Chapter 12: Galar, Hexaline Knight of Mercy

Subject: Keeper Virgil Location: Laberin - The Gravegreen Bar

Locals had begun filling the Gravegreen Bar now that it was open to the public. The atmosphere had changed entirely. Keeper Virgil could tell that these were locals from what they wore and the budget weapons sheathed at their belts.

Laberin’s Blightbane Guild headquarters is close by. This must be where seekers go if they can’t afford to eat and drink at the headquarters, Virgil thought as he sized up each new face in the crowd. No. This is where they go if they want to get away from the Guild’s rules and cut loose.

Virgil and Colten’s game of Thirds was still ongoing. Expensive cards maintained a delicate balance atop the uneven table. Virgil was acutely aware of the one leg of his chair that was the slightest bit shorter than the rest.

Some of the customers seemed to detect how out-of-place the knights were, but no one asked who they were or what they were doing in a bar beneath their social status. Others didn’t seem to have the observational skills or the mental wherewithal to notice that something was amiss.

“If anything happens, just remember to disarm them,” Colten advised, anticipating Virgil’s thoughts. “Please,” he asked in a concerned tone.

“Give me something more,” Virgil begged. “Tell me what you saw in the deadzone.”

Colten’s brown eyes widened and caught the dim yellow light most unusually. His lips were open, just slightly, thinking back to a fond memory, from the look of it. Enamored by this life-changing event, Colten’s perspective was unique, and Virgil wanted to close the gap.

“I can’t spoil your first time,” Colten insisted.

Unwavering refusal.

Virgil didn’t want to push further. He had become a Keeper knowing no one, and Colten had endeavored to help him fit in.

“Then at least let me win this game,” Virgil joked.

Colten chuckled, relaxing slightly. His thick lips curling into a slight grin.

“Not gonna happen. You’ll earn your first victory. I believe in you.”

Subject: Keeper Virgil Location: Laberin - The Gravegreen Bar

“Your biggest problem is that you let your expectations trip you up,” Colten explained. “You began the game with the cards in your hand and immediately constrain your strategy to those cards and cards that play well with them.”

“You’re saying I should keep more of an open mind? I should stay flexible, patient, and suspend judgment?”

Colten flashed a surprised smile. Were it not for the grimy environment, Virgil would have been deeply moved.

“So, you have been listening to me all this time!”

“It isn’t that I wasn’t listening. It is just hard to be molded by one life, only to discover that the skills you thought were essential are unneeded in your new life.”

“Give it time,” Colten suggested. “Like with Thirds, it’s just about adjusting to the rules of a new game.

“I thought we were talking about Thirds,” Virgil joked.

“If you thought we were talking about Thirds, you’re worse off than I thought,” Colten retorted, playing along.

“Did you really have to go with that analogy?” Virgil asked.

“It was right there… so yes,” Colten replied with a smirk.

They continued playing Thirds for some time until the hard elbow of a passing patron slammed into Virgil’s back, disrupting his concentration. He slid his hand down to his solblade while he looked at Colten’s expression to give him information about who was behind him.

Colten was relaxed. Virgil slowly turned around in his chair.

“I do hope you’re alright there, friend,” a gruff voice called out in a not-so-apologetic tone. “I didn’t damage those fine clothes, did I? Actually, I think I might have hurt my elbow a little more than your clothes.”

He was trying to antagonize, but the discipline of a knight wouldn’t be bested by a ruffian nobody. Virgil waved off the mock concern and turned back to his friend.

“I want to make it right,” the pest continued, forcing Virgil to turn back around in his chair once more. “How’s about I buy you both a drink and join you for cards? Thirds is not much of a betting game with only two players.

Without waiting for a response, the ruffian waved over the owner, who looked nervously at the knights. Then, over the bustle of the bar, Virgil heard a member of his squad deeper in the bar say something to him. The owner came back over to them, bringing a chair with him.

Once the intruder was seated, he slammed two fresh mugs of a pale blue liquid down on the table. An offering of the cheapest intoxicant on the drink menu. Looking at it, Virgil wondered if it was actually mixed with industrial chemicals.

The impolite stranger reached for one of the cards, but Colten casually blocked the dirty hand. Virgil didn’t know why the notoriously lenient knight was acting so possessively. Even so, he didn’t need a reason to back his comrade up.

“Actually, we were in the middle of a game,” Virgil explained.

“Looks like you’re about to lose, there,” the ruffian pointed out.

The man was right, but he couldn’t have known for sure without getting a look at the cards in Virgil’s hand.

Virgil confirmed his loss on the next turn. He could play out the round if he wanted, but it was considered proper etiquette to concede. The only reason to continue playing would be to spite their unwanted guest.

“You win,” Virgil announced.

“Fantastic! Let me in this next one. What’s the starting bet?”

“We aren’t betting,” Colten explained.

“How can you play Thirds without betting?” the ruffian persisted. That’s a superb deck you have there. How’s about we put that in the pot aside 10 medows each?”

Virgil didn’t know what a deck of this quality was worth, but 10 medow coins was a lot to pay for a deck of cards. It wasn’t such a terrible wager.

The man produced a small cloth coin pouch and placed ten coins on the table. The coins were dark green along the borders and rounded edges, pale green on each face. A six-leafed plant was engraved on one face, Shroud’s symbol on the other.

“No,” Colten snapped. “The deck is important to me.”

The average person could live reasonably well on about 6 husc coins a day, and a medow was worth 21 of those. That was 35 days.

After doing the math, Virgil concluded that this trickster had no intention of losing the game. The high pot was only there to distract Virgil and Colten while the trickster cheated them.

This sudden defiance only made the ruffian more interested in getting his hands on the deck of cards. It had started as a passing interest in an out-of-place luxury item in a low-class bar. Now, it seemed like Colten’s baffling aversion to risking an easily replaced deck of cards had ignited the ruffian’s desire.

“Listen here, flourishflora, you aren’t very accommodating to your friends!” the man yelled and slammed a short solblade on the table. “The deck goes in the pot.”

Both Colten and Virgil had loosened the sheaths on their solblades in an instant, but a new stranger gave them pause.

“I couldn’t help but overhear this festerwant trying to cheat you out of your fancy possessions, friends. Seekers like him are better at robbery and extortion than fighting blightbeasts.”

“You’ve got it wrong, Gray. I’m not the criminal here. You and yours are the criminals.”

Virgil had already sized up this would-be card thief and determined that he was a malefactor. He was the apparent type that could only operate in places like these, using intimidation and, failing that, crude violence.

The other man was different. His cheap metal armor was well-maintained. It had its dents and scratches, but they had been tended to with care that a legitimate seeker or contract soldier might use. He kept his distance and took up an open posture that left himself intentionally vulnerable to offset his tall stature.

“Don’t listen to him, his view of the world is limited by what his feeble mind can understand,” The Gray charmed. “You two shouldn’t be in a place like this. It is full of his kind, always trying to take advantage of us upstanding citizens. Fear not. my squad happens to be attending me, so we can escort you to safety.”

This was why a Gray was the kind of criminal that typically lived the longest before meeting the law’s blade. They were hard to spot because they held a regular job and did everything a faithful citizen would, all while supplementing their income with illegal dealings.

Two of the Gray’s companions approached, wearing armor of the same make. Three more such strangers entered through the door.

The ruffian didn’t seem intimidated. Waving over to a man at the bar, he called out a name. The man slid off his barstool and gave a shrill whistle. Five women and men sauntered up to the table.

They didn’t bother to hide their intentions. Their savage grins and sneers were the opposite of the calming smiles of the Grays.

There was a pause. Virgil remembered how the owner had been allowed to let the ruffian join them in the first place, obviously at Galar’s behest. He didn’t know how the commander would want him to deal with this impending scuffle.

Virgil and Colten tightly gripped the ornately decorated pommels on their jewel-encrusted solblades, partially concealed within their uniforms. Their bodies were tense and ready.

“Remember what I said to do,” Colten whispered.

Easier said than done, Virgil thought.

Virgil remembered what he had been instructed to do in a fight within proximity of Galar, and complying meant resisting the tugging impulses of training upon the chords of his muscles.

“These starving beasts need to be taught to respect the law,” A Gray declared to the bar’s owner. “If not Shroud’s laws, then the laws of this district. Get the door,” he ordered.

When the owner not only failed to comply but started fearfully backing away with the rest of his staff, the closest Gray made to grab him.

One of Virgil’s Keeper comrades was faster to intercept. The knight motioned for the owner and his staff to stay down behind the bar table. Then, he drew his blade.

It was finally starting.

Subject: Keeper Virgil Location: Laberin - The Gravegreen Bar

“Peace, friends,” a young voice called out from somewhere in the crowded bar.

Patrons cleared the way as the boy walked up to the knight who’d drawn his sword and gave him a slight nod. Immediately, the Keeper stepped back and lowered his weapon.

What in Pulse are you doing! It’s too late to stop this now, Virgil thought.

“I only came here for a drink. I promise that any who refrain from violent acts in my presence will not have any criminal charges forced upon them,” the boy promised. He bowed his head toward the door.

That was the direction from which most of the fighting would start.

“I know that some of you here have committed crimes,” the boy continued. “Maybe you’ll be caught, maybe you won’t. I want to ask you right now to give up a life that only degrades the lives of those around you. Please-”

At that moment, the boy was interrupted by an unexpected knife to his gut, and Virgil felt like he had been stabbed himself, tensing his own abdomen. The violent act had taken him completely by surprise, even considering the overt tension in the clustered room.

It seemed like the offender seemed similarly surprised by her own actions. She drunkenly stumbled back, releasing her grip on the crude dagger embedded in the boy’s ruined vest.

Patron bystanders stumbled to get away from the drunk. A steady stream of people pushed their way out of the bar, leaving only the disciplined Grays, the unruly ruffians, and the undercover Keepers.

Strangely, this incident didn’t set off an immediate clash. For all the vicious intentions of the bar’s occupants, the crowd seemed collectively horrified that one so young had taken the first blow. Even the Keepers, with their orders, were stunned. All watched with bated breath.

The boy didn’t fall. Slowly, he reached down to the dagger and pulled it out. Gasped filled the significantly less crowded bar as those closest to him witnessed the wound sealing itself. Virgil couldn’t see it for himself, but he had heard it described.

The woman who had done the stabbing cried out and clutched her stomach, blood seeping from her ragged clothes. She collapsed and fell still.

“What are you?” someone in the crowd demanded.

“The name given to me by the Shrouded Theocracy is Galarious. The appointment given to me by the Shrouded Theocracy is that of Hexaline Knight of Mercy,” the boy replied in a polite, slightly melancholic voice.

All around the confined bar, weapons were readied. Virgil and Colten jumped to their feet. Galar held up his arms.

“I’d like to offer that you call me Galar as a gesture of good faith. My full name is a mouthful, and I’ve never liked it that much. You may not like all the things Shroud does, such as laws and politics that are more important than a name. I am not here to convince you otherwise.”

Galar strode forward to stand above his would-be killer. He brought both hands to his chest. His fingers were interlocked, thumbs pointed up, and pressed together. Galar tilted his head down and closed his eyes. This was a prayer to Nosk, the Hexaline deity of purity.

The boy trembled slightly as a subtle white glow emanated from his person. It was difficult to notice both the trembling and the shine, but Virgil trained his eyes on his commander to take in all there was to see.

After the standard minimum of six seconds, Galar opened his eyes, raised his head, and continued.

“I will extend my forgiveness to all of you here if you would just calm down. I only wanted to enjoy myself in peace. I don’t like violence. In fact...” Galar’s voice grew cold. “I abhor it.”

The Keepers joined their superior in the center of the bar. Galar walked over in front of the bar table, behind which the bar’s staff were still huddled. The knights immediately understood that Galar wanted them to protect the innocent hosts, and they adjusted their formation to meet this need.

For a moment, it looked like the stunned onlookers might just listen to reason. But then, the leader of the Grays spat loudly on the floor.

“Isn’t it just like Shroud’s knights to steal their way into our homes, just so they can condescend to us and offer their flowery pity. Meanwhile, they force us to bend to their whims every day or risk our livelihoods being stolen away. But, you will forgive me for speaking these words, won’t you?”

“I will,” Galar replied innocently and without hesitation.

“We upstanding citizens aren’t happy about the way you are doing things, but we won’t cause problems if you can prove there won’t be any reprisals,” The Gray promised.

Some of the more anxious Grays breathes sighs of relief. No one wanted to go up against an entire squad of knights, even as outnumbered as they were. No matter how a knight was adorned, they were sure to be challenging to defeat.

Even if they managed to win, they would no longer be able to live their old lives. No longer could they blend in with upstanding citizens.

“Hollow words from a filthy Gray,” a ruffian chuckled from the crowd. “Your kind likes to wear the skin of a kneeler while you fool yourselves into believing that you are better than the other kneelers. Just because you get one over on the government every once in a while, you think you are different. We can all see the collars around your necks, now.”

Some of the Grays looked uncomfortable, but none of them took the bait.

They didn’t have to. One of the criminals aligned with the first ruffian threw a glass bottle. It broke over a Gray’s head.

The Gray stumbled back but didn’t fall. He reached up to his cheek and felt the blood mixed with shards of glass. The cuts from the glass had already healed. No shards or small fragments remained in his skin. They had been forced out by an unseen and mysterious force.

Meanwhile, the one who threw the bottle screamed as incisions mirroring the ones he had inflicted began to appear on his face. Enraged and confused, he pointed his crude gray-metal solblade forward and charged, piercing one of his allies in the side.

To be precise, Virgil had difficulty telling who was allies with whom on the ruffian side. They all wore crude clothing. Within the group of at least twenty ruffians, some were clearly close. Still this act of violence had undone some of the unity forged by a collective distaste for the Grays and the knights.

The confused attacker fell to the floor. He released his grip on his weapon, and it was pushed out of the victim’s flesh. The blade clattered to the floor beside him while blood gushed from a hidden wound beneath his shirt.

“What is going on?” someone said in disbelief.

“Entropy magic?” someone else suggested.

There were murmurs that the knights were testing some kind of magitek. Confused tension joined with anger. There would be more blood spilled before long.

They still don’t get it! They saw it more than once, and they can’t make the connection!