Once outside all three of them breathed out audibly.

“What kind of mad man is that?” Jumin asked, a laugh at the end of the question but not one that held any joy behind it. “I’m sorry, Selrah,” he then said, his hand reaching for her arm.

She jerked it back out of his way, and only now did Mythril realize that Sindre had injured her. He put his hand to his head.

“Selrah, how bad is it?”

“It’s fine,” she replied. She stepped around the side of the inn and out of the way of the door. Seeking in her satchel for something she soon pulled out a potion and a roll of bandages. “He can’t do too much damage to me here, only minor. And, Jumin, it is fine. What could you have said?”

Jumin raised his hands in protest, evidentially uncomfortable with his lack of action. “I could have said something, stopped it somehow.”

“Even Mythril hesitated,” Selrah said, sending a sharp burst of guilt through Mythril’s chest.

“I didn’t know,” he muttered.

Selrah’s small frame drew up in anger, but instead she settled on a shrug. “He needed a scapegoat, and I gave him the chance to use me.”

“It seemed more like he wanted to attack you because you’re a Fey elf,” Jumin hesitated. “I guess you’re as disliked around here as a noxiri can be. Can’t say I see many Fey elves in Elder Moor.”

“And now you probably see why,” Selrah replied. Her arm now bandaged she pulled out her scroll. Mythril couldn’t see what she was looking for but not long after she had swiped a couple of times and tapped twice her previous attire was replaced with a green corset, a cream shirt beneath and a cloak was fastened around her neck on top.

She started to walk towards the stable, Mythril and Jumin following behind. Already there, were not only Mythril’s mount and many others, but Saga stood waiting beside her black horse. Each of them paused when they saw her, all obviously recognising her from inside the inn.

“I thought you might be leaving,” she said. From behind her the dwarf stepped into view, and beside him a taller man, but just as stocky.

“It was more of a request that we did,” Mythril replied.

“I didn’t doubt that,” Saga said and walked her horse out of the stable. “Your mount is strange,” she remarked, nudging her head in the direction of Audreg, who hissed in reply. “I like it though. Where did you get it?”

Mythril had no idea where he got it, and something about the way the question was asked put him on edge. “I have so many, I really don’t remember,” he said, hoping to dismiss the question.

“Oh, you must,” Saga pushed, walking closer.

“No, I really don’t. Maybe it was in Elder Moor somewhere. We do a lot of dungeons.”

Selrah glanced between the two, and then approaching her own lion that had been sleeping beside the other mounts spoke over her shoulder to them. “I hardly remember where he got it, so it’s not unusual that he doesn’t either. He hardly uses the thing. I think it might have been somewhere in Elder Steppes. A drop from an event maybe. If you want one, you could just consult a warden of the adventurer’s guild.”

Her lion stood and dipped down the front of its body, stretching as Selrah mounted it. The mist swirling around its feet as it moved gave it the appearance of an ethereal creature, one that would belong in a land like this.

“Thank you, by the way,” she continued as her mount walked her back to the group.

“You mean for speaking with Sindre?”

“Who else?” the dwarf chimed in after Saga, his mouth a great open smile in between his bushy beard and long tamed moustache. “We don’t care much for folk like him. Ain’t nothing wrong with the Fey, we come across them often enough.”

“We kill them often enough.” It was the first the second man accompanying Saga spoke. His voice was gentle, despite his words not being the same in kind.

“Oh, we kill everyone often enough,” the dwarf laughed. “It’s the Deadlands, you kill what you can, and you take what you can.”

Saga rested her hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. “What Footmouth is trying to say is that the Fey are worthy fighters in the Deadlands, to elude as Sindre did that they struggle to survive there, is a lie. I have fought beside them and against them, and I will again.”

“And what Saga is trying to say,” the dwarf named Footmouth said with a laugh and his hand placed on top of hers, “is, you’re welcome. She just doesn’t like those sorts.”

“Well,” Selrah said as her mount leaned forward and yawned. “The Deadlands were never an option for me, not if I wanted to remain with Mythril. We chose to remain in this guild even after learning what kind of man Sindre can be.” She watched over Mythril’s shoulder, checking to see if any opened the door. Aware that Sindre could walk out at any moment.

Saga patted her horse upon the mane and then placing her foot into one of the gilded stirrups lifted herself up onto the red saddle. She pulled her mask across her face, her blue eyes peering out from above it. “Good luck tomorrow,” she said, her voice muffled behind the material knotted around the back of her head. “I’m sure we’ll soon hear of your fate, wherever we are in the realm.”

“We’ll be far from here by then, I hope,” Footmouth said, pulling his own horse free from the stable and mounting it. “Until then.”

Saga parted with the two riders following behind her. It wasn’t long until they were no longer in view, the mist concealing them and the darkness swallowing them as they rode beyond the path that Mythril had taken to the inn.

“She seems interesting,” Jumin said. “A Deadlands veteran by the looks of it. No wonder she was so interested in Sindre’s masquerade. Brave to ask outright what it is, I thought there were rules about that?”

“Not real rules,” Selrah replied. “It’s just something that’s usually not done. People believe it shows another side of us, one we’d prefer to keep hidden. How close are you to yours? Me and Mythril are still a long way off.”

Jumin pulled out his scroll, and Mythril, peering over his shoulder saw that under LEGACY and into ELDER’S PATH were a set of bars. One, that took up the entire width of the scroll was titled MASQUERADE.

“Way off,” Jumin said. “We need to reach the end of our path and then some don’t we? I reckon it’ll take me a year or more to even broach half way. I’m hardly a spring chicken either. I can’t even turn into a chicken.”

Mythril laughed, which earned him a sly smile from Jumin. Something about the exchange left him feeling uplifted. After the events of the inn, it was a much-needed change in mood.

“About the same for me,” Selrah said. “I think you’re right, we need to finish our Elder’s Path and then our Masquerade begins to fill at a faster rate. Maybe… I don’t think anyone is quite sure how it’s achieved because so few have made it.”

“Well, I hope we remain friends so that we get to discover a little more about each other,” Jumin said, “Not that anyone would have to reveal theirs that is. It would be funny if I went from being a druid to a hunter, or you a necromancer to a holy priest,” he said with a chuckle and a pat of his hand on Selrah’s thigh.

She didn’t flinch from this, which led Mythril to believe her earlier reaction to Jumin’s touch was only because of her arm.

“I wouldn’t mind being a priest,” Selrah said, thoughtful as her lion roared lazily. “I think most people would expect Necromancer to be their masquerade, something they can hide until the moon shines and then in secret enjoy their second calling.”

Mythril had been listening for anything that let on what a masquerade might be. In the moment Selrah spoke of the moon it hit him so hard he first gasped, and then burst out laughing. He had to refrain from answering with his thoughts when both Selrah and Jumin looked at him in expectation that he would say something.

“Oh, I just thought what Selrah said was funny, that’s all,” he lied, as the pair looked at each other in confusion.

Lunar Masquerade.

Simply remembering the name of the game opened up new pathways in his own mind, memories of the title screen, of the very scroll he held in his bag. Most importantly, he remembered the masquerade. It had been one of the reasons the game became so popular, and ultimately one of the reasons, before the servers failed, it began to collapse.

As it had been advertised that your personality would shape your calling, this Elder’s Path, as they called it, you would not be able to hide your inner desires. Your Masquerade, it was said, would be revealed once you reached a high enough level. This other side of yourself, could only be activated at night, by the moon. Your Lunar Masquerade.

Now, not only was Mythril eager to see what his Elder Path was going to become as the Mythril before him began to fade away, but what his Masquerade would be. What this hidden self would make of him and what calling it should make his destiny. He sighed, and stared at the floor.

“Mythril?” Selrah asked.

This was not a game he could log out from, this was not a place he wanted to stick around and discover these intricacies of his own personality. This was not home.

“Mythril? Hello?” Jumin joined in.

A raven fluttered in front of Mythril’s face, and in the distance he heard Audreg let out a hiss of discontent.

“Are you really using such a wisdom draining ability as [Raven’s Sight] to draw back my attention?” he said, faking a laugh as he approached Audreg.

“It doesn’t use a lot of wisdom!” Jumin called after him. “Only when a party member decides to go awol and you’re left kidnapped does it become a drain on your abilities.”

“He wasn’t kidnapped,” Selrah joined in. “He decided to stay because he had his own nefarious reasons.”

“And I can assure you those nefarious reasons were set to the wind on the wings of my raven when I learned what kind of person Sindre is.” Jumin glanced over his shoulder as he said this. “He’s even got me worried now. As useless as Love Yew Moor are, I’d rather be guilded with them than on my own.”

Mythril pulled himself onto Audreg’s back, patted her on the head when she spat at a poor unsuspecting horse, and strolled back out to Selrah and Jumin.

“We better be on our way,” he said, aware of how much more difficult it would be to navigate the Lowlands in the dark. Even with their maps. He pulled it out and opened it to see a dot he had all but forgotten about.

“Damnit, Bestie!” he said, seeing that somewhere in the distance a dot continued to walk in circles.

“I’m not going to pretend that I remembered him when we came out here,” Jumin said, his hands in the air with a shrug of his shoulders. “Not even going to pretend. Where is he?”

Mythril made the map larger, and saw that Bestie was in an area with text above it and a small semi-circle of standing stones around him.

“Wrenderwyrd’s Altar,” he read aloud, recognising the name as Jumin did.

“The same Wrenderwyrd we had to hear about in Sindre’s sick speech?” he asked.

“The one and the same I’d say,” Mythril replied, uncertain but thinking there can’t be that many Wrenderwyrds in one realm.

Selrah sighed, and leaning forward buried her face in the lion’s mane. “He can stay there,” she said when she sat back up. “We don’t know him. If he’s silly enough to lead that prancing pony into the mobs of Wrenderwyrd then that is on him.” She saw Mythril’s expression and shook her head harder. “We don’t have time, Mythril. You heard, Sindre, we need to prepare for tomorrow.”

“I also heard Sindre speak to you like you’re not worth the dirt on his polished plate boots,” Mythril retaliated. “If your reaction says what I think it does we can’t just leave him there.”

“He might not even need our help,” she groaned. “He must have an [Adventurer’s Stone]. He could just summon himself home if he needed to.”

“Unless he’s already used it in the past seven days,” Jumin chimed in. “Let’s just check it out. Is it far off the path?”

Mythril checked his map.

“No, there’s a path that runs alongside it and the main road back to Sunbright Plains is not far from that.”

“Then there are three of us and this won’t take long,” Jumin said. If Mythril had doubts that he had made up his mind these were put aside once he saw the Noxiri take his panther form.

Selrah said nothing, she breathed out, clasped the reins on her lion, and followed behind Jumin leaving Mythril, on an ostrich who he now knew did not like being left behind, bouncing along the path uncomfortably, avoiding spittle and snaps of her beak, as she chased to keep up.