Chapter 05

Markus woke with a start, his right hand throbbing painfully. Barely suppressing a panic attack, Markus fought his way free of the bed covers and blanket, staggered to his feet and tried to get his bearings. The room was unfamiliar to Markus, but its strange blend of practicality and excess meant he was either the guest of a merchant attempting to project wealth and status beyond their means, or he was in one of the guest quarters of the adventurer’s Guildhall. The haphazard pile of Markus belongings on the floor by the nightstand made the latter more likely, though it did little to calm his nerves.

Markus seemed to possess a talent for aggravating members of the nobility and his current proximity made it a matter of when, not if, it would occur. Snatching his pack off the floor with his good hand, Markus rummaged through its contents for a spare shirt. While carefully tugging on a faded tunic, he found his boots at the foot of the bed. After donning his cloak and boots, Markus took care to make certain all his belongings were stowed in his pack in such a way that the more fragile items would not come to harm.

Now dressed and making his way downstairs, Markus took a moment to watch the bustling street from a nearby window. It was at least early afternoon according to his best guess. Continuing down the stairs, he wasn’t surprised to find the Guild common area all but empty.

A pair of clerks Markus was not familiar with were quietly chatting with one another behind the main desk. There was also a trio of adventurers joking and laughing at one of the rear tables, the half dozen empty wine bottles nearby making it clear they were deep in their cups and were showing no signs of slowing down.

Having expected to find Aela and Svala, Markus was not sure whether he was disappointed by their absence, or thankful for avoiding a potential scene involving the other adventurers.

Approaching the clerks, Markus tried his best to put on the expected airs of the minor nobility, his easygoing smile slipping into place with practised ease. “Good afternoon,” Markus said, addressing the older of the two clerks as he withdrew his identification from within the front of his tunic before continuing, “I would like to collect my bounty rewards please.”

The older clerk smiled and bowed slightly before replying, “Of course young master, if you would please press your Guild identification to one of the Guild registration panels, then we can see to providing your remunerations,” the clerk gestured to the pair of large crystal panes flanking either side of the desk. They were considerably larger than the identification tablet Markus wore, roughly three feet wide and perhaps four feet tall. They were attached to elegant wireframes anchored into the desk itself and deceptively strong.

The registration panels currently listed active bounties, slowly scrolling the contents of their surface’s upwards as they made room to display more bounties before coming full circle and displaying the original bounties again.

Pressing his identification against the registration pane, Markus watched the pane go blank for a moment before new text appeared.

Markus Farus [Artificer] {1}. Guild Credit: [Crowns] {0}, [Shillings] {0}, [Pence] {0}

Pending bounty rewards.

Dungeon Suppression: [Barrow of the Despoiler] [Aberrant] {??}: [Crowns] {100*}.

+Request for aid. Adventurer: Zoe Chavare. [Priest] {2*}: [Crowns] {250}.

Provincial Bounty: [Dire wolf] {1}: [Crowns] {2}. [Shillings] {12}. [Pence] {5}.

Provincial Bounty: [Timber wolf] {14}: [Shillings] {14}.

“Thank you,” Markus replaced his identification inside his tunic. “I would like the total of my earnings to be held in credit for the time being. I am waiting for my companions and would like to divide the reward with them once they return.”

“Very good sir,” the clerk bobbed his head and withdrew a silver key from his waistcoat and tapped it against the registration pane.

Markus’s information began to change almost immediately, the list of completed bounties disappearing as their monetary totals added to his credit balance.

Markus Farus [Artificer] {1}. Guild Credit: [Crowns] {352}, [Shillings] {26}, [Pence] {5}

“Is there anything else sir?” The clerk asked politely.

Markus shook his head, “No, that is all for the time being, thank you.”

The senior clerk then withdrew a copper key and tapped the registration pane, causing the surface to be briefly wiped clean before restoring the scrolling list of Guild bounties. Turning to formally address Markus again, the senior clerk withdrew an embossed envelope from below the table and offered it to Markus. The letter was not sealed with wax, though the envelope was marked with a familiar crest, a hammer entwined with thorned roses. “A request to dine with Lady Chavare this evening in the private dining hall,” the clerk replied to Markus's quizzical expression.

“Right, thanks,” Markus muttered, stuffing the letter in his pack, having no intention whatsoever of attending the dinner.

Both clerks bowed slightly in deference as Markus walked away from the front desk and left the Guildhall. The unearned respect and deference to his assumed nobility didn’t sit well with him, but Markus knew better than to make a scene over it.

Stepping into the street outside and putting a small amount of distance between himself and the Guildhall, Markus began making his way towards the tradesman’s district. Effectively a single street, it was the location most local artisans called home, their workshops occupying the street level, while they and their families lived on the second. Unlike the merchants peddling their wares on the main street around the Guildhall, these artisans offered more mundane wares but at considerably lower prices. Even though there was less traffic on this street, the people moved with a sense of purpose and direction that was refreshing to be a part of.

Quickly making his way down the street, Markus ducked into the armourer’s shop. It was small and cramped by the capital’s standards, but for a small town on the frontier like Endem, it was rather well-stocked and spacious. Half a dozen stands held the most expensive articles of armour the store had to offer, suits of brigandine, splint, and mail. However, Markus ignored them, knowing that they were far too physically exhaustive for his current physical condition, lacking both the muscle and stamina required to use them effectively for any real length of time.

“Can I help you, sir?” The proprietor’s voice was hoarse but not disrespectful.

Markus remembered the man from when he had bought his first gambeson, Andre, was his name if Markus remembered correctly. Markus smiled and waved his left hand in greeting as he approached the sales counter. “I hope so Mr Andre, I would like to repay your kindness.”

Andre was a stout short man on the wrong side of forty with blunt and scarred features hidden behind a thick greying black bristly beard. Understandably, most people initially found him rather intimidating.

Andre looked confused for a moment but then smiled as Markus drew closer. “Well as I live and breathe,” he set down the strap and buckle he had been fiddling with and stepped around the counter, “I see you aren’t dead yet my boy,” Andre chuckled, then seemed to notice Markus sling and damaged hand, “Though not for a lack of trying I’ll bet!” He roared with laughter, Andre’s booming voice reverberating around his shop so intensely that Markus felt all but certain the ceiling would collapse.

Markus didn’t take the jibe too seriously, Andre was an army veteran and had a sense of humour little more refined than his face. All the same, Markus found Andre’s honesty and roughness preferable to the vagaries and veiled insults of the nobility. “You have no idea,” Markus chuckled along with Andre as he was escorted to the counter.

“Did you get that from one of the beasties outside the walls? Or did you manage to get a team for a dungeon after all?” Andre’s tone was sceptical of the latter, but Markus really couldn’t fault him for it. Markus had already experienced several minor injuries pursuing bounties outside the town’s walls, so on any other day, Andre would have been right.

“I did manage to get a group together actually and we managed to clear it. I confirmed collecting the bounty just earlier today in fact,” Markus tried to keep his tone light but felt sure he was bragging despite himself.

“No! For true?!” Andre looked shocked, but a grin quickly split his face and he gave Markus a playful jab, “Good for you lad! Didn’t I tell you there was greatness in you, just had to find your moment!”

Markus laughed nervously, recalling how many times that right moment had occurred in such a short period the previous evening. “That’s actually why I am here Mr Andre, I am going to need some better protection if I am going to go into another dungeon.” Markus accentuated the point by lifting his shirt and displaying the large discoloured bruise running the length of his torso.

“Deepest abyss!” Andre tutted, “What did that?”

Markus grimaced and he lowered his shirt, seeing a swarm of red piercing eyes in his mind, “A spider,” he said numbly, shaking his head to the unwelcome memories, “A bloody big spider, it was responsible for this too,” Markus lifted his left arm slightly to accentuate his point.

“Nothing is broken?” Andre said, more statement than a question, “Coarse not, you would have to be bloody stupid to be up and about like this if you were,” he muttered to himself as he assessed Markus bandaged hand across the counter. “Better protection you say?”

“I need better protection for my chest,” Markus agreed, “Something to protect my head would be good too, but I can’t handle anything too heavy yet.”

Andre nodded and ducked into the backroom, a minute or two passing in relative silence before he returned, depositing an eclectic collection of armour on the counter. “Now, depending on your budget, of course, I reckon this is probably the best you can manage for now.” Andre carefully laid out the pieces of armour on the counter, pointing to each in turn as he named them, “A nice sallet to protect your noggin. The bevor, though not a matching set should do just fine, it's a better fit for your face than the original at any rate. A nice sturdy padded coif and gorget-''

The coif and gorget would go under the helmet and bevor, cushioning the impact while also protecting the surfaces the helmet's combined pieces left exposed. Even though Markus had not received injuries as a result of his trifling head protection and his relatively exposed neck, he knew that was the result of good luck more than anything else.

“-a thicker gambeson, a third thicker if I am remembering right, and a nice breastplate to better spread those impacts across your chest.” Andre appeared quite satisfied with his selections, despite no two pieces being of the same style and design. It was not surprising as he was at heart a very practically minded man.

“Well, you would know better than I would,” Markus agreed amiably.

Andre nodded to himself, “It's the tricky thing picking pieces for Artificers like you. For those with coin, the racks would be the best choice by far,” he gestured absently to the racks of armour Markus had noted upon his entry to the store, “But if you can make cotton or wool threads the strength of steel, much of that logic goes out the window-” He glanced at Markus arm and chest a moment, “-mostly.”

Markus found himself in agreement with Andre, all too familiar with the limitations and possibilities concerning his protection. Markus’s first gambeson, though a little dirty, was structurally in impeccable condition, the fabric having resisted all manner of scuffs and cuts. Although Svala or her Daughter Aela had apparently managed to snap the toggles off. Aela’s gambeson had also been undamaged so far as Markus had seen the night before.

The problem, as Markus saw it, was limiting the concussive force of attacks, since his enchantments already substantially reduced the likelihood of cutting and piercing injuries. The breastplate would go a long way towards alleviating Markus’s concerns over a repeat scenario involving a dungeon's boss monster. Its single plate of shaped metal dispersing a blow over a much wider area and hopefully preventing a debilitating injury. “How much for the lot?” Markus asked, mentally preparing himself to part with a substantial pile of coins.

Andre rubbed his chin for a moment with one hand, while doing quick arithmetic with the other. “Call it-” He paused, likely double-checking his pricing, “-fifty shillings and we will call it even.”

Fifty shillings, or ten crowns, was a lot of coins, but at this point, the expense was one Markus couldn’t justify avoiding. “Deal,” Markus agreed, awkwardly shaking Andre’s right hand with his own. “I would like you to bring the armour by the Guildhall this evening so we can settle up if that isn’t too much hassle.”

Andre nodded in agreement, appreciating Markus’s desire to avoid carrying so much coin while so physically impaired. “We have a deal, my friend. Take care not to overexert yourself, chest injuries are no joke.” He smiled broadly, laughing and waving Markus goodbye as he left the shop.

Though expensive, Markus was surprised he hadn’t needed to spend more on the armour. Most of the pricing of the matching sets he had looked at a month prior had skewed his expectations somewhat.

By Markus’s math, and accounting for a fifty-fifty split with Svala, Markus still had over one hundred and sixty crowns to his name and very few ideas on how to spend it. Markus could hire retainers to assist in the next dungeon bounty he attempted, standing to gain a substantial return on their success. However, Svala had already expressed her interest in working with Markus again.

Despite the negative reputation of the chimaeras, and the disturbing aggression Aela had exhibited the night before, the pair of them would be effective partners in just about any dungeon that may appear near Endem. Their magically reinforced bodies were capable of shrugging off damage that would otherwise be fatal to most humans, assuming something managed to injure them in the first place.

The intended share Svala had initially requested was criminally low considering they had done the lion's share of the actual work. She had only wanted a tenth of the dungeon bounty for their share. However, Markus wasn’t having that and adamantly considered half of the total rewards to the property of Svala and her daughter Aela.

So with no real need for retainers, that only left two things, Artificing supplies and a house. The precious gems and minerals used for Artificing were expensive. However, considering how much magical power they could hold and by extension the level of effect one could generate by using them, the costs were more than justifiable if you could afford it. Unlike purchasing his armour, there would be no alternatives to the main street markets and in a small town like this one, there likely wouldn't be much if any choice in selection at all.

Letting out a deep exasperated sigh, Markus began making his way towards the main street again but stopped as he caught sight of a young girl in discoloured rags that rounded the corner from down the street. She couldn’t be more than ten or eleven, though the caked grime made an accurate guess impossible. The girl carried a small tray hung by a strap around the back of her neck, steadying the tray with her right hand. The surface of the tray seemed to be cluttered with dried plants of some kind, perhaps lavender or a similar flowering herb.

The girl began walking towards Markus, her desperate eyes holding him fast in their intense gaze. She stopped less than a couple of feet away from him, her cheeks flushed and skin pale. “Please mister, just one penny for calluna,” she jostled the tray gently with one hand, the movement disturbing the dried flowers and emitting a mild but pleasant fragrance. The action was likely to draw attention to the smell of the flowers, but for Markus, it only served to draw his attention to her left arm, or more importantly, the empty knotted sleeve where her left arm should be. “They smell very pretty,” the girl pressed the issue by jostling the tray again, perhaps thinking Markus hadn’t smelt them the first time.

Markus was all too used to sights like this one, but he had never been in a position to actually offer assistance or relief. “Are you hungry?” Markus asked, the suddenness and unexpected question visibly surprising the girl into stunned silence. “I was going to buy a pie from the bakery and I would not mind some company if you want to join me.”

Markus could see the battle taking place behind the girl’s eyes as she weighed her safety against the prospect of a meal, the negative assumptions of his character, and his obvious injury being ruthlessly assessed and measured. The audible gurgling of her stomach appeared to be the tiebreaker, pursing her lips she nodded her assent.

“Here,” Markus awkwardly fished a penny free from his coin purse and placed it on her tray to better set her at ease.

No sooner had the penny touched the tray and Markus had withdrawn his hand, she snatched it and stowed it in a concealed pocket somewhere in her dress. The penny appeared to have the opposite effect of what Markus had intended, the intensity of her scrutiny multiplying rather than alleviating.

Markus decided it was probably best if he didn’t try anything else for a while, instead just doing his best to smile as neutrally as possible and begin walking in the direction of the baker's street. Without turning to look, Markus knew the beggar girl would be trailing a safe distance behind him, close enough to follow Markus, far enough to bolt if he did anything she thought was suspicious. Although Markus knew better, he could not fault her for her caution, it was if anything rather wise all things considered.

The relatively short walk to the baker's street was more than a little awkward for Markus for a few reasons. Being trailed by the beggar girl was, of course, attracting some attention, no small amount of it being noted aloud by passersby as they made a point of expressing how each of them, “Only had one arm.” These observations Markus could let slide easily enough, he expected it. What he had found most anxious was the sound of her footsteps against the cobbled street. Her feet were bound in filthy tattered rags, their only protection from the stones and the cold. Markus had walked barefoot on streets like these before and knew firsthand how easily unprotected feet would become torn and bloodied.

Arriving at the bakery, Markus gave the beggar girl a warm smile then stepped inside. The streets outside had been uncomfortably cold and the warm if a little stifling temperature of the bakery was a welcome change.

A plump young woman behind the counter greeted Markus warmly, her hair tied back in a loose bun which bounced as she bobbed a quick curtsy, “Good afternoon sir, how may I help you this day?”

Markus smiled in return, “A few things if you would be so kind. Three fresh loaves of bread and four beef pot-pies, please,” reaching for his coin pouch Markus could see the beggar girl watching the exchange through the window, hungrily eyeing the baked goods as they were deposited on the counter, it was not all that dissimilar to how the wolves had been looking at Markus the night before.

“That will be one shilling two pence sir,” the young woman’s smile broadened as Markus deposited a shilling and four pennies on the counter and he made no move to withdraw the extra coins.

“I would like a sack for the loaves if you would be so kind,” Markus asked.

the young woman's smile faltered a moment as he made the additional request, her sudden windfall slipping through her fingers. Taking a quick look towards the closed door behind her, she smiled slyly and withdrew a frayed but serviceable sack from behind the counter, then placed the loaves and pies Markus had asked for within the sack.

Markus chuckled but said nothing. The young woman was most likely the baker’s wife or daughter, so the sale of the sack was not illegal. However, the young woman was most likely going to pocket the additional coins for herself and hope the baker didn’t notice the missing sack. Tying the sack to his pack, Markus stepped back out onto the street.

The beggar girl looked upset and angry, interchangeably glaring at Markus and eyeing the baker sack hungrily.

Markus had expected this, so he made no complaints as he slipped the pack off his shoulder and sat down with his back against the wall of the bakery.

The beggar girl slipped closer, her eyes now fixated on the concealed contents of the sack.

Untying the sack, Markus withdrew the first pie and began to hold it out for her, only to find that in the couple of seconds he had looked away, the beggar girl had closed the gap between them and now greedily snatched the pie from his unready fingers.

The beggar girl awkwardly tore into the pie with ravenous abandon, the steaming gravy spilling down her chin as she wolfed down mouthful after mouthful of the meat and crust. All too soon, she was wiping the gravy from her chin and sucking her fingers clean for every last morsel of the baked good that remained. She looked at her empty hand with regret, daring to glance at the sack again.

Markus had known enough beggars to guess what she was thinking. So he decided to avoid the inevitable attempted theft of his property by withdrawing a second pie from the sack and offering it to her as well.

Momentarily taken aback, the girl was stunned into inaction, staring blankly at the pie in his outstretched hand.

“It’s yours,” Markus said reassuringly, “Take it.”

The beggar girl took the second pie but made no move to eat it, placing it on her tray alongside the dried flowers and staring at it. For the second time, Markus felt he could see the flurry of thoughts behind her eyes.

Markus had known hunger, the humiliating privations of starvation, and the desperation it awakened inside of you. To be as hungry as she had been only a moment before and to react the way she had, there is only one thing that could explain it. Guilt. She likely had a friend or a relative living rough like her and just as hungry.

Markus took one of the two remaining pies and placed it on her tray. “Enough for you and your friend,” he said, withdrawing the final pie and offering it to her.

The beggar girl didn’t take it, her thoughts a blur behind her eyes again. “Why?” She asked, her voice barely more than a whisper. Giving Markus no time to reply, the answer no doubt coming from an internal monologue, “What do you want?” Her expression turned deadpan, apparently resigned to the payment Markus was expected to demand of her.

More disappointed than hurt that the waif thought so little of him, Markus tried to keep his voice lighthearted as he replied, “Because I can. You don’t owe me anything.”

The beggar girl appeared at odds with herself, angry and confused, “People aren’t like that!” She blurted out, her cheeks growing flushed in anger and frustration.

Markus flinched but said nothing. He could not fault her for thinking that way, in her position he had thought much the same of strangers.

“S-so why-” She began sobbing and sniffling, “Wh-why?” She slumped to her knees and began to cry, rubbing ineffectually at the tears with her hand.

Rummaging through his pack, Markus withdrew his scarf and loosely draped it over the girl’s shoulders and patted her head awkwardly. As benign as his intentions were, Markus doubted random passersby would be so generous in their opinion, so he thought it best to keep his distance.

Taking hold of one of the scarf’s corners, Markus began to concentrate and willed his mana into it, his thoughts of the warm bakery behind them. The effect was near-instantaneous, sudden warmth emanating from the scarf, the girl shivering from the sudden change in temperature and her eyes flying open in surprise.

The beggar girl eyed the scarf with a mixture of fear, suspicion and awe, tentatively gripping the fabric in her hand and pressing it against her face. “It’s like magic,” she whispered incredulously, “But how?” Her brow furrowed in confusion and disbelief. Unable to answer the questions herself, she looked to Markus, who just shrugged vaguely and smiled in response. “You did this?” She asked.

“Yeah,” Markus replied simply. He could enchant objects without glyphs or sigils, but it was far less efficient.

“You can do magic?” The beggar girl demanded, her tone now deathly serious and quite unnerving.

“I can-” Markus replied, already formulating the more comprehensive explanation but was interrupted before he could elaborate.

“You can heal someone who is sick?” The girl asked, her hand now taking tight hold of his shirt and her eyes manically searching his face for any hint of deception. She was obviously desperate.

“And there it is,” Markus thought ruefully. Now feeling quite uncomfortable to disappoint the little girl's desperate hopes. “I can use magic, but I am not a Priest. I can’t heal the sick and injured,” he jostled his injured arm for emphasis. “I am sorry, but I am just an Artificer. I enchant items to make them stronger, lighter or warmer, that sort of thing.” Markus tried to keep it simple for her but had a distinct impression that she wasn’t listening anyway.

As he had expected, the flickering hope that had accompanied the manic desperation in the girl’s eyes had died just as quickly as it had been kindled.

“Someone you know is sick,” Markus said matter of factly, though trying not to sound callous or insensitive it still sounded.

The beggar girl’s head slumped in defeated resignation as she nodded, “My mama,” she sniffled pitiably, fresh tears welling in the corners of her eyes.

Markus sighed and ran his hand through his hair. He had expected this and even before speaking with the girl earlier, even though Markus had suspected what he would need to do, he still didn’t like it. “How long has she been sick?” Markus asked, still holding out hope that he wouldn't have to resort to extreme measures.

“For-ev-ever,” the girl sobbed, tears rolling down her cheeks and splashing on the dried flowers, “Ah-and-h-her-cou-cou-ghing-kee-keeps-ge-ge-ting-worse.” She was bawling now, deep racking sobs rocking her delicate frame.

Torn between providing the support the poor girl needed and the ever-mounting level scrutiny and negative attention passersby were directing his way, Markus settled on a compromise. He squeezed the girl’s shoulder in what he hoped came across as a reassuring manner, “It’ll be okay” Markus said, trying to inject as much hope and positivity into his tone as he could muster, no small feat given the mounting dread coalescing in his gut. “Where is your mother?” Markus asked.

A minute dragged by agonizingly slowly and when the girl still didn’t show any signs of answering, Markus cursed himself inwardly and resolved to fully commit. “I-” He froze, the words themselves, although benevolent, carried a sizable accompaniment of anxiety. “I-know someone who can help your mother.”

The beggar girl didn’t stop crying immediately, but her sobbing lessened considerably, “W-what?” fresh hope was flickering to life in her eyes and Markus quailed inwardly, knowing there was no going back now.

“Y-you d-do?” She hiccupped.

Markus smiled, even though he was screaming inside, willing himself to remain sitting and not run away as fast as his legs would carry him. “Yeah, she should be able to heal your mother.”

“Really?!” The girl’s disbelief and desperate hope were a rather stark contrast to Markus's battling altruism and dread. She launched herself at Markus, her tray digging painfully against his bruised ribs as she wrapped her arm around his neck and hugged him tight. “Thank you!” She exclaimed, fresh tears splashing down the back of Markus’s shirt, “Thank you!”

“It could be worse-” Markus thought ruefully, awkwardly patting the girls back and trying not to make eye contact with random passersby while also trying to keep his airway open so he could breathe, “-I could be dining with a Priest and have nothing to show for it.”

Markus lost track of how long the girl had held him and while he didn’t begrudge her need for emotional support and physical intimacy, the prolonged physical contact was making Markus anxious and uncomfortable.

As if sensing his critical levels of discomfort, or perhaps realizing the level of social impropriety of her actions, the beggar girl slowly drew away from Markus, rubbing the last remnants of her tears away with the scarf he had given her. “I-I’m sorry,” She stammered in apology.

“It’s okay,” Markus replied, smiling warmly and doing his best to mask his discomfort, “I understand.”

The girl cocked her head slightly to the side, briefly gnawing at her trembling lower lip before opening her mouth to speak only to promptly close it again.

Markus tied the sack with the remaining bread loaves to his pack again. Awkwardly getting to his feet Markus then held out his good hand to help the girl up.

She smiled, the remnants of her tears glinting in the corners of her eyes as she took Markus's hand and was lifted to her feet. “Arlee, my name is Arlee,” she said, now shy and somewhat reserved again but noticeably happier than when Markus had first seen her.

Markus let go of Arlee’s hand. However, she didn’t release her grip, instead, tugging his fingers insistently as she turned and began walking away.

“This way,” Arlee tugged on his fingers again insistently, “Mama is this way.”

Steeling himself to face the worst, Markus did his best to purge the few of his fragmented memories that came unbeckoned to his mind, gently yet firmly taking hold of Arlee’s hand again and doing his best to match pace with her. In many respects, Markus believed he had more to fear of the child than she had of him.

Arlee led Markus towards the outskirts of the town and into the residential district. While most houses were small, they were also well kept and clean. Foot traffic on these streets was relatively sparse, seemingly limited to mothers and unwed daughters visiting one another or in the process of running errands. Markus was surprised by the general disinterest most of the locals had towards the pair of them, that was until the reality of the situation sunk in.

People high and low would expend a great deal of energy to avoid the attention of the crippled and otherwise disabled. To anyone observing them on the streets, they were nothing more than a pair of undesirables who were best left out of sight and by extension out of mind. Some would certainly see this behaviour as cruel, but Markus understood it differently.

The overwhelming majority of these people likely had barely enough to get by, they led their own lives with tragedies all their own. It was not malicious cruelty that drove their disinterest and neglect, it was pragmatism. They held nothing to gain and much to lose by taking on burdens of others when they scarcely could care for themselves and their loved ones. It was an easy enough decision for most, who was more important, yourself and your family? Or a stranger?

Arlee had led Markus to a dilapidated shelter made of rotten and broken planks, a torn and worn sheet of waxed canvas serving as a rudimentary door. The condition of the hovel immediately lowered his expectations. With the current bad weather and steadily dropping the temperature of late, there was a very strong possibility of Arlee’s mother being beyond saving if she was still alive at all. Arlee wouldn't be the first child orphaned by a cruel winter and unable to accept the reality of a loved one's passing.

Arlee let go of Markus's hand and drew the canvas aside, awkwardly stepping aside as she held it open for Markus to step inside.

Following Arlee inside, Markus did his best to breathe only through his mouth. The hovels interior was little better than its exterior, with the added discomfort of the smell only the terminally ill seemed capable of. The overall aroma was what Markus could only describe as the smell of the dead and dying, reeking of ammonia, feces, blood and pus.

The hovel was unlit, save for the dim light that found its way through the gaps riddling its walls and ceiling, but even that light was enough to see that Arlee and her mother had precious few possessions to call their own. A small pile of filthy rags, a single broken clay cup, a discoloured bed of mouldy straw, a threadbare sheet and the clothes on their backs.

The sight of Arlee’s mother was one that Markus knew would long haunt his dreams. She was emaciated to the point of being little more than loose jaundiced skin hanging off her bones. Her hair was a tangled greasy mess, her lips cracked and infected with pussy scabs. The nearly imperceptible rise and fall of her chest was the only sign she was even still alive. Her blackened and sunken eyelids remained shut even as Arlee knelt down beside her and gently rocked her shoulder.

“Mama,” Arlee nudged her mother's shoulder again, this time more insistently, “Mama.”

Arlee’s mother’s right eye opened ever so slightly, bloodshot and darkly jaundiced. Her lips barely moved as she breathed a reply Markus couldn't hear.

“It will be okay mama!” Arlee began to cry, “Just a bit longer,”

Arlee’s mother whispered something in reply that only seemed to upset Arlee even more.

“No, I love mama! I won't leave mama!” Arlee’s shoulders began shuddering as she tried to suppress her tears.

Kneeling next to Arlee, Markus could feel rather than see her mother's gaze upon him, her limbs trembling feebly with the effort to console her daughter but only managing to free one gnarled corpse-like hand from the sheet and fall limply at her side. Without flinching Markus took her hand in his own and leaned in closer, “Your daughter needs you, will you abandon her?” Markus loaded the question with as much contempt and vitriol as he could manage.

The reaction was weak at first, her hand merely trembling in Markus’s grip. However, little by little, her grip grew stronger, her filthy broken nails scratching his skin and attempting to burrow into the flesh beneath. She spoke no words, instead a coarse and ragged growl rumbling from her throat.

“Good,” Markus thought. “If you love your daughter then fight for her!” He demanded.

Markus’s words had the desired effect, provoking Arlee’s mother’s primal instincts, calling on faltering reserves to strengthen what little of her life remained. Though cruel, instigating her ire and protective instincts were the only way Markus knew of to try and delay the onset of a phenomenon he was all too familiar with. Markus had seen what made the difference between life and death while teetering on the brink.

When a parent thought their child was safe, the fight would drain from them and they would slip away. While parents who felt uncertain or fearful of their child's future would fight tooth and nail for just one more breath. If she was going to survive long enough for the Priest to heal her, Arlee’s mother would have to fight. Markus had seen the acceptance in her eyes before, the temptation of surrendering her child's future to a benevolent stranger weakening her flagging will to live.

Arlee didn't understand what was going on and was growing more upset with tears freely running down her cheeks, “Mama?”

“Fight for her,” Markus repeated, “Fight for your daughters future,” the mother's grip tightened, Markus could feel the blood welling and running from the cuts her nails were carving in the back of his hand. “Arlee needs one more night from you, can you give her that at least?”

The same guttural growl was the only reply Markus received, but he felt much better about her odds of survival.

“Arlee?” Markus asked gently, trying to get her attention, but she was too distraught. “I am going to take your mama to the hospital okay?”

“Hu-huh?” Arlee hiccuped, unable to stop herself from crying. She didn't seem to understand what was going on.

Freeing his hand from the dying woman’s grip, Markus concentrated and brushed his hand against the threadbare sheet serving as her blanket. His sight went dark as his mind began drawing on memories of cold winters spent by the fire, The comforting warmth of the heat emanating from the fireplace and the warding shield of the brick and mortar walls against the bitter cold.

Just as Markus prepared to lower his concentration, fleeting fragmented memories of a faceless child slipped through his mind, accompanied by a primal and all-consuming need to survive. Reluctantly, Markus allowed his concentration to fade.

Unsure if his lapse in concentration had ruined the augmentation, Markus was relieved to feel the steady waves of heat coming off the sheet blanket. “Arlee, we have to take your mama to the hospital now,” without waiting for a reply, Markus gingerly wrapped her mother in the sheet as best he could. He was unsurprised as parts of the sheet tore or fell apart in his hand, its threadbare greying and rotten fabric unable to sustain any real pressure or weight.

Undaunted, Markus grit his teeth against the pain as he freed his left arm from the sling and lifted Arlee’s mother in the crook of his left arm and angled her to carry her weight in his right arm. The sheet blanket bundled around her was little more than a torn rag, but Markus hoped it would last long enough for him to carry her to the town’s hospital. Carefully stepping out of the hovel and into daylight Markus turned back to make sure Arlee was following him. “Arlee, come on.”

Arlee awkwardly and shakily scrambled to her feet and accidentally knocked one of the hovels rotten planks as she did so, “Mama will live?” Arlee looked up at Markus with desperate hope in her eyes.

“Y-yeah,” Markus stammered, unwilling to destroy Arlee’s hope with the brutal reality of the long odds her mother's survival was dependent on. From personal experience, Markus knew it was better not to know the odds, preferring the comforting lie than the agonizing truth.

Markus had been afraid that Arlee would not be able to keep up with him, her slight frame and small legs being a notable handicap. He was nevertheless surprised to find that she was more than capable of keeping pace alongside him, seemingly possessed of so much frantic energy that Markus was, in fact, the slower of the pair.

In truth, her mother was not much of a hindrance to his overall progress, doubtless weighing little more than a child. However, Markus was doing his best to make sure not to jostle her too harshly, unsure of her exact condition, but certain that her muscles were incredibly weakened and atrophied, so he had to take particular care of her neck and back.

With the town’s chapel now in sight, it wouldn't be too much longer until Markus could see Arlee’s mother admitted to the adjoining hospital. One of the town's inns had been much closer, but he seriously doubted the innkeeper’s wife or daughters would see to cleaning and caring for Arlee’s mother in her current state, any number of shillings or crowns be damned.

At least the hospital sponsored by the church could be sufficiently ‘incentivised’ with enough coin to provide care for a patient so far gone as her. This was not to say that the church of the divines only cared about money, the Hospitaller and attendants of the church's humanitarian hospital were simply cornered by forced pragmatism. Time and resources spent on a hopeless case would then not be available for those they could otherwise have saved. A brutal reality faint hearted philanthropists often chose to ignore when criticizing Hospitaller’s priorities.

Markus did find it strange that Arlee’s mother had not been admitted before her condition had become so severe. There were precious few reasons why the hospital would turn someone away. Without any real time to consider why this was the case, Markus was fast approaching the martial devotee’s stationed at the entrance to the hospital.

An elderly attendant by the door opened the door, then approached Markus. Her wizened face only crinkled slightly at the condition of Arlee’s mother, the look in her eyes telling Markus that she knew this woman would not live long regardless of intervention.

“I can pay,” Markus said matter of factly, trying to keep the accusatory tone from his voice but doing little to reign in the implied challenge. Markus had already taken care to allow his adventurer identification to slip free of his shirt, knowing the inferred connections and wealth of the identification would be enough to get her treated.

“Of course,” the attendant replied, her tone giving nothing away as she rushed back into the hospital as nimbly as her habit and scapular would allow. “Boiling water! Eloise fresh linens! Marius! Bandages and-” The elderly attendant's voice was calling orders with practised efficiency and prudence, her voice all but lost in a cacophonous chorus of replies and responses. “This way!” She took hold of Markus's arm, her fingers like a vice, deftly guiding him through the entry hall and the bustling chaos of a long hallway. Attendants young and old were busy rushing this way and that, some carrying medical supplies, others with bedding or clothing.

Markus was too busy trying to make sure he kept his footing and avoiding being struck by the manic attendants to follow the vocal exchanges taking place around him, and was surprised when he was steered into a private room apart from the general hospice.

“Lay her down gently,” the attendant instructed, releasing Markus's arm and motioning to the bed on the far side of the room.

Gingerly making his way over to the bed, Markus did his best to gently lay Arlee’s mother down. No sooner had he done so, than the attendant swooped in and began checking her vital signs. Unlike Svala, she did not vocalise her findings, opting instead to keep that information to herself.

This was normal, the Hospitaller and attendants wouldn't make conditions and injuries assessments aloud unless they had colleagues present. Their expertise was considered wasted on laymen like him.

The room was austere and practical. The brick walls were stark white and kept immaculately clean. The flagstones underfoot were likewise exceptionally well carved, fitted and of course somewhat worn down, making them incredibly smooth. Markus was unfamiliar with the few articles of the room's furniture besides the bed and nearby table, so he had to assume they served some medical or other practical purposes.

“Excuse me!” A young female attendant with blonde hair said, as she shoved past Markus and deposited a stack of clean washing linens. “There was not enough water left over Ms Hena, the porters will be along shortly with the sink and the buckets with what hot water we have prepared-”

“It will have to do,” the elderly attendant interjected, “We need to get her cleaned and out of these rags before we can properly determine her illness.”

The younger attendant spared a glance at Arlee’s mother, then to Markus. Though she did her best to hide it, her incredulous expression was unmistakable, still to her credit, she said nothing as she quietly rushed from the room.

Approaching the table, Markus drew some coins from his purse, depositing a pair of gold crowns on the table. The elderly attendant, Ms Hena, glanced at the coins as she sorted the washing linens into different piles, then glanced at Markus “For her immediate care and treatment as well as for her daughter Arlee,” Withdrawing and counting out the shillings from his purse, twenty-three in all he set them alongside the crowns, “For her palliative care.”

Ms Hena hadn't looked down once as Markus had laid the coins out on the table, instead, she intensely scrutinized his face. Ms Hena opened her mouth to say something, but then changed her focus downward and just past him, “Girl?”

Looking behind him, Markus could see Arlee hanging behind him as close as her flower tray would allow, peeking around his legs.

“Arlee, it's okay,” Markus did his best to reassure her, but it was clear that Arlee was nervous and firmly rooted in place.

A pair of burly porters suddenly entered the room and gave Arlee enough of a surprise for her to scamper around Markus and closer to Ms Hena.

“More on the way,” the younger of the porters said as they set down the buckets by the door and hurried out of the room.

Ms Hena took this opportunity to move closer to Arlee, visually assessing her for injury and poor health. Taking a firm hold of Arlee’s arm to stop her from wriggling free and running away, Ms Hena assessed Arlee’s symptoms just as she had done with her mother before releasing her.

Free of Ms Hena’s grip, Arlee scuttled back behind Markus, nearly driving him to his knees when her tray collided with the back of his leg.

As more attendants began arriving with supplies, Markus was politely shooed from the room and into the hall. Arlee had been torn between standing alone in the room or following Markus into the hall as well. Understanding the driving emotions between the choices, Markus made it easier on Arlee by making it for her, shepherding Arle alongside him and sitting next to her on the bench beneath a glass stained window.

Every so often, one of the hospital's staff would enter or leave the room her mother was in, their dark expressions doing little to settle Arlee’s obvious fear and trepidation. She had removed her tray and left it on the far edge of the bench and seemed much smaller and more vulnerable in its absence.

Markus didn't stop Arlee as she timidly edged closer, her small hand slowly creeping over his. He could feel Arlee trembling and see the mounting despair in her eyes which were still transfixed on the door to her mother's room.

Withdrawing his hand, Arlee’s hand likewise retracted as quickly as if she were burned by an open flame.

“I’m s-” Arlee began to apologize but was interrupted as Markus awkwardly drew her in close and hugged her.

Just as she had done earlier, Arlee sniffled pitiably, then all at once the emotional dam burst and she began to cry.