“So what kind of stuff are we looking for, Jubilee?” asks Fresh, wandering after Jubilee as they go down another street, which is perhaps somehow even somewhat shadier than the last one that they were just on. It’s not as dramatically shady as the red-light district in the east, but it’s still, by the standards of the central-city, pretty shady.

“Shut up and keep walking,” says Jubilee, looking into another window. Jubilee had said they were going into the city this morning to look for ‘some stuff’, but has since refused to elaborate any further.

It is early in the morning, just past sun-rise, but still around the time when they would usually be at home, shuffling around at a tepid pace while waiting for the designated breakfast cook, Basil today, to make breakfast.

“Ah, here it is,” they say, lifting a finger to her. “Stay there. Don’t move.”

“Huh?” asks Fresh, looking up at the structure that is nested into a corner between two other houses. It looks like a store, but there’s no sign of any kind. “I wanna go inside too.”

“Stay there,” repeats Jubilee, jabbing her with their finger before they head inside. Fresh sighs, looking around the area. The streets are still asleep. They’re out in the south side of the city, further away from the tree. This is practically next to the outer walls, which are only two or three streets away.

Looking around the area in boredom while she waits for her friend to come back from getting their ‘stuff’, she sees something small, tucked into the opposite side of the street, below a low-hanging section of roof that seems to belong to neither of the houses it sits between. Blinking, she checks that the street is safe to cross and then walks over towards it, bending over and staring at the vaguely familiar thing.

It’s a small shrine, tucked into the section of the wall. A porcelain figurine sits there, shrouded in a thin, black cloth that she can see through. In front of the small statue, is an offering bowl full of…

Fresh narrows her eyes, staring at the contents.

- Chicken feathers, some fruits and a piece of straw that looks like it could be from the head of a broom.

She blinks. Wait.

“I told you to stay there,” says Jubilee, coming back out of the house already.

Fresh looks over her shoulder. “I just crossed the street, Jubilee,” she argues. “Did you get your stuff?”

“I got my stuff,” replies her friend, looking at the altar. “Don’t worry about that. There are a lot of people like Basil and Shamrock in the world.”

“Like Basil and Shamrock?” she asks, turning back towards the small street altar, dedicated to the witch of the north. “Huh…”

She straightens herself back up and nods to her friend. The two of them go back home.

Fresh supposes that it makes sense. In days now long since past, the witches’ sect was a force to be reckoned with. But after the happenings of ten-some years ago, they all but left to the south as a collective. Only traces of them are still to be found here. People like Shamrock, people like whoever had built this altar to the witch, Perchta.

It’s important, she supposes, to have something to believe in when the bad times come.

“So…” starts Fresh. Her mind is still on her discovery from before. As for what kind of ‘stuff’ Jubilee got, that’s a secret. They’re currently upstairs at home, having just finished breakfast. “What’s with the witches’ sect?” she asks, receiving three very different looks from her friends. “I mean, why’d they all leave?” she asks. “And when?”

Basil returns her gaze to her tea-cup, closing her eyes as she takes a sip. “They used to be a big thing,” she says. “You couldn’t go past a street-corner without seeing a shrine or something.”

“Church took all of those down pretty fucking quick,” says Jubilee. “There used to be a big one outside of the northern city, where that fountain is.”

Fresh blinks, thinking back to it. “Huh… really?” That’s the fountain in which she had arrived in this world.

Shamrock sets down his cup, having finished pouring its entire content into his armor at once. “After what happened,” says the man. “They didn’t see the point,” he explains.

“The point?” asks Fresh.

“The point,” repeats Basil. “The witches’ sect believes that the world is sinking because its souls are too heavy.”

“It is. They are,” says Shamrock, his chest heaving.

“Sure, maybe,” concedes Basil. “But that doesn’t make it right.”

“It does,” replies Shamrock.

“’It’?” asks Fresh.

Jubilee rolls their eyes. “If you ask me, we’re all in this mess because all of you fucks can’t stop bringing in people to solve your problems,” they say. “No offense,” adds Jubilee, lifting a hand towards Fresh. They point at Basil. “Your fucky heroes keep blowing up cities and your fucky witches can’t just shut up, sit back and live quiet lives of dignity.”

“Some souls are called for greater things,” explains Shamrock.

Jubilee’s finger taps against the surface of the table. “Those fucking ‘greater things’ are killing everybody.”

“Are we in a position to talk?” asks Basil, still calmly sipping her tea. “We’re probably the biggest problem there is right now.”

“It’s fine,” remarks Jubilee. “Fuck ‘em all. Maybe I would have seen things differently a year ago, but I’m done now,” they say, nodding to Shamrock. “Game’s over. It’s lost. Let’s just flip the fucking table and see what happens.”

“Agreed,” says Shamrock.

Basil shakes her head. “You know that I don’t and can’t agree with that,” she says, setting down her cup.

“But here you are,” says Jubilee, raising an eyebrow.

“But here I am,” nods Basil. She smiles a somber smile, a hand clutching the piece of metal against her chest, which is strung to a cord around her neck. The glass-chicken on her wrist jangles from the movement, catching the rays of morning sunlight coming in through the upstairs window. “Because I have faith,” she says, sounding almost relieved.

“Oh, fuck me,” groans Jubilee. “This again? Weren’t you thinking about changing your class?” they ask.

Basil doesn’t reply, just smiling as she rubs her necklace. Fresh knows though that she doesn’t mean ‘faith’ in the context of her religious beliefs, but rather in a more general sense. Basil has faith in the same way that she herself has it. It’s hard to say what’s going to happen with the world, it’s hard to say if it will sink or if it hasn’t already or if things will somehow get even worse before they get better.

But the faith that they hold is that, despite everything, for the four of them, somehow, things will get better. It’s impossible for it to be any other way, even in the darker days that might perhaps still lie ahead. It’s impossible for things to be bad or sad or wrong in a way that might break their spirits as it had done so for the witches’ sect, some ten years ago.

Because despite the creeping and crawling of the bad-thing that lurks in the whispering shadows of the world, in the hungry hearts of the people, here sit four people who, if nothing else, have faith in each other and that is more than enough to keep everything else away.