Several days have come to pass, each consecutive one seemingly shorter than the last and the nights feel much the same.

Excitedly, the children run around the store every day, much to Jubilee’s annoyance and they constantly line themselves up and ask when the four of them are leaving. Jubilee threatens them to not push their luck, or they’ll cave the stone house in, before they go.

This threat usually works to get them to calm down, at least until the next day arrives and they show up again. Fresh often finds herself staring at them, finding that they remind her exactly of the fairies. They’re essentially the same, just bigger. Overly excited, happy, adventurous. But beaten down by the world. She wonders what they have seen to have led them to band together into their group. She wonders how many of them didn’t make it this far?

The leader seems to be the rowdy, loud and extroverted boy, who Shamrock had thrown into the river on their first day here. The rest of them all seem more or less retreated into the safety of their numbers, only ever showing an excited face or a laugh when they thought they were alone and unwatched.

Fresh realizes how hard being a child in this merciless world must be, let alone being one all by yourself. She’s glad that they had found each other, but she feels a tinge of worry for all of those who find no-one. She recalls Basil’s statement, about the children who already had the luxury of being taken into the orphanage.

‘Most of them don’t make it through the winter.’

What a horrible world. It’s no wonder that it’s sinking.

As for the anqa, Shamrock had indeed foisted it down into the basement, which it didn’t appreciate. But it seems to have calmed down significantly. It makes going to the washroom very difficult though, at least for Fresh. All of the others, it doesn’t mind. Despite that, she does her best to try to get it to like her.

Fresh tried talking to it from a distance, but it raged at her again.

Then she did some research on anqas, trying to learn what they liked and made some corresponding treats, in the shape of little cookies. But it just destroyed the platter and stomped every single cookie into dust. Shamrock had to drag her away, before her heart-broken crying made the bird even angrier.

Having recuperated a day later from that cruel desecration of her soul, she then spent a while trying to figure out why it wouldn’t like her to begin with. Jubilee had said that animals can sense evil. That obviously didn’t make her feel better.

But clearly, the anqas as a species have some innate knowledge of her witchiness, or at least some instinct that makes them deeply suspicious, if not aggressive towards it. Basil can’t really explain this.

“Anqas are originally from the forests on the eastern border, but…” the priestess shakes her head, not having any answers. “Maybe there’s some witch-history there?” she guesses. “But I don’t know how they would pass this on to each other, especially ones bred in captivity.” She looks to the side. “Shamrock?”

The man shrugs, having no idea either.

Fresh frowns. “Hmm…”

“The box idea is still on the table,” throws in Jubilee from the side.

“No!” protests Fresh, not wanting to be boxed. “Only if you sit inside the box with me.”

“Fat chance,” says Jubilee, lifting up the book that Fresh had spent a night lovingly patching back together, as best as she could. The tattered pages, she obviously was unable to fill in, not knowing what the original content was. So she made do by filling the patches in the words with cute notes and terrible drawings of her and everyone else.

“Page sixty-three,” says Fresh, crossing her arms.

Jubilee stares up at her, before flipping through the pages in their book to the stated page. Fresh had drawn a large, detailed depiction of herself, sticking out her tongue on that one.

Another day passes and Fresh explains to the blue-haired elf and member of the ‘orphan-party’, as Jubilee had dubbed them, how to recharge the marbles that keep the cold-cabinet running, which reminds her of something else that is very important.

“Do you want to fight in the dungeon?” asks Fresh, noticing that the girl has a lot of bruises and cuts on her skinny arms.

The elf-child looks at her, shaking her head and holding on to the dinky stick that she uses as a staff. Fresh has noticed that she’s the quiet-one of the group, always teetering on the edge and never saying a single word. “Mm!” nods Fresh, understanding. “Come on, I’ll teach you how to make some cool stuff! You can make money with that,” she explains. Maybe the store idea could live on in some form, after all? Why not teach them to use their original survival strategy?

The ones who could go into the dungeon could gather resources, the ones who couldn’t could earn their keep by crafting and making useful things.

“- and then you just strain it through these, see?” says Fresh, finishing showing the small blue-haired elf how to make the coughee. “It’s super hot though, so be careful!” she warns. Some of the others are watching from the side, none of them ever let any of the others go anywhere alone. She looks at them, they don’t seem convinced. “Jubilee?” calls Fresh to her friend, who has locked themselves in their room.

“What do you want?” barks their sharp voice from behind the closed door.

“How much money do we make with just the coughee every day?”

“About two-hundred for the dry powder, double that for the ready-made ones,” replies Jubilee from behind their door, not missing a beat.

The healer of their group chimes up from the side-lines. “A day?!”

“Mm!” nods Fresh. “The dungeon is really great, but remember that there are smarter ways to make money,” she explains. “You’ll have to organize the first materials, but once you get the ball rolling, you guys can live off of making that alone.”

“Six-hundred?! We’re gonna be rich!”

“Uh…” Fresh scratches her cheek, a little taken aback. Is six-hundred Obols a day ‘rich’? Sure, it’s a lot of money. But maybe she’s lost context since her first hard days in this world. “Jubileeee~?”

“What is it?” asks Jubilee in an annoyed tone, tearing open their door. The blue-haired elf jumps a step to the side, hiding behind Fresh.

“Are we rich?”

“We’re giving away an entire house for free to these runts, so sure, let’s pretend that we are.”

“Thanks, Jubilee!” beams Fresh to her friend who rolls their eyes and shuts their door again. Fresh claps her hands together once. “Okay everyone, pay attention. I’m going to show you one more time how to make it!” she says, setting the old pot to the side. Now convinced, the entire group huddles closer around her and watches her every move. “Oh, but if the magistrate comes around, you have to give him a discount. It’s the law,” she explains, lifting a finger before setting to work.

The next day comes and she tries her luck with the anqa again. Shamrock is out teaching the orphan-party the fundamentals of group combat. Fresh doesn’t really know what that means, but they all seemed super-excited as they ran after him and out of the house. Fresh thought it was really cute.

Basil has been downstairs meanwhile, taking care of the anqa and the two of them seem to get along great. Basil has a real affinity for creatures like the large bird, much like with children, they all seem to take a quick liking to her for whatever reasons. Not that Fresh blames them. Basil is the best. But so is Jubilee and so is Shamrock. At least in her eyes.

Basil had also taken some time to explain the basics of producing medicine and tending to wounds to the healer-girl of the orphan-party. Though, the young girl doesn’t have a class yet. She’s just doing her best to ‘heal’, by running around with a bag full of cloth bandages and water and a single can of herbal cream that may or may not be stolen from their shelves. Fresh makes a note to make her some simple tools like tweezers and scissors too tonight.

“Can I come down?” asks Fresh, peeking warily into the basement.

“Sure,” replies Basil’s voice. “But don’t take the slide, you’ll spook him.”

Fresh, a little upset about that, but still understanding makes her way halfway down the staircase, getting ready to run on a moment’s notice. The anqa, laying on its stomach, tenses up as it sees her, its head lifting.

“Ah-ah!” scolds Basil, wagging a finger. The anqa narrows its eyes, glaring at Fresh, but then it lowers its head back onto the priestess’ lap and Basil lavishes it with praise, stroking its feathers. It doesn’t close its eyes though, always looking up her way. Basil looks up to Fresh. “Maybe don’t get too close though, Thyme needs some time.”

“Huh?” Fresh scratches her head. “Time needs some time? What does that mean?”

“No, Thyme,” explains Basil. “That’s his name.”

“Time is a weird name for a bird, Basil,” notes Fresh, perplexed.

The priestess laughs. “Nooo! Thyme, like the plant!”

“Oooh!” says Fresh, her fist striking her open palm. “That’s a cute name. It doesn’t sound very birdy though.”

“You’re one to talk,” says Basil.

“Huh?”

“It’s tradition to give the adopted names stemming from the natural world,” explains Basil, rubbing a spot on the back of the anqa’s head. “The wayward are, in a sense, cast out and they often feel like they don’t belong,” she explains, looking back up to Fresh. “By giving them a name from nature, we try to remind them that they’re a part of this world. That’s the idea, at least.”

Fresh nods, understanding. It’s a nice idea. She stays there for a while, making small-talk with Basil, before heading upstairs to make a few pieces of various useful, simple equipment to leave behind.