Aelwin. Arrol. Azur. Dulwain. Maybe Rourke. Valicia. Aelwin. Arrol. Azur. Dulwain. Possibly Rourke. Valicia. Aelwin. Arrol. Azur. Dulwain. Probably Rourke. Valicia. Aelwin. Arrol. Azur. Dulwain. Scratch Rourke, for now. Valicia. Aelwin. Arrol. Azur. Dulwain. Valicia. That’s our roster, huh? Fight off the forces of an empire hellbent on achieving their prophecy, probably die, and not only die, but fail to prevent such empire from completing their goal? Have my name carved into a plaque of the failed losers of the war, corpse desecrated and dessicated, dumped into an underground river or lake, left to become carrion for whatever sort of fish swim down here.

No. Gotta hold on to hope, even in the face of insurmountable odds. Arrol’s going to fight, Aelwin and Azur will fight, Valicia’s definitely going to fight, Dulwain too. Rourke, I’m holding out hope. And I’m going to fight.

I step out the door of my room, into the hall. It’s warm, despite the fact that it’s largely stone, with some wooden accents. A flame or two, held in metal sconces pinned to the wall. A magical ball of light slowly drifting about. Arrol walks up the stairs as I leave my room. “Aelwin and Azur are with us. Dulwain as well.” I sigh.

“Rourke?”

“Why are you so hung up on him? He’s just a bartender.” Arrol shoots back at my question, as if anticipating my asking it ahead of time.

“No, he’s more than a bartender, I’m certain of it. It’s a matter of finding out what he is and where his allegiance lies.”

“If you want to petition the lizardman for help, that’s your work to put in. I’m going out with Dulwain to set up patrols alongside the lake for when the Emperor’s lackeys eventually descend, like the vultures they are.” They’re not vultures. No, they’re not scavengers. To treat them as such is to prepare poorly. They’re birds of prey. Eagles, falcons. We’ve got to be hawks, or, better yet, hawk hunters, if we want to fight back. “Something tells me you disagree with something I just said, and I can’t place what it is.” Arrol says, now, with a puzzled look on his face, looking at me, reading my face.

“Not vultures. Eagles. We’ve got to prepare more than if they were scavengers, they’re hunters. We need to turn this hunt around.”

Arrol stares at me. “Okay. How do you propose we do that?”

I don’t know. Not in the slightest. “I have an idea. Give me time, and we’ll return to the fight.”

He laughs. “Alright. In the meantime, I’m going to be briefing the guards with Dulwain.” He heads into his room, comes out with a change of clothes, and heads down the stairs, while I stand in the hall, pensive, thinking of a solution. Maybe he’ll know. Rourke.

I head down the stairs, after Arrol heads out the front door. It’s the middle of the day. I’ve since learned that time is kept down here through a combination of magic, changing tides, and mechanical clocks. Centuries underground, and they still keep time. I suppose it’s necessary for scheduling, but were I underground, I’d find a new way to measure.

“Rourke.” I say to him, walking up to the bar.

“Firae, was it?” He says back. “Doing alright?” His serpentine eyes seem soft, despite the harsh yellow and dark black that lie within.

“Yeah. Are you?” I ask back, absent-mindedly, while trying to think of how to ask my question.

“Hm? Yeah, I’m fine. For the most part. Business is slow at this time of day. Nice to relax. Can I get you something?”

“Do I have to pay?” I ask in turn.

“On the house.” He says, pouring me out a glass of a bluish-silvery liquid.

“What is it?” It shines, reflecting back the red flames that illuminate the bar, and has the same consistency of honey or thick milk.

“Sap. Sweet, nutritious, and clean. Slightly hallucinogenic.” He laughs. “Only slightly, though.”

Fuck it. I pick up the glass and pound it back, as best I can. As it hits my tongue, it melts, flavorful, sweet like fruit or syrup, flavorful. As it sits in my mouth, it melts more, and begins to grow thinner, letting me actually drink it.

“Huh.” Quietly, the only word that I can form. I’m at a loss. My body feels warm after drinking it.

“You were looking pale. Sick. Tell me what’s eating you.” Rourke says, his teeth shining as he says ‘eating,’ well enough.

“Who are you?” I ask him, outright.

“Rourke. I’m Rourke. Bartender, servant of the Lady Valicia, Xykyn. Anything else you want to know?”

“No, I mean, really. Who are you?” I say, now, leaning forward slightly over the bar. I’m too short, I realize, to reach across. I pull back and clamber up onto a stool.

“You’ve got the eyes of a falcon, Firae.” His serpentine eyes look into mine. What does that mean?

“Hm?” I respond back, mouth closed, eye contact maintained.

“You’ve got the eyes. Of a falcon.” Rourke says, again.

“Whose side are you on?” I ask, sliding the glass across the counter to him, now. “What’s your game, Rourke?”

“I’m on your side. I will be, when the time comes. You can trust me.”

“How’s that?” The rest of the bar seems to fade from my awareness. Consciousness, slowly slipping. Air, thick. Voices in the background fade away. I start to slip, body going limp. My eyes roll back, and things go black before I hit the floor.