Though the sun never returned, the permanent overcast blanketed Wildfort in a tepid warmth. Gemma stood under a buzzing street lamp, alone, watching the gnats run into the protective glass. Viven and Brendan left her maybe fifteen minutes ago, but she couldn't uproot her feet, like she was frozen in place.

It must have been late at night, now, with how no one was about. The dull bustle of the city felt so far away, and not just because she now looked at the place with new eyes. Would this be the last time she ever saw it? Did she have to memorize it, so that dreams and fantasies would be enough for the future? Even then, this twisted, dilapidated version of the city that raised her wouldn't be what she would miss when she left. She'd miss the pattern of the sunlight on the stones, or the rain in the winter that flooded down the gutters and into the brush.

Gemma's melancholy thoughts kept her company when she slowly began to walk home. Her chest ached, both in the dull fear that she'd made a mistake, and in a sharp, fiery way that made her scratch where the necklace touched her skin. It only stung more when she touched it, to the point that she actually paused underneath a street lamp to investigate if she'd been stung by one of those stirges.

She must have looked incredibly improper the way she just pulled down the neckline of her dress, and even worse so when she gasped at herself. She anticipated some sort of welt, not this odd, rippling blister.

Her skin puckered where her necklace touched her skin, but the markings didn't quite match the metal. If her necklace burned her like some sort of reaction to cobalt, certainly it would be in the shape of the pendant. But instead, it looked as if the blistering outlined where the pendant rested in two distinct places, forming a sort of infinity sign with tails on either end.

Gemma's knees buckled, and she fell against the icy lamppost, neckline snapping back into its proper place. This was no metal reaction, she knew with a deep pit in her stomach. That was no infinity sign, no blister.

That was a brand of the symbol of Mask.

She'd stopped twice more before home, just to see if what she saw was still there. Was it because of what she'd said to Viven and Brendan? Was it because she only visited Mask's shrine at the temple? Or because of what she considered doing since all of that, that she considered actually turning to the Cult of Mask for safety? She didn't actually agree to it--and she didn't even actually pray to him!

She forgot to hold the bell on the door to The Silver Chain, and it jingled as she entered, alerting her mother in the back that she was home.

"There you are!" the woman called from her workshop. "I have some leftover soup upstairs for you. I was waiting, so I came down here to work." Her mother emerged from the back hallway with her magnifying glasses on top of her head. "Gemma?"

"Thank you, Mama," she answered with some difficulty. She couldn't look up from the floor.

"Gemma?" she prompted again. "Are you alright?" Oh, if only she didn't ask that question. It made Gemma's eyes burn, her breathing labored.

"Let's go upstairs and talk over supper," she said weakly. Her mother didn't reply, just slowly followed her up the creaking stairs to the sitting room at the top. The fireplace was already lit, bathing the small room in warmth and light. The table had two bowls of soup and a full loaf of bread, waiting for them, no longer hot.

"Were you at the tavern?" Gemma's mother prompted as they sat down. Gemma nodded. "When those…things…were there? Are you hurt?"

"Stirges," she said, "and I'm okay." The two women sat across from one another, one staring at her cold soup, and her mother staring at her daughter as she folded her glasses and set them down on the table.

"Is that the necklace we made? I thought you offered that at the temple…." At the question, Gemma's hand flew up to hold the pendant, as if to protect it. But for all she knew, it was the cause of all of this--somehow. Gemma pursed her lips and dismissed the thought. The world was a mess before she even started to work on the pendant in the first place. This thing was nothing more than a symbol, now. A symbol that the Gods couldn't help anyone who didn't help themselves.

"Mama," she started slowly, "I have a lot to explain." And least important was how she didn't finish her prayer or that she killed a stirge by summoning a quake. But she began with those details anyway; her mother listened with wide eyes, not interrupting. This part of the story, though shocking, didn't hold a candle to the conversation she had with Brendan and Viven just outside of town. Gemma cleared her throat when she got to that part, even reached forward to the loaf of bread to rip off the heel to buy some time while she searched for the right words. She took the time to breathe slowly, carefully, until any threatening tears receded.

"Did they hurt you?" her mother asked in response to the silence. Gemma shook her head and braced herself.

"Brendan told me that he moved here when we did," she said. She held the cold bread in her hands, picking at the crust but not moving to eat it. "After Papa left."

Her mother gasped, "No!"

"He said he was here watching over us," Gemma added before her mother could react much more. She set the bread down on the table and reached forward, seeking her mother's hand to hold. But the woman's frown made her take it away and rest her hands in her lap. "And he said he would protect you, and take me to Papa in The Pass." The fire crackling beside them filled the silence.

The woman across from her let her brow fill with wrinkles. She had the ability to make herself look like anything she'd wanted, but for the sake of comfort, she maintained the fine lines and dark circles under her eyes. And now, in the contours of the light, Gemma could actually see her mother's age. It only added more weight to how heavily she slouched her shoulders.

"You're…joining the Cult of Mask."

"No," Gemma corrected, shaking her head. "I said I'd deliver a few parcels for them--on the way to meeting Papa." It was a simple errand, she told herself. That's why she took it in the first place.

"You're working for them."

"Mama," Gemma continued, "you said that the postal service gave up. I'm just delivering a couple things on the way to go meet Papa--"

"If you think that's all you're doing--"

She interrupted, "Papa sent this man to us! He's trying to help!"

"And this woman? Viven? Is she doing this out of the goodness of her heart? Do you even know what you're sending?" Explaining to her mother what she said to get Viven to like her, about considering how Mask embraced darkness, was not an option.

"Mama, I'm not trying to argue--" Her mother slammed her fist on the table, loud and hollow. Gemma shrunk in on herself, clamping her eyes tight like she did in the tavern when the stirges attacked.

"Then don't do anything stupid! You even said, yourself, that you're a devil because of mine and your father's sins. Do not make them yours!"

"Mama--"

"And how are you even going to travel, with the dragons gone back to the Uncaring Mountain? No zephyrs will fly!"

"They'll send me through the tunnels, Mama." At her mother's stillness, Gemma dared open her eyes. Her mother's face looked redder than normal, in the light of the flames. She'd never looked so flabbergasted before, not even when Gemma claimed she was "running away with her boyfriend" when she was fifteen. Maybe it was because that was never truly a possibility. This, though….

"You--! You said you knew about the tunnels? Are you trying to get put on some sort of list?"

"Are you listening to me, Mama?" She tried to straighten up,to look larger than she felt. She wasn't a child anymore. And if she needed to travel away from home, she needed to act like it. "He already knew that we know about them! He's trying to help!"

"The Cult of Mask helps no one, Gemma. They kill people."

"Ma--"

"Do not Mama me, girl." Her chair screeched against the floor as she stood. "I forbid you to go through with this." Any height Gemma gained from sitting up in her chair melted away. Her cheeks burned, but she couldn't pin what that ugly feeling in her stomach was. Anger? Shame?

"I--"

"That's all I will hear about it! Stay away from those people, and that's final!" The woman stepped away from the table, ready to storm to her bedroom, but Gemma's quiet voice rang louder: "It's too late."

"What?" her mother's voice came out a whisper, almost engulfed by the crackling fire.

"I said it's too late," Gemma repeated. She didn't look up, just stared at her hands in her lap. She shouldn't have been surprised when a warm tear dropped onto her skin. "In exchange for delivering the parcels on my way to meet Papa, Brendan said he'll keep you safe. From the cult, from bandits, from monsters. And I'll be safe, too."

"Safe!" Her mother's voice cracked.

"I caused a quake, Mama. I killed a monster." And not to mention how that brand on her skin got there. Gemma looked up, finally, to see her mother's eyes welling with tears, too.

"That's not all you'll kill working with them, Gemma." Why did she sound like she was accusing her daughter of already killing someone? Gemma shook her head.

"He said that all I have to do is deliver parcels. Letters, Mama. I don't have to hurt anyone." But she knew, no matter how many times she said it, her mother would never hear it. Gemma sniffled and wiped at her cheeks, then stood from the table, as well. "I'm leaving tomorrow." From the edges of her vision, Gemma watched her mother spin around and choke on her words.

"No," she said.

"I said I'd go." The more she tried to sound older and wiser, the more her voice trembled. Her mother mistook this for fear, rather than regret, and reached toward her daughter to pull her into a hug. Her hands were so cold and rigid, how they gripped so tightly. But no matter how hard her mother pulled, Gemma knew it wasn't enough.

"We'll run somewhere. We'll g--"

"No." Finally, she sounded strong. It shocked her mother out of the unreturned hug, to where Gemma's shoulders ached with how far the woman's fingers dug into them. The woman stared, hard, scolding. Her human eyes, into the devilish face of her daughter. It hurt Gemma's stomach to look at her, so human, so old, so innocent. With her mother gripping her, Gemma couldn't wipe away the tears or snot that gathered.

"Gemma--"

"Mama," she gasped through a sob. She shut her eyes, squirming out of her mother's death grip just enough to pull at her dress's neckline. "Look." At the tips of her fingers, the brand scabbed. How did it evolve so quickly?

"What…what is that?" Colder than her mother's hands was the emptiness in the air when she let go and stepped away. Gemma shivered. She dared to open her eyes just enough to glance down to her wound. She sniffled, touching the burnt skin just slightly. It felt like a week-old scab, ready to flake and reveal a discolored scar underneath.

"It's getting worse…." Or better? More noticeable, more like a birthmark or tattoo than a bubbling blister. "I noticed it before I came home." Eager to hide it, Gemma replaced her neckline, and doubled the protection by tightly winding her arms around her chest.

Her mother sounded so far away, like she kept backing away after she let go. "How could they--how did this happen?"

Gemma shrugged. "I don't know." But her fate was sealed. The least she could do was protect her mother from whatever she got into.

A long silence passed in the room. Only the fire's cackling and Gemma's periodic sniffles showed the passage of time, with how silent her mother was, how her heart ached with each slow and heavy beat. When her knees started to wobble, Gemma crumpled back into her chair, interrupting the silence with a sharp eeeek. Now that she'd bared her fresh branding, her mother didn't touch her, didn't approach. Just stared.

"That's not a Cult of Mask thing," her mother said. "Maybe…." Her tone changed, almost immediately. From a helplessness to the way she sounded when she had a new idea for a design. It always filled Gemma with excitement to hear her mother's ideas, but right now, it hardly registered. "Did Brendan and Viven say they were Cult of Mask?"

"Not exactly, no." She wasn't entirely under the impression people flaunted that sort of thing, considering the whole public murder hobby.

The creaking across the table let Gemma know that her mother sat back down. "Maybe--maybe they're Church of Mask."

"I didn't know there was much of a difference…." Well, there was a slight difference. The Church of Mask was legal and shied away from violence, while the Cult of Mask hid in the shadows and manipulated politics.

"The difference between killing and protecting. The difference between working for themselves or for the Gods."

"Was Papa Church of Mask?" Gemma's question was more to shake her mother from this line of thinking, but the woman physically sat up at the suggestion.

"Maybe he is!" The more ideas her mother spun, silently or aloud, the more Gemma's stomach tightened. If the Church was ever involved in her father's choices, there would be no need for secrecy. No need for Brendan and Viven to talk to her on the edge of town. No need to use a private courier like Gemma for whatever missives they had.

"Mama…." At first, her voice was soft, doubtful. But she hesitated, and found herself furrowing her brows and nodding despite her doubt. "Maybe he is."

This slight fib Gemma allowed herself to tell her mother fed and festered throughout the night. Gemma's mother's spirits rose, deceitfully high, now that she believed her daughter to be a chosen of Mask.

"He was an acolyte! He was watching over us this entire time!" These false relations kept coming throughout the long night, even as she helped her daughter pack for her journey. "Don't tell your father I lost faith in him, alright? I'll have a long talk with him when we're reunited." And at the clock's fifth chime for the morning, they had a backpack stuffed full of far too many things, all of which seemed necessary. It was incredibly heavy with the bedroll, mess kit, lantern, and rope hanging on the outside. She looked like a proper adventurer, if she had any armor or weapons.

"Will they share supplies with you? Should we make a stop to Blossom's to see if we can find you more?"

"I think this will suffice. I'm not going to be alone, you know."

"This is your first time away from home…. And the journey to The Pass on foot, that could be up to half a year of travel."

"I'll write to you every chance I get. You'll get too many letters."

"Hardly possible!"

"And…when I meet up with Papa, I'll send for you. By then, I'm sure the dragons will be back to running the zephyrs and mine carts, and it will only be a few days for you to join us." Gemma managed to keep up her false optimism. Truly, only a fraction of herself believed what she was saying. Part of her feared that her mother's strong, initial reaction was right.

To help manage her anxiety, Gemma told her mother she wanted to say goodbye to some friends before she left. In reality, she wasn't thinking of anyone at The Grey Swan, or any of the merchants she visited regularly.

Before the shops were open, before people walked on the streets and hours before Brendan would come to get her, Gemma walked with urgency to the southern tip of Wildfort, near where the trading hub and now-deflated zephyr were in Stoneport. The forest wasn't this thick two weeks ago, nor this verdant or…spectacular.

Bioluminescent bugs fluttered and buzzed as Gemma made her way, attempting to find the path she once knew. She'd heard Bralen Bladecraft, the local wild man, was doing alright. There was no way to know, until walking to his cottage, that perhaps he was doing more than alright. The air was peaceful and crisp out here. The bugs and birds chirped, melodic, like a calming song hung in the air. Before, it wasn't unusual to run into a wild boar and abandon daily plans all together in favor of running and hiding from it; now, it was hard to imagine a hostile thought ever happened here.

In the perpetual twilight, Gemma found her way to the clearing in which Bralen constructed his home. His personal farm looked almost unaffected by the world's breaking; his goats and donkeys munched on the overgrown grasses contentedly, and hardly flinched when she stepped onto his land.

She tried not to stare, but eventually made her way up the scrappy wooden steps to the small porch of the cabin. It, too, remained unchanged. Whereas the stones and bricks in Wildfort gave way to nature's vines and new buildings, the Bladecraft Residence never truly looked polished in the first place, so it would be hard to notice a splintered wooden panel here or there.

Despite the early hour, Gemma knocked on the door. The residence only had two or so rooms, so she didn't have to wait long for someone to come to the door.

She gasped. "B--Bralen? Is that you?" Humanoid, sure. Wrinkled, still with salt and pepper hair and beard, all the same. But his eyes were yellowed, with pointed pupils like a cat's. His facial hair seemed softer, now--not wiry, but gentle and short like fur. His hands, which used to be coarse and wrinkled, were now accented by large, animalistic claws.

Bralen simply nodded to her, unbothered by her outburst. "I seem to look a little different," was his predictable, even-keeled reply. Although he examined her, her blue skin and horns, he didn't have a hint of judgment in his expression.

"I'm--it's Gemma McCoy, from The Silver Chain."

"Ah! Hello, how can I help you?" And although it didn't reach his eyes, Bralen smiled at her, polite and welcoming as ever. If she had the time, she'd exchange pleasantries. Maybe catch up with him on the rumors she had heard about his godson, Cole, going missing. But time wasn't something she had, so she jumped to it: "I'm sorry to ask this of you--but I'm going to be traveling to The Pass."

He frowned. "Your mom's selling the store?"

"No. It's just me. Could you--could you please write a letter to The Pass for me, every week, telling me how she is? Maybe--maybe you could address it to the Community Board, just with her initials, and the date, and if she's okay?"

"That's a strange request." But he didn't say no. "Can I ask why?"

"I, um…." She stood there, mouth hinged open, as she searched for some sort of safe excuse to give. The man was already going through so much, she couldn't burden him with anything close to the truth. But he was also wise enough to know that whatever she would say, would probably be a lie. He sighed.

"It's alright. Strange times. I'll do that for you. Every week, a note to the Community Board at The Pass with your mother's initials and how she is."

"Thank you."

"You know, fast travel and the postal service aren't working…."

"I know. I won't be there for quite a while. I just…would like it if someone was looking out for her."

"I will do that. I'll request every iteration of the notes are kept by the tavern there, too. It's the Golden Mirth. I stayed there a few years ago during a walkabout." He looked past her, toward his memories. It almost looked like he'd like to keep speaking, but Gemma guiltily took a step back, toward the stairs of his porch, and put a hand on her chest.

"Thank you, Bralen. Thank you so much." The only thing that made her feel worse than her impoliteness was the look of sadness in the man's smile.

Gemma made it home with only enough time to finish breakfast with her mother before there was a knock on the door. The women hugged, and as Gemma walked down the stairs toward her traveling backpack to open the door, her mother listed off everything she'd put in it.

"The thing's over fifty pounds, Mama. I can't pack any more."

"Oh, but you'll hardly notice it after walking with it for a while. You'll be so strong when I see you next!" And because she'd been practicing all night, Gemma was able to make her giggle sound genuine.

Gemma wiped her hand on her dress before she opened the door to The Silver Chain, for what she couldn't help but note, would be the last time.

But she didn't expect that beside the pink tiefling would be a short man with almond-colored skin. She initially thought he might be a dwarf, but something told her that wasn't correct. Halfling, she remembered the word to be. Not as stocky as dwarves, usually gentler. But this man didn't look gentle.

"I--" Gemma tried to smile, tried to greet them, but her words got caught in her throat. Her mother stepped up behind her, and finished the greeting.

"Good morning, gentlemen."

Brendan grinned. "Good morning to you, Mrs. McCoy. I take it your daughter has filled you in on her travel plans?" Her mother nodded and placed a warm hand on Gemma's shoulder.

"Yes. She told me of…the mission." And while the woman's voice was polite and pleasant, Brendan's raised brows were sure to test that.

"The mission," he echoed, amused. Gemma cleared her throat before much more could be said, and spun around to wrap her arms around her mother's waist once more.

"The sooner I get there, the sooner I'll see you again."

"My sweet girl," her mother cooed into her hair. "I love you. We'll write often. You'll have to have quite the foresight to tell me where to send my letters next." The word made Gemma's new wound burn.

"The map hasn't changed all that much, I'm sure," Gemma said as they pulled apart to hold one another's arms. For whatever reason, this conclusion made sense to her, gave her some comfort. More comfort than her mother's words on having foresight.

"Best get on, hm?" Brendan interrupted from behind them.

"You have a lot of ground to cover. Be safe. Alright?" She placed her hand on Gemma's cheek, and the young woman leaned into it, holding it there for a moment longer. She was all out of tears for the morning, but she knew if they stayed like this, she was tempting fate.

"I will. I love you." And after exchanging a dozen or so more ways to say goodbye, Gemma heaved her backpack onto her shoulders and stepped into the street with Brendan and his friend. Her mother shut the door only when they were about to turn around the corner of the street, when they would be cut off from view, where they could no longer wave to one another.

Gemma sighed, then regarded the two men beside her. Or rather, the stranger.

"I'm sorry, my name is Gemma. And you are?"

The man nodded. "Your escort. I am Oslo."

"Oh. Um, hello. I thought Brendan--"

Brendan interrupted her with a short laugh. "Me? Oh, no. I'm not built for travel. Besides, how could I watch your mother if I'm out there with you?" Watch your mother.

"Oh." She tried her very best to look like she wasn't about to vomit. And somehow, she told her cheeks to stop sweating, and they did.

"Well, you look ready! Oslo has what I need sent. You look like you're a bit packed full. You'll meet a friend…later. They know the way really well." He wasn't even going to go with them to the tunnels?

"Okay," was all Gemma could hear herself saying over the ringing in her ears. The bard caught her eye, and gave her a wink before making a quick, ninety-degree turn to go down a different street.

"Safe travels!"

She went to slow down, but her "escort" did not. He continued down the path, and she caught up rather easily; she seemed to be able to walk faster than him, with how he was only as tall as her hips.

Gemma cleared her throat. After a few breaths, her heartbeat wasn't so loud. All she could gather from this situation was that Brendan obviously trusted this man. And if he trusted him, she should, too. She decided to try idle conversation to calm her nerves.

"So, um, Oslo…how long have you been working with Brendan?"

Oslo shrugged. "Not long, actually. This is my first assignment. Didn't know you guys existed until recently. Well, I kind of knew--but I didn't know you had a name, or that it was all actually organized." The ringing in her ears returned.

"Didn't know who existed?" she asked timidly. She silently prayed over and over again until his response that he would mention a church--

"The Cult of Mask."