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Chapter Text

Feeling better (and less tense) after his evening with Vax, Gilmore took a long soak in the bath before turning in. When he crawled into bed, it was still before dawn. Lockheed joined him on the pillow, grumping softly that Gilmore had left it, and making biscuits in the fabric with its claws, lightly shredding to get its point across. Gilmore petted Lockheed and rolled over to sleep.

He hadn’t meant to sleep long; just long enough to get his spells back and a bit of beauty rest. But the sun was bright through the windows when Gilmore was awakened by a furious bang of a Teleportation spell. He blinked against the light, trying to identify the two figures now standing in his bedroom. 

But Raishan began to yell even before his eyes adjusted to the light. “Your suicidal pet ants are in the elemental plane of fire, traveling to the City of Brass! Do something! We won’t be able to take Thordak down without them!”

“What?” Gilmore blinked, trying to wrap his sleep-addled mind around what she’d just said. 

“Hello, my brother,” a much gentler voice greeted him in Marquesian. 

“Assum?” Gilmore had to double check he’d worn something to bed before he rose to greet his old friend. When Gilmore ran over to embrace him, Assum looked older, more gaunt, and worn. The scars on his face and the side of his head were just as Raishan had portrayed them in her disguise. That was a shock. 

“I wish we could be meeting again under more auspicious circumstances.” Assum smiled.

Gilmore clasped his arms. “It is good to see you again, my brother.” 

“How touching,” Raishan snarled. “What are you going to do about your pet ants?” 

Gilmore took a deep breath and sighed. “I'll go. I’m not sure I’ll be able to convince them to return right away.” They surely had a strong reason for going, if they’d chosen to make the journey now. “But at least I can keep them alive and free of captivity until they see fit to return.” 

“Then I suggest you do so,” Raishan snapped. “And quickly.” 

Gilmore clasped Assum’s hand. “My apologies.” 

“This is understood,” Assum replied, nodding. “We will make your excuses here.” 

“Thank you. Tell General Howarth…” Damn. Assum didn’t know anything of Jarett. “I’ll make contact with him as soon as I’m able.” And he would have to leave Sherri a note as well, with instructions for taking care of Lockheed while he was away. 

Assum nodded, but Raishan had no patience left. “They’re approaching the city gates now!”

 “If you’ll excuse me,” Gilmore said, and ran to his desk to write a letter. But whom could he trust to protect Vox Machina until Gilmore arrived? There were several preparations he would have to make before going to the fire plane. This was no quick visit. Gilmore was almost too distracted to see Raishan and Assum leave. 

There were so few truly kind souls in the City of Brass these days. And fewer still with status who owed Gilmore a favour... Senokir. They’d rewarded the imperial jeweler and his wife with their own storefront for their service. Gilmore did not know the genasi intimately, but well enough to have assessed the measure of his character. He might just do this. 

Gilmore dashed off a letter:

To Our Respected Friend Senokir,

We are in dire need of a favour, and are prepared to richly compensate your service in this matter. At this moment, a very vulnerable extraplanar party of our acquaintance is preparing to enter the City of Brass for the first time. They are ignorant to the nature of the city and its laws, and we fear they will fall victim to any number of enterprising individuals should they proceed unaccompanied. 

We humbly beg that you should escort them to a safe location immediately and watch over them until we arrive. We expect to be in residence at the winter palace before midday, and will contact you upon our arrival. 

With Eternal Gratitude,

The Illustrious Beloved First Consort of J’mon Sa Ord
His Imperial Highness
Consort Zaahir Shaun, The Glorious

Just the act of writing his titles made Gilmore's fingers hurt. But if there was any time to weaponize his status, it was now. Gilmore never used the royal we, but here it left just enough uncertainty that he might be speaking both for himself as well as the emperor, which could not hurt to give gravitas to his request. He quickly sealed the parchment and spoke the incantation to send it directly into the hands of the jeweler. 

While he waited for a reply, Gilmore teleported to his lair to make preparations for his journey to the elemental plane of fire. He kept his imperial jewelry and garments all together in one wardrobe, so they were easy enough to find. The hard bit was timeshifting his human form so that Gilmore would look as he had when the servants at the winter palace--and the City of Brass itself--had seen him last. Unfortunately, this wasn’t a “come as you are” occasion. 

Gilmore was steeling himself against the pain when a reply arrived from the City of Brass.

To My Most Esteemed Lord 
Your Majesty,

I would be deeply honored to perform this service for you. Uten, my new partner, and I will attend to it immediately. We eagerly await your return to the winter palace.

Your Humble Servant,
Senokir Suutan of the Flame Garden

Well, good. Then perhaps Vox Machina stood a chance. Gilmore resisted the urge to scry on them and see just how bad it was. Instead, he focused his energy on de-aging his human body, screaming his way through the transformation until it was complete. Fortunately, there was no one to hear but himself. 

*

The Soul’s imperial winter palace had stood in the City of Brass since its founding. Where the Cerulean Palace in Ank’Harel had been cast in cool oceanic sky tones of sapphire and amethyst, the winter palace matched the plane on which it had been built. Ruby and brass, fuchsia tourmalines and tiger’s eyes, citrines and amber graced its high walls, and its glittering golden domes were studded with gems the size of a human head, the scale of the structure making them look like the distant pinpricks of stars in the eternally blazing sky of the City of Brass. 

Gilmore appeared in the Teleportation Circle located just within the private imperial quarters. Walking was difficult, at first. Gilmore had lost over a hundred pounds and more than a foot of height in the de-aging process, and felt more like a newborn foal than a human as he propelled himself forward. 

There were no servants in the private quarters while the imperial family was away. But the palace was fully staffed at all times. Gilmore threw open the doors and rang for his attendants. If he was to succeed today, he needed to look his part. And the first consort could not be expected to dress and coif himself.

It felt good to be spoiled. Gilmore watched in the ten foot mirror as a small army of attendants rebraided his hair, washed and perfumed his skin, manicured and applied henna to his hands and feet, and carefully painted his face. He inhaled deeply before releasing some of the tension in his breath. This was shamefully self-indulgent. And heavenly. 

But he couldn’t let it distract from the reason he’d come. The last time Gilmore had scried, Vox Machina had conned and bribed their way through the city gates, and Senokir was on his way to intercept them. Hopefully by the time Gilmore made it to the Flame Garden, they would all be waiting there for him. But he couldn’t dawdle; Gilmore knew the genasi wouldn’t be able to keep Vox Machina in one place for long. 

It was then, looking the most extravagant he had in a very long time, that Gilmore’s procession made its way through the City of Brass, moving down the high street along the canal. Gilmore’s hair was braided just to the crown of his head, where his luscious braidout fell in ebony waves past his shoulders, continuing in an unbroken line down his back almost to his hips. He wore enough gold chain in successive rows from his neck to his navel that the individual necklaces formed a chest piece that completely obscured his skin except a bit at his waist and hips. 

Billowing gauze sleeves were suspended between the torques on his upper arms and the gold bands at his wrists like a fragmented dream of a shirt, leaving his umber shoulders bare. At his hips, a wide, ornate gold belt obscured the knot of his long sirwal, the cuffs embroidered with tiny rubies in an intricate pattern that disappeared behind a multitude of ankle bracelets. 

And no one was going to see any of it, for the imperial palanquin had heavy curtains meant to hide away the Soul’s most prized possessions. It was infuriating. Gilmore hadn’t put this much effort into his appearance not to be seen! When they reached the storefront, he signalled to the litter bearers to put him down. 

Gilmore emerged from his gilded cage, a gold cloth bisht drawn over his bare shoulders. As he stepped forward, footmen dashed in to lift his emerging goldscale train so that it did not drag in the street. Gilmore appreciated it, not so much because he was concerned about his clothing touching the ground--he was barefoot, after all--but it was very heavy, and any help bearing the weight was appreciated. As he glanced around, Gilmore noticed that scores of citizens had stopped to stare at his little retinue, and him most of all. He was very tempted to turn and offer a royal wave, but he knew better. If he was seen at all, protocol was not to acknowledge any of his onlookers. 

He waited a few feet from the door as one of the footmen stepped forward and rang the bell. The wait was longer than he would have liked. After several minutes, the door buzzed, allowing Gilmore entry. He took his two most trusted handmaidens with him, and left the other servants outside to wait and stand guard. 

He was relieved to find Senokir behind the counter. “My dear friend,” Gilmore greeted him with a smile. “I am pleased to see you.” 

Senokir came around the counter to offer Gilmore a deep bow. “Your majesty. I am honored to receive you in my establishment.” 

“Please accept my condolences on the passing of your beloved Zaafin. I was grieved to hear of your loss.”

“Thank you, your majesty.” Senokir bowed again. “Your sincerity and kindness have always been to your credit.” 

It was hard to see someone he’d known for so long without a proper plebeian greeting. Gilmore didn’t like not being able to touch people, to kiss and hug them the way he’d been free to do living as a common man. Knowing these ceremonial pleasantries could go on for many minutes, Gilmore cut to the point, impatient to hear news of Vox Machina. “And my friends?” he asked. “I trust you were able to keep them out of trouble?” 

“Just barely,” Senokir said with his eerie smile. “They seem determined to throw themselves into the path of danger.” 

“Oh dear. Have they already set off on a quest?” Gilmore didn’t know what they were doing down here, but he felt certain they had some reason for coming. 

“Not quite,” Senokir said. “They have asked to be escorted to the houses of the remaining un-subjugated fire giants. Of course I told them they would have to appear in appropriate attire.” 

Gilmore turned his head and gave the genasi a knowing look and a smirk. “You’re having them clap themselves in irons, aren’t you? You naughty man!” 

Senokir giggled. “It seemed the best disguise. But one of them has created a genasi illusion for herself, and another has a legendary ring of invisibility.” 

Oh, lovely. “That will be my Vax’ildan,” Gilmore said. “He has sticky fingers, so keep an eye on him as you move through the city. I would hate for him to be picked up by the Illuminated for stealing the wrong purse.”

“Noted,” Senokir replied. “And may I ask what you will be doing as we make these visits, your highness?” 

“Oh, I’ll be following as closely as I may,” Gilmore said. “Which isn’t very. But of course I’ll do what I can to keep all of you safe.”  

“Thank you, your majesty.” The genasi bowed again. “I should probably return to...” He cast a nervous look back toward the smithy. 

“Of course,” Gilmore said. “I am in your debt. Thank you again for doing me this service.” 

“Actually,” Senokir turned back to him. “I think this might be enjoyable.” And he offered a mild smile. 

“Let us hope so,” Gilmore said, knowing full well the chaos and mayhem Vox Machina were capable of stirring up.

Chapter Text

Back inside the “safety” of his palanquin, Gilmore instructed the litter bearers to follow a discreet distance behind Senokir and his party as they emerged from the back of the Flame Garden. Gilmore counted each one of Vox Machina to make sure they were all accounted for. Keyleth was the one who had disguised herself as a genasi, perhaps simply because she had the power to do so. And Vax’ildan followed beside his sister, invisible, as Senokir had said. 

Vax seemed bored, alternating between harassing his twin and making faces and rude gestures at the passers-by, either assuring himself that his invisibility was working, or just generally being a dick. Knowing his Vax’ildan, either was just as likely. 

Gilmore tried to relax and enjoy the delightful weather. But it was difficult. He had to watch for any parties showing interest in the mortals and gauge their threat level. For the most part, Senokir’s plan seemed to be working. There was just the occasional efreet that Gilmore had to order one of his guards to encourage along their way. 

As lovely as the pyreducts and canals their current path followed were, the modern city depressed Gilmore. The City of Brass had once been a wonder of the worlds, a place of joy and celebration, a metropolis of opulence and luxury. Since the Grand Sultan of the Efreet had allowed the embassy to be built, things had deteriorated significantly. Enslaved peoples were everywhere now, being carted to auction, or flaunted by wealthy and powerful ‘owners’ in the streets. 

Gilmore had begged J’mon to vote against allowing the Nine Hells to use the city as one of their places of operation outside the Abyss, but they had insisted that, so long as the Fiendish Cohort obeyed the law, there was nothing to worry about. Now look what the city had become. It was more of an outpost of the Abyss than the jewel of the fire plane it had once been. Some even called it the Tenth Hell now. Heartbreaking and shameful; mortifying. 

He sighed and tried to focus on other things. Senokir was acting as tour guide to Vox Machina as they passed monuments of interest through the city. He seemed to be enjoying playing their master, though he was by far the kindest master on the streets, holding their chains slack and speaking to them respectfully and unthreatening as they walked. 

Senokir and Gilmore both watched as Vax’ildan performed a rogueish feat, walking backwards in pace with his sister while he picked the locks on her shackles. Showoff.

Upon his success, Vax leapt away from his twin, middle fingers raised, shouting, “Twins, motherfucker!” Did he not understand that invisibility did not make one inaudible? Gilmore chuckled. It had been impressive, but still. Wholly unnecessary. Clearly Vox Machina did not trust Senokir or his companion to set them free once the disguise became unnecessary. 

They turned down the Street of Artisans, and Gilmore’s retinue followed. He watched them stop at the Zenith Forge and begin arguing amongst themselves about how to proceed. Apparently they’d come to the fire elemental plane to find something--another Vestige, perhaps. While they made a mild spectacle of themselves, Gilmore asked that the guards clear the vicinity and beckoned the Lord Chamberlain of the Winter Palace, whom he’d brought along for just such an occasion. The elderly dragonborn drew close to the curtain, but kept his eyes tastefully averted. “Ardesius, be a dear and refresh my memory on what occurred with the fire giant uprising while I was away?” 

The Lord Chamberlain gave Gilmore the abbreviated version, ending with the information that Whaska alone now owned the Zenith Forge. The name sounded familiar to Gilmore, but he had never met the giant. Certainly any fire giant was formidable, much less one who had betrayed his entire race. “Thank you, Lord Chamberlain,” Gilmore said. “You’ve been most helpful.” 

Vox Machina was still discussing what to do, and Gilmore overheard Grog say the word “Dawnmartyr”. An object for a paladin, then. Not surprising that it had made its way here to the City of Brass, though likely bad news for the wielder, if it had stayed. 

Finally, Senokir led the bound children into the forge, and Gilmore became nervous. It didn’t seem safe to leave them in there alone, even with Senokir and his friend chaperoning. Two to seven  was bad odds, given Vox Machina’s usual levels of foolishness. Gilmore cast Invisibility on himself and ordered the servants to wait here. He struggled to unfasten his train before hopping down from the palanquin to follow Vox Machina inside. There was no point being invisible if you dragged and clanked. It was difficult enough not to jingle with all of his gold jewelry, but Gilmore had practiced stealth wearing those for decades. 

He entered the forge just in time to hear Keyleth offer the most awkward, inappropriate, ill-timed greeting perhaps ever issued to a giant of any kind: “Good day, fair Whaska!”

They were doomed.

“Strong Whaska,” Keyleth attempted to correct her mistake. But she was on a roll, proceeding to introduce herself as Keyleth of the Ashari druids despite her disguise. Gilmore rubbed his temples. He felt a migraine coming on, and it wasn’t because his braids were too tight.

Whaska immediately gestured to his apprentices, who quickly began wrapping up their work and leaving. Gods, what were they in for now? Gilmore was glad he’d chosen to follow before the doors were closed behind them. He moved slowly to take cover behind a nearby pillar, in case the giant was able to see through his spell of invisibility. 

Gilmore listened as Keyleth got down to why they had come: “We are in search of a piece of armor; something that holds great weight and many legends behind it.” 

Armor? Now that was interesting. An entire suit of armor left behind in the elemental plane of fire meant there was a very dead paladin somewhere. And likely a formidable enemy they would have to defeat in order to take possession of it. Lovely.

Whaska listened patiently as Keyleth continued: “It was won by a fire giant, as yourself, in a game of cards.”

Gilmore immediately knew which fire giant had the armor. He would have gone to her now, but he didn’t trust Vox Machina to make it out of the Zenith Forge alive, at least not without starting a war. So he stayed, wondering how best to get them out of here in one piece. 

Keyleth was a terrible negotiator. As Gilmore watched, even Vax had to hide his eyes and shake his head from time to time. Hmm. That was tempting, actually. They were both invisible… Gilmore began to tip-toe toward Vax’ildan as the druid begged Senokir for help negotiating. 

While Keyleth was asking Whaska what he might want as payment for the information he had, Gilmore snuck behind Vax’ildan and gently blew in his ear. He started, brushing his hair back and glancing around. Gilmore was leaning in to kiss the pointed tip of Vax’ildan’s ear when he happened to glance up at the giant. Whaska had withdrawn a Spyglass of Truesight from his purse, and was about to use it to look at Vox Machina. 

Panicking, Gilmore ducked quickly behind Grog, hoisting himself up by the goliath’s belt to hide behind Grog’s bulk. If the giant saw Gilmore, he did not mention it. He seemed more interested in the magical artifacts the alleged slaves were wearing. Gilmore pulled himself up by Grog’s shoulders to peer at Whaska. Seeing that he had put the spyglass away again, Gilmore gave Grog a quick peck on the cheek and dropped back down to the ground with a soft jingle. Grog glanced around with a curious look. But, seeing nothing, he shrugged and turned his attention back to the negotiations.   

Percival, too, heard the sound of Gilmore’s landing and turned, his keen eye glancing about. Gilmore froze, hoping that there was not enough of Orthax left in Percy to see the invisible. After a few moments, Percival gave up. But the time had allowed Gilmore to notice something about Percy’s shackles he had not previously seen. The locks, the shackles themselves, and even Percival’s hands were coated in a thin layer of gunpowder. On the fire plane?! Gilmore used Prestidigitation to whisk it away from Percival’s skin and clothing. That could have been truly disastrous. Then, finally, Gilmore turned his attentions back to negotiations as Keyleth struggled to come up with enough magical armor and weapons to tempt the giant. 

Gilmore sighed. This was Vox Machina, they weren’t going to give up any of their good weapons to the armorsmith in exchange for information. Gilmore wondered if he might have something worth bribing the giant with. Back at the palace, he had plenty of items of interest, but that didn’t help them just now. Gilmore took a chance, reaching deep into the satchel of holding concealed in his pocket to see if he might be able to reach something from his hoard. As he fished around, rifling through various treasures by touch, Gilmore watched Vox Machina confer and produce a number of paltry low level enchanted items to offer the giant, who was not impressed. Their second attempt proved even worse. 

“You are to make one more offer,” Whaska told them. “If you do not, I will tell the Illuminated of the dubious outsiders masquerading as servants.” 

The threat of being turned over to the authorities seemed to do the job, because Keyleth panicked, suddenly handing over all of their dragonhide to Whaska, who masked his joy as he accepted the offering. Gilmore withdrew his hand from his pocket, and suppressed a shudder. Just as well they weren’t carrying that grisly trophy around anymore. 

After stowing his new treasure, Whaska returned and told them of the other two free fire giants remaining in the city. Sugan, whom Gilmore remembered as a particularly cruel and shrewd fire giant of high status even in Gilmore’s time, and Juuraiel. 

Juuraiel was famous for her gambling addiction, and Gilmore had already assumed she must be the one who had the plate. He was about to leave to beat Vox Machina to her villa, but then Whaska offered the children a token in case they should run into trouble. Not knowing if the fire giant was trustworthy, Gilmore had to run forward to read it, just to make certain it wasn’t a trap of some kind. 

It wasn’t. Gilmore recognized the large coin as a Token of Allegiance; a calling card forge giants had used many hundreds of years ago. The coin was an artifact in and of itself. Gilmore wanted it for his collection. But for now, he left Vox Machina to struggle with it--a coin to a giant was quite a heavy object for a gnome and a half elf. 

On his way out, Gilmore completed his previous mission, kissing Vax’ildan on the ear. The rogue jumped, having been distracted, eyeing the giant’s purse longingly. Now Vax whirled around, trying to find his unseen assailant. 

Gilmore hurried out to his waiting servants, who had kept the traffic clear of the area while he was gone. “The Smoking Hammer Shrine, if you please,” he told the litter-bearers, once he was back inside. Gilmore didn’t have to tell them to move double-time past the embassy. He prayed quietly until they were well out of sight of the damned place. 

*

They made good time to the villa. At a normal walking pace, Gilmore estimated they were at least half an hour ahead of Vox Machina. He beckoned the imperial messenger. “Please tell the countess I’ve come to call on her.” Then Gilmore waited while the message was passed from servant to servant. Hopefully Juuraiel was not otherwise engaged. Though, if she was too busy to receive him, she would most certainly be too busy to speak with Vox Machina, which would not be the worst outcome. 

But it was mere minutes before the messenger returned, and Gilmore watched the giant door slowly crank open behind him. “The countess would be delighted to receive you, your highness.” 

“Thank you.” Gilmore emerged as before, fully robed and jeweled, making his stately way toward the door, rather more slowly than he might otherwise because of the weight of his train. At the door, Gilmore saw two guards in attendance--also fire giants--and his smiling hostess sitting in an ornate chair she reserved for greeting her more diminutive guests. 

“Juuraiel!” Gilmore cried, crossing the threshold with his arms open in greeting. 

“Your majesty!” She bowed her head, the fiery corkscrew curls of her bangs bouncing with the movement. “What a delightful surprise.” 

Gilmore cast Fly on himself so that he could rise up and give her a kiss on both cheeks. “My dear, how long has it been? It feels like ages!” He drifted down to rest his feet trustingly on the palm of her outstretched hand. 

“Oh, at least twenty years!” she said, rolling her eyes. “And just look at you. How you always manage to look so fresh and young is utterly demoralizing.” 

Gilmore laughed. “It’s all smoke and mirrors, I assure you. Underneath the cosmetic spells, I’m a shriveled hag. But you, my dear countess, you’re positively radiant. Success agrees with you.” 

Juuraiel smiled, carrying him into her study, where she placed Gilmore carefully on her desk as his attendants rushed to keep up. The countess took her own seat and called for some tea. “Let’s not keep our important guest waiting!” she snapped at the guards, who were apparently house servants, as well. 

Gilmore made himself comfortable on the ink blotter, the hips of his de-aged body taking to the lotus position much more easily than those of his usual human form. He glanced back to see his attendants and guards struggling to climb the chair on the opposite side of the desk from his hostess. “I hope you don’t think my compliment insensitive,” Gilmore said, turning back to her. “It grieved me to hear of what happened to poor Guras. What a shock. I thought for certain he’d outlive us all.” 

Juuraiel nodded, and a microexpression of grief crossed her face. “Thank you. So few felt that way after the upset. But I’d never planned to be a widow. I guess no one really does.” 

“No.” Gilmore walked across the desk to pat one of her great hands. “I’m so sorry, my dear. I know nothing I could say will ease the pain.”

“Just knowing that someone cares helps,” she said with a tearful smile. “It’s been very lonely without him.” 

“I can’t even imagine,” Gilmore said, rubbing one of her knuckles, soothingly. The tea came, and Gilmore took his doll-sized cup gratefully. 

“Now tell me,” she said, sitting back and stirring sugar into her own cup, the size of a bathtub. “What brings you to the City of Brass after so long? I don’t flatter myself to think it was just to visit me--though I will happily brag that the emperor’s radiant beloved came to see me first of everyone in the city. How jealous they’ll all be at the grand sultan’s next soiree!” 

They both laughed. “Oh, that’s delicious! Do you think you could convince them we’re having an affair?” Gilmore asked. 

“Oh no.” She wagged a finger at him with a smirk. “I’m not going to risk the emperor’s temper over a rumor--even a tasty one like that.”

Gilmore laughed again. “Do they still come to the winter palace without me, then? I hadn’t heard.” 

“No, not at all,” Juuraiel said. “Everyone knows they built it for you, little firewyrm. But word travels fast--I’m sure a rumor like the one you suggest would reach their ears within a week.” 

Now Gilmore was getting uncomfortable. He didn’t need old acquaintances casually mentioning how much the Soul loved him, not when he was already putting a good deal of effort into resisting the pull to return home. Gilmore sighed. “I suppose so.” 

“Now, that’s enough talk of husbands,” Juuriael said. “Tell me you’re here because of something more interesting than that.” 

“Actually, yes,” Gilmore said, sipping his tea. “I’ve come to ask if you would consider making a trade for one of your treasures.”

Chapter Text

“Oh?” Juuraiel immediately perked up. Her nose for a bargain was keener than Vex’ahlia’s, which was saying something. 

“Yes. You see, I have a group of friends on the prime material plane. They’re preparing to fight an ancient red dragon, and I remembered your collection of fire resistant artifacts. You don’t happen to have anything you might consider parting with, do you?” Gilmore gave Juuraiel nothing as he calmly sipped his tea, watching her. 

“My treasures?” She leaned back in her chair, as if to hide the large collection on display on the wall behind her. “Now, loveling, you know Juuraiel’s collection is not for sale.”

“I do,” Gilmore said, setting down his cup. “That’s why I’m prepared to offer you a trade. You know our collection is much bigger than yours. I’m sure we have at least one thing you might want.” 

She gave him a sly look. “What thing?” 

Gilmore shrugged, the rise and fall of his bare shoulders making the ivory fabric of his sleeves billow. “Anything you like. I’d be happy to give you a personal tour of the palace.” 

“And what do you ask in return?” Her expression was carefully blank, but one of her fingernails began to tap tap tap against the desk. 

Gilmore pretended to peruse the wall of artifacts behind her. “That shield is gorgeous! Is it made of one whole ruby?” 

She smiled, reaching to pluck the long tower shield crested with dancing flames from its mount and push it toward him across the desk. “It is a beauty, isn’t it?” 

Gilmore carefully slid his hands across it, examining the shield in the light. Breathtaking craftsmanship. And the enchantment was masterfully woven in as well, protection and fire resistance. Of course he knew the plate that went with the shield would be of much more practical value to Vox Machina than the shield alone. But it was better not to say which he wanted right away. This was the art of bargaining. “I’m speechless,” Gilmore said, shaking his head and setting the shield down on the desk once more. 

“Small but mighty,” she said, smiling proudly down at it. “This set was one of Guras’ favourites. He never could believe I won it in a single hand of Tinder Start.”

Gilmore waved a hand. “Fiends are notoriously bad at honest games, but even so, you are the luckiest card shark I’ve ever known. Surely Guras recognized that.” 

She smiled, remembering. “He was always jealous, the old lout.” Juuraiel sighed. “I miss the bastard.” 

Gilmore patted her hand again, adding, “Though I suppose, if I were to trade you for the shield, I might as well ask for the full set. It would be a shame to separate them.”

Her eyes narrowed. “True. But if you want both, I want to name my trade.” 

Gilmore nodded. “I said you could--”

“I want the peacock throne. I’ve heard so much about it, but I want to see it for myself.”

Gilmore tried not to choke. “That is not one of the artifacts we keep in the winter palace.” 

“I know.” Juuraiel smiled. “That’s what makes it an interesting trade.” 

“And it’s not mine to trade. The faithful crafted it for the Soul.” The peacock throne was no less than a religious relic in Ank’Harel. What an awful reunion that would be with J’mon: ‘Hello, sweetheart, can I have your throne? I traded it for a suit of armor to help the mortals I’ve been unfaithful to you with. Thanks.’ 

“Then I suppose we don’t have a trade,” the countess said simply, snatching the shield off the desk and hanging it back on the wall. 

“Come now,” Gilmore said. “Surely there’s something else I have that interests you.” 

“Actually,” she said, “I’m very interested in these friends you speak of. They’re preparing for battle on the prime material, you say?” 

“Well…” Gilmore hesitated. “It’s quite possible they’re coming here in search of any helpful artifacts…” 

“Wonderful!” she said, clapping her hands. “Why don’t we wait and see what they might have to offer?” 

Gilmore played with his lower lip, nervously. “If I may be perfectly blunt...they’re not terribly smart. I was hoping to do this for them to save you the trouble.” 

“Trouble? But I love trouble!” she smiled. 

Well, that backfired. What had he gotten them into? “How about this?” Gilmore asked. “I’ll play you a hand of Tinder Start, and if I win, I get the shield in exchange for a trade from the winter palace, as originally offered. And if I lose, I won’t interfere in your dealings with my friends.” 

She leaned forward, scrutinizing him. “You won’t interfere and I get to choose something from the winter palace anyway.” 

“I accept,” Gilmore said, before she could think better of her offer. 

“Very well.” She reached into her desk and brought out her small deck of cards. Gilmore did not ask to look at them. He could have, maybe should have, but he didn’t want to seem rude. And Gilmore did not think she would cheat a friend. 

“May I deal?” he asked. That would prevent certain strategies to play an unfair game. 

Juuraiel nodded. “Please do.”

Gilmore shrank the deck to fit his hands and showed off a few shuffling tricks. Amazing the things one could learn over a few centuries of boredom. Finally, there were three cards face-down in front of each of them, hers back to their original size, and Gilmore’s a size that fit into his hand. 

“Ready?” she asked. Gilmore nodded. 

Juuraiel went first, turning over her first card, showing a five of gems. She glanced coolly at it before placing it to her left. Gilmore revealed his first card. An eight of hearts. Very lucky. He released the breath he’d been holding. 

The giantess rubbed her hands together before turning over her second card. The clack of her rings chafing against one another was a pleasant, metallic, wealthy sort of sound. When she revealed her card, it was another five; a five of spades this time. A single pair was not worth much in the Gambit of Ord, but if her last card was also a five? That would be that. 

As it was, a total of ten was not bad. He already had eight. Could he beat her score? Gilmore laid his palm on top of the next card, closed his eyes, and turned it over. A two of gems. Gods, that was awful. 

Gilmore looked at Juuraiel’s revealed cards again. Ten.  They were even now. If they were playing a normal game, Gilmore would have raised the stakes and asked for a fourth card. But they weren’t. He was gambling with Vox Machina’s safety. 

Gilmore inhaled a deep breath and let it out slowly as she reached for her last card. A three of gems. Very close to a straight; one card from three of a kind. But now it was just thirteen total. Gilmore only needed a four to beat her. 

He placed a hand on his final card, closing his eyes and saying a quiet prayer. Juuraiel laughed. “Prayer won’t help you, little one. This is a game of pure chance!” Gilmore took a deep breath and flipped the card over. Four of hearts. He heaved a sigh of relief. 

Gilmore made sure his expression was blank when he looked up at her. Juuraiel was scowling. She rarely lost, and she hated it. “Two out of three,” she said. “And if you win, you can have both the shield and the armor.” 

“And if I lose?” Gilmore asked. “It seems I’m in a good place now just to leave with the shield.” 

“If you lose two out of three, I give your friends a pass, but I still get my pick of your collection.” 

That sounded fairly safe. The most Gilmore would lose was an item he’d already committed to trade, and the armor, which Vox Machina would likely walk away with if Juuraiel did not play any tricks on them. He didn’t need the shield; though it was lovely, it was far too big for him or any of Vox Machina to use, save perhaps Grog, who gained strength from taking damage. “Very well,” Gilmore said. “I agree.”  

The second hand Juuraiel won. Gilmore could almost have predicted it. He’d had a flush, but no cards worth anything. It had not been a brutal slaying, but not precisely close, either. Gilmore wasn’t worried. Even if he lost, he’d ensured Vox Machina could leave the villa safely, with or without the plate armor. 

Juuraiel’s first card of the third hand was an eight of clubs, and Gilmore’s merely an ace. That was when he began to sweat. He had to remind his brain to stay calm. Perhaps it was his newly-acquired adolescent hormones that were making this so difficult. But even a loss would be a win. Losing did not mean certain death; at least not this time. 

But then Juuraiel revealed her second card to be a three of gems. Much better. At least, until Gilmore revealed a second ace. He stared at the card accusingly. Aces were not high in Tinder Start. There was no hope, now. He glanced up at the giantess, somehow feeling humiliated, even though he knew it was an irrational response. 

“Go ahead,” she smiled. “Turn over your last card.” 

“There’s no point,” Gilmore said, crossing his arms and trying not to sulk. “You’ve won. Congratulations.” 

“No, no, no,” she insisted. “That’s not how we play in this house. Reveal your card, pretty one.” 

With a huff, Gilmore flung it across the desk, turning his head so he wouldn’t have to see the number that did not matter. 

“Eight of spades!” Juuraiel said. “You see? You were not wholly unlucky.” 

Gilmore grumbled quietly to himself, knowing he should have quit while he was ahead. 

“There, there,” she laughed indulgently. “You’ve saved your friends, and that’s what you came here to do, after all, isn’t it?” 

Gilmore glanced up at her. She was far too clever. “Do you promise to let them leave, unharmed?” 

“So long as they do not cheat. And, well.” Her smile widened. “That also depends upon how you define harm. I would like to have a little fun with them, first. You don’t mind if I scare them a little?” 

“I think they might actually find that interesting,” Gilmore said, after some thought. Vox Machina did seem to keep getting into these situations. A thrill-seeking addiction, perhaps? 

There was a loud BOOM at the front door, and Gilmore’s head turned toward the sound, anxious. “Perhaps that is them now, hmm?” She gestured to the corkscrew stairwell in the corner of her study. “Would you like to stay and watch?--not that you don’t trust me, of course.” 

“I know your word is good, my dear countess,” Gilmore said. “I just worry about them. They can be such--well, nevermind.” He realized he’d begun to claw at his face, unconsciously. 

She threw her head back and laughed. “I think this is going to be fun. Please, stay. It’s much more amusing for me to know you’re watching in secret.” 

“You’re too kind,” Gilmore said, as she offered her palm on the desk to politely lift him down to the floor. Gilmore scampered with as much dignity as he could muster toward the stairs. Glancing back, he motioned for his servants to join him. 

Chapter Text

Gilmore made it to the top of the stairs as he heard the front door being raised again. His bodyguards and attendants were close behind him, laying down rich fabrics of goldcloth, damask, and silk so that he could sit on the top stair and look down at the study, unseen.

“We’re here to speak with Juuraiel!” he heard Keyleth’s voice from the entry hall. Gods. Were they really letting her do the talking still? The poor girl had the charisma of a walnut. 

“And what is your business with this Juuraiel?” he heard the countess call back without moving from her desk.

Gilmore found he could hear quite well, and this vantage point offered a view of the entire room. 

“We have a deal we’d like to make. We have a token of our--” Keyleth was really stumbling. 

“We wanna play cards,” Gilmore heard Scanlan whisper to her.

“We want to play cards!” Keyleth shouted, sounding somewhat desperate. Gilmore sighed. At least he’d rigged the odds in their favour ahead of time. Juuraiel smiled and rose from her chair, walking out to the hall to greet Vox Machina. 

“So you want to play cards or make a deal, you say?” He heard her voice from the hall now. A few moments of silence, and Juuraiel spoke again. “So, you have spoken with Whaska.”

“Yes,” Keyleth replied, uncertainly, and muttered something under her breath. “Yes.” 

“Okay. I will hear what you have to say. Let’s hear your deal. Let them in!” the countess commanded her guards. Then she walked back in and sat down at her desk. She asked her servants to bring enough chairs that all of Vox Machina would be able to speak to her eye to eye. Not just anyone was allowed to sit on her antique gold leaf desk, as Gilmore had. 

“It’s so hot outside,” Grog said all of a sudden. “So thirsty! I would like just a sip.” Once they’d climbed up into the chairs the servants had brought--and a very awkward process that was, as they were all chained at the neck and wrists, save Keyleth, Senokir, and his new partner--Gilmore saw Grog raise a beaker to his lips. A potion? Why would Grog be taking a potion now? Gilmore was suddenly more afraid of Vox Machina’s plan than usual. 

“Let me get us out of this,” Keyleth was telling the others. “Juuraiel? Do you mind if we speak candidly and dispose of our guises that led us here?” Gilmore smacked his palm into his forehead. Why did they even bother trying? They were terrible at this.

“My lord?” one of his attendants asked, concerned. 

“I’m fine,” Gilmore said. “Thank you.” 

Juuraiel told Keyleth they were safe to drop their disguises. But what would she have said if Gilmore hadn’t spoken to her ahead of time? 

“Keyleth, may I speak?” Scanlan asked politely. 

“Everyone, you can all take your slave robes off, now,” Keyleth informed them. The rest of the party stared at her. 

“We’re all chained,” the gnome said, looking at her like she had a few screws loose. 

“Not wearing robes,” Grog echoed, jerking on the chain at his neck, the poor dear. Senokir asked Uten to unlock their shackles, and a few minutes passed while the tiefling moved from one member to the next, freeing them from their chains. 

“So, please. What do you come here requesting?” the countess asked. 

“Hello,” Scanlan addressed her. “Hi there. Hi.”

“Even smaller!” Juuraiel said, leaning very close to look down at the tiny gnome. Gilmore could tell she was having fun with them. 

“Hi there. I’m a bit of a gambler. I’m known around the worlds as being one of the luckiest men with a deck of cards you’ve ever met.” Gilmore was already rolling his eyes. But the gnome usually made his nonsense palatable. 

He tuned out while Scanlan continued to boast of his gambling prowess, glancing around for signs of the invisible Vax’ildan. Gilmore couldn’t see him, so where was he? Hopefully he had not done something mad like sneak upstairs to steal from Juuraiel. 

“I have an interest in games of chance on occasion, yes,” the giantess replied. “So, you come all this way to play games?” She was giving them the opportunity to be honest. 

But Scanlan continued to spin the lie. Was he capable of telling the truth? Gilmore wondered. “In fact, all of these people great and small next to me, I won in various card games around the planes.” 

Gilmore choked, holding back a laugh that might give away his hiding place, and one of his attendants leaned forward again to make sure he was alright. 

As the bard lied specifically about where he’d acquired members of his party, his friends couldn’t suppress their giggles. Honestly. They were bad at this. “And I’m here to collect, possibly, one of your items, if that’s alright with you,” Scanlan finished at last.

“Well, you intrigue me, small one. If your luck has been so great as to collect these fine specimens of strangers and you bring them all with you to such a place. Where do you hail from, if I might ask?” But the gnome was too clever for that, and Juuraiel accepted he did not wish to answer. 

“So! You come to play me for what?” she asked. This was the point where Vex’ahlia should have taken over. Scanlan claimed he didn’t want to decide until after the game, and of course, Juuraiel explained gambling did not work that way.

Then Percival stepped forward and bent down, whispering in Scanlan’s ear as he pointed to various treasures in the room. “There’s a large ruby shield back there, is that true?” the bard asked her, as though he had no eyes in his head. 

“Ah, yes,” Juuraiel said with a knowing smile. 

“He wants that, but I think his taste sucks,” Scanlan said of Percival. “So I’m going to go for that brass piece of armor back there.” 

“Ah, interesting. So you wish to play for the armor?” They lacked subtlety. So much. 

“Sure, I’m a little man, and it might help me in a fight someday if I ever lose.” 

Gilmore was just shaking his head, his face in his hands as Juuraiel blandly agreed and brought out her cards once again. 

“So, for that, you know the history of this?” the countess asked, giving them one last chance to be honest. “For you to come so far to play a game, there may be a reason you come. And the thing you select for the game we play has much value to you.” 

But Scanlan continued to lie, claiming the game itself and winning it was all that interested him. Gilmore sighed. He was shocked their inherent dishonesty had not disgusted the Soul when Vox Machina had met them in Ank’Harel. 

“Okay,” Juuraiel said. Last chance spent, then.

“But, if you’d like to enlighten me on that object--”

The countess continued as if Scanlan had not spoken. Gilmore heard one of the children gagging nervously. At least he was not the only one worried about this outcome. “Request the armor,” Juuraiel said. “Me, I request your friends.” 

Gilmore gasped, feeling his nails digging into his face without even realizing what he was doing. His attendants leapt forward to keep him from scratching himself. One began to massage his left hand, and the other knelt down behind Gilmore to cast a healing on him, stroking his arms, soothingly. Gilmore certainly hoped this was the scare Juuraiel had been talking of. Because he could not let the giantess keep his people. He couldn’t. 

“Well, I was going to offer one of your choosing. But you’ve only offered me one of your items,” the gnome argued. 

“Take it or leave it,” Juuraiel said, coldly. “If you truly have no idea what this armor is worth, perhaps you would wish to choose another thing to ante.” Punishment for his lie, then. Gilmore agreed, Scanlan did deserve it. But the others? Why must they suffer as well?

“You seem attached to it,” the bard said. “I want it. I’ll have it.” What an ass he was! 

“How badly do you want it?” Juuraiel asked, prompting him again for the truth. Like the siblings they were, Grog and Pike nervously chewed their fingernails in tandem. 

“Certainly badly enough to risk these scoundrels,” Scanlan said, nonchalantly. Gilmore could have punched him in the teeth. 

“Then we have an accord.”

“We do.” 

Gilmore saw Vex’ahlia double over, hugging herself with anxiety, quietly screaming, “No!” 

“Hell yeah! Let’s do this!” Keyleth cried, clapping. What had gotten into the girl? Who even was she anymore?

It was at this late stage in the negotiations that Scanlan finally thought to ask their hostess what game they were playing. 

Gods. They were doomed.