of excitement.

The gnomish woman, typically so poised — an absolutely upstanding member of Rookery society — felt her perfect veneer crack, if only for an instant. It physically pained her to bite back the bile in her throat, waiting for them to quiet down, her eyes narrowed thin, brows knitted together, mouth pursed, jaw clenched. “Yes,” she said, nearly dropping the facade. “Yes, yes. It’s very exciting indeed. But it’s important you let your Scoutmaster finish her sentences before talking over her, hm?”

They apologized, flustered and overwhelmed and red-faced the way little girls tended to be, and while she did not believe any of the little hellspawn to be truly capable of remorse and reflection, she pinched a smile back onto her face and nodded in recognition of it. “I am Miss Agatha. I’ll be your scoutmaster. How exciting that we finally have a troop of our own here in the Rookery, hm?”

Thoroughly scolded, the girls struggled to respond in any one uniform way. Some giggled, others chimed in with a yes, one shrieked but a quick, sharp look from Agatha was enough to stifle it before it made her too cross. “Today is a very special day, as you’re all going to be earning your first badge as members of the Dungeon Scouts. Over the coming months — years, even — you will be awarded these badges to show your merit and accomplishment. Of course, none of you have truly accomplished anything yet, but…” She clapped her hands together, a saccharine laugh that masked the rot in her heart a little while longer. “To make a good first impression, one must earn the First Impressions Badge! Let’s start with you…”

She deliberated looked to the one who had shrieked the second time: a little bird whose plumage was larger than she was, lost in the white ruffle of her feathers. The owlet squawked in excitement and sat up straight. “Hello! Hi! Hullo! I’m Owlivia, and—” It was going to be a long few years, Agatha realized, massaging the bridge of her nose. She’d have to make sure that one quit immediately.

Eleven girls remained six months later, which according to every metric listed in the Dungeon Scoutmaster’s Guidebook was far better retention than was expected. Agatha did not doubt this was due to her spellbinding influence and charms, but truthfully she was a little annoyed. Annoyed that she still had to deal with eleven of the little shits even as they geared up for the midwinter festivities. Annoyed that she hadn’t gotten any of the promised clout and riches owed her. But mostly…

“Miss Agatha! Miss Agatha! Look! Look!”

Mostly, she was annoyed Owlivia wasn’t the one who quit. If anything, the little bird persisted better than the others, unflinching in the face of indifference and naive to the pain of abhorrence.

Agatha gave herself a moment to compose herself before turning, unblinking, face contorted into some strange, grandmotherly mix of curiosity and the gentlest, faintest whiff of impatience. “Owlivia. Indoor voice.”

Owlivia nearly tripped over her own two feet. The owlet was certainly not clumsy, but in her excitement she tended to lose track of herself and wind up with her body ahead of where her brain expected her to be. “Oh. Yes. Sorry, Miss Agatha. But look—” Two feathery hands were shoved in Agatha’s face, only a few inches taller than the girl at this point, causing the scoutmaster to recoil half a step to avoid sneezing from the down. “I did it! I think I can finally get the Macaroni Handicraft Badge.”

In her hands was the single worst excuse for a macaroni handicraft that Agatha had ever seen. It was truly impressive how Owlivia Roost seemed capable of lowering the bar for herself at every opportunity. Still, Agatha clapped her hands together and whispered a quiet ‘oh my goodness!’. Even that pained her as she took the small threaded necklace and examined it more closely. Each piece of macaroni was ever so slightly crushed. The clasp hadn’t been properly affixed. Even the string, which Agatha assumed had been procured from her specially-marked craft supply bin, somehow seemed not up to the task of holding up the necklace’s weight.

“It’s lovely,” she lied. “But I think we should consult the Dungeon Scoutmaster’s Guidebook, shall we?”

It took every restrained not to toss the rubbish in the bin as they crossed toward her small desk, where Agatha set it down next to the book and opened the heavy covers a little too harshly. The sound of the crunch was deadly, followed by an uncomfortable silence. “Miss Agatha—!” began Owlivia’s protests, but the troop leader was already feigning upset of her own.

“Oh, dear! I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Let’s make sure it isn’t—” She pulled the cover back, revealing crushed macaroni and the shattered hopes and dreams of a young child. “Oh, my. It’s broken. You’ll have to make another.”

“But…”

Agatha tutted, shaking her head. “I’m afraid the rules are very clear,” she explained. “Only unbroken pieces may be submitted for approval for any badge. Perhaps you can try again next week, or…”

Owlivia shook her head. “No, I think I’ll try something else. This badge is getting on my nerves.” She ruffled her feathers in a huff and stomped away without another word, leaving Agatha alone again, enjoying the silence suddenly afforded her.

Once certain she was alone, she swirled her hand in the air, gesturing vaguely to the area where Owlivia stood. Where there had just been nothing, suddenly a small, glowing gray orb hovered in the air, solid enough for the scoutmaster to snatch it. “This will do nicely,” she hummed to herself, looking over the sphere: as gray as broken desires, as dark as her wicked heart.

She brought it closer to her mouth and devoured that little sliver of Owlivia’s soul, and for her troubles, Agatha Whirlseed sneezed louder than she ever had done before. “Damned bird,” she hissed. “Always setting off my allergies.”

Ten months in, only ten remained in the little cohort Agatha had created. This time it was a weak-willed crybaby whose parents had been more trouble than they were worth, and Agatha had not-so-subtly suggested their presence was creating a hostile environment for the children. Somehow, the other parents had come to agree with the Scoutmaster, and they were summarily removed from the roster.

Despite herself, Agatha hadn’t strong-armed Owlivia from the group. Her little soul was too scrumptious, too easily broken, to give up. Such an easy source of such delectable quintessence, she would be foolish to turn away a free meal. Not when her pockets were still empty, despite the windfall the fortune teller at the teahouse had promised her.

“Today,” she stated plainly, overseeing the assortment of scouts sitting restlessly as ever. “We will be earning a very special badge. The Silent Reading Time badge, in fact.”

“Um, Miss Agatha?” It was Heidi Smashmouth who rose her hand and spoke without being called on. Strange, for the skittish half-orc who was twice her size yet with half the presence.

“Yes?” she asked through a curt sneer that none of them caught on to.

“I didn’t bring a book to read.”

Agatha sighed through her nostrils. “It was in the packet sent home last week,” she pointed out. “Did you not share it with your parents? They should sent you with something.”

Heidi sniffed. “Yeah.”

“Yes,” Agatha corrected swiftly, Heidi winced in response. “If you don’t have a book, then you won’t be able to earn the badge, I’m afraid.”

“Is there a Silent Sitting Time badge?” Heidi questioned, the disappointment clear in her voice. She was behind on badges — they all were, but she seemed to take it the hardest when she saw how empty her sash was compared to the others.

“I’m afraid not.”

Dejected, Heidi bowed her head and silently vowed to remain silent anyway. Confused by the interaction, the other girls spread apart and collected their books from their bags to start their process. One of the girls — a soft-eyed earth genasi named Coy, who figured herself the leader of the pack due to being a little older than the others — approached Heidi and put a comforting hand on her back. “Here,” she whispered. “I brought a couple books. I couldn’t decide.”

Almost as quickly as Heidi’s mood shifted back to excitement, it came crashing back down to earth. “There is absolutely not speaking allowed during Silent Reading time,” Agatha called, voice carrying over the near-silence of the room. “Miss Smashmouth, Miss Sharpe? I’m afraid you have no earned the badge this week.” A collective groan carried over the other girls, clearly upset on behalf of their friends. “And it appears the rest of you wish to join them. Very well. No badges for any of you.”

“That hardly seems—” Coy began, but a stern, wide-eyed stare from Agatha stopped her short, lowering her voice and turning away with crossed arms and hunched shoulders. “Wicked witch.”

Agatha watched Coy intently, her nails digging into her arms as she thought about how much trouble she would be in for humiliating a child using the pillory in front of Stormcaller Keep.

Nine weeks in a row, not a single badge had been earned by Dungeon Scout Troop no. 432. No reports had been made to head office, either, and the auditing department simply assumed they had ceased operations. But Agatha was determined to keep the charade up a little while longer, even at the cost of having to spend even more time with those horrible little children.

The fortune teller had said charity would be the key to her greatness, and riches would surely follow her in kind. Agatha was a Scout, back when she was a girl. There seemed no easier way to accrue the goodwill of the people than to supervise, teach, and discipline their children. She simply hadn’t anticipated that being exalted to the status of a community leader would take quite so long.

Eight minutes before the annual general meeting, Coy Sharpe cornered Agatha as she checked her hair in a mirror and readied herself for the presentation to follow. The girl moved quietly and quickly, catching the Scoutmaster unaware and prompting a most unbecoming yelp of surprise.

“Hm,” was all Coy said as she watched Agatha struggle to compose herself, spinning on her heel. “Interesting.”

The venom on Agatha’s tongue betrayed every attempt she’d made to bury this part of herself for a more wholesome facade. “What is it you find interesting, Miss Sharpe?” Judging by her reaction — widened eyes and a half-step away from the Scoutmaster — Coy had not been expecting that. It gave her a split-second opportunity to course correct: to calm her voice, to regain her composure, and to move on without too much focus on her outburst. “I’m sorry, you startled me.”

Coy’s eyes were sharp as her name, and even at ten she was incredibly bright. Disarmingly so. Agatha preferred to keep her at arm’s length, because there were times she talked in circles so effectively that the gnome felt dizzy after a simple conversation. Being cornered like this, even if she was a child, threw her entirely off balance.

“Nothing,” Coy said. Agatha smiled, and quirked a brow, trying to silently press for elaboration. Coy broke into a grin, her feet starting to move before her mouth even began to speak. “I thought witches’ reflections didn’t show in mirrors, that’s all!”

She was gone before Agatha could grab her by the collar and make her rue the decision to mock her. Left before was a little, sickly pebble of gray sludge that floated. A little fear. Just a morsel of it, and it was growing smaller each time they interacted.

Agatha snarled, devouring it despite the dismal portion. “Idiot girl,” she hissed, turning back to the mirror to adjust the gray hair atop her head. “That’s vampires.”

Seven girls made through the summer, and no new recruits seemed willing to join. By now, it was simply a matter of the sunk-cost fallacy. The girls weren’t making progress, but their parents had been convinced to pay for lifetime membership into the club. Perhaps not the windfall that Agatha hoped for, but still a pretty penny to line her coffers.

“Miss Whirlseed—” One of the more problematic parents had assembled the others at the tail-end of the weekly meeting, eliminating any chance at Agatha enjoying her favourite part of the day: the quiet moments after pick-up time and locking up and returning to her home. She stared deadpan into the eyes of the busybody, refusing to give even an inch of a smile. “We’d like to speak with you.”

“By all means, dear,” she answered, that sickly sweet voice venomous on her tongue. “Whatever seems to be the issue?”

That simple trick always seemed to unsettle them. All she needed to do was play up the image they had of her in their heads — the frail, feeble, kindly matron — and they immediately forgot their frustrations. “Well,” she continued, following a clearing of her throat. “Beza and Farrow said they didn’t get a badge again this week. Said you had forgotten to tell them it was a salmonberry pie-baking badge, but it was actually for troutberry.”

“Ah, yes.”

The mother stared at her. “It hardly seems… fair.”

Her eyes narrowed. Not in the cruel way she did when frustrated, but the artificial way they would when she pretended to be really, truly listening to their concerns and weighing them against her heart. In truth, she was counting down the seconds until she could be rid of them all for another week. “I understand. And in truth, it pained me to even tell the girls that, but the rules are rules and—”

“You’re the Scoutmaster,” the mother interrupted. Agatha hated being interrupted, almost as much as she hated the shrieking of little girls. “You can simply bend the rules.”

With a tut, Agatha shook her head and began to slip past the barrage of parents. Only one dared to speak. The others had been cowed in to follow her, but they knew better than to outright question her decisions. “And what sort of lesson would that be to teach your girls, madam?” she questioned, scarcely looking over her shoulder to dignify such a thing with a response. “I’m sorry, but I don’t believe that your daughters still have a place with us, knowing their mother’s propensity for dishonesty. Have a wonderful evening.”

Two birds, one stone.

She could only wished the girls had been here to hear it. The dregs left behind of their spirit would have been a wonderful nightcap to the evening’s festivity.

Six months later, Agatha opted to pay another visit to the Fortune Teller. She had no love for the Jade Sunset — tea was bitter and turned to ash in her mouth, and the place had the stink of primal magic that merely reminded her of broken pacts and failed study.

But there was no denying the skill with which Leticia Whalen could divine the future, regardless of her methodology. She was a master of the Ferox Obscura, of tasseomancy, even palmistry. The woman had a gift, and her last set of predictions — while not entirely proven false — were eluding her, nearly two and a half years in. She had amassed a small pile of gold, certainly enough to live happily from, yet she was not pleased with it.

She had been promised riches and a legacy. All she got was riches and a headache.

“There’s no mistake,” Leticia hummed while spinning the emptied cup of tea to loosen the few remaining dregs at the bottom of the mug. “Much has changed since you were last here.” The old gnomish woman cracked a smile, her pink hair tied back into an ornately braided bun. Agatha resented much of what Leticia represented. Gnomes had a stereotype that they were always smiling and happy-go-lucky, and that could not be further from the truth.

“Positively?” Agatha questioned, briefly pushing aside her dislike for the woman seated across from her. “Good news, I hope.”

Leticia hummed, squinting into the mug, which had large splotched of loose leaves scattered about the porcelain. “It says you’ve fulfilled your heart’s desire,” she noted. “What a heartwarming thing to hear. If I remember, I last predicted great fortune in your future. Has helping those darling Dungeon Scouts given you fulfillment?”

It took all she had not to laugh in the face of the prospect. “Oh my, yes,” she lied through gritted teeth, stained yellow from the tea. “Though I would not say my heart’s desire has been met. Are you absolutely certain?”

With a quick nod, Leticia pivoted the cup in her hands and took another examination of it. “Yes, there’s no mistaking it. Tell me, dear, have you ever heard the story of the Fool-King of Sharaz?”

“I can’t say I have.”

Another nod, and Leticia set the mug down. Her kind, caring eyes amplified behind her spectacles. She reached out to grasp Agatha’s hands, prompting the woman to recoil slightly, but she did not pull out of the touch. “It’s an old story, one about a man who likely never existed. They say that Sharaz was a city burdened by its wealth. They had produced such fertile crops, and such prized wines and oils, that their coffers overflowed with coin. He had everything he could possibly want.”

Seemed like a nice life, Agatha mused. The sort she wished she had achieved by now.

“But he was blinded by his greed. He was determined to only do better the following harvest, and he pushed his people to produce another record crop. Toiled them to death in pursuit of another windfall.” Her gaze softened, and Agatha was quick to realize the implication being explained to her. “That second year, however, was plagued by a dry spell the likes of which Andeve had never seen, and in the blistering sun the crops were overrun by desperate vermin in search of food.”

“And let me guess,” Agatha practically spat, finally drawing her hands away and back into her lap. “The King never again grew a crop nearly as grand, and his people floundered, and he was dubbed the Fool-King for his arrogance?”

Leticia’s head tilted to the side. “No, dear,” she responded with a soothing calm. “He was called the Fool-King because he attempted to sail into the Manastorm. He apologized to his people, and swore to invest in their livelihood using what remained of their fortune. It was his investment into his farmers that allowed the irrigation systems Sharaz still uses today to be implemented in the fields, allowing the region to prosper further.”

There was a lesson to be learned form this, Agatha was certain. In a huff, she collected her purse and climbed out of her chair to storm from the establishment, nose turned up at the rest of the clientele. Fools, all of them. Leticia Whalen was nothing but a crack-pot moralist who tried to trick hard-working folks into giving her money for peace of mind. Had she been a better con-artist, Agatha might have chosen to go down that line of work. As it was, she didn’t have neither the charm nor social graces to pull it off.

“Rum, dear?” Leticia called out as the woman left the shop, her son coming obediently to her side. “Wash this cup out for me, will you? It reeks of hagraven influence, and you know how such things stain the porcelain.”

Five scouts assembled not in the slowly dilapidating building that comprised their clubhouse, but in the lot just behind it under the shade of a sturdy old oak tree. The acorns had begun to drop from the branches, and Heidi Smashmouth crushed them between her fingers to access the seed within, handing them out to the others to snack on.

Coy had invited more — she’d invited all of them, even the girls who had only been there a month or two, back when they’d first started. It was difficult to stay in touch with everyone, but she’d done her best once she realized that Agatha had been deliberately trying to push people out. Nobody else came except the five remaining Dungeon Scouts, and even that was proving to be a hard sell.

“I don’t want to make her angry,” one of them argued. “She’s yelled at me so much already. My mom doesn’t even want me to keep coming.”

“Yeah,” said another — a dwarven girl whose beard was just starting to grow in. “Ever since she said… you know…” She waved her hands a little dismissively, the hurt clear on her face. “My parents think they can get their money back. I don’t really want to mess that up.”

She was frustrated, but Coy understood. She nodded, and gave them both permission to desert their posts, watching as they scampered off to the main street, never looking back at the place that had been their terrible home away from home for the better part of two years. “Well, girls… looks like it’s just us.”

She looked down at her feet, then glanced toward Heidi, who smiled at her. Then to Owlivia, whose feathers had properly grown in, though in this moment they were ruffled. “I knew it!” she squawked. “I knew it would come down to us three.”

“You did?” Heidi asked, getting a squeal in response.

Not the best troops she could have asked for, but certainly the best troop. Coy wished she had a couple more willing hands to help in what she had planned, but if anyone in the group could pull it off, it was the three of them. Coy was sneaky, but Heidi could break into a bank vault without being seen. Coy was clever, but Owlivia possessed a mind so devious and conniving that it could put a despot king’s to shame. They picked up her slack, and she could take the fall.

It was the perfect plan, really. The girls had everything to gain, and Coy had nothing to lose. If they pulled this off, it would be the greatest heist in the history of the Dungeon Scouts. Sure, Coy would probably get sent to some juvenile detention facility in Hierarchy territory for it, but she didn’t care. Owlivia had made some beautiful macaroni handicraft, and Heidi’s troutberry pie was delicious. The best she’d ever had.

She was going to get those badges if it was the last thing she did.

Four days later, everything was in position. They’d spent all their free time going over it again and again. Heidi crushed acorns to keep her strength up, and Owlivia picked over every last detail to discover any redundancies or oversights they might have forgotten. All the pieces had been put in place, all they needed to do was strike while the iron was hot.

They arrived an hour early to the headquarters, finding the door unlocked. That might’ve once made Coy suspicious, but now it only meant that Agatha had stopped worrying about keeping up appearances. It was clear she didn’t care about this place, that she didn’t care about her scouts. That veneer had been slipping just as long as the charade began, but it was impossible to prove because she had once been so desperate to keep the act up. Now she couldn’t even lock a door to give the illusion of care.

“Ready, girls?” Coy asked, slipping between a narrow crack in the door and the threshold. Two grunts of agreement echoed behind her, with Heidi gently shutting it behind them as they clustered in the dark foyer.

There was a small, almost impossible, chance that Agatha was already there considering the unlocked door, but Coy knew the Scoutmaster’s routine better than she knew her own. She wouldn’t arrive until a few minutes before the meeting was set to begin, always in a rush and apologizing for the delay, blaming everyone but herself when Coy knew full-well she wasn’t leaving her house until the absolute last minute.

They had time. They had cause. They knew where the badges were kept. They had two sets of lockpicks and more glitter than was probably legal. It was time to take back what was theirs.

“Okay,” she said, spinning on her heel to look back at her co-conspirators, who watched her with adoration and mischief in equal measure. “Then tonight we liberate ourselves from oppressive tyranny and take back our freedom!”

Heidi furrowed her brow, and Owlivia clucked in confusion.

“Tonight…” Coy repeated, barely holding back her laughter. “We send this witch back from the swamp she crawled out of.”

“Three… two…”

Thunk.

Unlike the front door, the door to Agatha’s office was locked. Of course it was. Not an unexpected snag, but certainly an unwelcome one. Coy stepped aside and Owlivia unwrapped the thieves tools they’d acquired from a particularly shady-looking halfling down on the docks, while Heidi stepped forward and squeezed one eye shut to better her depth perception as she peered into the mechanism of the keyhole.

“Um,” she began, furrowing her brow. “The little one, and the one shaped like the letter L. And one of you is going to have to hold the door in place, the latch is a little loose.” Both sprung into action, Coy tugging on the shut door and Owlivia procuring the tools, watching the master at work.

She took her time. Master was a bit of an exaggeration — Heidi was still very much a novice, but she was something of a prodigy at making doors open. They’d been practicing on a lockbox they pulled from the harbour a few months back, feeling for the mechanism and the release, and she was getting good at it.

“No rush,” Owlivia said, but the panic in her voice was growing. Even more than Heidi, she was afraid of getting caught. Her parents had asked her to keep out of trouble, and the latest threat was being sent back to Tyrafin if she wasn’t better behaved. “But I think I HEAR FOOTSTEPS COMING, ACK—”

Coy pivoted to keep one hand tugging on the door, the other to cover the owlet’s beak and silence her. Even Heidi stopped mid-pick, listening intently.

Not footsteps, but a hand rumbling the doorknob in the distance. Coy’s eyes flicked to Heidi, who started desperately trying to return get the lock picked. Coy moved carefully, hands balling into fists to scrunch up around Heidi’s collar and Owlivia’s sash, and she gave a quick, protective tug. “Hide,” she hissed. “Now.”

The trio scampered further down the hall, behind a corner at the perfect angle to peek around for a better view. They made it just in time, as footsteps did indeed echo down the corridor and Agatha Whirlseed’s short figure appeared as a silhouette in the dark. She was moving quickly — almost desperate — as she hurried to the door they had seconds ago been attempting to break into, hands shaking as she lifted a key to slip into the lock.

“Finally,” she whispered to herself, the excitement carrying her voice down the hallway. “Finally, finally, finally!” She pushed the door open hard enough for it to smack against the inner wall, but she ignored the outburst and practically ran into her office.

Coy raised a finger to Owlivia and Heidi before risking a few steps back out into the hallway. They silently protested her, but she was out of reach before they could take hold of her arm and pull her back in. The genasi crept across the gap toward the far wall, and carefully walked alongside it to get closer and closer to the door. She caught the glimpse of terror and panic in the eyes of her friends, and she returned it with a confident smile, hoping it could assuage their fears.

She winked at her troop and — before she could raise a finger to her lips — vanished. It was an old trick, one of the few things she remembered being taught by her parents. Blending into the stone walls and the heart of the stone. She still stood there, visible with just enough effort, but with how distracted Agatha seemed, she felt confident in taking a few quiet steps into the office.

Already the room had been thrown into disarray. Agatha stood at her desk tossing aside anything that wasn’t the token of her obsession. Coy watched curiously from the doorway, risking a few more quick steps in and out of the way. The gnome appeared to be in a cold sweat, shaking with either excitement or fear — judging by the unnaturally wide smile plastered on her wrinkled face, likely the former. She reached into drawer after drawer, tearing out the belongings. Beads and stickers and thread and pencils all tossed aside from the craft bin, paperwork and the thick stitching of badges blanketed the floor around her like the glitter-bomb they had planned to plant.

“Where is it?” she growled, crouching down to double-check the underside of the desktop itself. “Those damned, ungrateful little wretches… one of them has been snooping around in my office. Moving things around.”

Coy smirked. Guilty as charged.

“When I get my hands on that whelp, I’ll…” She stopped short, glancing up with quick, precise movements. Her neck snapped and her chin rotated with a swiftness and angular precision that Coy had only ever seen on Owlivia. It’s funny — before now, she had never noticed just how bird-like the Scoutmaster was. The hook of her nose resembled a beak, her eyes were dark and beady. Coy was so distracted, she didn’t realize that Agatha was looking right at her. “Oh, you think you’re clever, do you? Thinking that because I can’t see you, that I can’t smell the fear that sweats off your skin? You might be clever, little worm, but you aren’t more clever than I am.”

Coy’s pulse began to race, and she quickly looked in every direction, hoping to find an exit, but none was as direct as the door. As she bolted in its direction, Agatha did as well. They nearly crashed at impact, Coy made it first but Agatha was close enough to dig sharp claws into the genasi’s skin and drag her back. “Where is the book?” she hissed, directly into Coy’s ear despite the few inches of height difference. Agatha was deceptively strong and had successfully pushed Coy down onto her knees to settle the balance.

“Which—”

“The Scoutmaster’s Guidebook.” The simple statement hushed into her ear sent a chill down Coy’s spine, and her panic began to set in. She kicked against the ground and tried to winch her way out of the hold. “I know you have it, I can taste it in your fear. Give it to me, brat, or this won’t end well for you or—”

A blood-curdling shriek sounded out the door and Agatha’s reaction was quick and visceral. She pulled her talons from Coy’s shoulders to reflexively cover her ears, giving a brief opportunity to get to her feet. Not enough time to flee, but that wasn’t the intention. Down the hall, Owlivia charged forward with Heidi right on her heel, gripping tightly to a small cannon in her hands. She’d spent a week perfecting the design of this gadget, and she was more than excited to get to use it herself, rather than leaving it rigged in the desk for a surprise down the line. “Let her go! Let her go! LET HER GO!”

She skidded to a halt in the doorway and pulled back on the trigger mechanism. Glitter exploded — little pieces of shiny shrapnel, cut and formed lovingly by hand by the trio during a sleepover the night before — in every direction, though most seemed to shoot directly into Agatha’s face and her confused, agape mouth. Buffeted back by the impact, Coy slipped beneath Agatha’s grip into the open arms of her friends, who pulled her in for a tight, desperate hug. “We need to run. Now.”

They had only made it a few steps before Agatha recovered, and her picture-perfect image melted away as her face twisted and contorted to better match her ugly insides. The transformation had been made complete: no longer a simple gnomish witch, but a full-blooded hagraven sworn to the dark magics which she’d sold herself to. She floated a foot off the ground, crackling with magical energy, chasing them down as stray eldritch blasts and witch bolts were slung from her fingertips.

“Girls…” she cackled, voice echoing loudly, booming through the halls. “Give Mother Agatha her grimoire and she won’t hurt you… much.”

In the end, it was not their cunning or bravery, their careful planning or even their quick feet which rescued them. It was a much simpler, much more primal gift: three voices shrieking in unison, solidifying their fear into something much more solid and tangible than the little globules of it that Agatha satiated herself on. When they screamed, it rattled the very fiber of the hag’s being. She stopped to drown it out, to fight back, but she could not. She hated that sound, she hated their voices and their choir. It distracted her enough that they reached the door and exited into freedom, into the streets where she could not follow. Not without repercussion.

Clear of the voices, she hit the ground with a thud and cursed them all. Cursed the girls, the fortune teller, the people of the Rookery, all of them. She had been promised so much, and so little had manifested. Now that the disguise has slipped, it would be next to impossible to replace it. She did not have much time now, she needed to go. Though she was not sure where, she suspected it would lead her into the Alderwood — back toward the hag who had first offered her this pact.

Without a grimoire in hand, she was not certain how kind a welcome she would receive, but there was little place left to hide.

She let out a scream of her own, guttural and primal, that shook the floorboards beneath her as she collected what paltry belongings she still had to her name, and absconded into the dark.

One look at the marks and Coy knew they’d hit the jackpot. They wandered The Rookery like tourists, wide-eyed and eager to do anything they could to help. She’d nudged Heidi in their direction earlier, watched as they went to hunt ghost sounds in the basement of the church. Part of that had been selfish: she thought maybe that was where Agatha was hiding out, but with that theory scratched she knew that their former Scoutmaster had likely headed for the Alderwood.

“We’re looking for sponsorship,” she said with a wide, genuine smile. Marks might have been too hard a word. That’s what they were, but they seemed like decent folk. A little strange, but nothing was stranger than the hag who had been using them for nefarious purpose for the past few years. “If you’re interested…”

To her surprise, it worked. Two of them were eager to help, and another one of her little plans seemed to be coming together. With the promise made to reconvene in the morning for the joining ceremony, Coy said goodbye to her girls and made for ‘home’. Once Owlivia and Heidi splintered off and could no longer see her, she turned on her heel, hands stuffed into her pockets as she wandered the Roost for nearly an hour, waiting for the sun to begin setting over the city.

She broke into a sprint once the sky was painted orange, practically leaping into the Pine Wards, where she could see the ripple of the Arcane Sea in the distance. She waved to a handful of fisherman she had known for years but moved past them down toward the shore, where her proper home was. A little oak tree overlooking the water nestled just above a long-abandoned burrow, likely carved out by a badger or a particularly fat rabbit.

Slipping into her hidey-hole, she slung off her bag and stuffed it into the far end of the dugout. If everything went well, she’d be out of here sooner or later. She saw an opportunity, and far be it from Turquoise Sharpe to squander one of those.

With a contented smile, she made herself comfortable and nudged aside a small pile of sticks and rocks, revealing her hiding place within her hiding place. Nothing terribly valuable had been stuffed into the hole: a few meager gold coins, a bronze ring she’d been given by her mother, and a book. A thick, green-and-brown tome she’d nicked a few months back, not a day before Agatha’s untimely disappearance.

The Dungeon Scoutmaster’s Guidebook was heavy in her hands. Mostly intact, too — one page was torn out, the one that listed the ingredients to the famed eponymous cookie — but otherwise in mint condition. She hadn’t told the girls she took it, not after Agatha had made such a scene to try to get it back. What had she called it, again? A grimoire? Coy wasn’t sure what that meant, but it sounded to her like there was more to the old book than met the eye — and she hadn’t met a secret she didn’t want to solve. She turned the page of the witch’s spellbook, clutched close to her body as she curled up to read for the night.

Finally, after months of searching, her eye caught a strange sigil scribbled into the margins of the book. Her eyes traced the shape, and her mouth sounded out a word she had not heard before, nor could she remember ever reading. The spark of arcanum that followed, sharp and invigorating and terrifying all at once, stole Coy’s breath.

When she turned the page again, it was not the protocol for sleepaway camps that met her gaze, but a warning. Reading another witch’s grimoire was dangerous, after all, and even magic that chaotic did not wish to be wielded irresponsibly.

Hand shaking, Coy reached back into her hidey-hole and pulled out a small pencil. Eyes reflecting the arcane glow of the text, she scribbled a line through some of the text, and quickly wrote in a note of her own.