Legion

It was night when Legion arrived at Ramuf’s west gate. The posted guards turned him away, ordered him to come back in the morning when the gates were open. Unsatisfied, Legion canvassed the walls for another entrance, one he could slip through undetected. Near the west gate was a temple to the Vulture Mother. From the temple steps was a path that led to a wooden door into the city.

Legion shook the handle with vigor, but the door was bolted in place. He had not rested since leaving Refuge. The walk to Ramuf had taken him four days on the hot lonely road. Fumes and fervor had kept him going since seeing the city’s walls on the horizon, but now these roadblocks made him want to slump against the stone walls to sleep till morning.

He almost did. The cutlass he had carried in a vice grip for every step of the journey now hung limp in his fingers. Vigor returned to him when he heard loud footsteps on the other side of the door. Not trusting any guard that would find him there, he pressed himself against the wall. The door flung open and two frenzied coatlmade ran through. One was young and dressed in commoners’ clothes. The other was a guard with a torch trying to keep up with him. The two proceeded into the Vulture Mother’s temple.

“Please wake!” Legion heard the younger coatlmade cry. “My abeula is nearing her last. She needs the rites of the Vulture Mother!”

Legion did not linger to hear whether the clerics would oblige. He caught the wide swinging door with the tips of his fingers and slipped inside the city. He had never been to Ramuf, though his father had often come for certain goods. Never artifacts though. Legion’s father claimed that the city was more for the common man than the collector like himself. Legion wasn’t here for the market. Ramuf was the first major city outside of Refuge. It was where he had to begin his search.

Barato once drunkenly opined that all the wisdom of Domhanda can be found in a tavern, provided every patron was spoken to. Legion wandered the wide streets of Ramuf until he found a large building where the candles still burned and conversation could be heard through the walls. The doorway read The Merchant’s Gallery in gold flowing font. A good a place as any.

The interior of the building was thick with pipe smoke and the smell of wine. At every table sat a well-off person deep in discussion with their companions, or fondling their coin like a child does with wooden blocks. Legion stayed at the doorway, his tired eyes vainly looking for his father’s killer. Every flash of red scales caused his head to jerk in their direction.

“Diablan! What’s wrong with you?”

Legion realized that he was becoming an object of attention. He didn’t care, there were still more patrons to examine.

“Probably wandered in off the street. Look at his face: probably conked out of all reason.”

“Why’s his sword drawn?”

“If he’s about to turn then I’m moving to the back of the house.”

“Someone fetch the Order. They handle his kind.”

Legion still had no sheath for his cutlass. It was sticking out for all the world to see. Someone grabbed his arm. Someone strong and rough. “Begone, loco.”

Lacking the the strength to stand his ground, his feet scraped on the wood floor as he was dragged away by a large human. He found his voice, hoarse though it was, and started to shout.

“I’m looking for a red coatlmade! They wear a blue cloak and carry a longsword. If anyone's seen them-!”

That was all he could get out before he was thrown into the street. The human who did the deed looked at Legion in contempt.

“Please. I need to find him.” Legion begged, his voice breaking.

The door slammed.

“—he killed my dad.” Legion curled into a ball on top of his cutlass. When he did this as a child he liked to wrap his tail around his ankles for comfort. Tears ran down his exhausted face. The large wand in his pocket was heavy on his thigh. Legion didn’t get up for a long time. When people started to exit the tavern he finally dusted himself off and retreated into an alley.

In retrospect, he wasn’t surprised. He was sleep deprived and still emotionally raw. Plus he had a sword he couldn’t put away. Those patrons couldn’t be blamed for their behavior. Before resuming his search he needed to collect himself. Wisdom would have him find a place to sleep, but he was afraid that would give too much time for the killer to get further away.

His journey down the alley took him to the market square. Though it was nearing midnight, there was still people here. No one selling anything, obviously, but there were close-knit packs of people engaged in nighttime strolls and stargazing. Legion stayed close to the buildings circling the square. He didn’t want anymore ill attention.

There was one building with a collapsed second story. It was small, likely only one room large. The air through the shuttered windows smelled foul. There was a pinned notice written in New Quetzal that the building was derelict. Legion looked around to see if anyone was watching him. If he could get inside, he could store his supplies there. Possibly even steal a quick nap. He imagined that in his exhausted state the stench of the inside wouldn’t bother him.

A pebble bounced off the back of his head. Behind him was a trio of humans. One of them, a bald brute with thick arms, carried a handful of pebbles. The three were laughing.

“Right between the horns.” Legion heard one of them say.

Legion didn’t turn away from them. He hoped that showing he was aware of them would make them more inclined to leave him be. Instead the bald one flicked another pebble. This one almost hit Legion’s eye.

“You’re bold to walk the streets claycock. Ramuf isn’t the place for cultists like you.” One of the men barked.

“I’m not a cultist.” Legion mumbled.

“All diablans are cultists. You were made by an Infernal.” The three men walked towards Legion.

“A Divine Infernal.” Legion knew every detail of his people’s history. He wanted to walk away, but he had a stubborn pride for his race instilled by his father.

The bald man was close enough that Legion could smell the fermented swill on his breath. The other two humans positioned themselves to Legion’s right and left.

“First the ‘cadokin and now more diablans. The Order of Suffering isn’t very good at their job.”

The man bent down so that his eyes aligned with Legion’s. Legion didn’t give him the satisfaction of eye contact and instead counted his nose hairs.

“You’ve got the look of infernal madness in your eyes. The last time one of your kind turned in Ramuf three people died. You’re a bag of gunpowder about to ignite. I think I’ll be a hero and stop you before you go off. Maybe the Order will reward me.”

The man was talking to himself now. Legion wanted to explain that only one in one-hundred thousand diablans became infernally mad, but he understood reason wasn’t going to work here. Best he could try was bribery. He opened his mouth to make an offer of silver, but was silenced from the bald man’s fist impacting his jaw. Startled, Legion ducked between the three humans, narrowly avoiding one of them grabbing him. Legion spun on his heels, holding his cutlass up. He swiped the air between himself and the humans. With each swing he made a vocalization not unlike the barking of a wild dog.

It was not as intimidating as he had hoped. The three humans spread-out to circle him. One darted in to grab Legion’s wrist, causing Legion to drop his cutlass. Another kicked his shins, forcing him to his knees. A second punch to his face left him dazed. His vision blurrred. He searched his surroundings for aid, but only saw his assailants. He knew that Diablans weren’t loved, he knew their history and spoken to the elders of Refuge, yet he had never felt it first hand. How many of his village had received beatings like this? Had his father gone through this?

“You people are scum.” Legion whispered between swollen cheeks. Eldritch power sparked in fingertips.

“What did you say to us, claycock?” the bald man massaged his knuckles.

“I said you’re scum!” Legion bellowed. He held up his right hand. A beam of red magic fired. The arcane beam struck the right shoulder of the bald man, who wailed in pain.

The human grabbing Legion’s wrist let go. The magic was wild and unfocused. It veered off target and shattered part of a nearby roof. The blood in Legion's arm felt like it might steam through his skin. His chest was tight enough to implode. As his stamina drained the beam dissipated and Legion collapsed.

“This bastard diablan!” The bald man screamed. The skin of his shoulder was blackened to char. He tried to compress the wound, but it was much too raw to touch.

The other two humans had wide eyes. One stooped to pick up Legion’s dropped weapon.

“Milv, you were right. This one does have infernal madness. We need to kill him.”

Legion tried to pick himself up, but the magic had damaged his own arm as well. The human carrying his cutlass stepped forward.

The human’s head snapped to the side. A smooth rock had struck him in the temple. Legion and the three humans looked for the missile's source. A muscular man stood on the roof of the collapsed building. He had the shape of a human, but his skin was the oddest shade of green. Legion’s assailants backed away in fear of this new arrival. The green man leapt off the roof, landing within reach of the bald human specifically. The bald human, still wincing from his damaged shoulder, seemed to be weighing his options. He chose violence, swinging a wild fist with his good arm. The blow was caught in the palm of the green man’s hand. Legion heard a crunch as the green man clenched hard. Milv dropped to his knees.

“My hand! Give me back my hand!”

“No.” The green human’s attitude was as blunt as the rocks he had thrown.

“You-you’ve broken it! Let it go.” Milv tried to pull himself free. His voice was reaching a pitch unbecoming of a man his size.

“No I haven’t.” By contrast, the green human’s voice was calm and in control.

“Let me go!” the man demanded a third time.

“No. This is what dumbasses get.”

To prove his point, the green human clenched harder and twisted. The bald man’s friends ran forward, but then thought better when the green human flashed them a furious glare.

“We’ll get the guards Milv!” The two shouted as they ran away.

“The guards won’t help. Get the Order! Get the Order!” Milv cried, still unable to free his hand.

The two vanished around a corner. The green human finally relented and released Milv’s hand. For a moment it looked like Milv might take revenge, his attacker was certainly expecting it, but he chose to be wise and fled the scene.

The green human squatted to get a better look at Legion. He didn’t smell like alcohol, but he did reek of sweat. In fact, his body glinted in the moonlight.

“What are you?” Legion mumbled.

His rescuer helped him to his feet.

“I’m Azeroth.”

“No. I mean, what race are you?”

The man snorted. If that was his way of laughing, then he didn’t smile.

“Orc. Mostly.”

Legion had heard of Orcs, but had never seen one in person. They lived across the sea in the eastern continent of Mercin. The best representation he could recall was an entry in a book titled The Ignoble Races. It was a human book from the Second Era that his father bought from a library due to its early description of the Red Men of Ivri Kingdom, the Mercin cousins to Athshin diablans.

“Enforcers are coming.” Azeroth was looking in the direction the humans had fled in. “They’ll want outsiders to hang. C’mon.”

Legion snapped up his cutlass. He couldn’t hear anyone coming, but he trusted the orc’s intuition. Azeroth led him down a maze of tight alleys. These were paths the regulars of the city never walked. There were people in these alleys, beggars, but they paid the duo no mind. It felt they had traversed half the city before Azeroth stopped at a wooden building titled The Enenra’s Thirst. Another tavern, but one for a different clientele. The people here weren’t dressed as fine as The Merchant’s Gallery. Five duende commanded the central table so that they could play a game of puck’s dice. Three coatlmade (none of them red) were lobbing daggers at a target on the far wall. There was another diablan, but she was passed out at the bar. Her needle thin tail swished like a cat’s. The bartender, a nome woman with gray hair cut into a short mohawk, was attempting to wake the diablan by lightly slapping her. Azeroth took a seat near the bartender so that he could get her attention. Legion cautiously copied his protector.

Azeroth made an order for food. The bartender dropped the drunk diablan so that she could toss her new patrons wooden bowls of diced meat. Legion immediately started eating. Didn’t even spend a moment to make sure what was placed in front of him was clean or healthy. He was starved. He recognized the flavor. Snake meat. Perhaps it had been grilled at some point, but now it was room temperature. It didn’t matter, it could’ve been liquid for how quickly Legion drank the contents of the bowl.

There was another woman at the bar. A human woman. She was removing her suit of chain mail in-between sips of her tall mug of beer. Partway through her disrobing (she wore faded yellow common clothes underneath) she ducked down to retrieve her weapons, a shortsword and a large sickle. She caught Legion watching her. The wine stain birthmark on her face crinkled as she squinted at him.

“Starved, are ya?”

Legion wanted to respond, to save some dignity, but his mouth was too full with snake meat. The woman was now undoing the long braid of her hair, which was only slightly darker than her sun-baked skin. When Legion didn’t respond, she tapped the bar.

“Yvette, I’ll have one of those as well.”

Yvette, the bartender, pulled another bowl of snake meat from under the bar for the armored woman.

“Not waking?” the armored woman pointed to the passed-out diablan.

“Drank enough vera’vod to fill her lungs.” Yvette shook her head.

“Just give her the prick and be done with it.”

Yvette sighed. At the far end of the bar was a cactus half as tall as Legion. The bartender plucked a needle from the cactus, then jabbed said needle into the sleeping diablan’s nose. The diablan snorted herself awake. Her green eyes rolled in her head to assess her surroundings.

“Time to pay up.” Yvette lifted the girl by the horns so that she was the only thing the diablan saw.

The diablan started to speak, but the words were caught in her stomach. Yvette knew the warning sign and directed the girl towards the back door so that she could vomit outside.

This was all a new experience for Legion.

Yvette sighed again. She cocked her head towards the armored woman. “Maya. Thought you wouldn’t be back until tomorrow morning.”

“There was no way I was going to spend a night in the company of those fanatics.” The armored woman finally took her seat.

“The coin at least good?”

You’re about to find out.” Maya produced a round bag bursting with coins. She slapped a handful in front of Yvette. “Another tall glass for me, and something for the hungry boy next to me.”

Legion looked at her with wild, confused eyes. He didn’t speak, mainly because he did not know what to say.

“Oh shut up.” Maya said, despite Legion not saying anything. “You look like you just crawled out of the grave. Be glad I’m feeling generous. Something for your green friend?”

“No point.” Azeroth grunted.

Yvette presented the ordered drinks. Legion was no stranger to alcohol, but he had only ever drank whatever was brewed at Refuge’s common house. The beer he drank here tasted...dirty. Still, it was welcomed by his tired body.

“I’m Legion Xibal.” He thought to finally introduce himself.

“Mercenary Maya.” Maya responded. Legion didn’t know if mercenary was meant to be her first name, or a title.

“Azeroth.” Azeroth said.

“What do you use that sword for Legion?” Maya pointed to the cutlass propped against Legion’s stool.

“I’m going to kill someone with it.” Legion admitted.

“That’s what swords are for.” Azeroth said.

Maya nodded. “I agree. Just one though? Do they ‘deserve’ it?”

Her question toed the line between mock and sincerity. Legion tried to make eye-contact, but the birthmark that stretched her face was distracting. Diablans were never born with such marks.

“He killed my dad.” Legion’s teeth were clenched tight.

Azeroth’s static head swiveled to look at Legion. Maya was so surprised that she choked on her drink.

“That’d do it.” Maya coughed. She lifted her sleeve to wipe her mouth. “Know his name? His face? Where he is? Where he’s going?”

“No. All I know is that he’s a red coatlmade, that wears a blue cloak, and carries a longsword.”

“That doesn’t narrow it down kid.” Maya just noticed a trickle of blood running down her arm. She traced the flow back to a small cut just below her left shoulder. A scab had been forced off when she removed her armor. “Red is the most common scale of coatlmade, blue’s a common dye, and longswords are a very common weapon. I guess you could go to the guards, but they won’t trust you. You could go to the Order, but they’ll probably kill you.”

“You really think that?” Yvette returned to refill Maya’s pint. She didn’t look angry with Maya’s words, just skeptical.

“Not at first, but they’re working towards it. Listening to the way some of these ‘justice’ locos talk, you’d have to be star-eyed not to catch what they’re really saying.”

The diablan woman finally returned to the bar. She settled her tab and left the establishment. As soon as she left, a rotund duende took her place. The fellow had a thick mustache that hid his lips and vibrant orange clothes. He was panting heavily and waved at Yvette.

“You’re late.” Yvette barked at the man.

“Apologies Yvette. The dog got loose. Had to chase the yellow runt down.”

“Just do your work Hernán.” Yvette slid a full cup to the man, who downed it with gratitude.

Hernán headed for the center of the room. He had to be a regular occurrence for this establishment, for the patrons stopped what they were doing to focus on him. Less gracious than he wished, the man stood on a chair so that he was at least somewhat taller than his sitting audience.

“I see we have some new faces, and some old faces.” Hernán addressed the crowd, his voice twice as loud now. “For those seeing my own face for the first time, I am Hernán the Storyteller.”

Hernán retrieved a brick sized book from his coat pocket. He skillfully fluttered the pages for the audience. “As I am already late, that will serve for introductions. Now then, would you have a true story, or a false story?”

Legion understood the question. Would they hear a historical, or a folktale? He was raised on historical stories, so he shouted for a true story. His voice was lost in the mob of shouting, but it was hard to tell what anyone was voting for. He heard Maya call for a true story, and Azeroth ordering another bowl of snake meat.

“I believe my old ears have heard a cry for ‘True!’ so a true tale you shall hear, but shall it be an old story, or a new one?”

This question was more divisive than the previous. The audience shouted in tandem, trying to drown out those with a dissenting opinion. Some of the surlier patrons started to stand, intending to use aggression to settle the matter.

“What a chorus!” Hernán shouted over the crowd. “We’ll settle this like hagglers in the market: with compromise! I shall tell you an old story, but it shall be new to you.”

This satisfied the crowd. Legion put his hands to his knees so that he could lean towards the storyteller.

“Yes. New, and very topical. For there are strangers in the Middle Cities. Hulking brutes with wide horns and shaggy coats of hair. They are called minotaurs. They are not strangers to Athshin proper, for they have resided in Finis to the west since the Second Era, but earlier this year they were driven from that land. I shall tell you the story of their creation. It is a story about a foolish soldier, a ravenous beast, and a cursed kingdom. Is this a satisfying choice for this evening?”

The crowd replied in the affirmative. Legion was intrigued. He had heard of minotaurs. They were not as strange a sight as an orc, but still not common to this side of Athshin. Hernán opened his book and let his fingers nimbly fly to the correct page. He needed only a quick glance to remind himself of the story.

“Where to begin...we are all familiar with the country of Sanaatan across the sea? It’s that lordless, godless land where they build ships that fly and imbue suits of armor with living souls. Strange, strange land. But before all that, it was a kingdom like any other. A lush, humid land separate from the human kingdoms of Greyholm. The kings of Sanaatan, Rajas they were called, lived in tiered towers that loomed above the jungle trees. That was the Sanaatan of the First Era, and that is where we lay our scene.”

Hernán was the only person speaking now. Already he was breaking out in a sweat from excitement.

“Like Greyholm, Sanaatan was many kingdoms and in one of those kingdoms was a soldier who wanted the throne. The Raja of that land was as infertile as my mutt of a dog, so there was no heir to take his place after death. The Soldier envisioned a plan to be named the Raja’s successor. In this land was a terrible beast named the Moloch Bull. You’ve seen a bull, correct? Imagine a bull as massive as this tavern, hide like caste bronze, and a roar so fearsome it would make a dragon’s blood curdle. The Moloch Bull was infamously short tempered. It would raze entire cities in its rampages. No warrior could fell it. The Soldier, the...hero?... of our story, he had a plan to slay the bull and earn the Raja’s favor.”

“Like many monstrosities of Domhanda, the bull was the spawn of the Muspellr Typhomet and his wife, the Infernal Diti’Asura. The soldier found the dark cave that the bull had come from, one of the places where the veil to the abyss is thin. The Soldier enacted a dark ritual, the details of which I shall not share because I do not wish any of you replicating it (and more than that, just thinking of what occurred in that cave makes my blood cold), and he called a vision of Typhomet to him.”

Hernán let that line linger, allowing the chill of his tone soak into the atmosphere of the tavern. The man was a better storyteller than any Legion had seen in Refuge. Legion forgot about his assault and became enraptured in the story of the Soldier and the Bull.

“‘You are the father of the Moloch Bull,’ the soldier said, ‘allow me to slay him.’ The Father of Monsters looked at the Soldier like he was a fly on his ass. ‘If you wish to kill. Then kill.’”

Hernán threw himself onto the nearest table. People pulled their drinks away to avoid him knocking them over as Hernan pounded his small fists. “‘But I can’t!’ cried the Soldier ‘no one can! You are its father, and all parents have power over their children. You could make it weak. Allow me to kill it, and you will make a powerful ally once I am a raja.’”

Hernán straightened himself, assuming the role of the mystical storyteller once more.

“Typhomet was silent for a long time. So long that the soldier thought he had expended his time for an audience. Finally, he presented the Soldier with a spear made entirely of iron. Iron from the tip of the blade to the bottom of the shaft, and it was not smelted iron, but raw iron ore. When Typhomet next spoke, it was in tones low and savage: ‘Pierce the neck of the bull with this spear. It will die without struggle. From the wound, the bull’s blood will flow. Collect it in a water jug. Saw the horns off its head and gut the liver. Take these three things and throw them in the river nearest your city.’ That was Typhomet’s decree.”

Hernán shook his head and laughed. A few of the patrons closest to him did as well.

“Now you realize this is a trick, and I realize this is a trick, but the Soldier was too drunk on his own ambition to foresee consequences from his actions. He found the Moloch Bull and skewered its neck with the iron spear of Typhomet. He collected the blood, the horns, the liver, and threw them all to the river that flowed through the city he hungered to rule. To the Soldier’s credit, his plan worked. He was crowned the next raja for his valor in vanquishing the ancient beast.”

The storyteller walked down the table. He smiled like he was about to reveal a great prank.

“The Soldier ruled for a year. It was probably the best year of his life. On the anniversary of the Moloch Bull’s death a horrible curse struck the kingdom. The river the soldier had cast the bull’s pieces into was the water source for the town. All who drank from it were tainted by the essence of a demon. The Soldier was holding a feast in memory of his victory. He was the first to turn. Thick horns burst from his skull, his body became shaggy with rank fur, he grew in size and temperament. He was the first minotaur, or ‘Molochan’ as they are known there. The same occurred to all subjects of his kingdom. There was chaos as the Molochans went on rampages worthy of their namesake.”

In his passion Hernán tossed an empty mug at one of the support beams of the tavern. Realizing his error he smiled nervously at Yvett. Yvett scowled, but didn’t stop the story. Hernán straightened and attempted to reign himself in.

“Their kingdom would’ve fallen, but the Molochan Raja saw this mutation as a blessing. Once he could control his army, he turned it on the neighboring kingdoms. Humans of Sanaatan were slaughtered by a demon-blooded horde that reveled in conquest and chaos. After every felled city the Molochans would give praise to the Muspellr that gave them such strength.”

Adjacent to him, Legion heard Azeroth sigh. The orc didn’t watch the storyteller like the others.

“It did not last, as evil rarely does. The remaining kingdoms united, and drove the Molochans back to their homeland. Then they went further and chased them to the sea. Those beasts took their ships and sailed to Athshin, where they landed on our shores and waged war on the Coatlmade Empire. The fools. If only there was a prophet among them. They could’ve told the Molochans what we all already know...”

The tavern spoke in chorus: “The Coatlmade never lost a war until the Netemodes!”

“The minotaurs lost. Still, they had nowhere to go, so they remained in Finis at the mercy of the Empire. That is until that new force in Athshin rose: The Order of Suffering. Ghetsis Reballo has taken Finis, and part of that involved forcing out the beastly minotaurs. Now these two-legged beasts are wandering east of Finis. I’ve heard they’ve already made it to Spiral City. Perhaps it will be a peaceful immigration, but I’m not so sure. You can never know what savagery lurks in the hearts of a race born of a Muspellr’s schemes.”

By the time Hernán finished his story his orange clothes were stained with sweat and the man himself was quite out of breath. A few of the patrons applauded him and threw coins. Legion and Azeroth looked to each other. How many similar stories had been told of the origins of Diablans and Orcs?

The tavern had more energy now. Legion was surprised, given how late it was. He even forgot his own exhaustion. He conversed with Azeroth and Maya for the next hour. Maya pointed out a shattered part of the bar, said that it came from the last time there was a drunken bar brawl. She claimed the destruction was from a drunk coatlmade veteran.

“Those are as common as puke outside this tavern.” Maya thumbed to the door. “Sorry Yvette, I know you work hard. Coatlmade are so obsessed with the past they’d rather get so drunk they can’t breathe through both nostrils than live a second in the present. He was a handsy old snake as well. I threw the first punch and he forced my head into the bar. That’s when the brawl started.”

“Who won?” Azeroth asked.

“Yvette did. Threatened to cut everyone off. That’s the power a bartender has.” Maya toasted the white-haired host.

Yvette nodded as she passed to get a fresh keg of beer. Legion remembered he still had to ask for a room. He had to walk quickly to keep up with Yvette as she moved with such purpose. Rooms were cheaper than Legion expected, but Yvette made a passing comment that friends of “the cadokin” get a discount. Azeroth had evidently helped Yvette a few nights ago in driving off some stubborn patrons and had asked for little reward. When Legion returned to the bar he stared at Azeroth long enough that the orc took notice.

“Why did you save me?” The question had been on Legion’s mind, but now it was all he could think about.

When Azeroth was thinking of what to say he became very still and didn’t blink. There was something about his grey eyes that made one want to focus on them. The spell was only broken when Azeroth resumed speaking. “Because they would’ve killed you.”

“Is that the only reason?” Legion frowned.

“I also saw your magic. The world needs strong outsiders. Keeps the donzo in check.”

“Which magic do you use?” Mercenary Maya was still a part of the conversation. She cut off Legion’s attempt to ask what donzo meant.

“Arcana. I never received training, though. Using it nearly made me black-out. I’ve rarely been so furious.”

“So you’re a mage.” Maya said that quietly. It was such a mood shift that Legion wanted to question further, but she wouldn’t look him in the eye. “I thought that was a wand in your pocket.”

“I’m an Incarnate.” Legion corrected. “Both are touched by arcana, but Incarnate are born with it. My dad said that Diablans used to be as magical as the fae races, but those parts of our bloodlines are in danger of being wiped out from persecution. Only arcane Diablans can be afflicted with Infernal Madness.”

“This would be the dad that was killed? Was he a scholar?” Maya was still quiet. It sounded like she might cry.

“A historian. He wanted to preserve Diablan history.” The mood was infectious. Legion wrapped his tail around his left ankle.

“Someone has to do it.” Azeroth was thoughtful. In these midnight hours, his rounder features made him resemble a large child.

“How long do you plan on hunting his killer?” Maya asked.

“As long as it takes.” Legion wrang his hands. It was easier talking about this with strangers than it would’ve been someone from his village.

“Grieving child. This world will eat you up.” Mercenary Maya’s tone shifted again, this time to something louder and defiant. She finished the last of her current beverage and slammed the empty mug down. “You need a bodyguard.”

Legion looked hopefully to Azeroth. Azeroth looked back in befuddlement. “It can’t be me.”

Maya circled the rim of her cup with her finger.“I can do it. Not for free though. Your dad collected artifacts? I’ll take some as payment.”

Legion stood suddenly. He scowled at Maya, who was unperturbed by his anger. She knew that his father was dead, his sole reason for being here, and she had the gall to ask for his life’s work? She was just like Barato. Legion wanted so strongly to reject her, and yet...he knew she was right. He had a long path ahead of him and this first city had nearly killed him. His face was still sore from the punches he had taken earlier.

“What worth are they to you?” Legion asked.

“I know a guy that pays good money for well-preserved pieces of the past. Doesn’t matter if they’re about diablans. I don’t know about other countries, but there’s always a market for the past in Athshin. They won’t toss a hoe to a starving beggar, but they’ll throw out a fistful of gold to see the bust of a dead man.” Maya swayed in her seat. The bag of silver she had come in with was half empty. “-And beyond that: you remind me of my dead brother, so consider it a discount over regular payment.”

Legion took a step back. Maya had said the last bit so casually that he was shocked, but then he noticed the five empty cups next to her. It was possible the firm hand she fixed to the bar was the only thing keeping her up. Seconds before, he had seen a con woman after his father’s legacy, and now saw a pitiable person with the same scars as himself.

“If you swear that my father’s artifacts will find worthy homes, then you have my agreement.” Legion spoke sternly.

Maya looked up to him. Her hazel eyes were soft. “I swear.”

The two shook hands. Next to them, Azeroth yawned and asked Yvette if he could sleep on her roof.

“Great!” Maya declared. “A deal calls for a drink, but I shouldn’t have anymore if I’m on the job. It’ll be better than that other security offer I was given. Shadiest pack of bandits I ever saw. Wanted guards for their outpost full of stolen goods.”

“Stolen from where?” Azeroth asked.

“Not sure, but you’ve heard of all those slaver raids recently? Barbatus are growing bold. In the past, some thieves make a business of doing ‘second raids’ on villages struck. Snapping up all the valuables to resell. Wouldn’t be surprised if this wasn’t the same.”

“Where did they want you to guard?”

“Outpost Onx. It’s a fair distance from here. Dates back to the Empire, but I don’t think it's ever been valuable since the fall. Squatters fill it up every couple months. Been paid a few times to clear it out. Now it sounds like it’s been made a storehouse for fenced goods.”

Azeroth drummed his thick fingers on the wooden counter. He was deep in thought. The rhythmic tapping was relaxing to listen to. Legion had to catch himself from nodding off. It was pitch black outside, and he still hadn’t slept. When he had been on the road, he had pictured himself literally not resting until he had found the red coatlmade. It was almost laughable his optimism. He knew he would avenge his father, maybe not tonight, or even tomorrow, but it was inevitable. He would go to bed tonight wiser than he had started. He even had a protector, drunk as she currently was.

Tomorrow he would wake early, eat a full meal (or at least, as full as his coin could buy). There would be no more long, dusty roads to walk. His true hunt would begin.