“The people of the foothills of the Steep Mountains (an area also known more simply as the Steep Hills or Western Slopes) are an odd, but stolid and hardworking lot. They understand the necessities of life, the joys and hardships the Archons bestow, and, best of all, they know how to gain the most absurd and serpentine Classes. ? ! The man drank an entire CREEK! There’s a Class for that! There wasn’t before, but there is now!”

Oreanen Vainen, excerpt from his collected notes on traveling in northwestern Esultare

“.” Bim said flatly, trying to hold back a laugh.

Greg looked chagrined and somehow beleaguered at the same time, as if he’d grown used to the reaction. “Yes. It’s a rare Class, but it exists.”

Bim’s mouth twitched. “How many have you known personally? You all must run in the same circles.”

Greg harrumphed. “That’s very presumptuous. but I forgive the error. I’ve known one other, Mikhael Rivenstead, and he taught me how to gain the Class. I used to be an unskilled, petty . Now I use skill and artistry to defeat my foes and sell my wares.”

Bim cocked his head. “What kind of Talents does a have? ”

Greg laughed at that. “No, though that’s a good one. , for one thing. , for another, which can work for knives as well as bouquets in a pinch. is my highest-level Talent, though, when all is said and done. Darn useful thing, it is.”

Bim let out a small, squashed laugh. “I’m sure that’ll come in handy.”

In one fluid movement, Greg snapped his hand out toward a nearby flower bed full of daisies. Extending his fingers, he made a fist. Instantly, the flowers, including roots and all the connected soil, vanished, leaving a long furrow in the ground, and in a heartbeat reappeared between where Greg and Bim stood opposite one another. The man unclenched his fist, cracked his neck, and instantly the flowers were gone, back into place, the stretch of garden whole again.

Greg, face solemn, struck a pose. “It’s a nice-looking trick, I know. Tell that to the man who’s trying to stab me when a bunch of sunflowers suddenly hit him in the face.”

Bim broke out laughing, and Greg joined a moment later, trailed by Zara. After a while, Greg wiped a tear from his eye and said: “But seriously, I’ve broken a man’s leg with that Talent.”

Bim suddenly stopped laughing, and Greg winked. “It’s a long story.”

Zara looked at the man with a revised respect.

Four days later, at seven o’clock in the morning, the team-- Bim, Zara, Coll, Helena, and Greg-- packed two weeks’ worth of food and water, as well as other miscellaneous supplies, in a wagon, hitched a giant goat to it, and said their goodbyes. Words were exchanged, tearful farewells too, and Bim promised they’d return by next Summer if they could manage it.

They hit the road without further ado, the sun rising in the sky, the sky clear, the birds beginning to sing a wonderful symphony.

🟌

They traveled along a wide packed dirt round, wagon wheels clunking along. Helena sharpened arrowheads from her seat at the back, adjusting her whittling motion to account for the movements of the cart. Bim tried to brush up on his general medical knowledge by recalling facts and reciting them under his breath so as to not distract from what Coll was doing, telling a tale one third fiction, two thirds history.

“The town of Lakeside, in its modern form, was founded by Jaybrun Hayes two hundred and eight years ago. Various small communities, ranging in size from two dozen in number to several thousand, had formed their since man walked the six continents, but Hayes and his peoples’ Lakeside was a cohesive society, with a unified identity, civic infrastructure, city motto-- Invenimus Lacus, “we’ve found the lake”-- the works. Its population numbered in the hundreds at its inception, and in the intervening two hundred years, due to population expansion and immigration, its population has grown to almost three thousand.

Jaybrun died one hundred and fifty-six years ago, fifty-two years after leading the founding effort, at the age of ninety-six. Having appointed himself Chief Administrator of Lakeside, he was succeeded by his most recent personal assistant, a Mr. Fergus Walsh, who was very young, at twenty-three, when he took on the position of Chief Administrator (the youngest man on this side of Esultar to ever take up such a position). He proceeded to make an admirable effort, but had to retire prematurely at forty-seven when an embezzlement scandal broke.”

Helena groaned. “What’s this long-winded speech got to do with the town right now?”

Coll glared at her admonishingly “, Helena, I’ll get to that. Walsh’s reign lasted twenty-four years. After a brief power struggle occurred between the man’s former advisors, which included one murder they like to gloss over in their town history tour, one hundred and thirty-two years ago, a Queen of Lakeside was crowned.”

Everyone was bewildered. Bim raised an eyebrow. “Why haven’t I heard of this?”

Coll laughed. “Because the Queen in question, Marcy Carlson-- who actually got the Class, by the way-- only ‘ruled’ as monarch of the town for two weeks. She was assassinated-- quite easily, I might add- by a commoner revolutionary by the name of Charn.”

“Charn?”

Coll rolled his one eye. “Uncultured swine. Regardless, after the queen was slain and a semblance of normalcy reestablished, she was succeeded by a series of small-minded, power-hungry bureaucrats, each less willing to listen to the populace than the last. That spiraling structure of government collapsed in on itself within thirty years, leaving us roughly a century into the past, with no clear leader in sight. That was when Mel Walsh, Fergus Walsh’s grandson, stepped up and sponsored a fair and free election that ended with himself in the Chief Administrator’s chair. How actually free the election was is still debated to this day due to the… suspect nature of the results.” Coll winked. “Mel Walsh was twenty-nine upon assuming office, and managed the town for forty-six years, dying of natural causes while debating a Direnian missionary-- an argument so bold that the then-Archspeaker inducted the man as an honorary citizen of Diren posthumously. His firstborn daughter, Stina Walsh, took the office after him, and has filled the position since. She has a lot of history on her shoulders, and she knows it. She’s a wise woman, a strong Chief Administrator, and has an unreadable poker face.” He added that last part with a mysterious grin.

“Wait.” Bim interjected. “If Administrator Stina has been in place for…” He mouthed some numbers, counting in his head. “Fifty-six years, then wouldn't she at least be in her eighties by now? How hasn’t she retired?”

“Her father died in office, so she made a vow that she plans to as well. And for the record, she’ll be ninety-two years old this Winter. She’s the longest-serving Chief Administrator in Lakeside history, and set to be the longest serving civic leader of any kind in the entire written history of the continent if she’s still kicking around next Spring.”

“Why do we need to know so much about Lakeside history?”

Coll snapped his fingers. “Because, you fools, my name is Collin Walsh, and I’m Stina Walsh’s only son and heir. I figured, since you were headed in the direction, I may as well stop by for some taffy and talk to her for the first time in fifteen years.”