This must be the will of fate

Because you can still walk straight

So raise your glass up in the air

And down it without care

Just like all men before you swore

Drink until you are down on the floor

So raise your glass up in the air

And down it without care

A truly horrid song of misshapen tunes haunted the cool summer night, making one wonder who exactly had decided to brutalize humanity’s artistic spirit.

Around midnight, streets illuminated by nothing but the moon and stars, a pair of drunkards entered the slums. They had finished their drinking session at the bar which served Soren’s best liquor, gloriously named Donkey Slob. Both the bar as well as the drink itself that was. A case of streamlined advertisement.

Beside its glorious name, the reasons why this fine brew should be considered cream of the crop were twofold. A sign certifying it as such proudly hung next to the bar, crooked handwriting showing just how much whoever made the sign must have partaken in the product.

It was also far and wide the most affordable alcohol one could get their hands on, making all other contenders for the title moot. Like any connoisseur could tell you, quality could never triumph when faced against endless torrents of cheap liquor.

The duo could hardly look more different. A thirty something man with a solid built, most likely a craftsman or construction worker, supported what looked like a bear from afar. But upon taking a closer look one would realize it was actually an old man, sporting long white hair and an enormous beard thrice the size of his face.

The question where this ancient hermit came from, and how his middle-aged companion came to join him on his journey may never be answered.

“Hey old timer how much further until we get to your grandson?” the younger one asked, conveniently interrupting the next chorus. “We’re already in the slums, nothing but dirt here.”

A loud grumble emerged from the old man’s throat as he cleared it. His companion’s disgusted face attested to how truly disturbing the ensuing noises were, sounding not unlike those produced by dog sized rodents drowning in sewage.

“Stop being impatient, you little shit stain,” the old timer chided the surprisingly human looking fecal matter, burping loudly afterwards. “I told you I smelled him in this direction, so he should be around here somewhere.”

“What?” the younger man exclaimed incredulously, pushing the old man off his shoulder. “You told me he lived in this direction, what the fuck do you mean you smelled him?”

“Eh, ignore that part,” the half-hair half-man creature deflected, stumbling wildly for a second, before clinging onto his companion again. “Look, do you want your money or not? Just keep me upright and stop using that worthless brain of yours.”

Vein throbbing at his temple, the middle-aged man barely suppressed the urge to slam his foul-mouthed debtor into the ground. One had to treat their elders with respect after all. No matter how obnoxious they were, and especially when they owed you money.

“Should have never listened to this weirdo's sob stories,” the younger one cursed under his breath. “Searching for his lost grandson my ass.”

“Couldn’t hear you there, pipsqueak,” the old man shouted right next to his support’s ear. “Didn’t your deadbeat parents teach you to speak up when talking to people.”

“You must be imagining things,” came the annoyed reply. “Must be hard for your ears to hear things behind that fucked up jungle.”

“AH!”

A shrill scream echoed out when the old man stepped on the younger

one’s foot. An unfortunate accident.

“You demented geezer!” the younger man berated his elderly companion. Drunken fury coursed through him as he was moments away from committing an irreversible mistake.

“Stop being so dramatic, brat,” not the slightest bit worried, said demented geezer pointed towards a point a little further down the road. “His scent is very strong over there. We’ll definitely find some clues.” Not waiting for a response, he started swaying ahead.

“Smelling his scent? Are you a freaking dog or what?” The younger man complained, at his wits end, though still greatly in need of the money he was owed.

Once they got closer a steady roaring announced the never sleeping Tarna. Their destination appeared to be a quaint, white wooden bridge. It looked quite old and fit well into the surrounding area, though a part of the railing had unfortunately been replaced by some shoddy looking construction.

Upon seeing said bridge the younger one creased his brows in thought, before a look of panicked realization settled on his face. He stopped dead in his tracks and observed their surroundings in fear.

“What are you doing, stupid?” the old one asked, angry at the obstruction so close to his goal.

“This is the White Mill Bridge,” came a whispered response. “I heard it’s cursed real bad. The City Lord’s daughter came here today and brought a priestess to cleanse it, and even that wasn't enough!”

While news traveled fast, it seems nothing about the two pitiful boys who nearly drowned here afterwards had reached the mouths of everyone's favorite gossiping drunks. Truly sloppy reporting. Though they were most likely busy finding further information about the terrible curse. Inside their brains, and at the bottom of tankards.

Skeptic of them having found their way towards a cursed bridge inside the most populated city of Seasons, the old man observed it carefully.

“Cursed my ass,” he snorted disdainfully. “It’s just a stupid bridge. Come on you wimp.”

“Screw this old man, you maybe don’t have much time left anyway, but I ain't risking my life,” the younger one, from now on known as Bob for convenience’s sake, protested. “Give me my damn money.” His Patience and willpower were fully depleted.

“God, why lend people things in the first place if you’re gonna be a little shit about it,” the old man, from now on referred to as Georg, for that was his actual name, complained to Bob without batting an eye. “Learn some fucking manners, before harassing a poor old man like myself.”

Grabbing his head in frustration, Bob regretted ever being born. And lending a certain old maniac money.

“Are you sure your grandson can pay me back?” Bob questioned, almost begging by now.

“Yeah of course, why wouldn't he be able to pay you back?” Georg replied, annoyed at Bob’s inane question.

“Isn’t he like lost?” Bob inquired further, anger, frustration and slowly encroaching despair pushing away his intoxication. “Do you even know what he does for a living? Maybe he is broke.”

“How am I supposed to know what he does for a living when I have never met him before, you numskull,” Georg retorted angrily.

Bob stared at his future arch nemesis in stupefaction, his muddled brain unable to deal with all the newfound information. Somehow the decisions he had made earlier today started looking frighteningly more stupid the longer he talked with Georg.

“How are you going to find him then?” Bob croaked hoarsely. “What is his name? How old is he?”

“We can ask him his name when we meet him,” Georg declared, not a hint of doubt in his voice. “The age is probably standard grandson age.”

The unknown name weakened Bob’s defenses sufficiently for Georg to score a guaranteed victory using the latter part of his questionable reassurance.

Defeated and without any remaining willpower, Bob briefly contemplated suicide, ultimately shelving the idea for now. Instead, he chose to let out a never-ending torrent of expletives, aimed at the lunatic in front of him.

Georg would have usually gotten angry at the cursing brat. But seeing that his goal appeared to be so close at hand, he simply gave Bob a look of disdain, before walking towards the bridge.

Despite wanting to continue his tirade, Bob still remained unwilling to enter the cursed bridge. Out of options, he accepted his loss with a sour face while vowing on the inside to never again trust any man over the age of sixty.

Leaving this nightmare behind he stormed off, mumbling things along the lines of ‘worst generation’ and ‘just like father’. His pain ran deep.

“Are you really going to let him walk onto the bridge on his own?” an accusing voice coming out of a dark corner made Bob’s heart almost stop.

“Go fucking dammit,” Bob cursed towards the darkness as he jumped backwards in fright, having had quite enough weirdness for one night.

“You really got a bad mouth on you uncle,” a small voice, different from the first one commented. “Though that gramps is way better. Real savage.”

Bob concentrated on the darkness ahead and managed to make out several small figures skulking around. Upon closer inspection they appeared to be children.

“What are a bunch of brats doing here so late?” He wondered, only half sure he wasn't hallucinating due to his anger, or all the booze he had drunk.

“Reconnaissance,” the voice that had originally called out to Bob replied, a small boy stepping out the shadows. Three more followed, none older than ten, the youngest not even reaching Bob’s waist. Caked in dust and dirt with tattered clothes and confrontational eyes. One look left no doubt about their origins.

“Rats,” Bob spit out as he took another step back, hand protectively around his purse. Though its almost nonexistent weight made him grimace. “What do you want?”

“We’re just worrying about the old fart that you send away to die,” the talkative boy who appeared to be their leader explained. “Testing the curse using an old person, very smart. But I’m not sure how the city guard will react once we tell them about it.”

“What? No…That’s not what I did,” Bob stammered, too muddleheaded to see the obvious ploy. “He is a crazy lunatic. I didn’t tell him to go there!”

“Doesn’t sound like what we heard,” one of the smaller boys retorted. “I remember you yelling something about money angrily.”

“Yeah, me too,” another one agreed. “And also something about him not having much time left anyway.”

Bob stared in disbelief at these little devils in front of him. Seeing them twist around everything that had happened made his drunken half want to beat their lying little mouths shut. His sober half however, which grew bigger with every old geezer and prepubescent brats that ruined his day, wanted nothing more than to run away back home and forget today’s disaster.

“Fact is, mister,” the Rat’s leader told Bob, tone serious beyond belief for someone of such a small stature. “If that grandpa dies today, you will be held accountable for it.”

This legally questionable statement entered Bob’s overtaxed and intoxicated brain, where it promptly transformed into a verdict. Seeing himself dangle from the gallows in his mind’s eye spurned Soren’s most model citizen into action like nothing ever had before.

“Fuck!” Bob screamed, not wasting a second, he turned around and ran after the lunatic sniffing for his grandson. “Hold it right there, geezer!”

The leader of this little group of street Rats looked upon the charging drunk with a satisfied expression.

“Good job, everyone,” he praised his crew. “I told you waiting around for some sucker would be worth it. We even got another one for free.”

Ensuing flattery from his minions made the leader’s face take on an arrogant expression, the several hours they had spent in boredom staring at an empty bridge conveniently forgotten. Now all that remained were thoughts of plentiful rewards.

These ragtag bunch were children without homes and families, whose circumstances forced them to work for seedy groups, doing a plethora of, if not legally then morally questionable tasks. These kind of ‘Rats’, as the normal populace called them, could be found in every major city. They had a reputation for thievery, scams and being annoyances in general.

Most of the time they acted on orders, skulking in the shadows to the benefit of their ‘employers’ in exchange for shelter, food, and the opportunity to become real members once they got of age. Which happened quite frequently in Soren, unlike the bigger cities were turf wars and less forgiving guards made short work of kids like them.

This specific group worked for a man of some renown, who employed many of their kind to scout throughout the city for valuable information. Said man then sold the gathered intel to various merchants, adventures and nobles.

At first glance this appeared much less crass than the outright illegal activities some Rats were forced to do. However, the people that found small kids rummaging through their trash at three in the morning would most definitely disagree.

The Rats themselves didn’t care about how other people saw them, oftentimes even enjoying the notoriety. They simply did what they had to in order to ensure their continued survival. And sometimes that happened to include sending a couple of drunks to test a supposedly cursed bridge.

“What if nothing happens?” their youngest member’s innocent question soured the mood.

“Heh, no way,” their leader snorted. “Think about it for a second. When was the last time so many nobles gathered anywhere close to the slums? Furthermore, nobody dared touch the bridge since they left. You think people would be so scared over a mere rumor?”

He shook his head, certain of his deduction. “I’m telling you guys, this will be the biggest scoop since that guy threw his fish at the City Lord and got away with it. Once we report the truth about the curse to master, he’ll have no choice but to give us a spot in the main house.”

“No more barn?” the small one exclaimed, eyes lighting up in anticipation.

“No more barn!” their leader confirmed. “And we’ll get some meat for sure.” As any successful leader could attest, baseless promises were the foundation of any functional organization.

Eager for their reward, the kids observed the bridge like hawks, not letting any detail go unnoticed.

By now Georg had reached his destination and intently observed the Crescent Moon Helpers’ work, sporting a confused expression. Bob’s shout distracted him before he could come to a conclusion as to what exactly he was looking at.

He exasperatedly turned towards the irritated man. The latter who stared at him with bloodshot eyes, but still didn’t dare to actually enter the bridge.

“Get back here,” the exhausted drunk wheezed out painfully. “You don’t have to pay me back. Just come down from the bridge, please.”

Towards the end his voice took on a begging tone as it appeared he was close to actual tears. Some people really couldn’t handle their alcohol well.

“Could you stop your whining for one second, you little sissy,” Georg spat out. “I’m not someone who needs to go back on his word, you’ll get your money back. Look, we are getting closer and closer to my boy.”

He pointed confidently at the repaired railing, apparently having decided that any further explanation was not necessary.

Swallowing down the numerous replies he could have given, Bob instead carefully looked at the bridge and the so far unharmed old man. In a feat of courage never before seen anywhere in the world, he walked onto the bridge, teeth gritted and face pale as a sheet.

“It’s great you found some clues, my friend,” Bob congratulated, momentary disgust at himself overwhelming even the boundless fear he felt. “Let’s get off the bridge and find him.”

“How can one person be that stupid,” Georg muttered, somehow loud enough for the distant Rats to hear. “His scent is strongest here. So instead of going further and maybe losing his trail, the best course of action is obviously to wait here for him to return.”

Shaking his head like he one did when chiding a child, Georg was exasperated at having to explain such basic things to the brat in front of him.

Eyes almost threatening to pop out, Bob stared at the old man who apparently planned on staying atop a cursed bridge for the rest of the night. Possibly longer.

If a weight hanging from a rope got heavier and heavier, at some point the rope will undoubtedly snap. Something similar can be observed in donkeys, carrying their burdens, or even in bridges, shouldering countless brief passengers. It remained an indisputable fact that once you applied enough pressure to something it would break.

Which is exactly what happened to Bob’s pitiful brain. Unable to handle the various outside influences, it broke spectacularly as Bob promptly collapsed onto the cold hard bridge and rolled himself into a whimpering ball.

“What the hell,” Georg got surprised by Bob’s strange behavior, before walking up to the latter. “You alright boy? Eat something bad or what?”

Not receiving any reply, Georg opted to kick the ball multiple times, only receiving muffled cries of pain for his efforts.

“God, what a weirdo,” Georg sneered, disgusted at the broken man’s snail like existence.

Not wanting to look at the tragic display any longer, he walked up to repaired railing. Putting his hands upon it he felt the tightly nailed together planks, which now might as well be called a solid wooden wall, and the unevenly distributed paint.

“What is he doing fixing bridges instead of training? He better not end up like that father of his. Don’t want my whole trip to be wasted,” Georg talked to himself, for the first time unheard by the greater surrounding area. “And why is this thing so ugly? Freaking eyesore.”

Pushing himself off the repaired railing he went to the other side, leaned against the fully intact one there, and gazed down upon the river below him.

“Much better, but something is still missing,” Georg contemplated, remembering his recent encounter. Laughing loudly, his gigantic beard turned into a stormy sea of hair. A quick sleight of the hand and suddenly he held the dirtiest glass bottle one could imagine in his hand, a dangerously colored liquid sloshing inside of it.

“Now this sounds more like it,” the ancient drunk chuckled, before uncorking the liquor and gulping it down gleefully.

Him managing to drink everything down to the last drop without stopping even once certified Georg as a veteran of consuming ungodly amounts of cheap booze. As did the fact that he showed no reaction to the Donkey Slob’s bowel-turning smell. Cheap apparently came at its own price. One this champion of liquor did not care about apparently.

Even if his search did not succeed, Georg would have countless bottles of Soren’s finest nectar, bought using borrowed money, to soothe his wounded heart. Not that he believed he would fail. How hard could it be to find a child he had never seen in a moderately big city?

Despite failing to find him in any of Soren’s many bars, Georg still picked up his scent by happenstance. Destitute commoners all around could sleep peacefully knowing that those who put in the effort would be rewarded.

Done with the bottle he tossed it into the river, quickly making a new one appear out of thin air. After all, nobody said waiting had to be boring. Meanwhile a few much smaller sized observers were not enjoying themselves a single bit.

“Why is nothing happening?”

“The dumb guy collapsed, is that the curse?”

“Probably not, the old man is kicking him and it looks like he doesn’t give a shit.”

“He is just standing there now?”

“What are we supposed to do now?”

“Where is the curse, was that it?”

“Shut up!” their leader shouted, as anxious as his minions but not about to admit they had wasted a whole day. “There obviously has to be a reason why the curse hasn't done anything yet. How about you use your brains instead of complaining.”

Once again displaying crucial leadership skills, he motivated his companions to think for themselves instead of giving them the answer.

Silence spread through the group, their thoughts flying at speeds average for tired children without any education.

“Maybe the curse only works if they fully cross the bridge,” one of them hesitantly suggested after more than a minute of silence.

“Yes,” their leader exclaimed. “That sounds logical!”

“The curse could have them be stuck on the bridge, never allowed to leave until they die,” encouraged by the positive reaction, another boy let his imagination fly.

Somehow the excitement spread as more and more theories came out.

“What if they are already dead and what we see are their ghosts.”

“Maybe the curse took their souls and replaced them with demons, and now they are trying to figure out how to use human bodies.”

“What if nothing happens to them now, but their future children are born as bridges!”

Everyone else simultaneously turned towards the boy who suggested that last theory, making him tense up. His companion’s looks said more than a thousand words, making the exited atmosphere cool down to a normal level again.

“You see. There are thousands of ways the curse could work,” the leader declared, trying to take back control of the derailed conversation. “We need to be patient and wait.”

Everybody nodded and observed the bridge with even more enthusiasm than earlier. To them the previously boring scene of an old man drinking atop a bridge turned into a miracle of possibilities.

Said miracle however lost quite a bit of its luster when Georg was still drinking half an hour later.

“Where is he taking all those bottles from?” the boy who had proposed the ‘fully crossing theory’ asked, hands on his head in total despair. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

His companions were equally perturbed, their originally happy exclamations at the many bottles their target seemed to be carrying slowly turning into confusion, and finally horror.

When Georg threw another one in the river, marking the twentieth bottle since the start of his little bender, their leader’s willpower and sanity finally ran out.

Face split between fury and fear he marched up towards the bridge under the shocked stares of his minions.

When he got closer a torrent of foul air hit him square in the face. Suppressing a gag, he feared for a second that the curse had shown itself, before realizing it was actually the smell of Georg’ rancid liquor.

Bob had moved from his rolled-up position to sit against the repaired railing, which did its best to keep the chilly night wind away. His whimpers stopped by now as he stared at the air in front of him, gaze vacant.

“What are you two doing?” the Rat’s leader shouted at them. “If you don’t want to cross the bridge fully, at least start speaking in tongues or explode or whatever!”

Shoulders heaving in anger he continued complaining, “And if there is no curse at all, then could you please leave the freaking bridge so we don’t have to waste our time watching you drunk morons!”

The reactions his outburst created were not quite what he had hoped for.

Georg, muddled look in his eyes, turned to him, displaying the creepiest grin of all time as he shouted a barrage of cryptic words like a maniac.

While the boy could maybe file this under ‘speaking in tongues’, he also recognized a couple of the words for the curses they were, which showed him that he was simply being cussed at in a language he did not know well. Bob’s response ended up being about as helpful. Though quite a lot more tragic.

“I can’t go home. Lost so much money,” the broken man lamented loudly. “My wife is going to scream at me for sure. Won’t believe me, will think I used it all for booze instead. Ah, she’ll be so angry.” Banging his head against the railing behind him continuously with a deranged look, he seemed to be imagining his wife’s merciless wrath.

“I should just die,” he finally collapsed back down, fully gripped by despair. “Throw myself of this stupid bridge and die, nobody needs me anyway.”

Oh, how much the Rat’s leader wanted to believe these suicidal remarks were the work of a nefarious curse the bridge had cast on the rambling drunk. Alas, he was the only non-intoxicated one here, which prevented him from ignoring his basic common sense.

Georg laughed boisterously as he saw the sour expression on the young leader’s face.

“Sorry to disappoint you, kiddo, this bridge ain’t cursed in the slightest,” Georg shattered the boy’s hopes, before making another bottle appear. “Only cursed thing around is that guy’s luck.” Snorting at his own joke, he gulped down another bottle of Donkey Slob.

His final hope shattered, the Rat’s leader looked about as bad as Bob. Not only having to deal with his minion's disappointment, but also needing to explain to their boss why they had nothing to show after squandering a whole day.

“Much less main house and meat, we might go hungry in the backyard instead,” He wretchedly mumbled to himself, already thinking of good excuses to give later.

Maybe the Princess high above saw his despair and took pity on him. Or maybe whatever evil entity inhabited the bridge decided it would grant the boy its twisted blessing. There was even the faint possibility of it all being a simple coincidence. Of course nobody would be interested in that.

Fact was that Georg, out of nowhere and most definitely unrelated to the copious amounts of alcohol he had consumed, hiccupped.

Now normally a hiccup would be nothing more than a minor inconvenience. But in a perfect coincidence, Georg had not only been distracted by the other two’s earlier performance, he also drank so much that his reaction speed became slightly dulled.

The hiccup, appearing exactly when all these factors lined up, led to Georg momentarily being startled and accidentally exerting a small amount of pressure on the solid railing beneath his hands. Which made it promptly shatter like Bob’s psyche.

As if time had slowed down to a snail’s pace the Rat’s leader, his minions further back, and the despairing Bob himself could do nothing but stare wide-eyed, mouths agape, as Georg, arms flailing helplessly, fell down into the river. Taking with him a good fifteen feet of shattered railing.

The ensuing impact was akin to a giant explosion, deafening everyone while a literal fountain of water rose sky high, making one think the river decided to reach for the heavens.

When the short few seconds that stretched into eternity ended a commotion, rivaling the explosive fall, broke out.

“NO!” shrieking at an ear-piercing volume bob crawled over to the destroyed railing, peeking down upon the river, his greatest fear somehow ended up manifesting itself. “It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t kill him! It wasn’t me!”

At this point tears and snot ran down his face, making one think his greatest friend in the whole word had just died. If not for the words coming out of his mouth, it would have been a moving scene.

Meanwhile the Rats shouted unintelligible nonsense about curses as they, without the slightest hesitation, left their leader to fend for himself. Running like headless chicken they zoomed through the night, their manic cries scaring countless people awake.

Their tragically abandoned leader showed little interest in his traitorous subordinates. He instead stared in disbelief at the still tumultuous water, having absolutely no idea what to do.

Atop the bridge Bob started pacing around, torn between jumping after Georg or simply running away as far as his feet could carry him. Upon glancing at the recently repaired railing, he was suddenly reminded of the reason he originally refused to enter the bridge.

The distant fear of being blamed for the old man’s death suddenly seemed unimportant in the face of his untimely demise under a gruesome curse.

“I don’t want to die!” screaming like a banshee Bob ran away at top speed, right towards the still stunned Rat leader.

The latter snapped out of his shock when he saw a manic middle-aged man barreling towards him at full speed. His instincts screamed at him to run, but when he tried his feet cramped, resulting in a graceless tumble onto the dirt.

Before he could stand up again Bob had reached. Too scared to be paying attention on where his feet landed, he painfully ran into the half prone boy. And like a pair of disgraced acrobats, the two of them ended up rolling across the ground, a mess of arms and legs desperately trying to push the other one away.

Luckily for them their painful, and quite frankly disgraceful behavior was interrupted by a new eruption of water. Staring in amazement at the river, they saw Georg’s head slowly surface, creating giant waves as he pushed the surrounding water away forcefully.

Like a titan he marched towards the shore, completely unaffected by the Tarna’s current, leisurely coming to a stop a couple feet away from the shore, dripping wet but smiling brightly.

“Well that certainly sobered me up alright,” Georg stated out loud for nobody in particular. Laughing happily, he shook his body to get the water off.

His two observers almost doubted their eyes when his figure seemed to blur purely from high-speed movements. The thousands of small explosions echoing through the air as water droplets burst against stone however testified to the absurd speed he was shacking at.

Their reverie got interrupted by several of the droplets hitting them, eliciting shrieks of pain. Wasp stings were gentler.

“Stop making such a scene,” Georg grumbled when he heard the duo’s screams. “It’s just a bit of water for fuck’s sake. Are you a bunch of cats or what?” The bad kind of company could really ruin everything, from drinking to fun activities like taking a quick dip in the river.

The two victims of his droplet barrage instantly shut their mouths. If earlier this man had been an old lunatic in their eyes, they now firmly understood who stood before them. Intoxication notwithstanding, Georg was without a doubt a fully-fledged Knight. And not a weak one by any standards.

The urge to apologize for their mistakes welled up inside of them, but the more they thought back to their previous encounters the whiter their faces became.

There had been an almost staggering amount of disrespect directed towards Georg by them. Gone were any fears of curses or the law. The only question left for them was whether the Knight in front of them would turn them into the human equivalent of mashed potatoes or not.

Luck appeared to be on their side however, as Georg himself held absolutely no grudge against them. It was, after all, exceedingly hard to have any serious negative feelings towards animals. And that perfectly described what these bumbling fools were to him. Somewhat entertaining animals. Not yet at the level of resourceful dogs or cute cats but reaching hamster tier for sure.

Now without the slightest drop of water left on his body or clothes, Georg looked towards the destroyed railing in contemplation. Although he wanted to find his grandson, them meeting next to the destroyed railing of a bridge the latter had repaired not even one day earlier would be quite awkward. Seeing that he was the one who destroyed it.

Turning towards the duo silently awaiting judgment, Georg’s thoughtful expression turned playful. Ultimately his grandson wouldn’t suddenly leave the city. There was no problem with playing around some more.

The little boy over there even seemed to be working in some kind of intelligence agency, which could end up being helpful. Though their competence appeared somewhat questionable to him when he considered the qualifications of the employees he had met so far.

Easily having pushed away his task to another day, Georg walked up to the tense duo.

“We’ll better keep today’s little accident to ourselves wouldn’t you say so, my friends?” Georg suggested, satisfied by the duo’s frantic nods.

“Well then, why don’t we find ourselves a nice place to sleep. I recall you talking about some fancy main house and tasty meat.” He looked towards the Rat’s leader, grinning like a ravenous beast, ready to devour whatever it could get its hand on.

Reaching so far unknown levels of fear due to having their conversation heard from such a distance, the Rat’s leader considered his options for almost a whole second, before readily agreeing.

“Of course,” he stammered out. “I’ll lead the way.” Taking a brisk pace, he started walking back ‘home’. Consequences be damned, his greedy boss could have his fun dealing with the insane Knight instead of him.

Georg followed along, but turned back towards his former drinking companion, the latter who still stood there petrified, slightly hopeful for the nightmare to be over. He should have known better by now.

“What are you standing around there, moron?” Georg spat at him. “Let’s go to the kids house and get some grub, not like you have anywhere else to be.”

By now Bob would have taken his wife’s wrath over this horror any day of the week. Sadly, there was no medicine for regret. At least none he could get his hands on.

Broken smile on his face, he followed along the kid and the old Knight. His only solace being that it seemed he won’t be the only one getting toyed around with tonight.

Yes, for the poor people managing Soren’s Bureau of Documentation, which was actually in absolutely no way official nor connected to the government, this would be a sleepless night. One that marked the beginning of a time of despair and hopelessness, under the brutal yoke of the alcoholic Knight Georg, busily looking for his grandson wherever he could find cheap booze, good food and entertaining mortals.

May the Princess have mercy on these damned souls.