I woke up before dawn, I was so nervous. I couldn't get back to sleep. My flat began to fill with grubby gray light, motes flitting about. I registered dully the sound of merchants setting up stalls outside, leading teams of livestock down the street, like everything was underwater.

There was nothing to do but get up. My hands trembled as I put on my boots. I was so tired, but also wide awake.

This was it: the Ancient Cistern. Four Grade A adventurers handpicked by the guild to explore a newly discovered dungeon. With all the pomp and circumstance about it you’d think this was some kind of noble undertaking, like a scientific expedition or something. As if it wasn't about the treasure. They gave us a parade and all, medals, everything. Then they spring on us basically the day before that we’re to take along two civilians: a geologist loaded down with expensive equipment, who wanted to research the rumored anti-gravitational qualities of certain stones found in the dungeon, and, I shit you not, they made us bring along one of Albion’s foremost lyric poets, since he apparently expressed interest in dungeons, looking for inspiration for the last part of a cycle of poems he was writing about monsters.

The guild had suffered a string of busts then - this adventuring party that acted as their de facto face bit it in a high-level dungeon. Two of them dead, one insane, another swore off adventuring entirely, choosing instead to hawk his (ghostwritten) memoir. Though we were obviously a B-team, we were still skilled adventurers in our own right, and naturally, because they’d put us front-and-center in the popular consciousness, they were staking quite a lot on us. No doubt, if we proved successful, we would have a shot at becoming the new, stereotypical, functional-dysfunctional, apple-pie adventuring party. They must have really been desperate though: you couldn’t find bigger fuck ups in the adventuring world than us four. What did they expect? Our “supergroup” was more of a case study than a party, we were all different degrees of lazy and crazy, so antithetical to the guild’s “core values” that if I didn’t know any better they were trying to get rid of us with this spelunking job, if they couldn’t rehabilitate us first.

So I met up with the team at the town square and it was obvious one of us had been drinking. That time it wasn’t me.

No, it was Galahad. Now that’s a guy who’s apple-pie, at least the way he looked I mean. The four-sided face with tasteful five o’clock shadow, always fixed with a natural grin showing off his pearly whites. He could do theater, with a face like that. He could be a troubadour or an emperor. But no, he did adventuring, and what’s more, he chose adventuring. Like, even after finding out that it’s an ugly business, he liked that ugliness. He thought it was hilarious. Every time one of his party mates got eaten by a Bugbear, or got a curse so bad they start pulling out their hair and eating it, why, nothing could be more of a gas to him. He drank, of course, how he drank! But one got the feeling that he could’ve easily gone without it. He loved adventuring, warts and all.

You couldn’t really call him evil, not even knowing the things about him I know about him. No, he’s something worse than that - he’s just empty inside. Like behind the presidential grin there’s just no center. And that’s what really bothers me, ‘cause you come across a lot of real pieces of work in the business, but nothing got me like Galahad acting the part of the good adventurer, cutting pieces of inaugural tape, shaking hands, going to fundraisers, then he turns around casts Blood Magic on some poor woman, it makes me sick. It was one of those really taboo curses, the kind that gets in your head, makes you feel like you’re falling down a bottomless pit, makes you hear voices.. What a joke, they thought to make this guy their star Warrior. They covered for him, I’m sure, hushing up his victims, that’s what your “guild fees” go to.

So Philip the Fair got up to make one last speech and Galahad started heckling him. Making all kinds of insinuations about him and his hair. And I don’t know what to do - I started shaking even worse and just looked straight ahead with wide, wet eyes. I hoped it would end soon, I hoped it would all just end, and someone did eventually say something. Karel, that nutcase, walks right up to him and starts chewing him out. He really believed everything the guild fed him about camaraderie, discovery, panoply, bologna, all that, and is absolutely incensed that Galahad is disrespecting everything he was taught to stand for. The situation devolved; Karel got up in his face, made threats, Philip tried to intervene and was pushed away by Galahad, and that was the breaking point.

Karel lobbed one of his lightning bolts. Galahad deflected it expertly with a quick Counterspell. It went rushing into the audience and hit the brass band, dropping them all in an instant. They died horribly, twisting and screaming, their limbs bending unwholesomely with the impetus of the electric shock. The movement of Galahad’s arm dislodged a handle of vodka from his coat pocket and it shattered on the floor of the proscenium. The crowd was silent, unmoving for a moment; then it scattered.

Galahad was none too pleased at his liquid lunch having gone to waste - he leapt on Karel and went to town on him. Karel’s just about the last person you want to fight drunk, though, and it wasn’t long before the tables turned, and Galahad was eating hooks left and right. Karel went for a wind up, his fists now crackling with electricity, but Galahad wasn’t going down so easily, it turned out, and with a quick dodge to one side, he threw himself on top of Karel, like he went barreling into him. A knife flashed in Galahad’s hand. He aimed to end this. Then, by way of a Magnetism spell, it flew from his grip and went spiraling into a dead trombonist.

There was a pause, as if neither of them knew what to do.

Galahad laughed. A genuine belly-laugh. He clapped Karel’s shoulder, and at that Karel started too. The two of them were howling like hyenas, one still on top of the other, some of the worst people I’ve ever known now more than reconciled. Theirs would be a lifelong bond, a true friendship based on a lack of basic human decency. True camaraderie among adventurers, this is what the guild’s all about, right?

-

Karel, The Lightningrod. He carried this oblong case slung around his shoulder at all times. Inside was his weapon of choice - a foreign polearm enchanted with thunder magic, so that it was every bit as deadly from long range as it was up close. He was so particular about it. I’m sure if any of us touched it, it would be license enough for him to tear you limb from limb. I was scared to even look at it, his reputation was just that terrible. He syncretized guild values together with his own wicked philosophy which placed might over right, and that seemed to galvanize him to, if the rumors were true, track down the world’s most celebrated combatants, and challenge them one by one to duels to the death. I could easily believe it, when I managed to sneak glances at him - long raven locks that fell before one eye, no armor to speak of, just a loose garment meant for martial arts that fell to his ankles. Every step, word, gesture was made with the utmost intent; there wasn’t a thing about him I’d call vague. Like a lightning bolt, I guess, in his ruthlessness and his precision.

The guild airship was cruising above a gray cloud cover. This dungeon was a long way off. I was stuck on an airship with five other loons for at least eight hours. And if I survived that I’d only have this unknown, high-level dungeon to worry about..

I needed a break from pacing up and down my cabin. I needed someone to talk to. I thought I’d try to corner the scientist, who seemed to be the most-level headed person in the group, which really wasn’t saying much I guess. No luck though: he (understandably) wouldn’t come out of his cabin.

I walked into the ship’s cafeteria, which boasted a view of the clouded horizon behind an immense window. I saw Karel in one corner, the poet in another. I hesitated at the till, wondering if I should buy a beer. My nerves were shot, but I was terrified of what would happen if I dulled them. Eventually, after some hemming and hawing, I refused it, making all the time I spent in deliberation a waste. Karel was looking away but I could tell he used this moment to size me up, and now that I’d made a mediocre first impression on this famed adventurer, I wished for a beer more than ever.

I sat down at a table. I got up again, and went over to the poet, who seemed like the more favorable option of the two (again, not saying much). He was engrossed in some slim volume with a flashy cover, and the way he read it, with his back to the window, cover splayed out, he made sure the whole cafeteria knew what he was reading.

It was some piece of transgressive fiction which I’d read before but didn’t think much of. Those books are all just statements. They need to be said, sure, but there’s not much to them after that, in my opinion. Each one tried to outpace the other with the number of illicit loves, paraphilias, acts of violence, etc., with this ugly race to the bottom, each new “transgression” desensitizing their audience further. I mean, is that your yardstick for great literature, how much it offends? But I digress.

He put down the book a little too fast, and seemed just as happy to start a conversation as I.

“A bit of light reading, huh?”, I quipped.

“This? Oh, it’s a masterpiece! Never has an author so effortlessly fused the profane and the sublime”.

“The profane and the sublime?”

“Yes, the Apollonian essence with pure hedonism. The right hand and left hand paths, made into one”.

“I read this years ago, my memory is shoddy. Where does all this happen?”

“Oh, well if I had to point to one scene that really puts a bow on it, it would be the one in the church, where the priest is seduced in the nave, you know, by the young prostitute, and then they take the blessed host and shove it up -”

“Yeah, I remember now. No need to recount the whole scene. But what does that mean, the profane and the sublime?”

“Well, the sublime is all the highest emotions in the world, good or evil. Dark Age priests flaying themselves in religious ecstasy, oil paintings of stormy, unbounded landscapes. The Wicked King moved to tears by a symphony, like in the famous legend. Like, this monster of a man for a second becomes human, you know, through a work of monumental art that spellbinds you, obliterates you, then builds you back up again”,

“Wow”.

“And the profane”, he made a strange little movement with one hand, “that’s the refusal of a higher truth, a higher aim. That’s saying, I’m all there is. There’s no afterlife, all that matters is the here and now”.

“So, it’s like evil?”

“That’s very human of you. If you really want to understand things”, his manner now turning almost confidential, “you have to cast off petty moral concerns like that. The right hand and left hand, neither can be said to be good or evil. They’re just different ways of reaching the same thing. Like, take Karel over there”, he gestured to him.

Karel, who, up till now, had been staring fixedly through the window, snapped to attention at the introduction of his name to the conversation. He appraised us both in silence. I gave a look at the poet, imploring him wordlessly to watch what he said next.

“A man like that, he does just what he pleases. If he wants something, he takes it. Am I right?”, now raising his voice, looking at Karel.

Karel was silent still.

“He lives a complete life. And through his strength he vitalizes the rest of us. By having no qualms, the rest of us can depend on him. He radiates strength. Now, can you really call that bad, then?”

“No qualms”, said Karel.

“Yes, that’s right”. The poet looked straight at Karel, not knowing what he’d got himself into. I didn’t really know what he’d gotten himself into either.

“What do you mean, no qualms?”

“I mean, you don’t care about petty societal mores. You say, I could take it or leave it, the starched collars, the drawing room banter, the teetotalers and puritans-”

“I am a teetotaler”.

He was. Karel was one of those creepy straight edge adventurers. He never touched a drop of drink, and in his silent way, insisted that others do the same. That’s what always bothered me about those people, the implicit judgment of the thing, but I’m digressing again.

“Well, I don’t literally mean you’re a teetotaler. It’s metaphoric”. The poet knew, at least, despite his romanticizing, that Karel wasn’t a person to trifle with.

“Metaphoric? Metaphoric for what?”

“For, you know, the starched collars, the drawing room banter?”

“What is this business about collars? And drawing rooms?” Karel rushed forward.

“I just mean that”, the poet and I were a little frightened at this point, and I hoped that whatever words were said next were chosen well. “All the lifeless things that the powers that be force on us, you don’t care about any of that! You’re vital! You’re a vital man!”

Karel stopped and smiled.

“You fancy me, do you?”

“Wha- I- I don’t mean that. I admire, you sure, but-”

“Then you have something against me?” The poet jolted at this.

“Th-that’s not it either! I’m simply saying you’re like an overman-”

“It’s ok”, said Karel, stepping back, starting to pace around, chewing the scenery if you will, “there were many people in my village who fancied me - girls and boys. They came to me, confessing, and it was like I held their little hearts in my hand. And that, at any time I could, you know”, he held out his hand, and closed his fist very quickly, “crush them. If I wanted to. That’s all I wanted out of them. I had girls. I had boys. But what I liked more than anything was that little moment when they held their heart out to me. And I can-” he repeated the gesture, “Crush them to little pieces.”

The two of us sat frozen in place. Galahad walked in.

“Karel, you sonofabitch”, he said smiling, “I never took you for that kind of guy”. He helped himself to a beer and watched us over the rim of the stein as he drank.

“Galahad, my friend, there are many things you are yet to know about me”, said Karel, seating himself again and kicking up his legs.

Galahad set the beer on the counter and ignored the clerk asking him to pay.

“Hey, it’s all ok in my book. A little of this and a little of that. Just don’t put the moves on me, alright?”

“You are not my type. You are too, how shall I say, too much like the theater. Way too much”.

“Guilty as charged”, said Galahad grinning. He gestured towards us as he leaned against the counter. “So, shooting the shit with the newbies, huh, a bit of ‘team building’?”.

“No. I was sitting here in peace when one kept insulting me. Then I go over to him and ask and now he loves me”.

“Is that right?”

The poet made no effort to defend himself.

“People like that who talk out of both ends waste my time. I wish he would open that window and jump out of it”.

The two laughed at that.

“Gods, I hope your Common stays terrible. Everything is so funny with that accent”, said Galahad.

Karel shot a lightning bolt at his beer, and the stein erupted into pieces. Galahad was soaked. There was a pause for a moment, then the two laughed louder than before.

I made to leave, thinking the moment was right, only to be stopped by Galahad.

“Now where are you going, the party’s just getting started”, he said, helping himself to another beer.

“I wanted to get some rest before the mission”.

“I wanted to get some rest before the mission”. He made a poor impression of me, aping my face and intonation. “Live a little. Gods. You should know, kid, the first thing adventuring drilled into me, and I mean real adventuring, not whatever first-level forest kind of thing you’ve done, is that you’ve got to lose the ego”.

“The ego?”

“Yeah. I noticed it onstage, just as soon as I laid eyes on you. And I’ve been thinking it and thinking it until I just had to come out and say it. You think you’re better than us”.

The clerk asked Galahad to pay for his drink.

“You should pay for that”, I said, not thinking.

“Oh, so [REDACTED] wants me to pay for my drink, does he?”. He took another stein, brought it over to the keg and filled it up as slowly as possible in front of the clerk. He walked back over, drank the beer in one pull, and burped.

We stood together, face to face, him waiting with his grin, and me not knowing what to say.

“Ego, ego, ego. It’s written all over your face”, he said. He reached into his pocket and put an immense gold piece in front of the clerk. Galahad walked past me and sat with Karel.

I stood there, facing away from them.

“Well, aren’t you supposed to be getting some rest?”, he called. “Go on, you’re gonna need it, I’m sure”.

I turned around and began to talk:

"You just shouldn't, you shouldn't, well-"

"Well what? Spit it out!"

"You're one to go on about people's ego".

His face lit up.

"A little slow on the draw, huh? Comebacks don't come naturally or? That's alright, as long as you can fight".

"I can fight".

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah".

"Good for you", and he turned back to Karel.

The ship kept flying into the darkening horizon, almost without a sound.

I walked back to my room.