The morning dawned, bright and cheery.

The young man groaned, tired and bleary.

“Oh good, you're awake,” Threadbare said.

Apollyon cracked an eye open. Then he blinked, sat up, banged his head on the ceiling, and fell back onto the bed.

He just lay there for a second.

“Do you, mmmm, think he'll be all right?” Dracosnack asked.

“Is he dressed yet?” Buttons called, her voice muffled, as if from behind a door.

“Not so loud, please,” Apollyon muttered. “Status.”

“He should be all right,” Threadbare said. “He kept telling us he would be.”

“Yeah, but he got a lot less coherent after every drink,” Glub said. “Lemme give him a song or two.”

“No—” Apollyon whimpered, and grabbed for the pillow.

Too late.

Glub's booming voice filled the room, as he happily mixed two different ballads, restoring the listeners' Stamina, Health, Moxie, and Sanity.

Neither song did a thing for the Skullthumping Hangover condition that Apollyon saw on his status screen.

But they sure did fire up his Easily Triggered Nausea condition.

After the gastric exodus had finished, and Threadbare had used Clean and Press to tidy up every cloth thing in the area, while Dracosnack and Glub held the door and told a gleeful Buttons that no, she couldn't come in and watch, they got Apollyon undressed and in the too-small tub and poured water over him until he felt a little better.

“Please,” Apollyon gasped as he came to himself, and the toys started handing over his clothing and helping him dress. “Please tell me I didn't dishonor my family.”

“I suppose it's hard to say,” Threadbare said, helping scoot the young man's socks over his feet. “Honor's a fairly personal thing, as far as I can tell. If it's any consolation, nobody pressed charges against you.”

Apollyon's head sunk into his hands.

“Yo man, this is Knight shit, yeah?” Glub asked.

Apollyon winced. “That's a bit crude, but it's mostly correct.”

“Check yo' vows.”

“Oh. Right. Status.”

The Knight job, while having a pretty good range of combat and battlefield-influencing skills, also incorporated a skill called Code of Chivalry that passively boosted every defensive stat the Knight had.

Code of Chivalry was powerful.

But just like Apollyon's head at the minute, it was also quite sensitive. Unlike most skills it didn't gain experience as it was used. Instead it grew slowly, over time... unless the code was violated. If the Knight did something that was against their code, then the skill reset, down to its starting value of one.

And that one glared out at Apollyon as he stared at it on his Status screen. “Oh no,” he whispered. “Oh no no no.”

“I'm so sorry,” Threadbare said, patting his hand.

“What did I do?” Apollyon said, tugging his pants up under his tunic, and numbly accepting his boots from Glub.

“Before or after the time we started dancing on the tables?”

“That must have been it. Oh gods. I've dishonored my family name.” he covered his eyes.

“Nah!” Buttons said cheerfully, through the door. “You didn't have your tunic on at the time. Nobody knew who you were.”

“Oh thank gods!” then his brow furrowed. “Then how did I break my code? That makes no sense.”

“You should be more worried about hmmmm, breaking your appointment,” Dracosnack commented. “We're going to be late for our meeting with the quartermaster.”

“The mission!” Apollyon scrambled, grabbed what gear he hadn't put on yet, and burst through the door.

Buttons caught a ride on his pants leg as he went, and squirmed up to his shoulders as the rest of the toys followed behind. “So you boned yourself somehow?”

“I... that's a vulgar way of putting it!” Apollyon called, as he ran out of the cheap tavern that they'd apparently holed up in, and charged down the street.

“Say ah!” Buttons yelled in his ear.

“Wha?”

“Close enough!” she jammed a piece of toast into his mouth.

“MFRM?” oh, he sounded offended at that.

“Breakfast! We gotta make sure our meatsack eats well!”

“Mreffack!” he was a bit offended at that one.

“OUR meatsack,” she said, then settled in for the ride, nudging him with her boots. “Hyah! Keep moving! We can just make it if you hustle!”

They did in fact make it, but it was a close thing.

“I'm surprised to see you here,” Threadbare said as they entered the inner courtyard of the RAGS headquarters.

“Oh come on,” Garon griped, rising from the bench he'd been occupying. “You're doing me a serious favor, Mister Bear. What kind of friend would I be if I let you go without a goodbye?”

Threadbare hopped up to Garon's neck and gave him as much of a hug as his little arms could manage, and Garon squeezed him tightly.

“Find her if you can,” Garon tried to whisper, but his tones were only a little less booming than usual. “Just come back safe, all right? I don't want to have to tell Celia we lost you, too.”

Apollyon cleared his throat and glanced away. The toy golems watched, smiling. Glub, ever practical, stumped over to the quartermaster. “So whatcha got for us, Relda?”

“Damn near everything,” The middle-aged woman said, pushing forward several small boxes, and a larger one that clanked. “Any of you lot have a Merchant job?”

“Not so much,” Glub shrugged. “Sorry.”

“Fantastic. Good thing most of you don't get tired, because you've got plenty to haul.” She opened up the boxes one by one, and showed off the contents. “Standard exploration gear; lanterns, torches, oil, pitons, rope, tents... not for you so much, but to keep the gear dry in the rain. Oh, and food for your Knight, over there.”

“The route you'll be traveling should have plenty of streams and rivers,” Garon said, joining the quartermaster. “You should be able to boil water as needed, and there's a couple of canteens in there.”

“Now onto the more specific supplies,” Relda said, sorting through the boxes. “I'm going to assume the little twerp with all the shiny buttons is the one named Buttons.”

“Present, sir! Whatcha got for me?”

“Sir?” Threadbare looked up at Garon. “Isn't Miss Relda a woman?”

“Yeah, we decided to make it a genderless title,” Garon said. “Most of our female officers approve of the change, and it saves ink on paper. Plus a lot of our golem recruits have trouble telling human shapes apart at first, so this cuts them a little slack.”

“Oh, okay,” Threadbare nodded. “I am concerned that we're having problems with golem education. I'll pass that on to...” he paused, for he had almost said 'Mrs. Beemr,' “Whoever is in charge of the Rumpus Room. When all that gets sorted out.”

Garon sighed. “I heard about that. The Council's doing an emergency meeting right now. You're picking an excellent time to get out of town for a while.”

Buttons happily walked past, carrying a case of specialized bullets, and clomping around in her .0007 league boots.

“Next!” called Quartermaster Relda. “Glub, you little twerp. Got your standard pack right here.”

“Aw yeah,” the fishman said, accepting a wrapped oilskin package. “Waterproof paper, magic styluses, and comfy boots, right?”

“As always,” Relda smiled. “You're the easy one to prep for.” She sorted through the remaining boxes. “Apollyon Henweigh.”

“Sir!”

She looked him up and down. “This ain't the army. Relax.” she handed him a backpack, and he blinked as he took the weight of it.

“What's in here?”

“Potions. Since you're one half of all the breathers on the squad, you'll be carrying the bulk of them. And there's also this,” she passed over a scabbarded blade, and Apollyon's face lit up. He juggled his shield and his pack, got them resituated on his back, and half-drew it from the scabbard.

“Whoa, NO!” she said, dropping it as it sang free, and burst into flames.

Three minutes later, after the group had extinguished the last of the grass, and Apollyon had scrubbed his face free of the soot that had been his eyebrows, a stern and cranky Relda finished explaining to him the proper usage and care of flaming swords. Chastened, he fell back to the end of the line, red-faced and looking down.

Threadbare didn't notice. He was too busy watching Garon twitch as his old friend fought desperately to avoid laughing.

“For you...” Relda said to Dracosnack, as the squat plush toy stomped forward, “Scrolls. You're a wizard, yes?”

“I am!” he said, reaching stubby arms upward to take the scroll tubes. “Hmmm... I don't have good thumbs. Perhaps there is some other way to, mmmm, carry them?”

“Oh yeah, I remember that from my dragon days,” Garon said. “How about a book? Lay the scrolls out flat between the pages, then flip through it to find what you need?”

“Better, I suppose,” Dracosnack nodded.

“I'll scrounge one up in a second, boss,” Relda said, taking out one last box, and also a small cane. “Mister Threadbare.”

Threadbare would have blinked at the sight of the cane. He knew that shape well. “Is that... oh bless my soul, what's it doing here?”

“We were grateful for the donation, and the novice who ended up using it returned it with thanks once he rose up in rank,” Garon explained. “He never forgot the kindness. And we took the liberty of adding a few improvements to it. You're still an enchanter, so you can analyze it at leisure on the road.”

“Thank you,” Threadbare said, and from Relda's hand he took the simple black stick, topped with a golden bear's head.

It was the first magic item he had ever won. It was his rod of Bear-only Might.

Eventually he noticed the silence, and looked up to find the others glancing from him to the box that Relda was still offering to him. “Oh, sorry. What's this, then?”

“Components,” she said, and he took them carefully. “A mix of crystals and reagents,” Relda continued. “Garon tells me you're a skilled Enchanter. We figured it was best to let you make the items you need as you go. And combined with the scrolls and your group's own skill ranges, you should be able to make something useful from them.”

“I will make sure they don't go to waste, and return any that we don't use,” Threadbare said. “Thank you Sir Relda.”

“Oh don't call me that,” she laughed. “I work for a living.”

And with that sorted, the band set out. It would be a long journey to almost certain doom, but they went with the love and aid of their friends and colleagues.

When they were gone, Relda turned to Garon. “Surprised you didn't mention the last thing, boss.”

“I'm hoping they don't need it,” Garon said, slowly. “But from what Graves told me, there's shenanigans afoot, so we need to be ready. And in that kind of situation, the best kind of secret weapon is one that stays a secret until things have gone totally to shit...”