When the exhausted group returned with the sole survivor, Sir Wilbur and Lady Elizabeth were waiting for them with the town's head priest, Father Franklin, a gnome priest of wealth. Father Franklin had been at the births of each of them - including Sir Wilbur who was eighty-five. The Father was something of an oddity. Pode was the poorest village in the entire country, yet their head priest was someone who dedicated his life to a deity that prized money above all things. Father Franklin, when questioned why he was there gave vague and uncommitted answers.

Once, when Percival had managed to get the old gnome slobbering drunk on some rock-wine, the gnome had begun to babble in gnomish. Percival tried to be a scholar of all languages, it give him an edge in negotiations. Still, he only could understand a small amount of the Father's words. It seemed that he believed, contrary to the standard teaching of his priesthood, that there were things of value that were equal to money. It was because he had professed this belief so strongly, that he had banished to Pode. A place reviled by his priesthood because of its poverty.

Percival, being the kind of man who couldn't keep his mouth shut on good information and who knew that Father Franklin had been the center of an intense debate, has told Katrina what he had discovered. Katrina, as a priestess who had been touched by her goddess, thought it was very interesting that Father Franklin could access his gods power at all given the view he held on money. Katrina, under Father Franklin's tutelage, had learned that it was common for the deities to withhold their power if their followers walked contrary to their code.

The priest peered into the gloom, with an absent-minded flick of his wrist he summoned a golden globe of light. The light cast a hue of yellow that seemed to make the world more luxurious. The daylight was fading, but between the two sources of light it was bright enough to see the sorrow in Father Franklin's face when he saw the lone survivor.

Tears streamed from Sir Wilbur's eyes as Father Franklin shook his head, "I can restore his body, but I can do nothing for the fever."

Sir Wilbur's bowed head came up, "Fever? I might have a scroll from my wilder days..." The lord turned to Lizzy, "Bring me my scroll case." Lizzy ran off toward the manor.

She ran up the stone staircase of the front entrance. The stone had been smoothed by her grandfather, himself. None of the peasants had time to tend to superficial details like that. The people of Pode were concerned with crops: planting and harvesting. They concerned themselves with the beasts coming from the forest: hunting them and protecting themselves from them. Aside from that they didn't have much additional time. In fact, if Sir Wilbur didn't subsidize the tavern, there would have been no way for it to stay open.

Her feet pounded on the finely crafted ironwood flooring as she sprinted to the second floor where Sir Wilbur kept his office. His door was open, as always, leading to a militarily precise room. It was very square and functional. There were only two luxuries in the entire office. The first, was a great window that went from floor to ceiling behind his desk. The window had panes of clear, un-disfigured glass. It wasn't completely frivolous since it saved Sir Wilbur on candles and gave him an excellent view of the town. But it was horribly expensive and it could only be managed because the king, Tiranious, of the Northern Kingdom had given it to him as a wedding present, some sixty years prior.

The second luxury in the office was a large painting, resting in the center of the wall directly across from the window. It was positioned such that whenever Sir Wilbur wished to look at it all he needed to do was look up from his work. The painting was a portrait Lizzy had done when she was thirteen years old. She had been given a very fine set of paints on her birthday the year before and she had spent the whole year practicing. For her thirteenth birthday she had requested her now deceased father, Sir Wilson, sit for her. The result hung in Sir Wilbur's office. It was a passable resemblance. It was a passable resemblance in the way a duck gives a passable resemblance of an eagle.

The scroll case was in a strongbox behind the painting. Lizzy pushed the painting aside with a mixture of shame, pride and longing. It delighted her to no end that her grandfather hung her work proudly... I just wish I could give him something better than that... disaster.

She rested her hand on the frame for a moment. Her father had been summoned by the king, shortly after the painting was completed, to fight against the Lizard folk in what later came to be known as the Dwarf Wars. He had fallen in battle when the Northwestern Dwarves turned on the Northern Kingdom and gave succor to the Lizards. There was no time for her to practice and no chance of starting again. Still, her grandfather never hesitated to remind her that the painting was his most prized possession, since it commemorated both his beloved son and granddaughter.

The strongbox was unsurprisingly, unlocked. Finos has been in here again. She sighed. A note of apology laying on the top of the contents confirmed that. She rummaged through account books until she came to the scroll case.

"Finally!" She murmured before closing everything, locking the case, and running back to her grandfather.

She handed the box to her grandfather, who even in the gravity of the situation, greeted her with a smile. Like he always did. Then, Sir Wilbur flipped through the scrolls before pulling one out and handing it to Father Franklin.

Father Franklin smiled, "Yes, this is just what we needed." He read the scroll aloud in a strong voice that masked his great age. When he finished chanting the scroll shown like gold and then crumbled to dust.

Immediately, the fever broke. Chanceux stopped shivering, his skin lost the greenish pallor and he stopped sweating profusely.

Franklin patted Chanceux's hand, "Carry him to the temple. I will pray over him and all will be well."

Faute, who had heard the commotion and come to investigate, saw them lifting her adopted father onto a makeshift stretcher. "Father!" She ran to his side, "What's happened to him?" She lifted the blanket they had over his lower body and gasped, dropping the blanket back over his legs.

Lizzy turned to her friend, "They just came back from the tower. He was the only one to come back from the first group."

Faute paled, looking away from the man that raised her, "Well, even if he isn't my father, at least he lived. My mother will be happy." She straightened her spine and carefully walked back to the tavern.

Percival saw the sad homecoming and backed away toward Sir Wilbur's manor. This was unexpected. His father had always told him that a merchant needed to gather all the information he could. A merchant needed to be there to sell a broken man a match in his darkest hour. This sight was too much for him. Pode was his father's last stop of the year, every year. He had spent great swaths of his life with these people and it felt wrong to capitalize on their pain.

Francis grabbed his arm hard and pulled his son close to him, "Do you know why we come to Pode last?"

Percival shook his head.

"Because this is a town of backwater idiots that have no idea what they need. I sell them everything we couldn't sell to more perceptive crowds. They have no idea they are being swindled and they never will because these people never leave." He gripped his son's arm harder, "Do you know the other reason we come here?"

Percival looked up at his father, his face going pale. These were his friends. Of course he knew his father sold them some things at a bit of a mark up, they were merchants. A fair price was like fairy dust. A myth.

"We come here because the flotsam of the world washes up on this ridiculous shore. We are the only merchants that can be bothered to come to this podunk town and scavenge through the wrack. I don't care if we fleece these fools and you don't either. Now, go and sympathize. Get the information I want and sell them some new tools."

Francis released Percival and shoved him forward. Percival stumbled slightly, before his natural balance recovered him. He pasted a smirk on his face - he never could fake a genuine smile - and sauntered up to Sir Wilbur.

"It is lucky you had a scroll that could cure ghoul fever. Will you be needing more?" Percival stuffed his fists into his pockets.

Sir Wilbur looked over at Percival, "I think I have enough, thank you Percival. Your father and your help has always been greatly appreciated."

Percival tried not to grimace. His father never gave help. Neither did he. "Think nothing of it. We always appreciate your hospitality."

Sir Wilbur nodded. "Please excuse me, I need to tell the families of the fallen." Sir Wilbur nodded and walked away.

Percival gulped, brushed the back of his hand against his forehead and retreated to his room. Perhaps he would go with his friends in the draft? That was absurd. He would be much better off going to live with his grandfather Talasht. But there was a war brewing. Perhaps he would travel with them for a while? Percival shook his head and began to dress for dinner. If he was about to tell everyone their lives were changing, the least he could do is look appropriate.