Bert leaned back in his wooden chair, a hint of contentment in his smile as he breathed in the smell of freshly sanded pine wood and newly dried paint. The scent of savory, simmering stew brushed past his nose, and his smile only widened as he glanced across the barely recognizable hideout of the Blinders.

Seated across the tables, in a well sanded wooden chair with every possible edge blurred out of existence, Glenson casually whittled a block of wood into some kind of cow. It was a terrible attempt, and its head looked more like a smashed duck, but Bert would never tell him that to his face. That half-orc was just too nice. He was also built like a brick wall. Bert mentally shrugged. At least gotta pretend it’s because Glenson’s nice, at least when he’s not eviscerating someone in a barfight.

Next to Glenson, in similar wooden chairs, two scarred gnome brothers silently watched the comedic sight of a brutally scarred elf and a short girl in a blanket poncho working diligently before a large pot of stew, stopping every so often with a hint of fluster in their movements as they checked the taste and added whatever nearby ingredients that they thought might improve it.

“Hey Glenson,” Bert rumbled through his contented grin, making sure to keep his voice too low for the duo at the stove to hear, “you thinking too salty, or too many vegetables this time?”

The soft scraping of knife on wood temporarily paused, the half-orc in question glancing over to Bert with visible amusement on his face. “Well, since last time there was just a tad too much garlic, I reckon it’ll be salty tonight.” Rasping chuckles of agreement came from the gnome brothers upon hearing that, and some started placing bets.

Still, despite the group’s good-natured complaints, all voices went silent as the stove duo turned towards the table with an awkward flourish.

“I! Tanlin the elf! Present to you, the most fabulous creation by the most fabulous cooking duo in all of Drassingon, stew! With lots of meat! And lots of veggies! And lots of other good stuff!” The elf puffed out, brows furrowing as he reached the limits of his known vocabulary.

Beside him, his short companion nodded her head gravely, the professional gravitas of her motions only somewhat diluted when she flourished her poncho. “B-bon appetit!” She whispered, bowing towards the various grinning gangsters emerging from the other rooms in the hideout.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Outside of the freshly painted hideout of the Blinders, on the other side of the slums, a pair of boots - crammed full of knives - splashed through the stinking mud that coated the cobbled labyrinth of streets. From rotting alleyway to abandoned marketplace Adrian strutted along, humming a simple tune as he bounced a dagger coated in dried blood in one hand, while the other hand swung the decapitated head of an elf merrily by the hair. Every so often, the hero paused, either to mutter a few strange words, or to ‘ask’ a nearby pedestrian for directions, but each encounter only left the hero helplessly shrugging his shoulders at each of them. Somewhat to be expected of course since each pedestrian just stared at the hero silently. It is rather difficult to give directions while you are impaled on a nearby spike of wood making a cobblestone smoothie with your lifeblood and the stinking brown mud.

“Oh, if I were a nasty nasty elf or a nasty nasty vampire or a nasty nasty dwarf, oh hidey ho, where would I go?” Adrian tunelessly sang out as he inserted a splintered length of wood he had torn off a nearby doorframe down the throat of a screaming man. “Hidey hidey ho, where would you go?” He asked the man as he mustered the absurd strength of heroes to force the splintered post further down his throat, simply smiling as the struggles became all the weaker. Limbs thrashed, but to no avail, until finally the man fell silent and Adrian dropped his prize to the ground.

“No, no sirree! Only in the slums, that’s where I would go! Yes, if I were a nasty nasty elf, fit to be thrown to the rats! Yes, if I were a nasty nasty vampire, fit to be staked in the heart! Yes, if I were a nasty nasty dwarf, fit to be fed stones for life!”

The song echoed through the streets, its lack of any sort of rhyme and downright odd contents sending shivers down the spine of even the most hardened criminals as the hero marched onwards.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

In contrasts to Adrian’s jaunt through the slums, the residence of the cleric hero, Elena, was filled only with pockets of whispers and the echoes of silence. A terrible absence followed her soldiers as they patrolled. The torchlight bobbed around, dancing as if the fire itself lived, but while it brought bystanders and her soldiers’ warmth and light, that very same dance only brought Elena memories of screams and the sickly crackling of a wildfire.

Still, memories were just memories. At least that’s what she told herself as she played with a nearly empty glass of whiskey. Around and around the liquid swirled, the passing torchlight of her loyal followers swaying across the amber liquid. She knew that torchlight should be giving her comfort. After all, shouldn’t it be comforting that someone still cared? But all she could see in the light reflected in the glass was the swarm of rats nibbling away her left arm before she could even fully react. The light slid away as she swirled the liquid again, but was swiftly replaced with light that reflected the forest fire. The spitting, crackling, taunting forest fire, one that turned even the trees into enemies.

Elena sighed. She knew what was next. And, as the torchlight slid away, soon being replaced by a reflection so cold it even made her teeth ache, she swiftly stood up and hurled the glass at the wall where it shattered with a crash.

“Damnit.” She muttered as she collapsed back into her seat, ignoring the faint creaking of the door opening to reveal the concerned face of Clarkson.

Now the whiskey was gone again, and even thought she was surrounded by the soldiers she trusted, men and women that respected her and followed some random college girl from Idaho. Men and women who called her hero. But the pit laying at the bottom of her stomach remained the same.

The pit that reminded her that every year she became even more alone.