“I am of the firm belief that the greatest minds of any generation should lead the people of the world into the future. I don’t care if they’re democratically elected, autocratic tyrants, or a trio of jesters; If their system works, if they perform great works and empower all of Esun, then I will support them. It is sad, then, to see even the greatest of this generation be utter useless trash.”

Oreanen Vainen, from his seminal book Looking Toward The Future: A Comprehensive Treatise On The Context We Live In And How It Will Shape What Is To Come

A , a , a , and a walk into a roadside tavern. What’s the joke, you ask? How little money they have.

“You want rooms, you gotta pay me up front.” Jorm, the fifty-something bald bartender said, irritably. They had been on the road for days, and were hungry and tired, but Jorm refused to take half up front.

“I wish we had Coll still. He’d talk the guy around to it.” Helena said to Greg out of the corner of her mouth.

Bim stepped forward, putting on a merry face and pushing down his exhaustion. “Hello, good sir. I’m Bim Selkis, . Have you been sick recently? Is a family member ailing, or perhaps a wound is improperly dressed and has gotten infected? I can help with that. My friend Helena here’s a -- if you need meat for your larder, she can help you out, I’m sure. She and my good friend Zara could help you track down any loose criminals in the area, too. I also have some small leadership experience directing groups of a few people and larger scale communities as well, if that’s relevant to any problem you’re facing. We’re here to help. Greg here’s a , he can do wonders with flowers.”

Jorm lit up at that last one. Turning to Greg, he stepped out from behind the bar and shook the man’s hand eagerly. “I don’t need anything in the way of game or lawfolk or healin’ or nothin’, but I’ve been having some trouble with my wife. If you could make a flower arrangement for me to deliver, I think she’d right love that.”

Greg nodded and smiled. “I’d love to do that for ya, sir, if you cover a night’s stay for all of us.”

“Half price for the night. You already got the other half.”

“That’s all our money sir. Seven tenths off.”

“Six.”

“Deal.”

“Look at you, Greg, a real over here!” Helena thumped him on the shoulder.

Greg seemed embarrassed. “I know when a guy is willing to give a little ground, is all.”

They settled down for the night in four separate rooms; the deal was good. Bim hadn’t had a lot of time alone recently, and spent it thinking about everything he’d been through, the horrors and pain, and a kind of quiet despair stole over him.

At length, he fell to his knees, clasped his hands together, and spoke from the soul.

“I- I killed a man. You gave me the Class for it, then freed me from it. I can’t-- I can’t keep doing this, not knowing the how or why of anything. Please, just give me a sign. Archons, please.”

He got up and went back to the room’s desk, scrawling doodles on some loose paper with a quill before collapsing into the bed, unconscious.

Level 4!

Talent Advancement!

🠊 granted!

Meanwhile, as he lay down to sleep, a carefully mediated and elaborately curated arrangement of flowers placed in front of Jorm’s wife’s house, as requested, with a note written by the man himself attached, Greg heard a chime.

Level 18!

Talent — earned!

“Add it to the list.” He mumbled, before falling back asleep.

It was another peaceful night. The group hoped to see more of those in the future. There hopes were dashed, of course, when a ten foot tall dark tear opened in the air just twenty paces from the tavern, and a grey-bearded man dressed in long, silver and blue robes appeared, a tricorn hat atop his head, and a staff of yew wood held aloft in front of him, a violet crystal on its tip pulsing with magical power.

“Ah, here we are.” Antonius Andrium, of Cardona, said, eyes alight.