Sergeant Morgan Temolt took another sip from his mug, the nervous recruit beside him hurriedly copying him as if the action were of the utmost importance. Decent tea though, he notes as he glanced down into his cup; not your usual border-town fare. The woman in front of him was not nearly so pleasant. He took a deep breath, heavens preserve me, and once again begins asking questions.

“Madam,” he began, a subtle note of tension in his voice. “Last night, you were seen interacting with two individuals named Lucien Sepulchrum and Emmet Clarke. Is this accurate?” Slightly brusque, but sometime in the last hour, proper honorifics had been dropped.

The lady across the table placed her teacup down daintily in its saucer, somehow communicating palpable disdain in the almost inaudible clink. “Those boys left in a hurry, I’ve no idea where they went.” It isn’t even a lie, but she had given the same answer – in the exact same tone of voice – to every question he had asked all night. There was a pause when nobody spoke, only broken when the recruit – acting as a scribe – tentatively scribbled down the woman’s answer on a scroll. Morgan glanced over, counting 53 identical answers to a list of questions that repeated periodically – heavens, he was done.

“By her light Annie, can we stop with this crap?” he asked, exasperation leaking from his every pore.

“Language.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, before slamming his fist down on the table – the recruit jumped, deliberating over whether this was meant to be on record. He sighed, “Look Annie, those two are potentially dangerous criminals. We have reports that they violently disrupted an Imperial operation, caused injury to Her Majesty’s enforcers, kidnapped a girl of interest to the Empire and assaulted an elderly couple – Old Mr and Mrs Turpin!” Annie gave a snort – at least it’s a different answer.

“And how much of that actually happened Morgan?”

Morgan sighed again and looked down at his notes, “The first one – probably. The whole thing’s locked up tight though, so there isn’t anything to actually charge them with.” He chuckled grimly, “The higher-ups just wrote down ‘Agent of Chaos’ on the posters – I think they included the girl in with that – even though she was the one who was meant to have been kidnapped.”

“Yes, I saw it. But what in Her name do you want from me, boy?” He hated it when she talked like that – his own children were signing up to the guard, he wasn’t a teenaged hooligan anymore. He let the silence hang, drumming his fingers while he thought. After a moment he sighed once again – a scribbling indicated that his scribe saw fit to record even that for some reason.

“Annie, you know how this kind of thing works. My captain just wants their destination, anything this Lucien told you.” She still hesitates, “Come on Annie. We burnt down half the boardwalk, Frank’s leg is broken; I need something or else we’re fu- going to be in a lot of trouble.”

She looked pained, but relented. “Alright Morgan. Sepulchrum said he would head north – probably getting out of the Empire.” She looked away. “But I want you out of here Morgan – you should be ashamed of this. Weld is your home.” He nodded silently, that’ll do it. Gesturing for the scribe’s scroll he looked it over, then tore it up. He had what he needed.

Suddenly the door of the inn burst open, a towering man in full plate striding through. Morgan immediately stood at attention, the scribe scrambling to follow suit.

“Sergeant Temolt, I trust you have obtained what I asked for?” the knight announces – it wasn’t a question, Sir Reynard obviously had no interest in any alternative. Morgan nodded then motioned for his scribe to speak – he’d rather sleep in the beds of the Goblin Piss Inn than deal with ‘Sir’ Reynard. The bastard isn’t even officially his superior.

“Y-y-yes my Lord” stuttered the scribe. The poor guy was stuck between two superior officers – Morgan realised that he should have left some of the report intact. The scribe glanced frantically at him, Morgan just gestured vaguely and the scribe swallowed hard. “T-the inn-keeper claims that the two suspects are likely heading N-n-north… Milord.” Reynard doesn’t spare him a glance.

A scraggly man bearing the same uniform as Reynard ambles in, followed by a short blonde woman. “You reckon they’re actually heading north, Reynard?” the man asked the knight, “It could be a diversion.” The woman stepped forward.

“The old couple claim that Sepulchrum and the priest passed through their cottage to collect the girl. Witness accounts indicate that they exited along the south road.” Reynard nods as she finishes. He turns to Morgan and spoke once again in that overbearing superior tone.

“Sergeant, mobilise your men. Comb the southern road, but be ready for further instructions.” He addresses his two companions, “We are to head to the Weld Church, young Edwin is as likely to return to it as anywhere else.” The other two nod and leave, Reynard barely acknowledging anyone else as he followed. Morgan relaxed then motioned for the scribe to follow him out. As he left, he heard Annie sigh.

“I hope that idiot doesn’t get himself killed.”

O – O – O – O – O

“Eeaarrgh.”

I drag myself off the ground, the weird ache you get from being rapidly healed, slowly seeping out of my limbs. Thank the Gods for healing magic really. Is it usually this convenient? Or is Emmet just really good at it? Whatever it is – setting aside the fact that he’s the reason I’m in such need of it lately – I’m glad he’s around right now. It almost makes my spell repertoire viable. I dust off my robes, and grimly wipe the congealed brain off my sleeve – that’s going to be a pain to get out – and give our surroundings a once over again. Yep, everything is dead. What the fuck Evelyn.

“What the fuck Evelyn?” I decide it needed to be said out loud. She just grins and shrugs, flicking blood at me as she twirls the hoe – a bloody farming tool – over her shoulder. As her hand leaves the thing’s shaft, she suddenly overbalances and drops it to the ground. Then she swears.

“God damn it, I’ve got to stop doing that” she mutters, then leaves her trusty weapon to go approach the cottage. I look down at Emmet, who’s still squatting, possibly feeling the same way I am – you know, having almost died. I don’t want to waste the effort I took to stand up, so I just stoop, panting as Evelyn saunters over to the cottage door and gives it a few loud, obnoxious knocks. I find myself looking down at the goblin I’d blinded earlier, apparently it had started crawling towards me as I’d struggled with Emmet’s one. Its chest has been caved in; Evelyn had been apparently ill-equipped to manage a clean stab.

The image of her standing over us, dead monsters at her feet and smoke billowing around her brings unpleasant memories of the last time I’d narrowly escaped having my throat torn out. The firebolts had been useless then as well. I’d thought that rat-men were just too tough, but that goblin had been remarkably unfazed by losing its eyes. The death mana thing was effective though – I shake my head – No, if anyone realised it was the only necromancy I can produce, I’d die of embarrassment. And now we owe Evelyn for getting us out of that – how did that even happen? Wasn’t she meant to be completely untrained?

Who cares about the firebolts, I wouldn’t be fighting these bloody monsters if it weren’t for – Wait. Emmet! I round on the little bastard. “Emmet! What the fuck was that?” I shout. Emmet just stares back up at me. I keep going, “I almost died because of this! I told you to ignore it, they would have pissed off eventually!” I breathe in, out of air again. Emmet stares blankly back, but a scowl soon appears.

He shoots to his feet. “Don’t speak to me like that!” he shouts, I startle a bit. “We saved this farm – we did what was right, it was the right thing to do!” Don’t you pull that morality shit on me.

“Right? I think you need some bloody perspective here. I don’t think you understand what is actually at stake here, I almost died – for some backwater farmers. You need a sense of reality Emmet! Did you even think it through before you jumped into a monster attack?” I shout back. Who does he think he is?

“Reality!? You’re telling me I need a sense of reality?” He gestures wildly to the farmland. “You see that burning field over there? That’s this season’s crop! Those potatoes? Those should have been enough to last the next three months! You seem to think it’s all inconsequential collateral damage, but it’s someone’s livelihood!”

I puff up, “This happens all the time, these people have dealt with it for generations.” I breathe in to continue but Emmet cuts me off.

“Stop saying that! These people? My father owned a farm – I’m a peasant! Just because monster attacks are common doesn’t mean you can just walk by as they burn and pillage everything around them! And don’t you dare talk about thinking it through – how many times in the last week have you needed healing? Did you think it through either? Or was blinding yourself and getting into a brawl your strategy for everything?” Why this little shit, “You could have done anything. You could have charged the firebolt like you did just yesterday.” That brings me up short, my face turns red.

“Do you think there was any time for that you bastard? You were about to be killed!” I shout back, voice cracking. Emmet momentarily goes red himself, before scowling harder.

“Fine! Thank you!” he forces down a rattling breath. “For the first time, I’m part of a group that has the power to make a difference. I’m not going to stand back and let bad things happen. I just want to help!” We stand, breathing heavily, both red in the face and with watery eyes. I feel sick and sweaty. My stomach and chest swirling with indignance and a whole lot of indistinct anger and frustration. Fucking Emmet and his bloody do-gooder bullshit. After I save his sorry ass, how dare he pull this ‘what’s right’ crap?

A frustrated shout distracts us both – stops us spluttering incoherently anyway.

“Well screw you too buddy!” I quickly take the opportunity to make an exit, hurriedly walking over to where Evelyn was shouting through the cottage door. Some old dude, probably the farmer, peeks through a gap in the door – a chain locking it securely. As I approach, the guy’s eyes widen a bit, drawing the gap tighter. I take a quick look down at my clothes – shredded and covered in blood – probably not a great look, but hey, we did just save at least some of their farm. Apparently, he’s not feeling so thankful, as a scowl soon replaces the half second of reticence.

“Another one of you. What do you want? We’re simple folk – you’re not getting anything out of us!” Somehow, he manages to get a decent amount of spittle through the tiny crack – he must be an old hand at this.

But hang on, didn’t we save his farm? I glance back at the burning wheat field and squealing pigs – didn’t we save some of his farm? What’s this idiot got to be cagey about? The same thoughts seem to pass through Evelyn’s head, as she presses her face right up against the door crack. The farmer shows his experience by slamming the door closed in response – a quick flinch backward being the only thing saving Evelyn from a black eye. We hear some thumping and the shutters of the window open a crack. “We’re not going to give you any money, adventurers – we don’t have any.” He says the word ‘adventurer’ as if it were an insult.

“We don’t want your bloody money, dickhead,” says Evelyn – eloquent as always. She stamps over to the window, though keeping a bit more distance than before.

“Then what in Her name do you want? Your kind always wants something.” Evelyn readies herself to shout back, but pauses in confusion. She quickly scoots back towards me.

“What do we want?” she whispers, I just shrug. “They just started shouting at me when I approached. Do we even want anything?”

“I don’t know. A cup of tea? I nearly died,” I mutter back. Evelyn huffs exasperatedly.

“Yeah, but is there any, like, convention for this?” I shrug again, I don’t know how this works. I’m pretty sure I established that I don’t make a habit of risking my life. She makes another exasperated huff and stamps back over to the window. Emmet, apparently having put his tantrum on hold, comes up behind us. “The least you can do is thank us! We just saved your farm from a bunch of goblins!” shouts at the farmer’s scowling eyeball.

“We don’t have anything to give you! Just leave!” he shouts back, ungrateful peasant that he is. I march up beside Evelyn.

“Look here serf. I expect at least some degree of gratitude for risking my life for your pathetic farm.” I shout. This is ridiculous. Who acts like this?

“We’re just poor farmers – we have nothing to give you adventurers.” Comes the muffled reply. Always the same response. What is wrong with them, I don’t want anything from them – except maybe some thanks. I stand on tiptoes and peek over the irate eye. It’s just a simple cottage, worn dining table, small cooking area and two beds in the far corner. A woman and child sit huddled in the far corner, the woman holding the kid, both of them clearly terrified. I notice the farmers scowl is less furious and more wild-eyed – I think he’s clutching a knife behind his back. What is this?

“P-please just go away!” stutters the woman from the corner. “W-we have nothing here.” Again – what do they think we want? Evelyn looks unsure, even Emmet has transitioned from scowling to looking uncomfortable. I tap Evelyn on the shoulder and motion back to the road. She looks conflicted, biting back another angry retort to the farmer, before turning back, Emmet and I following after her. I glance back at the cottage. The silhouetted head of the farmer not once looking away from us. Creepy.

“Why were they like that?” says Evelyn, breaking the silence that had settled on us. “We saved their farm, didn’t we?” she turns around to Emmet and I, now sounding unsure.

“Yeah, we did” I reply, feeling touch of bitterness, “went blind for the privilege.” Emmet twitches at that, possibly thinking of our argument, I make a point to ignore him. Evelyn doesn’t seem to react, just staring off up the road.

“It’s like they thought we’d take everything from them.” She sighs, “I just wanted… some thanks, y’know? They would have been in real trouble without us, right?” I think back to the farmers, the repeated phrase, ‘we have nothing for you’. “It was just so cool, then they’re like, not even the slightest bit thankful. It just feels like such a waste,” she drifts off, I just nod along slowly. Even I’m feeling a weird hollow disappointment.

“I get the feeling that adventurer types aren’t going to get the same reception north of the border,” I say as Evelyn’s silence draws on. They were scared of us. I try to put it out of my mind.

Evelyn sticks to her contemplative silence, but I can only hear my heart pulsing in my ears. Adrenaline is still pumping through me, it’s like my fight with the rat-men; but this time I won. Sure, Evelyn somehow managed to drive off and kill, like, three times as many – I’ll have to ask about that soon – but I still fought monsters and won. Maybe I can turn the necromancy pulse thing into a real attack? Make it look a bit more purposeful. Add some flair, maybe add some range to it.

The image of scrabbling claws and snarling teeth keeps flashing through my mind, whiskers and green skin merging into one. My hand reaches up to my lacerated shirt, bloody from the claw marks that are now completely gone. I look over to Evelyn, mostly clean, not a mark from the fight. I wipe my hand through my hair, I’m sure it’s matted with blood – only specks of white left in the grime and gristle. Emmet suddenly pipes up.

“Hey, Lucien, I’m sorry,” he pauses, “and thank you for coming to save me like you did.” I look over to him, our argument already vague in my mind. I feel a bit calmer, the anger and frustration of the fight draining from me as we walk. Really, it’s all being replaced with a distance sick feeling from the way those farmers reacted. I try to quash it. Emmet was kind of right – we did do the right thing, the nerve of those wankers to treat us like that. It’s ridiculous. I quickly glance at Emmet.

“Yeah, it’s alright, just don’t do it again.” That was probably the wrong thing to say because it seems to annoy him.

“We did the right thing Lucien. Even if they didn’t appreciate it,” he looks away, but keeps pace with us. This again, the farmers obviously didn’t want our help – why bother with them? I ignore him, I don’t need his whiny choir boy routine right now. I walk up to Evelyn’s side – might as well figure out how I’m alive right now, depressing as that is. She glances at me as I draw near, eyebrows raised and eyes gesturing between me and Emmet – I ignore her too.

“Hey Evelyn, care to explain what the fuck happened back there?” she looks vaguely confused, I guess a lot happened back there. I mime swinging a sword and then gurgle out a fake death rattle. She snorts, unimpressed – well screw you too – but seems to get it.

“You mean when I wrecked those goblins? Eh?” she bares her teeth in a grin that splits her face. “I got like ten of them or something – pretty awesome right?” She swings an imagery hoe around to punctuate her, no doubt, exciting memories – the dour atmosphere apparently forgotten in the wake of her gloating.

“Yes, the goblin killing. How did you do that? I didn’t think you had any combat experience,” remind me why I had to be the one to pull the two of you out of that cave if you could just do that with a bloody hoe of all things.

This seems to pull her out of her revelling. “Oh, well, y’know. I think it’s like how I can read your magic book. Sometimes when I held the hoe, I just got this feeling, like I knew how to fight – and I just did.” I give her a sceptical look. Like the Old Mythic thing huh?

“What, so you picked up a spade, and suddenly you were a weapons master?”

She paused to think, “Only sometimes. Every now and then I’d just lose the feeling. Like, my hand would slip and it just became a farming tool again.” That’s weird.

“It wasn’t just a fluke?”

“No… there was a real difference between swinging it around and when I had that feeling.” Huh. Maybe there’s a reason those cultists wanted her so badly. By the smug look in her eye, I assume she’s reached a similar conclusion.

“Maybe it’ll work with a real sword,” I muse. That would be something – an instant sword master – that would be useful the next time one of these idiots does something stupid again. “We would have been pretty screwed without you there” I continue, credit where credit’s due I guess. She grins and puffs out her chest – maybe I should stop stroking her ego.

“A sword you think? Maybe a bow and arrow as well! Or a crossbow – do you guys have crossbows?” I nod, yes, we do have crossbows. Why wouldn’t we? She starts babbling to herself, mostly around adventuring and smiting monsters. “But anyway” she interrupts her own self-congratulation – what a weirdo. “So, what was that thing you did at the end there? I saw the firebolt and your eye-ball-melty-thing, but what did you do to make the last one melt? or whatever?” There’s a familiar shine to her eyes that I remember in mine whenever father deigned to show off a new spell. Either way, I never miss an opportunity to expound on my magical mastery. Especially to someone who doesn’t know how haphazard the whole thing is.

“I just forced some death mana into it. Do you remember the exploding skull from the cave?” she nods, “pumping something full of death mana rapidly decays and destabilises it, apparently it works on living things to some extent.” She’s looking at me weirdly again, is there something on my face? – Apart from all the mud and guts.

“Death magic,” she says slowly, face locked in some kind of grim curiosity. “Is that like, necromancy?”

My turn to puff my chest out. “Yep,” I make flicking gestures for dramatic effect. “I can channel death mana almost instinctively.” I raise my chin. It’s my crowning achievement of my magical study – though I can’t do any actual spells with it. I wilt a bit and my hand starts rubbing to the back of my neck. “Though it’s not real necromancy – I haven’t managed to raise the dead yet, too unstable.” Evelyn’s expression hasn’t changed. “W-well, I tried it on a body I found back in those caves – before I ran into Emmet you know – and it didn’t work out, it just disintegrated – that’s where I got the idea for the exploding skull that we used on Reynard…” Why am I stuttering? It’s not that embarrassing – hardly anybody is a good necromancer – that’s the impressive part of being able to channel death magic. I suddenly notice that my audience isn’t matching my energy. Evelyn’s face is still locked up, edging towards a grimace. My enthusiasm dims – oh, please don’t be weird about it. A strangled gurgle sounds behind me – Oh wait, Emmet. I needed his help, didn’t I? I turn to him – ignoring the same strained grimace he’s got going on. “Hey, Emmet, I forgot to ask…”

“You’re a necromancer?” he cuts me off , a strained expression snapping into actual shock.

“Yeah-,”

He flinches back, hands grasping at his robes. “That’s what you wanted my help with? When you said you wanted to go to the church?” I shrug wordlessly – the shock transitions to a glare. “How could you sully the dead that way? And what could the holy arts possibly do to help you?” His voice continues to rise, ending closer to a breathless shriek than actual anger. Evelyn is nodding along with him, though her expression has made way for morbid interest more so than shock.

Why is he acting like this? I know religion likes to think of itself as the authority on dead things, but come on. “He was already dead when I found him,” I say defensively. “And I don’t know, I think your healing magic helps stabilise the resurrection process – maybe it enjoys the irony or something…” my rambling dies down as I notice Emmet growing red, glare long since transitioned into a scowl.

“Is this why I’m on wanted posters now? I’ve been travelling with a necromancer? Is this why I can’t go home?” he shouts, eyes wild, “I don’t want to have any part of this… this… it’s not right!” It’s not bloody wrong, it’s just necromancy. He turns and hurries along down the road, not looking back as he puts distance between us.

What?

Evelyn takes her turn to glare at me. “A necromancer, really Lucien? You didn’t think to tell us earlier, not a few minutes after a life-or-death fight?” she hisses condescendingly, which is a bit unfair.

“It’s not like I hid it. I literally asked you to give me a human head – then I cast magic on it. What else was that going to be?” I whisper back, even though Emmet’s made his way a decent distance down the road. “Emmet was literally sitting next to me when I killed that goblin – it’s not my fault he’s shit at magic.” She punches my shoulder and points over at Emmet.

“It doesn’t matter – the cleric having a problem with your creepy magic isn’t really a surprise you know,” she says in the most condescending way imaginable. “Now go over there and apologise before we lose the only healer in our adventuring party.” She pushes me forward, but the last thing catches my attention.

“It doesn’t matter what type of magic I use.”

She quirks an eyebrow and cocks her hip, “No, but it matters to Emmet, and you know he’s taken what happened at the church hard. Anyway, stop being a dick and go apologize.” She shoves me forward again and I quicken my pace to follow Emmet. I don’t see how this is my issue though, sounds like he just can’t deal with being a fugitive.

“Emmet!” I call, jogging up to him. He quickens his pace for a few seconds before spinning towards me, a constipated look on his face. I catch up to him and immediately realise that I have absolutely no idea what to say. “Uh… hey… I guess I just want to say sorry,” I start lamely, “I didn’t realise that you’d have such strong feelings against necromancy – it’s just my type of magic, like how you use your holy stuff.” This is apparently the wrong approach.

“Our Mother’s miracles are nothing like dark magic – they heal and help people,” he replies hotly.

“And who just tried to kill a pack of goblins with their bare hands?” I snark, folding my arms.

“Th-that was to help those farmers – we talked about this!” Emmet flusters back. “Now I see why you were so reluctant to do the right thing!” he jabs me in the ribs. Again, with the preachy crap.

“Why is everyone so anal about necromancy?” I exclaim, “you’re not bothered when I’m throwing firebolts – how is it any different?”

“It’s illegal, it’s immoral – did Brother Rodney see this? This isn’t any better than with Sir Reynard.”

I’m about to shout back, to explain to him how much of an obstinate idiot he’s being, when Evelyn shunts in and interrupts us both.

“Oh my god, ignore what I said. If the two of you can’t be adults about this, just shut up and cool off,” she separates us, cutting off our protests. “Anyway, we’ve been walking on this fucking road for god knows how long,” she points to me, “Lucien, how much further do we have to go?” My neurons splutter at the sudden conversation shift, but it does drain most of my accumulated vitriol.

I look around and realise that we’d just crested the hill – so I’m able to just point forward, over her shoulder. Evelyn flips around and looks down into the valley that has basically materialised from nowhere. In the centre, squatting on the bank of a river as if it had descended the valley and couldn’t be bothered climbing the next hill, is the city-state of Havale. A wall surrounds the city proper, with the buildings radiating out from the centre in a gradient of decreasing value. Even at this distance, a blinding white manor is visible at the centre of town. It’s green gardens spitefully large in the packed city.

We continue descending – the promise of actual accommodation putting a stopper to our argument. I think that this is the longest I’ve ever gone without sleeping in a real bed. The road is soon joined by others, forming a highway as we stumble our way to the main gate. A few city guards wander around, mostly bullying anyone that they consider riffraff – ostensibly keeping the peace. I still wouldn’t want to trundle a merchant wagon along here though – not without a decent assortment of mercenary escorts anyway – even if it’s to protect the cargo from being arbitrarily declared contraband and confiscated. The various merchants around us, their wagons laden with all manner of tat, seem to have the same idea – rugged adventurer types outnumber everyone else on the road at least three to one.

The three of us take position behind a wagon as the traffic starts to slow down, forming columns. Security seems to be pretty tight for a city-state I’ve never heard of before. Before I know it, we’re lined up like a gaggle of sheep, taking another step as each wagon trundles another glacially up the line – this is going to take forever, what are those guards doing? The roadside gives way to a bundle of ramshackle stands, presumably where the less established merchants had just given up on the line and set up shop wherever they ended up. It’s almost a nice change from Weld, having finally shaken off that dreadful rural atmosphere after days of travel – maybe there’ll be an actual bathhouse around here.

My stomach growls loudly, reminding me that the last substantial meal that we had was that dubiously magical rabbit. I stand on my tiptoes, peering around for any enterprising souls who may have decided that bureaucratic lines are a decent place to set up a food stall. Unfortunately, the ingrates seem to have struck on the idea that heavy, carved furniture is what travellers entering a trade hub are in need of. There is one guy walking amidst the wagons, selling grasshoppers on sticks, but honestly, I’m not nearly that desperate yet.

As my eyes track back over the road, I accidentally make eye contact with the driver of the wagon ahead of us. He’s an old guy, white robes, tranquil demeanour – gods, another priest. His eyes widen dramatically and I feel a shiver go down my spine.

“My child! What manner of misfortune has befallen you?” he shouts at the three of us – or more specifically, at me. Why me? I’ve got Emmet right here; I would have thought that’d cover my religious oversight quota. The priest beckons me forward and I glance to the others. Evelyn just shrugs and I reluctantly shuffle over to him, a benevolent smile spreading over his face.

As I approach, he jumps right back into his holy spiel, “Come sit by me, child, and rest your weary legs in my humble carriage.” He’s laying it on a bit thick, it’s almost weirding me out a bit the way he keeps patting the seat beside him – same vapid smile on his face. I climb up on his ‘humble carriage’, thank the gods the others didn’t hear that. In barely a second there’s a blanket thrown over my shoulders and a roll of bread shoved in my mouth – gritty and certainty ‘humble’, but at least I scored some food. I wolf it down, I swear I swallowed a pebble in there somewhere, no wonder it’s free. I look back up to the priest – who had been pontificating on whatever flavour of theology he subscribes to – though he doesn’t seem too perturbed by being ignored. If anything, his benevolence has reached an even more advanced stage of religious compassion – wait, is this pity?

For the first time I look down and take stock of my appearance. My black outer robe is ragged and smeared with all manner of filth. My shirt’s torn to shreds down my front, and also covered in blood – how much have I lost come to think of it? There is quite a bit down my front. Luckily my pants are perfectly fine, take that Evelyn. Even my hair is probably unsalvagable, the grime mixed in the white probably just making it look like I’m going grey. All in all, I look terrible – like some kind of refugee. I cough awkwardly, how embarrassing.

“Now, my child,” gods that’s getting annoying, “what brings you to Havale, my son?” redundancy much? I pause before answering, best not to mention the being wanted by the Empire, maybe play down the adventurer lifestyle I’ve got going on recently as well. I glance back at Emmet and Evelyn, both looking bored and staring into the middle distance. Ah, Emmet – comes in handy sometimes.

“Well, you see… father,” I try and butter him up a bit. He nods placidly, so I assume I got that right. “Myself and that woman have taken it upon ourselves to escort this young priest to this fine city.” He nods softly, probably overwhelmed by my piousness.

“Your lady is a lucky lass my boy, to have a servant such as yourself.” I’m sorry, what?

I steal a quick look at Evelyn, had she – yep, shit eating grin and everything. I give a vague exhalation of air, the priest just nods contently, the bastard. I take a deep breath and interrupt the devout dipshit before he can insult me any further. Might as well get some value from this.

“Ha ha, I’d like to think so father,” I push out through grit teeth. “Would you happen to know a priest named…?” I wrack my head for the bloody name, “…Rodney!” Ha, still got it. “We were told to find his sister.” The priest thinks for a moment, then seems to remember.

“Ah, Brother Rodney! My, what a fabulous fellow!” Not exactly the feeling I had gotten, “yes, I know the lass, Samantha. She lives in the hospital, just past the market district, to the east of the ferry.” I nod as if that meant anything to me and stand up.

“Thank you, Father. You have been a great help to us,” I quickly say as I make to leave, he just chuckles.

“Ah yes my boy, I wouldn’t want to keep you from your lovely mistress.” He nods to Evelyn, who snaps out of her daze and gives a half-hearted wave. Oh gods, he’s insufferable. He reaches underneath his bench and passes me a lump of fabric – oh, a shirt. “Here you are lad, best look your best, eh?” he winks and pats me on the back as I stumble off the cart.

Trotting back over to Evelyn and Emmet, I’m met with a stupid grin – even Emmet’s cheered up a smidge. “Ah, you return man-servant. How goes our glorious quest?” ponces Evelyn, nose in the air and hands fluttering in stupid gesticulations.

“Kill yourself,” I mutter and shuck off the tattered remnants of my shirt, slipping on the priest’s one. It’s a dirty grey, a size or two too large and literally the scratchiest things I’ve ever felt on my skin. I swallow a grimace as I turn back to the priest and wave in gratitude – he just chuckles merrily in that way you need to be at least sixty to truly manage. Scratching at my chest, I turn back to my still giggling companions. “So, anyway, apparently we’re looking for a Samantha – east-ish of the docks near the market area – if that means anything to anyone.” Evelyn just shrugs, and Emmet silently repeats the instructions to himself. “Did you two do anything useful?” I ask as we all shuffle forward a few more paces.

She drops the affected act and folds her arms, “Well, I was going to go get something to eat, y’know – while you were munching on your sugar daddy’s loaves – but we both realised that we don’t have any money.” She raises a disgruntled eyebrow, as if it’s my fault that she’s destitute.

“And that’s my problem, how?”

She looks up at me, fluttering her eyelashes, “You wouldn’t allow your mistress to starve, would you?” her hand flies to her forehead as mimes fainting, “Oh the horror! Doomed to hunger by my thieving servant.” Her voice keeps rising obnoxiously – I notice the travellers around us giving me unimpressed looks, why me? She carries on anyway, back to battering her eyelashes, “You wouldn’t abandon a girl to the big bad streets, would you?” I just try to communicate as much disgust I possibly can through the medium of crossed arms. This at least stops her stupid charade – Thank heavens for that, I keep glancing over my shoulder to check if a mob hasn’t formed yet. She drops her arms and starts making grabbing gestures, “C’mon Lucien, don’t be a dick. Like I would have any money – anyway, you guys basically agreed to this when you kidnapped me.

“We didn’t kidnap you,” I whisper, ever mindful of the legion of bored adventurers milling around us – liable as they are to rescue maidens at the drop of a hat. “And when was this established?”

“I’m establishing it now. Look at poor Emmet,” he’s being more pious about it, but is surprisingly ready to mooch off me, “just hand over some gold or whatever you guys use around here.” I glare at her a bit more, “jeez, I’ll pay you back – We can just whore out my mystical literacy tomorrow or something.” Good point actually, though that sounds like a good way to get enslaved.

Still grumbling, I reach into my satchel – I’m once again grateful for the wonders of leather that it’s still attached to my person. I fish out my wallet and open it up – to find three coppers and some spare buttons for my coat. Oh yeah – I was meant to scrape some moss or something off the walls in the caves back in Weld – shit. Evelyn peers into the recesses of my purse and the three bronze coins, letting out a heavy sigh in the process.

“Those wouldn’t happen to be the largest denomination, would they? Like, who needs gold coins?” she asks, not even a glimmer of hope in her voice. I don’t bother to answer – this would be a poor showing for a leprous beggar. Emmet walks over and the three of us stare mournfully into the wallet, letting the traffic budge us along. Am I actually going to have to eat at a church soup kitchen? Gods, this is pathetic. Actually, that’s unacceptable. I look up at the others.

“Any ideas to dredge up some coin?” I ask, “We could try whoring out Evelyn like she said.” She just rolls her eyes and Emmet splutters. “Emmet, you’re a priest, right? You could ask for donations. I could pretend to be poor or something – it worked for the other priest.” Emmet continues spluttering. Neither of them jump on my excellent ideas, it is pretty funny though. Evelyn, though apparently not keen on the idea of reading archaic fairy tales to rich old guys, snaps her fingers and makes a suggestion.

“We could go on a quest!” she shouts, suddenly energised and excited. She turns to me, “is there, like, a bulletin board with adventure jobs on it or something?”

“Er… I don’t know.” I’ve never used such a thing. There might have been one back in Weld – near Goblin Piss Inn, but it was always surrounded by sweaty, beefy dudes – not exactly my scene. But Evelyn’s already jogging over to a board covered in sheets of paper, shockingly it actually turns out to be a help-wanted, notice-board thing. Who even uses these?

She pauses at the board – apparently having remembered that she can’t read – he he. I follow and skim over the entries. They range from official documents, decked out in swanky calligraphy, to scraps of cloth and napkins with hastily scrawled instructions – the payment for which is always the largest thing on the page. Monster hunt, monster hunt, lost cat, monster hunt… nothing that really appeals to our particular skill sets – that being air freshening and Holy Scripture quotations. Evelyn skims over the bounties, getting the gist of the reward by the length of the printed number.

“Can anyone just put something up here?” she asks. She’s looking with interest at some giant spider hunt, I tear it away from her as I answer.

“Well, you do need to be able to read and write,” I snark, “I assume that cuts out most of the riff-raff.” The riff-raff shoves me aside with a huff and keeps looking at the board – thankfully focussing on the more casual, lower paying jobs.

“We could just offer your air freshening services to some rich people. I’m sure their toilets could use your magic touch.” I pause for a second – it’s almost not a bad idea. She notices me giving it thought and grins again. “A perfect opportunity I’d say – it’d make use of your best talents.” I flush a little and round on her, ready to expound on the arcane intricacies of citrus – I don’t think they allow casual positions in rich households anyway. I open my mouth, but Emmet interrupts.

“By Her light…” the mournful not-swear gets our attention as Evelyn and I turn to look at the far corner of the board. And there they are, nestled behind a posting of shoe-shining advertisements, three posters bearing an edgy artists interpretation of the three of us.

“I didn’t think they would care about this outside of the Empire,” I mutter. The posters don’t have nearly the same presence on the board this time, covered up by a bunch of faff – but there they were, no doubt attracting the attention of the first passing literate yahoo. I look up at Emmet, slightly worried about this, maybe we should rethink this. I open my mouth to suggest continuing further north, when I notice a large hulking shape appear behind Emmet.

There’s a dull crack, a sharp pain, and everything goes black.