Gemma took her time on her walk back home. She held the pendant of the necklace tightly in her hand, her face screwed up in concentration. Why did she do this? Why did she keep the necklace she just spent two full days making as an apology to the Gods?

Worse still, was Gemma's impulse to hide it under her dress's neckline when she came back home. Her mother worked the front counter of The Silver Chain, bidding farewell to a customer, of all things. A reptilian-looking man bowed at her before leaving the women alone in the store. Gemma tried her best to take what just happened at face value, but the casualty of everything left her lips parted in surprise.

"How was the temple?" her mother asked. The question felt sharp, and the weight of the necklace doubled against her skin, almost like it burned. Gemma clenched her fists at her sides to ignore it, and the urge to touch the hidden pendant in the first place.

"Life moves on," she murmured tensely. It was more to herself, but her mother sighed anyway.

"News from Yondshire," said the woman. While Gemma stared at nothing in the middle of the room, her mother began to pack away pieces of jewelry for show. "The postal service has given up. It's like this everywhere from Cobfield to Dalia. No news from the south just yet, but it looks like the whole province, all of Yandalla's Palm, and even Baccob's Rest, is affected." But that wasn't everything, based on the way her words just hung in the air. Gemma's mother waited for her to look up, to make eye contact, before continuing. "There are…new…things out there. Dangerous things."

"You always told me the most dangerous thing out there was people," she said. Her mother dropped her gaze.

"That may still be true. But…there are…." Her mother sighed, as if frustrated. "The rumors are saying that there's ghouls out there. Ogres. Teleporting dogs, and these little fairies that cause physically painful nightmares." And while they stood there, discussing the impossible, children played in the streets outside their shop door. A woman scolded her husband for not paying attention while she spoke. Gemma's hand still hovered over her chest, over the fabric that hid her necklace. Was this what things were, now? Laughing children in perpetual twilight?

"It's dark up there? No sunlight?" she asked, absent-mindedly.

"No sun. The crops…some are dying." That piqued her interest.

"Some?" Gemma echoed.

"There are a few homesteads that…aren't suffering from this darkness. Bralen Bladecraft, for example. His home is…thriving, from what Gryffin just told me."

Numbly, Gemma gestured to the door. "That lizard was Gryffin?" Were they sleeping on that irony? And, based on her mother's curt nod, they were. Maybe it wasn't a laughing matter yet. "Did he just buy something?" Buying jewelry at a time like this. She almost laughed at the thought.

"Sort of," said her mother, her words hanging. But Gemma's question wasn't sincere. While her mother explained the details of the quick repair, mentioned something about magic and "enchanting;" the young woman continued staring into nothingness, nodding when expected, but not absorbing a word.

"I'm going to the tavern," Gemma decided once her mother finished speaking.

"Oh? Oh--okay. Flip the sign to 'closed' when you leave, then. If jewelry has another purpose, we may see an influx in sales." And although Gemmal nodded, she completely forgot to flip the sign until her mother barked at her again.

The Grey Swan bustled as normal. Nearly every table was full of chatting humanoids of every color of the rainbow, sizes from two feet tall to eight. Artin, the owner, still shouted to her waiters and waitresses like before, only now she had to stand on the counter in able to carry her voice over the heads of her patrons, because now she was only a couple feet tall. She looked the same, otherwise.

"I'd recognize that haystack hair anywhere! It must be Gemma!" And after a flourish of notes from a lute in the corner, Gemma recognized the man to be Brendan the Bard. Pink skin, horns that curled over his head and out like a ram's, though his bone structure remained exactly as it was. He was a tiefling, too. Only he embraced his horns, it seemed, by wrapping chains and jewels to catch the light and make him, literally, shine from a distance. "Come join me!" Well, now that a few people turned and cheered, how could she not? She smiled, offered shy greetings to people she no longer recognized, and found herself sitting on a stool next to Brendan. Maybe a song is what she needed right now, to get her out of this odd…funk.

"You're still you," she said when she settled in. Brendan smiled, but his crow's feet didn't join. Maybe it was a sore subject for him, too.

"Gemma," Brendan started loudly as he looked to the crowd, "I heard Wildfort is a bit more on the wild side, now." Some people sighed, but others clinked their tankards on the table. Gemma rolled her eyes. "There are some kids out there that don't know how to play Keep Your Secrets!" The most popular clapping game that rampaged throughout the summer solstice celebrations two weeks ago. Gemma almost groaned at the mention of the overdone song.

"Yeah!" called a high-pitched girl from the side of the room. Gemma could barely look at her before Brendan started the lofty tune.

"What do you say we help them out?" As if Gemma could protest. Brendan thrummed in a major key to keep the tune sounding friendly and bouncy, and plucked the chorus a few times while half a dozen or so kids scrambled to sit in front of him and Gemma. She giggled, then signaled for Brendan to continue, and decided to slip off the stool and onto the wooden floor to join them.

Although everyone looked vastly different, they at least had the ability to sit down in a circle, and open their arms so that everyone could lay a hand on their neighbor's.

"Are you ready?" she asked the kids. And while this might have been a performance specifically for the little ones, the hubbub of the adult patrons sizzled down to a dull roar. "We clap each other's hands on every syllable. When the person on your right claps your hand, you then use your right hand to clap your neighbor's hand. If the verse stops when you're clapped, you can't keep your secrets, that means you're out!"

"What happens when you're out?" asked the little frog-like thing beside Gemma. His four fingers weren't exactly a normal hand to clap on, but it would make the sound and help the tune, all the same. It wasn't as slimy as she thought it might be, and she wasn't about to snub a child even if it was.

"Oh! Oh! Can I show?" Before Gemma could call on the little elf across the way, she stood up with her arms outreached to everyone before her. "Uuugh, I can't keep my secrets! I die!" And in the most dramatic fashion, she shoved an imaginary dagger into her chest and collapsed into the middle of the circle. When the adults rewarded her with respectful applause, the girl returned to her seat. "And then I'm out and can't play until the next round."

Brendan slowed the tune, plucking the strings of his lute in anticipation for Gemma's go ahead. She sucked in a breath and held her hand ready to clap the frog-boy's. At the start of the chorus again, Gemma looked at the boy and started to clap.

"Se-cret," and when he clapped the next hand, Gemma continued with the help of the two children that knew the tune, "se-cret. Keep your se-cret. By word or blood, you keep their se-crets. If you do not keep your si-lence, you will wish you kept your si-lence." On the final clap, an orc boy across the way stood up, and with a small bounce of excitement, pretended to choke on some sort of poison (or maybe someone was supposed to be choking him?), and fell backward, into the wall of the tavern.

Brendan let out a loud guffaw, "Nice death!"

"Ready?" asked Gemma as the kids scooted in to make the circle smaller now that the orc was out. "Faster!" Now the tune was a little closer to the true tempo, and even the newbies were able to clap and sing along. A few clinks of tankards on the table from behind Gemma reassured her that teaching these new children a song like this was fine, even if it sounded a little violent. The tavern came alive again, until finally the game ended, and the children helped "kill" the final secret-keeper in a pile of laughter.

"That's not the version I learned!" the elf girl said loudly. "The version I know says that Masks will make you keep your secrets!" And while the children loudly began to talk over one another, Gemma's smile faded.

"How can a mask keep a secret?" asked the frog-kid.

"No, not a mask! Mask!"

"Oh, like the God?"

"Not the God, the church people!" Now the adults involved themselves in the argument, eager to turn the conversation away from a cult that publicly executed nay-sayers. Brendan called over the kids for their attention, arms outstretched.

"Alright, kids! Settle down. Gemma's going to sing us another one, hm?" Without much of a choice, Gemma obliged and sang four more songs for the tavern with Brendan.

Looking out the window to check the time left Gemma with a weight on her chest. She didn't know what time it was, and there purposefully weren't any clocks around in the main room of the tavern to encourage people to have "one more round." Patrons came and went, some asking for food and being disappointed when Artin had to repeat that the specials were the same as the day before: Kitchen Stew…which was just a pot of leftovers from the week put in some bone broth. Normally, it wasn't appetizing. But today Gemma considered asking for a cup during Brendan's bathroom break.

But how long had she been out? It must have been nighttime. There weren't any kids in the tavern anymore, and the crowd got a little roudier. The louder the people got, the more they shouted, the more things got misconstrued from the shouting, the more people got insulted and even louder. One green-skinned man with no hair stood up and started shouting incoherently at another that looked just like him. And from there, an even larger woman with blue skin yelled at them, then pointed to the door.

At first, Gemma assumed they were getting kicked out. But now more people shouted, a few screamed, and one fat, grey-skinned man rushed to the door with a butcher's knife in his hand. Gemma flew to her feet with a gasp; her hand at her throat, as if holding back her heart from beating all the way up and out of her mouth.

Illuminated by the candelabras, flying in from the open doors was a strange, red bat. Well, not one, but half a dozen flew in, flocking toward the screaming people hiding under tables and knocking back chairs. Their veiny wings ended in sharp prongs, and they sunk into the skin of the closest prey--the man with the knife. Gemma found herself crouching behind the stool before the blood splatter began. The thing punctured him with all four of its sharp limbs, and jabbed its pointy face right into what must have been an artery of some sort. Splatters of blood only excited the other monsters, and they began to stick themselves into his flesh.

People rushed the bar, trying to get behind it, trying to barricade themselves from the creatures. Another swarm, another half-dozen of these sharp, tiny things, flooded the doorway and stuck their sharp feet and wings into the hero blocking the way to the tavern. He was covered by these things, and all people did was try to run away.

"Get them off me!" he cried, but people hardly heard him. It took only a few moments for him to collapse, for the bat monsters to detach and fly to other victims. Gemma white-knuckled the stool in front of her as one of the bats pivoted toward her side of the tavern.

"Stirge infestation in the tavern!" someone cried from outside the window. Well, these stirges now spread from more than just the one victim, and now Gemma found herself holding the stool as one of them swooped right at her face. She screamed, shut her eyes, and lifted the stool in its general direction. With a wet thwap, she could feel the impact of the bat against the wood, the resistance as she followed through with her swing. The thing didn't seem that deterred, and flapped around her head. Its spindly legs caught themselves in her hair, pulling and tugging at her curls. She could feel two more of its prongs on the top of her head, the inevitable feeling that it was about to stab her.

Gemma fell to her knees, screaming at the top of her lungs, as she swung the stool over her head one more time. She screamed, hoping someone would come scare it away or kill it, hoping beyond any of her power that something would just knock this thing out.

When she fell to the floor, the wooden panels trembled beneath her knees. She caught herself falling forward, unbalanced, with one hand still on the stool, the other catching her weight. But the wooden floor began to splinter, cracking right down the center of the panel beneath her. The thing, the stirge, stuck in her hair smacked against her horn, then hung on the side of her head in a noose made of her locks. More screams, this time from outside, of people calling about a quake.

Gemma looked up from the ground to see the people climbing over and under tables haplessly shoved off, onto the ground and on top of one another. Paintings from the walls fell over, crushing people and stirges alike, knocking everyone over--some unfortunate people right on top of the monsters, themselves, but others into previously unobstructed pathways.

Though some people still screamed and tried to scramble their way to safety, there were two people that ran toward the flying things--one of them was Brendan, sprinting in from outside.

"Get back, you ugly thing!" he shouted as he swung toward another with a dagger. "The only reason you're here is because your mother thought you were uncooked and tried to put you back in her womb!" Another hero, the tall blue woman from before, just jammed her fist straight into one of the remaining stirges; the wet slapping of its body was enough proof for Gemma that these tiny, flying things were done for.

And although the giant mosquitos now littered the floor, underneath some stools, some people, or just obliterated from whatever weapon or fist, people still screamed. Gemma struggled to swat away the stirge body stuck in her hair without fully touching it, but it just kept smacking back against her face again and again, and the hysteria in her throat finally came out with a high-pitched wail didn't even come close to attracting as much attention as the blue woman shouting for attention.

"Listen up! They're done! They're dead! It's fine!" But it took a few more tries for Gemma to actually dislodge the body from her hair, so it took a little longer for her than some to actually pay attention. "That was a stirge infestation. They happen. They're weak, but hurt to the nine hells." People still sniffled, still moaned in pain from the open wounds the stirges left. "Anyone else dead?" The woman said this, turning to the grey man, limp on the ground. "He might be fine. Anyone got a healer friend?" But anyone with two eyes knew that he wasn't breathing, and that based on the amount of blood sucked out of him from those blood-sucking bats, he was done for.

The only thing that startled Gemma more than the onset of this random encounter was the amount of those creatures, dead as fast as they came. Their little bodies littered the floor, most of them crushed by a person or a chair or something that hung on the wall. Gemma's hand rested on her heart, begging for it to slow as she looked to the stirge beside her. She killed that thing. She smacked it with a stool, and it fell against her and died. She killed it.

"Who cast that spell?" the blue woman asked now. Gemma looked up right as her fingers felt her necklace. She squeezed it, silently hoping they would find whomever was responsible for this. But in the chaos of people looking around and settling into the tavern again, Brendan looked to Gemma.

"Really?" he asked as he looked at her. He seemed almost breathless, and not from the exertion of attacking the stirge with a big knife.

"It--it got stuck in my hair," she started to explain, gesturing to the heap of flesh beside her.

"No, I mean the spell. You cast it." The accusation slapped her in the face, turning her cheeks red. How could he say such a thing!

"What?" But from her question, he stared at her all the same. "No, I didn't! I'd never summon--"

Brendan doubled down, pointing to her. "The quake originated from you."

"What?" The quake?

"Look." At Brendan's gesture, Gemma looked to the ground she knelt on. Originating from her were splinters in the wooden floor, rippling out like a drip in a lake. Beside her, the stool toppled, crushing another stirge she hadn't noticed until now. The paintings on the wall beside her took out a few more, and even an entire table collapsed onto two of them, just a couple feet away. The further away things were, the less affected--until she spotted the back of the bar, the wall of expensive liqueurs and liquors. All of those bottles were all untouched, unaffected, and stood ready for a pour. Gemma's mouth ran dry. How could she defend herself, when the furthest thing away from her was unaffected?

"It--it was…." But how could she explain this?

Brendan took a few cautious steps closer to her with his arm outstretched, as if attempting to cool the temperament of a rabid dog. "You saved people, Gemma. It's not a bad thing." Stranger still, was that Brendan wasn't the only person that looked at her as if she was a timed trap about to spring.

"I--I didn't do it, though," she tried to say to the other patrons of the tavern. People didn't seem to care about her, though. More rushed over to the grey corpse in front of the door, others rushed out of the tavern completely, and the rest stayed behind to help pick up the disaster that just struck.

"Ten gold says y'did," sounded the blue woman from before. She stared at Gemma hard, enough to make her shrink. And maybe it was just the rippling biceps and the bloody fists she rested on her hips, but this woman was terrifying. Gemma shrunk further into the floor like a child being punished.

"I-I-I'm sorry, who are you?"

The woman grinned, and stepped over a broken chair to approach Gemma. She ducked under a support beam, and took a couple long strides to reach out a hand for Gemma to shake. "Viven S'terrick. I know magic when I see it."

Gemma continued supporting herself on the floor, too stunned to move. "Magic? I don't know anything about magic!"

Viven nodded, taking her hand back. "Oh, you're one of those loonies that just got here."

"Excuse me!"

Viven looked to Brendan, as if they'd known each other all along and this was just a weird prank they'd pulled, and gestured to the front door. "Come here. Let's let them get cleaned up. Whatcha say your name was, little tiefling?" And even though being called that word made her want to keep crying, Gemma bit it back.

"I-I'm Gemma McCoy of The Silver Chain."

"C'mon, Gemma. Let's get some air and give you some answers."

This "air" Viven spoke about was really just a walk to the edge of the forest, past the hubbub and panic of the center of town. And while Gemma kept asking about the people they passed, the worried whispers, and even about her own mother, Brendan's soft voice was enough to at least keep her from having a complete breakdown…so far.

"The world isn't what it was, poor Gemma. But people are stronger than you give them credit for." He said this right as they approached the final lamppost of the eastern side of Wildfort. There was a turnabout in the road for traveling suppliers to have a wagon circle here, but it was abandoned tonight. Gemma didn't bother asking why when she knew the answer.

"I didn't mean to do--I didn't--" Viven, towering over her and Brendan, crossed her arms and waited for Gemma to stop stammering. Brendan seemed sympathetic, but didn't address her with more than upturned brows and nods.

"So we've established that you have some magic," Viven started without prompting. "That's cool! Not everyone gets magic!" Gemma didn't have to verbally ask if Viven was insane. The blue woman gathered, it seemed, from Gemma's expression, that she wasn't buying what Viven sold. She kept speaking anyway. "You're a tiefling, so you automatically get some magic. But Thaumaturgy does not cause damage. So you're a different type of caster!" The new words swirled in Gemma's brain, but didn't stick. She didn't know what a "thaumaturgy" was, just that whatever it was, she had it, and it wasn't supposed to hurt people. So that was great. Now she hurt things when she wasn't supposed to!

"Viven," started Brendan uncomfortably, "about something you said to me yesterday. About plants." This side rail gave Gemma a few moments to compose herself, to fight back all of her tears of frustration and grief. She let herself breathe in deeply, calmly, like when she and her mother bound together to stare at the clock and the candle and just let the moments pass by them like a bad dream. But eventually, Gemma's breathing brought her back to the present in enough time to hear Brendan continue, "Right, right, I understand. Just to be clear, that thing over there shouldn't move when I'm not looking at it?"

It took Gemma a moment to return to the conversation at hand, but Viven already stalked toward the edge of the forest with her fists out, ready to knock someone prone. Gemma didn't expect it to be a tumbleweed, though. But after coming into contact with her fist just once, the thing let out a sad squeal, and slumped to the forest floor as a pile of twigs. Viven returned to her and Brendan like she simply threw out a piece of trash.

None of her questions would suffice, Gemma decided. Instead, she watched Brendan and Viven come to some sort of silent agreement, before they turned back to Gemma.

Brendan gave her a smile she didn't quite believe. Something about it filled her with dread, and he must have caught onto how she leaned away from him based on how he shrunk himself, loosened his shoulders with a quick flick of his arms. He tried to look smaller.

"Gemma, hey." Now he was being too casual. "Have you, I don't know…have you thought of praying to help you get through this?" Gemma stared at him, blinking, unmoving. Why would her friend, her fellow performer, ask her something like this? "You always said to me," he continued with a softer voice, "that you would pray to all of the Gods whenever you felt uninspired. I was wondering if you felt any relief from their support."

Her hand raised to her neck to rub it, to try and buy herself time to figure out how to reply. Her fingers gently ran down the chain of her necklace, until she found the fabric of her tunic. Gemma glanced to the floor at his question. He didn't press her. But each second ticked by as she touched the chain of her necklace, at the top of her neckline. His question felt so loaded, but why would someone like him mislead her? He helped her. He saved everyone in the tavern by attacking those things, and then tried to calm her down.

Gemma let her fingers fall from her neck to rest limply at her sides. Maybe she didn't know Brendan's motives, but she decided, no matter the warning signs spurting forth from her fast-beating heart, she would trust him.

"I--I nearly did," she said without looking up. "But I…I remembered some things." She pursed her lips, as if her body didn't want her to keep speaking. "I remembered," she continued, "how there are some Gods who don't mind the darkness, that still see even without the sun." From her peripherals, she could see Viven stand up straighter, as if proud. "And I--I thought to take a page out of his book. I've been trying to see clearly in the darkness."

Gemma waited a moment before she looked up to Viven and Brendan. The two looked at her with sympathy, a sweetness. Like something they could relate to. It almost comforted her.

"That's great to hear, Gemma," Brendan continued with a small smile. "I'm glad you could find your faith in all of this." The bard almost waited too long to continue to speak. "And your mother, how is she?"

"Fine," she answered automatically. "Not summoning quakes or anything, if that's what you mean."

"Of course not!" Brendan continued with a light laugh. "I meant, is she okay? Finding comfort in…the Gods, like you?"

Gemma hesitated. Her eyes found the cobblestone road, the cracks and weeds that grew between the stones. Brendan's double-speak didn't fool her the second time around. Viven and Brendan let her take her time to answer, though. Let her take a full breath, release it, and again. Part of her stomach churned in disgust, the other leapt in excitement. Why, why did the necklace burn against her skin? Why did it feel related?

Without much to go on, Gemma shrugged as her answer. It was the best she could do. Was someone watching her, when she prayed? Did someone report that she only went to Mask's brazier? And who else would report something like that, but the Cult of Mask?

"She's a smart girl," Viven noted in the silence. "You can see her make the connections in her eyes."

"Gemma," Brendan started again, "the world is…not what we thought it would be. We have to adapt." Why this made her eyes burn, Gemma couldn't quite discern yet. "I think you're smart to adapt some new ways of thinking."

"A-am I in trouble?" she blurted in half a sob. It was embarrassing, feeling the seams of her identity come apart in front of one stranger and one…well, one person she thought she could trust until now.

"You're safe," said Brendan with an edge to his voice. "It's just…."

"I didn't even know until recently, okay?" came the other half of the sob. Her shoulders slumped, and not even her hands covering her face could catch all the tears that free-flowed down her cheeks now. "I didn't know! And I'm not going to tell, okay? I won't tell a soul!"

Brendan let out a long, sympathetic sigh. "Gemma, quick question before you finish having a mental breakdown?"

She sniffled, using the back of her hand to wipe her cheeks. "What?"

"How long have I lived here?" What? What kind of random question was that?

"I--I don't know. As long as I remember," she answered absent-mindedly.

Brendan took a step closer to her, now looking to the cloudy, darkened sky. "Right, well, the true answer is that I've been here for as long as you. Since you and your mother moved here." More of what he didn't say hung in the air. He was saying he knew she and her mother moved here after….

"Are you saying that you're here because--because of my father?" Gemma's stomach leapt to her throat. The first time she felt hope in days--because of her father's past mistakes? "You're--you're here to protect me?" When she thought he'd abandoned them, he left a promise.

Viven cut in, now. "Things have changed a lot within the past week or so." That was for sure. "A week ago, I didn't know there were a lot of like-minded people like me. I didn't know…." She glanced quickly at Brendan, then to Gemma. "I didn't know that there was a home for me." If she was one of those people that claimed magic was always here, that the disappearing sun just brought more people into their lives, that meant someone like Brendan was what she searched for. And if what Gemma suspected was right, Brendan was a disguised cultist, hiding in plain sight.

"What does that mean?" she asked.

Viven's sympathy melted away. "It means there are a lot more people in the world, now, and a lot more things like what you just fought that you didn't know existed." The two women stared at each other for a moment. "You didn't know existed," Viven repeated. "The rest of us, that have been here all along, we knew. And it sounds like some of you knew what we didn't, too." Gemma's confusion must have been apparent, because Viven suddenly seemed almost annoyed at this. Brendan raised a hand, as if to hold Viven's words back into her mouth.

He said, "From what we've learned, no one is willing to help anyone. So it might be time to toughen up, maybe make some allies, rekindle relationships with old ones. Help yourself, for once."

"What are you saying?"

Brendan closed the distance between them, forcing her gaze to meet his. His expression, what used to be a permanent smirk, gave way to one of wonder. "What I'm saying, Gemma, is that this is a moment of choice for you. What would you be willing to do, to keep your mother safe, and to meet your father?"