#7 Praetor’s Eve

This wasn’t Ashire’s handwriting. That was a fact, but then again; Farid had never really thought that it would be. The letter read as followed:

Dear Farid Al Farooq (misspelled, crossed out, then spelled correctly),

How’s it going? It’s been a really long time since we’ve seen each other, probably, but I wanted to say that I don’t really know what to say other than that I really like you. I miss you. It was a lot of fun when you came to see me, I had fun and I hope you had fun. When will you come again? Obviously I don’t expect you to come again, because after all; I am a very busy music star, maybe. The point is that we should stay in touch.

We only met that one time, as far as I know, so I understand that I’m not really someone you want to hear from or be told what to think or what to do, but I did want to say one or two things about the whole Levi thing and how that really all shook out. I get that you liked him, but he took advantage of you. That’s ok, we all make mistakes, but you need to understand that just because he didn’t treat you like he valued you, it doesn’t mean that you don’t have value. Value is an arbitrary metric which people use to determine the value of things anyway, so if he arbitrarily assigned no value to you you need to understand that you can understand your own value to be arbitrarily higher than that. Because it is. In my opinion. Ashire, the singer you met that one time, but also have a poster of in your room. I think you’re cool, and it’s cool I got to meet you Farid.

Love

Ashire

Somewhere within the childish phrasing, the chicken scratch handwriting, and the confused message; Farid decided there was a heart. It wasn’t what he needed to hear, but in a weird way; that made it exactly what he needed to hear. Someone out there cared enough about him to pick his favourite celebrity, write a letter impersonating him, and put words of encouragement into his mouth. Yes, Farid decided that it was touching. It made him feel a little warm, but that was the end of it. The letter ambiguously said they should ‘stay in touch,’ though in all likelihood; they already were. It had to be Ediniira, Farid also decided, so folded the letter back up, put it in his secret jewel encrusted chest, locked said chest to protect against prying parental eyes, and walked out of their wagon.

The Imaginarium, all of its people and wagons, had been converted to an amphibious form. Traveling on thick rafts across open ocean. A brisk sea breeze caught Farid full in the face. Salt, brine, and cold. A network of spidery walkways, buoys, and ropes held the crafts together into a loose flotilla. At the helm was Vaughn Ashford’s wagon. He and Egon Ward had devised this oddity, and now steered from a rickety little shed they’d propped up on floating white foam. Further along, floated wagons belonging to the sundry cast members interspersed with security officers – Twig’s, Ba’Tok’s, even his own wagon was strategically placed so Dad could spring to action on a moment’s notice.

They were in the back, along with the more expendable members. Of course, Goodman hadn’t put it quite like that. “There are those who fight, and those who sing, and those who remain.” Those who remain included Gulliver Weighs, Hentaur the Centaur, Zora and her new wife. The list went on; but it was telling to Farid that his father insisted on being put back here with them.

“Hey, Edi.” Farid called out to Ediniira Skye, who’d been standing on one of the open pontoons the last hour. She held a form – one of the eighty-seven forms which made up her fighting style. The way of the Sun, the Way of Sunlight… something like that, but the point was that it relied in part on striking specific poses. Said poses then were used to redirect the body’s energy into attacks, or blocks, or dodges – Ediniira was quite good at them. Farid, less so. “Thanks for the letter.”

“Letter?” Edi cocked an eyebrow, though otherwise was unmoving. “Is this one of those word puzzle things, you know I hate those.”

“No, no word puzzle…” Farid was perplexed.

“Maybe cause ‘c’ sounds like ‘sea’ and we’re at sea?”

“What?”

Slackening her pose, she looked at Farid then shrugged. “You wanna fight?”

“Is that all you think about?”

“Ya think I think about stuff?” She blushed. “Golly, you’re all backwards today.” And then Ediniira slunk into a fighter’s crouch. Quickly. Farid scanned his surroundings. Zora and her wife were the closest – Gudrun seemed content to enjoy the day while Zora was being… physical. Further up August was helping… Splugg? Looked like Splugg, but Farid hadn’t actually met the little goblin.

His dad was nowhere to be seen. Looking back at Ediniira, Farid lifted his dukes. “Ok, let’s go.” And instantly found himself in the water. The soft burn from his rib cage could have been a jab, or a kick. It didn’t matter. Quickly, the feeling of ice cold sea water, that overbearing salt taste; it stung a little as Ediniira just as effortlessly hoisted him up from above the waves.

“Whoops.” She blepped. “Guess I don’t know my own strength.”

Farid sighed. This was exactly the point, he needed to be stronger. Not just to spite his dad, though to be honest; literally everything he did was in open rebellion of his father. It was primarily because Poset was a dangerous place, and Farid was tired of being a ‘delicate flower’ who ‘needed protecting.’ He did, of course. For an eighteen year old, he was a little weedy, and had been so thoroughly and completely coddled from birth till now that he couldn’t remember actually being injured. Cuts, bruises, scraped knees; the medals of boyhood had been denied him. Maybe he was making up for lost time. “Again.”

This time he ducked the first attack and saw the one which sent him into the drink. It was a leg sweep, and as Farid’s skin kissed ocean water he momentarily self-evaluated. Ediniira didn’t seem to plan, she just exploited opportunity after opportunity until one presented itself for the killing blow. Or in this case, the ‘dunking’ blow. She lifted him out of the water again, to which Farid asked “Can you teach me your forms?” That must be it, muscle memory and experience trumping in the moment observation or tactics.

“Nah, that’s boring.” Edi grinned. Like a cat picking up her drenched kit, Ediniira plopped Farid back squarely on the pontoon. “Besides, the forms come when you get the basics.”

“The forms are the basics, right?”

“Yup!” She grinned and kicked. Farid tried to duck, but that was apparently a fake out, as Ediniira once again flipped up and sent him rocketing back. Mercifully, Farid only crashed into a pile of sandbags this time, sparing his already fluffy hair another dousing. “You’re getting better!” Ediniira said with absolutely no sense of irony.

Farid grinned; his shoulder ached, his lip was split, and his entire throat was raw from seawater. Pain, discomfort, bliss.

Just as Farid was about ready to get thrashed a fourth time, they both heard someone call out. “Help me! Oh, for the love of sweet merciful god, please help!?” It was a squeaky voice, like you’d give to a cartoon mouse.

Looking around, it seemed like the voice was coming from the open ocean. It was. Somewhere about a thousand feet from the last pontoon was a raft, and on that raft was a little person. At this distance, Farid could not tell what sort of little person, but it didn’t matter. “You see that?” He asked Ediniira. Shame, Farid was suddenly immersed in it more thoroughly than ocean water. As the little fox girl looked up, scanned the environment, and dove into the water he looked at his fists. There was nothing he could do. He wasn’t a strong swimmer, or brave enough to even attempt it, but there she was. Chugging along at a healthy pace toward the little creature screaming his lungs out.

It was around this point that Farid, and subsequently Ediniira, realized what that guy was so scared of. Thick, black tentacles emerged from the depths. One gripped Ediniira and yanked her well under the water. “Shit.” Farid hissed under his breath, taking a step forward.

“Oh fuck, you seeing this? That thing looks like the kind of thing you don’t want to fuck with, am I fucking right or what?” Farid hadn’t even noticed, but a little crowd was gathering. Gulliver was the one who spoke, but more to himself than anyone else. Already, he was thumbing through that thick book he carried everywhere.

“Splugg also sees.” Splugg said, responding to the fact that, in addition to the other people present, Splugg had seen what was going on.

“Indeed.” August had put down his hammer. “We need a stratagem.”

“Strat my ass, metal man.” Gulliver’s book slipped back into his satchel. “I do magic, you guys try not to get wet. Case fucking closed.”

“Gulliver, it is unnecessary for you to show boat.”

Gulliver rolled his eyes and began showboating. He jumped up and landed on the nearest wagon – Zora’s incidentally. She and her wife had ‘retired’ within, and were bound for a shit honey moon as Gulliver conjured a blast of magic wind to send him (as well as the lesbian lovers luxuriating in sapphic sensation; read totally banging) careening toward the squid monster and castaway. Getting close enough to help Ediniira he froze one of the tendrils – which she promptly shattered. Back on her two feet, she vaulted from one tentacle to the next – zapping them with her light bolts.

August let out a mechanical sigh, before gesturing the crowd back. “Please, stand back. We do not know how big this creature is, or to what degree if any you may be in peril.” He looked at Farid. “You as well, Farid.”

Farid stooped, tacking two or three steps back along with the rest of the mundane. He’d never thought of himself like that before, but supposed it must be true. Gulliver floated in the sky now, calling down red lightning to smite tendrils. Ediniira hopped effortlessly from one to the next. Acrobatically gliding around them – a jab here, a kick there. One by one they fell limp. Even August, as soon as he’d helped everyone on their little flotilla to get back, had turned to the battle. Getting into a small rowboat, he proceeded to travel at a snail like pace into the fray. Bypassing the monster battle which was going pretty poorly for said monster, he moved to help raft guy.

If Farid’s gaze hadn’t been downcast with disappointed shame, he would not have noticed the seething little goblin next to him (Little, by human standards, he reminded himself. Splugg was tall for a goblin.). “I see you, blue devil.” Hissed Splugg through razor sharp teeth. “You are a user of dark magics, and you also shall see your day. You will be kissed by Splugg’s ax.” And then he turned, vanishing back into the crowd.

For a moment, Farid wondered if he should tell someone about that.

And then his father was there, hand rested on his boy’s shoulder. Farid tried to avoid eye contact, but it was like his skull had been reeled in on a fishing line. The subtle disapproval in his father’s eyes burned his soul with scorn, and then Rush was gone – teleporting into the fray, he delivered what would be the killing blow.

Coming back to shore (shore being a relative term here), August produced the tiny life he had saved. It, being a two-and-a-half-foot tall teddy bear in felt armour. Not just a teddy bear, Farid realized as the creature yawned. It sewn on button eyes reflected the dappling sun and for the shortest moment, Farid’s heart started to melt. “Thank fuck you guys came along, now where the fuck are the hot babes at? I need to get my dick sucked after a fight or I pass out.” The bear chirped, and there was much revulsion.

Lifting him by his tiny teddy tush, August placed the creature gently down on the dock. “I cannot help you with that.”

“Ah, well, you’re just a stiff anyway. Not the only thing that’s stiff, amirite!?” Being physically unable to either wink or wolf whistle, the teddy knight did his best to indicate both gestures with little felt paws. To be totally clear, the bear was not anatomically correct. Something Farid was both relieved and further concerned by. “I’m Jared, but y’all can all just call me the sultan of sex.” Said Jared, who was never again referred to as ‘the sultan of sex’. “If you can’t get me a fat bitch, you can get me with a fat bottle. Of booze. Shit.”

Landing a little further up, Gulliver patted Jared’s shoulder. “I can help with that. I’ve actually been experimenting with brewing some new flavours of liquor from sea fauna and flora, because the only thing around here is both sea flora and sea fauna with surprising and generally overwhelmingly strong results.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you just said, but if it leads to me getting wasted I’ll say yes.”

“Say yes.” Gulliver said, and the two walked off to his wagon.

“Soon, blue devil.” Splugg had been lurking this whole time, caressing the handle of his ax as he watched. “Soon.” Farid once again agonized with telling someone about that.

Zora’s wagon continued to drift out to sea in the far distance, and it should be noted that (but for a roll of the cosmic dice) this was one of the most significant moments in the history of modern Poset. If Zora and Gudrun had been a male gay couple, they would’ve probably finished their business, fallen asleep, and perished at sea. As lesbians, they were still awake after the whole thing, noticed their peril, and were able to save themselves. A coin toss like this was one of the germs in a trail of breadcrumbs that led to genocide. Odd, that.

“While I appreciate your effort, it is unneeded.” Helper August said. “I do not require your help, however; would be pleased to help if you need something.” He was always busy. He? Maybe he was a she, or a they, or even an it. With no face to emote and no tone of voice to read Farid had a hard time drawing any conclusions about the apparent automaton. He simply hammered in perfectly timed rhythmic movements, all the while maintaining eye contact. Eye contact? August didn’t have eyes, rather; there were little dents in his face which looked about where you would have eyes, but there was nothing to suggest he saw through them. Maybe they were decorative. Farid shook his head, understanding August was a waste of time.

“You sure there isn’t… anything?” August’s wagon had been totally gutted during the amphibious conversion. Not needing a place to sleep or shelter of any kind, he seemed to have just unpacked all of his smithing supplies in the most logical pattern. From this vantage, Farid half noted, August could see the whole pontoon. If something happened, or someone needed help, he would be the first to know. No doubt, how he’d gotten to Jared so fast. Jared, who’d gone into Gulliver’s and was yet to emerge.

“Do you wish to learn smithing?” August scanned him. “I see, you wish to contribute.”

“I… didn’t say that.” But yes, he’d meant it. Farid leaned against an anvil to watch the machine work. “I’m bad at fighting. Egon thinks I should learn magic, but… that isn’t easy either.”

“All things worth doing are hard.”

“Not for you!”

“True.” August seemed to ponder, though it was just as possible that he only added a pause to seem reflective. That thought unsettled Farid a little, so he pushed it to one side. “I am only what I am meant to be, a stringless puppet who performs a task repeatedly and without flaw. In your mind, would that be enviable?”

Taking a moment to consider, Farid shook his head. “Maybe not.” Looking back out across the pontoon he saw a drunk-seeming Jared emerge with Gulliver. They walked across the bridge between two wagons, Gulliver pushed the bear in and began to laugh. Somewhere further up, Farid spied Splugg stalking them. Ax in hand, he looked about to strike, but seemed to chicken out when Gulliver’s gaze happened to pass him by. Falling to his knees, the goblin cowered. “They’re all so much more interesting than me, makes me feel kinda pointless.”

“And would having a point make you happy?” August had also been watching Splugg, a hand on his hammer; he’d been prepared to intervene should the goblin actually make a move. Seeing that the trouble subsided, August returned to his previous task. “This hammer has a point, but it is a tool. Incapable of happiness or ennui. You are a person, capable of different things and with different needs.” The hammer met steel, slowly forming the shape of another tool. Another tool with another point.

“I guess.” Farid watched the hammer fall. Up and down, but August had said his peace. For a moment, Farid wondered if he had written the letter. It tracked from a motivational perspective, but August’s help seemed more direct.

Sitting across from his father that evening, the pair ate in silence. Like usual, Rushan had cooked for them both. A lightly spiced curry: traditional cuisine from the south, though to Farid, it was just traditional for him and dad. The pattern was more or less identical week to week, with Rush marinating a meat (typically goat, though this one was made with a massive trout he’d caught) one week, stewing it one week, then serving and reheating it for about another week before they moved on to the next one – which by this point was done stewing. It was often served on rice, but in the northern countries bread was substituted. This one had seaweed instead, which Farid did not like the taste of. Maybe he’d gotten too much ocean water in his mouth already. He did his best to chew it, but it gushed together and got stuck in his teeth.

Rushan looked up for a moment and then back down at his food. To anyone else, this gesture would be innocuous, but Farid read it as an uproarious laugh. His father was a man of few words, fewer expressions, and apparently; no feelings whatsoever, but Farid knew it was a little more nuanced than that. “Dad?” He asked, to which his father grunted – seemingly a whole syllabus in one subvocalization. “What do you think of the new guy? Jared.”

“The bear is obscene.” He said, before going back to eating in silence. Farid picked at his curry with a tarnished fork, doing his best to miss the weirdly textured seaweed. “You must eat it.” His father said, not looking up. That was about the extent of a conversation that he’d get from his father, and so Farid forked more into his mouth. It seemed to wriggle as it went down. When he was a little boy, Farid aspired to be just like his father. Tall for a human, his father was all wiry muscle back then. Even now, slowly but gracefully falling from his summit Rushan could lay a man out with little effort. By contrast, Farid was generously 5’9, couldn’t lay a man out if he had a cannon; it wasn’t hard to see why he was disappointed in himself. Spooning more of the seaweed down his gullet, the thought that maybe this would be the protein that put him over the edge crossed his mind. Farid snickered to himself, he’d been thinking things like that for so long, one day it was bound to become true.

There was a knock on the door and his father sighed. In that sound was apology to Farid, veiled complaint for the Imaginarium management, and agreement that the seaweed was not well prepared. Another thing, Farid envied his father for. Even with all the words he knew, Farid could never express himself so clearly. The door opened and beyond was none other than the titular Madam Carpenter, herself. “It’s late.” He said, in a tone of voice which wrote novels of admonishment.

“I can tell time, you dingus.” She said, pushing past him. “Is that curry?” and serving herself a plate, though wisely – skipped the seaweed. “I need a hand with something, Rush.”

“I am your employee.” Rush said, in a tone of voice which seemed to suggest: if you need work, ask me. If you need help, go to August.

“It’s nothing so dire as an official request, but it may end up that way. We’ll see – oh, quite good, too much turmeric.” She used their third fork, something which Farid could tell irked his father, though the man would never say. “Now, have a seat. This may take a while.” Rushan remained standing, the door remained open, and after a moment Madam Carpenter recommended eating. “As you know, when we originally charted our course to Verayi we’d planned a two day stop in Hebron. Seemed like a good idea at the time; do some shows, resupply, yadyada: you’ve been here long enough to get why. Well, we just got a courier from our patron in Hebron saying not to come, apparently the Praetor just threw up his hands.”

To say there was a silence so thick you could hear a pin drop would be inaccurate for a number of reasons (dismissing the obvious use of cliché). For one, it was already so silent in the Al Farooq wagon that you could hear a pin drop. Since mom had granted dad’s third wish and returned to her lamp, the home which had previously been vibrant with song and laughter fell silent. Conversations consisted of two or three sentences in total; like both men were trying to avoid talking about her. Rushan was also angry, Farid could tell. He became quieter when he was mad, and so; contributed less to a conversation than usual. Farid was intimidated by Madam Carpenter: as a lot of children are when they reach adulthood and suddenly have to engage in an adult relationship with someone they’ve known since prepubescence. Finally, the soft crash of the waves outside, while loud by any objective metric, created an odd juxtaposition with the silence within their wagon. Like the world was a party while they lived in a convent. Dropping a pin makes almost no sound under normal circumstances, therefore hearing a pin drop doesn’t really make sense, but it would be accurate to say that everyone’s laser focus was such that they might just notice it. If they’d been sewing clumsily during this conversation, rather than picking at mistakenly boiled seaweed that is. “What.” Rush said his catchphrase.

“You heard.” Madam Carpenter slurped a cup of tea, which had been Rush’s. “I want your advice.”

“We do not dock in Hebron.”

“Let me rephrase.” Carpenter raised an eyebrow, the same way a scorpion raises its tail or a drunk frat boy raises a tennis ball. “I want your advice on how we should conduct business in Hebron, given this new development.”

Rushan offered a dangerous look. The kind of look that should only be handled with lead lined gloves, and we all really ought to talk about dismantling altogether. Farid wanted to ask what any of this meant: he’d never been to a Floatilla before (of which, Hebron was one of the big five). Of course, he knew a thing or two about the confederation, but whenever they came up in polite conversation on mainland Poset there was a certain… reluctance? Like how nobody wants to talk about that one coworker who married her second cousin. Sure, it’s legal and they didn’t actually meet until they started dating as adults, but still… “Elaborate.” Rush eventually said.

“Well, obviously we need supplies, and I would like to do a show.”

“Out of the question.”

“I would like to do a show here?”

“Further out of the question.”

“I want to make some kind of money.”

“I cannot see a path to that outcome.” Rush crossed his arms, his jaw locked. “Docking in Hebron while there is no Praetor is suicide. Doing business in Hebron without a Praetor is suicide. Performing for the people of Hebron without a Praetor is suicide.”

“Ya see… when you describe everything as ‘suicide’ it does nothing to help me identify relative threat levels.”

“Poison is poison. Past the lethal dose, it is irrelevant how much one drinks.”

“Point taken, point taken.” She got up – having finished all of the curry and left all of the seaweed, she offered Rush a rye smile. “Well, I need to drink this poison. How do we make it as safe as humanly possible.”

Rush let out a heavy sigh. “Only those who need to disembark should do so. Myself, Twig, and Ba’Tok will stand on the dock for as long as we are there. Individual merchants may sell to you, who will sell from the dock at a mark up. Do you understand?”

“Slim pickings, but we take what we can get.” She smiled and stepped out of the door, which he did not close for the entire duration of the conversation. “Thank you for being reasonable, Rushan.”

He fixed her with a steely gaze, one that seemed to jostle even her unflappability. The door closed, and Rush returned to his food. “Cold.” He muttered, as he finished eating.

On the day that the Imaginarium arrived at Hebron, Rushan Al Farooq locked the wagon – not just from the inside, to keep people out; he specifically installed a deadbolt on the outside for such occasions as this. He’d explained to Farid that, for the one and a half days they would be docked in Hebron he was to remain in the wagon, ideally in his half of the wagon. Farid was to have no contact with the Floatilla or its strange, strange people. Though Farid had offered token protest, there was little he could do when his dad got like this. “It is for your protection” was the last thing Rushan said before closing the door, sealing the bolt, and leaving Farid to his own devices.

From his bedroom window, Farid could see the very edge of Hebron – a fact which made his involuntary confinement even harder. Hebron was, by any estimation, beautiful beyond human ken. It was a floating city which seemed to drift from the pages of fairy-tale. It may seem redundant to describe a fantasy city in a fictional vignette that way, after all; everything in Farid’s world was fantastical, but in contrast Hebron was supernaturally so. The buildings were sheer, made of white marble that seemed to rise from the sea like an island. If it weren’t for the slight bobbing you’d be forgiven assuming it was actually an island. Stone bridges connected some of the taller buildings, elegantly criss crossing streets paved in water. They were held up by Doric columns which seemed to be growing up from the ocean floor, except that they also floated.

At a distance Hebron seemed peaceful. Whatever had sparked his father’s fear so far away, Farid assumed this was another example of his father’s over protective nature. He was an adult now – at least, by some standards. The age of majority was a little squiffy in Poset: given that a goblin reached adulthood at five, a Surhk at ten, and whatever Gulliver was at thirty – but for a human, Farid was fairly sure he qualified. He’d turned 18, they’d done a big party. He’d eaten more cake in the span of three hours than his entire preceding existence, and subsequently passed out in a sugar coma. This wasn’t fair. The moment his dad came back, Farid decided they were going to have a real conversation. A talk. Farid would explain that now he was a man, he deserved to be treated like one… but then he got nervous. The image of his father silently looking at him, weighing their relative strength and experience, drawing the conclusion that he was somehow not yet worthy made Farid’s blood run cold.

Deciding to spend his time reading, Farid had opened forty-seven different books. Ethimere the philosopher poet wasn’t doing it for him, the Collected Adventures of Farrowind seemed disjointed, Zelarie’s Hundred Hints for Hopeful Heroes was unhelpful now… The only thing that he read, which he read over and over, was that letter. It wasn’t from Ashire. It wasn’t from Ediniira, it probably wasn’t from August – his dad? No, that’d be way too weird. That was the sort of thing his mother might have done, at least; from how Rushan described her… when he said anything at all. Farid remembered very little about her, and what he thought he remembered was a patchwork of childhood fantasy, his father retroactively describing her, and half-remembered dreams.

Glancing over, he saw her lamp sitting on the mantle. He could rub it, at least; theoretically. As a Genasi there was the possibility it wouldn’t work. There was also the possibility that the version of his mother who’d existed before would somehow be overwritten if a new master called on her. Rushan had found evidence to suggest that this was the case in the early days, and so; Farid was forbidden from touching the lamp in all but the most extreme cases. Even so, Farid wished he could speak to his mom. In a way, it’d be easier if she was dead. At least then they could move on, or try to, but she was right there. He could just touch the skin of that lamp and call his mother’s spirit back to them… just like that. But the lamp would find a way, it always did. Either by hook or by crook; Wassatai would be trapped again, and then; it really would be the end. A little tapping sound broke Farid’s focus.

Looking around, it was night. So much time had passed, though it felt like a whole hell of a lot more. Ediniira was at the window. Even though they were on the same level, she’d tossed a little rock to get his attention. She was about to toss another one, but he decided to save her the trouble. Cracking the little portal, he looked out. “Edi? What’s going on?”

“We’re busting you out.” She grinned, hooking a thumb at herself. Next to her stood Gulliver, Jared the sapient teddy bear, and Helper August; of all people. “You up for a night on the town?”

“You told me Farid needed help.” August said to Gulliver, who grinned sheepishly. “What can I help you with, Farid?”

“I…” Farid looked past them. Hebron was even more beautiful at night. Glistening and glinting like a siren, though Farid had seen an actual siren and found them to be somehow less alluring (them being generally female, and him being generally gay had that general outcome). “What the heck. August, can you help me out?”

Without a word, August produced a little bag of tools. Producing a Phillip’s head screwdriver, he undid the screws that held Farid’s window shut and removed the housing. He worked deftly, and within a moment, Farid was getting used to his balance on the rocking deck of his father’s pontoon. “So… what’s the plan?”

“Plan?”

“My boy, I’ve come to give you a lesson in the art of the fucking rager.” Said Jared, the tiny bear who was adorable right up to the moment that his mouth opened. “We’re gonna go into that town: we’re gonna find bitches, we’re gonna find liquor, we’re gonna find bitches with liquor.”

“Can you… um… stop calling women that?”

“I’m not talking about women.” Jared continued. “Bitches is a whole different species.”

Farid glanced nervously at Ediniira, who’d already stopped paying attention – hand walking along one of the ropes which connected his pontoon to the neighbouring one, she looked back. “You guys coming or what?”

It was by no accident that Rushan Al Farooq’s wagon was moored as far from the dock as physically possible. The Imaginarium was made up of some twenty wagons, with another ten or so pontoons, rafts, and dinghies which held the whole thing together. It took a little over an hour for the group to fumble through, sneaking past anyone who might rat on Farid, and eventually finding themselves at the only real point of contact between the Imaginarium and Hebron. A stone dock carved from immaculate marble jutted out to the rickety wooden nightmare Vaughn had devised. He, personally, was asleep at the wheel while Egon manned the odd contraption which steered the whole ‘ship.’ Occasionally stopping to pet Oliver, he too was bored out of his fucking mind.

A crappy rope bridge connects this cabin to the aforementioned dock. It was about three feet wide and ten long. Standing on the far end was Twig, Ba’Tok, and Rushan Al Farooq. The three men stood in stoic silence, staring down the city of Hebron like a matador does a bull – as though the classical architecture was planning on detaching itself and making a dash for them.

“Shit, the fuzz.” Jared crouched. Interestingly, Egon Ward both noticed and chose not to care, returning to petting his only friend. “How do we get past them?”

“Maybe we should request permission to disembark.” August said.

“What are you, high?” Gulliver started, and as we all know; once Gulliver starts he doesn’t really stop. “For one, those three guys are there for the express purpose of keeping people out, but also for the other purpose – which I suppose means it isn’t their express purpose, but rather their priority – of keeping us on unless we have specific permission to go into the city. I say suck it to that, but we can’t let them know we left or they’ll try to fuck us up.”

“Why don’t they want us to leave?” Ediniira scratched her head.

“The fucking Praetor threw up his fucking hands, do you not know what that means?” Gulliver fucking said.

“I’m also in the dark here.” Jared grinned.

“What, you been living under a rock too?”

“I would be happy to help.” August said, which seemed to both cut off and relieve Jared. “Each ‘Floatilla’ in the confederacy has a triarchal government. Laws are written by a Praetor, to whom absolute authority belongs, they are then interpreted by Judges, and are then enforced by the cohorts. Because of this dynamic, a Praetor may write a law with one intent, only to have it interpreted to mean something different by a judge. Further confusing the issue is that the cohorts, effectively a police force, answer to the First Cohort; who must read a law for it to be enforced. As a result, the First Cohort can often refuse to read a law, rendering it in limbo. Because all law comes from the Praetor, laws are only enforceable while one is in office. This is usually not a problem, though when a Praetor’s term ends – this is referred to colloquially as ‘throwing up their hands’ – the laws are not in effect until a new one enters the office to restore order. Procedures vary from floatilla to floatilla, but generally this organically produces a gap of several days when there is no rule of law, and so; chaos ensues. That is what is going on at this time, I hope this exposition has been helpful.”

Though it was no doubt possible for the group to use magic, they decided it would be more fun just to swim past. Apparently the collective intelligence of Rush, Twig, and Ba’Tok was insufficient to identify this possibility, and the four were able to dive in, swim to town, and climb out on the dock without any trouble. Farid’s hair puffed up a little, Jared had to violently shake himself, but otherwise no harm no foul. The sea water actually did wonders for Gulliver, who now smelled like ocean rather than socks.

For all the preamble, Hebron was suspiciously ‘not all that bad.’ In fact, the streets were empty by and large, leaving the four heroes to explore a mostly deserted playground.

The high street was done in promenade style – nice marble streets punctuated with real soil and little gardens that rowed the shops and entertainment parlours. One shop in particular sold interesting hats, its glass window tantalizingly sentinel against the night. “Do you want a hat?” Gulliver asked Farid. “’Cause I want a hat, but I’m not gonna take a hat if I’m the only one who wants a hat.”

“Take..?” Farid was taken aback.

Rolling his eyes, Gulliver conjured a stone from the ground and threw it at the window. Amid the shattering glass, the blue wizard plucked a plumed feather hat, donned it, and grinned back. “There’s no law for the rest of the night, might as well have some fun. So do you want a hat, or do you not want a hat?”

“I want one.” Jared said, rummaging through the wreckage before picking out an especially ornamented cap with half the contents of an exotic fruit bowl sewn to it. “Fuck yes, I look sweet as fuck.” Realizing the pun, he put the hat down and picked up a different (though equally nonsensical) cap.

“What do you think Edi?” Ediniira was not paying attention to this, or really anything else. She’d made her way half way up the street by this point, and was delightedly staring into an unseen alley. Farid sighed, picking up the most sensible hat he could find. “When in Hebron.”

“That’s the shit!” Jared said, patting him on the back – at least; he executed that gesture. Being about two and a half feet tall, he patted Farid on the lower thigh. August produced a broom from nowhere and began to sweep. “Come on, tin fuck. If you clean up all the chaos, what’s the point of us spreading chaos in the first place?”

“I am here to help.” August responded helpfully. “That includes mitigating damage where possible.” Finishing his sweep, August tapped the shattered window only to have it reform – reversing in time. Only the missing hats marked their passing, but even so; that was a small difference.

Jared was angry, but not angry enough to fight him. His, and everyone else’s attention was called away as Ediniira literally called them away. “Hey guys, come over here!”

The alley she’d been gesturing was mostly water – like a canal with side paths and a couple elevated bridges, but it was also where most of the Hebronites had found themselves. Loud music beat from drums, fire burned in the streets – but it wasn’t a wildfire, controlled chaos as people danced, and sang, and drank. This was what Jared had been looking for, he filled the party in by saying: “Ya see, you don’t need law. If we got rid of all that shit, we’d all have fun all the fucking time.” He was subsequently knocked into the canal by a partygoer with a glaive, and sort of fell out of this narrative for the next few paragraphs.

Gulliver ran ahead, disappearing into the crowd – eventually settling by one of the kegs. August clicked into gear, walking along the canal’s edge he fixed three sign posts, cobbled someone’s shoes, and provided CPR to a choking woman. “If you are under the influence of narcotics, please divulge your suspected dosage so that I can provide adequate treatment.” With a smirk, Farid realized that this was his idea of a party.

Gripping his shoulder, Ediniira cocked her head at him. “Wanna dance?” Farid shrugged, sprinting into the crowd with her they were quickly lost within. The people of Hebron were handsy, to say the least; but weirdly respectful despite there being no laws to back require it. Farid lost his shirt somewhere along the way and regained his focus only when some guy shoved his hand down his pants (the back side, for those keeping score) and Ediniira pushed him in the water. Despite this, when the man came up he was just laughing. Farid looked down at him and he laughed too.

Edi patted his skin, slick with sweat and panting she asked “You ok, bro?” She actually asked several times with increasing volume, because the party was so loud, but eventually meaning got across.

“Yeah, actually.” Farid watched Jared beat the stuffing out of the guy she’d deposited in the canal with him, but it all seemed in good fun. His fluffy arms didn’t really hurt much, and they both were laughing. “Thanks for bringing me.”

“Why ‘thanks’?” Ediniira cocked her head. “When Gully said he was going to Praetor’s Eve you were the first guy I thought of.” She slumped her arm over his shoulder. “Glad you’re having fun though.”

It took a beat for Farid to realize, but that was exactly what was happening right now. Jared in the water, August handing out condoms, Gulliver seemed to have been dunked head first in the keg… this was fun. For his entire life up until this point, Farid’s world was a literal dusty road. Dinner was a curry, varied only by protein and carb. His friend had been his dad. Every minute of every day was marked by the quiet knowledge that he, one day, would kill the great demonic force which enslaved his mother, as the chosen one the weight of the world was figuratively on his shoulders. None of that was true right now. His purpose was to dance, to kiss boys, and to drink a little (but not too much, because the grape juice made his head feel fuzzy). His friends were all of them. Not just Gulliver, or Ediniira, or Helper August – this whole party was made up of friends he’d yet to meet, loves he may have. This was his world now, at least for now; but that was the point, wasn’t it? Your world doesn’t have to just be one thing, the planet is dynamic – ever changing, and for Farid who’d spent so much of his time being told the same thing, this sudden reversal was electrifying.

Looking around at his new world, for the moment some unnamed alley bordering the canals, it changed every second. People were dancing here, falling in the water there, and sparks kissed the crisp air. Bright little motes of flame washed over the crowd, but they were dense. Like a plague of blazing red locusts. Farid’s world changed again, panic. His world was on fire, not intentionally this time. It looked like one of the bridges had caught fire, and by this point was engulfed in blue flames. The music began to stop – missing beats as the drummer noticed and lost the thread. A scream stuck out above the ambient throb, and then they were running.

Ediniira clutched at his hand. “Why are we running!?” She called, again it took her a couple tries to be heard over the ever-escalating din.

“Fire!” Farid got through more clearly, before pratfalling – tripping face first over something. Ediniira balanced, reversing on the balls of her feet.

“You look really strong!” She called out, before disappearing into the crowd – running toward the fire. No doubt, having seen someone she wanted to fight. Perhaps even the starter of aforementioned fire.

Quick behind her, would have been Farid, but he had other problems. You see, when he’d tripped, he assumed erroneously that he’d fallen over some object… but that wasn’t true at all. In fact, Farid had fallen face first over a little person, a little person who had now turned around – stepping on his neck and hefting an ax. “At last I have found you, blue devil.” Firelight crackled and kissed the edges of Splugg’s face, contorted in rage as he held the weapon aloft with almost religious conviction. “You are a user of fell magics, and thus must die. Now the others do not see you rot, the sickness which seeps from under the pores of your skin. Alone at last, no one can save you!”

“Splugg wait!” Farid called, and Splugg waited. “It’s me, Farid!”

There was a moment of silence (Again, a relative term. Of course, the surrounding chaos and screaming, fire and general mayhem produced an almost insurmountable wall of sound, but you know; silentish.). Splugg blinked once or twice, then he lowered the ax. Taking his boot off of Farid’s neck, he smiled and blushed. “Oh, sorry Farid. Splugg thought you were the blue devil!”

“Well, I’m kinda blue if that helps.” Farid sat up. “Wait, do you mean Gulliver?” Splugg did not wait, nor did he answer the question. Hefting the ax once again, the average sized goblin disappeared amongst the forest of sprinting legs – muttering to himself about ‘fell magics’ and ‘blue devils.’ Farid decided that this was probably not important right now, and got to his feet.

In the near distance, he could see August shuffling people along. “Please, remain orderly. The fastest exit is this path.”

Farid ran up. “What’s happening!?”

Not returning his gaze, August simply answered by saying “This area has become volatile. All those non-combatants are advised to evacuate. Farid, that includes you.” And then continued ushering people out. That stung. Farid knew he wasn’t a fighter, but Edi had taught him a thing or two about fighting, maybe he could contribute somehow. Pushing past August, and up the fleeing throng of people, Farid was treated first hand to an illustration of why suddenly and totally removing the rule of law from an otherwise organized society isn’t the wisest idea. A band of adventurers had formed the antithesis of the traditional ‘heroes party.’ Brutally fighting anyone they came across, they killed indiscriminately.

Jared splattered at his feet, before reincorporating himself. Though his armour was made of felt, the sword he hefted seemed very real. “Oh, is that how you wanna play you fucking bitch!” The squeaky teddy bear cried, before sprinting forward – bringing the sword down on a Radulfrian bruiser. Said brute deflected with the hilt of his ax, and the fight went on. Little Jared was a capable fighter, all things considered, though he didn’t really care about collateral damage. His own sword came perilously close to a fleeing pedestrian, but Edi leapt out of nowhere to save them. She, herself, somersaulted up and continued fighting someone? He was eight foot tall, with the head of a bull and the torso of… well, Farid wasn’t sure if he should be attracted to the perfectly sculpted chest of a psychopathic killer, but here we are.

In the distance Gulliver was in a duel with a fellow spellcaster, her the typical busty fur coat wearing type. Also, she was hopelessly outclassed. He’d managed to entrap her in a stone fist, and was only half paying attention to the rest of the fight. Being honest, Farid wasn’t sure if he’d battled her because it was the moral thing to do, or if she simply got in his way.

Then Farid spied him, little Splugg (normal for a goblin, Splugg) had crept along the edge of the canal. Spotting Gulliver, he crept low and slow to the wizard who’d engaged himself in tightening the stone fist whenever the she-witch tried to break free. Farid called out to warn him, but the din was impenetrable.

With a garbled scream, Splugg threw himself at Gulliver – cleaving the wizard in his mid-section (though luckily, with the hilt of his ax) sending him sprawling to the muddy marble. That stone fist disappeared like a puff of smoke, freeing the witch. Not sure if Splugg was friend or foe, she sent him skittering back with a jolt of mystic lightning. Gulliver was down – on his knees coughing up blood. She was sure to deliver one swift boot to the head (with a nauseatingly high heel), before turning her focus to the fleeing crowd.

“C’mon boys.” She said in a glib accent. “There’s three and a half hours left ‘fore they appoint a new praetor, and we haven’t killed nearly enough people.” With a manic grin, her hands glowed with white flame – those ice white eyes locked on Farid. “A looky-loo. Time to burn, blue boy.” And then she flung a wave of fire at him.

Farid couldn’t move. Time carried on at the rate of a thousand years for every second, and he could do nothing but watch in frozen terror as that coiling, snaking white flame spread out like the great fingers of death’s hand toward him. Just as he began to feel the heat, it stopped.

Cold.

Finding himself surrounded with icy cold sea water, salt shot up his nose as he sharply inhaled. He was being held in place – tackled down by Gulliver Weighs. In the dark, Farid couldn’t see the extent of the damage, but it looked like Gulliver had taken the lick of the blast before they both hit water. Silver blood peeped from under his skin, his eyes closed, and then the wizard went very still.

“Gulliver!?” He tried to croak, though being underwater; the name came out as a jet of bubbles. Thinking fast, Farid yanked hard – pulling the unconscious boy, trying to get his head above water. The canal was about two feet under the walkway, and it took all of Farid’s might to hoist Gulliver up on the other side. Lying on his back, Gulliver’s jaw went slack. He wasn’t breathing.

In his early childhood, Farid’s father had taught him what to do to save a drowning man. You beat on their stomach, or their chest, or somewhere on the abdomen, then you breath down their mouth. It was something like that, but as Farid tried to mimic the gesture, he realized it was very different with an imaginary dummy. Gulliver was bony, Farid couldn’t even figure out which part of him was ‘stomach’ and what was ‘rib cage.’ His lips were rubbery and cold, but again; Farid didn’t know if that was because he was dead or if it was because Gulliver’s species had a lower body temperature. Hitting hard on what was Farid’s best guess for ‘stomach’, Gulliver wretched; and then in a low, raspy voice said… “I can breathe underwater you gnat.” He spoke slowly, his eyes wobbling around to look at Farid.

With a crashing weight of relief, Farid fell next to him. Both boys lay on their backs, breathing in the acrid smoky air. “What the hell happened?”

Gulliver shrugged. “Happy Praetor’s Eve?”

Farid didn’t look back at him. The last thing he said was “Happy Praetor’s Eve,” then they just lay there till morning. The fight faded as quickly as it’d kicked off, having taken down the witch Splugg seemed satisfied in his killing of ‘fell wizards.’ August helped everyone, including Gulliver who had indeed been quite badly burned, but none of it really registered to Farid after that point. Even the hour-long lecture his dad inevitably gave about ‘unnecessary risk, immature behaviour, untrustworthiness’ and so on didn’t blip for him.

None of it mattered, because Farid knew. He knew who’d sent the letter.