The four stepped onto a main street of white cobbles, white-painted buildings, and bright red shingle roofs. They leisurely strode down it as they looked about and took in their surroundings, with Makhus surprisingly taking the lead. “Gotta sell off a bottle or two, you’ll get a proper payment yet,” remarked the swordsman offhandedly, momentarily turning his gaze to Zelsys.

Few people were out and about, and even among them there was considerable disparity. It took a moment to realize, but it quickly became obvious after the third granny passed by and shot them a scared look. Willowdale was inhabited mostly by the young and the old, with a very small minority of those in-between. Zelsys took to mentally categorizing the people she saw, and it only confirmed this suspicion.

“Old. Old. Old. Young. Old. Young. Young. Old. Old. Young…”

She drifted away into a dissociative state, remaining aware of her surroundings as she followed the swordsman’s lead down the street and into a small shop on a street corner, counting people as she went. Makhus spoke with the surly man across the counter, momentarily breaking into an accent so thick she could barely understand. About a minute of haggling later, she was dragged into full awareness when they came to an agreement, “A’ight, so that’s one large bottle and two small ones.”

Thinking quickly, she reached for her cleaver’s handle to loosen the holster, the merchant’s apparent alarm at this quickly quelled when she retrieved the Tablet and let go of the weapon. In fact, it turned to intrigue that bordered on wonder, the man’s beady eyes focused on the tablet’s projection as Zelsys quickly reached Fog Storage and activated the Retrieve function. She simply held the Tablet out flat, waiting for it to do its work.

The smaller bottles rose out of the vortex one after another, though it took some time to enlarge itself so the larger one could come through. As they came out, Makhus grabbed them and placed them on the counter, quickly yanking one of the seals off to show that the contents were the expected emerald-green of pure Viriditas.

Back into its holster the Tablet went, while the trader’s impressively hairy hand quickly snatched a bottle and he looked it over. “Mind if I take a whiff?” he turned a questioning eye to the swordsman, which was met with a nod. Out the cork came, and up the trader’s nose a ribbon of Green Fog went before he corked the bottle shut.

“Mmm… Smells like basil…” he uttered.

Makhus reached out, offering a handshake, “That’s a yes on the agreement, I take it?”

“So it is. Y’wanna get paid in Marks or Gelt? If it’s Marks y’should go get a wheelbarrow, ‘cause I don’t have any paper bills.”

With a heavy, distasteful sigh Makhus relented, “Just give me the Gelt.”

He spat the name of the foreign currency as if it were a grave insult.

“Ey, can’t blame the Greks for the idiocy of some out of touch banker,” the merchant placated as he briskly tapped away at the keys of an immaculate, brass-plated cash register, pleasing clicks and clacks emanating from its inner workings as he tallied up the transaction with the hand dexterity of a virtuoso.

The register let out a melodious ding. The merchant bent down, retrieved a large fabric coin pouch, and began filling it from the register silver coin by silver coin, counting out in increments of five at a rapid-fire pace. As the pouch began to visibly stretch, he counted out four smaller, copper coins and pulled its straps shut.

“...And that’s a hundred and fourteen Grekurian Gelt, n’ gods help you if I find out you sold me diluted Viriditas,” the merchant threatened half-jokingly as he slammed the bulging sack of coins onto the counter. “The one gelt is fer the sack, don’t even think of haggling. I don’t break coins.”

Makhus stood stunned, staring at the sack for a moment before he reached for it, weighing it in his hand as if he held an artifact of the gods. The trader’s face beamed with a grin as he let out a belly laugh at the swordsman’s reaction to that much money in one place, and as they left that shop, he yelled after them, “Don’t go drinkin’ it all at once, and come again!”

Zelsys found it strange, knowing that it wasn't actually all that much money - certainly quite a good bit of money, yes, but nothing approaching a fortune. Perhaps Makhus just came from a less than well-off background.

The swordsman quickly stashed the sack into his backpack before they stepped into the sunlight, quickly scanning the street as if looking for something. In moments, his eyes locked to the door of a building just across the street, a makeshift wooden sign hung above the doorway signaling that it was an inn. The building bore many scars, from bullet holes to gashes in the brickwork, even a boarded-up, presumably broken window.

As they made their way towards it, they heard a surprising amount of noise from within. Zelsys wondered why this one building was still in use, despite the damage - had this place been at the center of whatever conflict struck Willowdale?

The answer she sought came quickly and simply when they entered through that door, and the smells of an inn slammed into her nose like a wild bull. Cheap ale, cheap food, and body odor. They remained almost unnoticed, having entered through the side door - whose hinges did not creak, whose mechanism did not make loud clacks, and which Makhus closed shut with nary a noise behind them.

Only two men sitting at the bar took notice, both of them at least in their fifties.Though they each shot Zelsys a lecherous stare they quickly returned to their drinks, and in moments, the group found themselves a vacant table off to the side. Lacquered wood furniture - the next step up just above the bare minimum, still not exactly the height of quality.

When she took a seat, Zelsys’s chair creaked under her apparently disproportionate weight, if the swordsman’s previous remark was anything to go by. He hefted the sack of gelt out of his backpack, alongside a few smaller, empty pouches, looking to each of the three in turn, ending on Zelsys.

“Y’got us ‘cross the border,” he said flatly. “Stake yer claim.”

He trusted her enough to just lay the offer out, no implication of attached strings in his tone. Not just him, but all three of them, they all looked to her with not a shred of distrust or doubt. At that moment, she made a decision. She would return the three Ikesians’ trust.

“Thirty gelt right now and five percent of all your profit from alchemical products going forward,” she said.

Makhus met her with “That’s ridic-”

“Under the condition that, between beast-slaying contracts, I not only try to teach you Fog-breathing, but also let you try to figure out how I function, because frankly? I’m not sure myself. Consider the five percent cut hazard pay.”

Befuddlement froze the swordsman’s face, his brow furrowed and he stuttered out just a short-lived “Eh?”

“I am neither a fugitive, nor a treasure hunter, or a scavenger,” she said in as quiet a voice as she could, leaning forward.

“My earliest memory is waking up in a tank full of Viriditas inside some kind of bunker,” she said, omitting substantial chunks of the truth. “When we first met, the things I had with me were the only things I could find in there.”

While she spoke, she touched her cleaver’s handle with one hand, retrieved the Tablet with the other, and set it down on the table. She went to her traits list, turning the device upside-down so Makhus could read.

“First, second, fifth and sixth trait from the top. I’ve had them since I woke up.”

Makhus looked them over, and his befuddlement became only more visible. A strange twinkle in his eyes, the ex-soldier looked her in the eye and said, “Deal. Just keep quiet ‘bout this.”

She stowed the Tablet away, greatly amused by the subtle change in the way Zefaris looked at her. There was still more than enough appreciation in the purely physical sense, but the woman’s rarely-expressive face contained a subtle sort of wonder. Even Sigmund seemed intrigued, though considering what she had learned about him, Zelsys wagered he was curious about her past.

Zelsys couldn’t blame him. She was curious too. Did she have a past before the bunker, or was she just like the Failures? Would she ever find out? Dwelling on it had to wait, for Makhus had already counted out her six silver coins and slid the pouch over to her side of the table, before dividing the rest of the money evenly between himself and the others.

They each got five silver coins and one copper, and in the end, one silver and one copper coin was left over. A brief exchange of looks was all they needed to non verbally agree how it would be spent- food and drink. As refreshing as Liquid Vigor was, even Zelsys was beginning to feel the pangs of hunger.

Briefly, they sat quiet, still exchanging looks. Finally, Makhus spoke.

“Fine, I’ll order,” he relented, swiping up the two coins alongside his share of the sale money as he stood up, briskly stepping towards the bar.

Just as Makhus approached, a rather youthful-looking older man appeared out of the door behind the bar as if by providence, his face covered in scars and his hands missing more fingers than were present. He had somewhat long black hair and a short chin beard, and from his face there beamed unreasonably bright blue eyes.

With an agility that only the lack of digits could cultivate, the mutilated barkeep swung a pitcher of ale over the cups of the patrons who sat at the bar, prompting them to thank him in surprisingly cheerful manner for how grouchy they appeared at first glance. By the time he reached the bar, the barkeep was already waiting for him with a beaming smile only rivaled by that of the towering beast-slayer.

“New face, welcome! How may I serve you today?” the barkeep spoke in a sing-song voice, absolutely beaming with unfettered positivity. Makhus almost felt bad for dropping just a silver and a copper onto the counter as he opened up his coin pouch and uttered, “Drink ‘n food for four, please. How much?”

“We’ve got fish and spuds for two gelt a portion, or cabbage soup for one gelt a bowl,” the barkeep offered. “The ale’s one gelt a mug or four gelt a pitcher, that’s five mugs’ worth of ale. What’ll it be?”

“The fish ‘n spuds and a pitcher of ale, then,” he decided, fishing up his one copper coin and another silver for a total of twelve gelt. Two gelt for a single portion was considerable, about as much as one could expect to pay at an inn far nicer than this one. He only hoped the food would be worth the cost, rather than just being price-gouged to high heaven.

The barkeep snatched up the payment, promising “It’ll just be a minute.” before he disappeared into the kitchen.

Makhus returned to their table, making no mention of his footing half the bill. Just as he sat down, he heard Sigmund’s stomach growling.

Sigmund looked to him, asking, “What’d you order?”

“They’ve got fish ‘n potatoes or cabbage soup. Take a guess.”

“I like fish. Hope it ain’t pickled.”

And so, they waited.

No more than fifteen minutes passed before the barkeep’s larger-than-life cheerfulness arrived straight to their table, balancing three plates on his left arm while carrying a large pitcher and another plate with the other.

“There you are, fresh off the stove,” he said, laying out the plates before he placed the pitcher down. “I’ll bring you mugs, just a moment.”

With that, he walked off towards the bar, returning moments later with four large, tin mugs in tow, which he wordlessly planted on the table.

The metal plates held surprisingly generous portions of both fish and potatoes, covered in some sort of white, creamy sauce that smelled strongly of fresh herbs. The cutlery was almost buried underneath the fish, yet the fish fell apart when she pulled the fork from under it. No bones.

The four of them exchanged looks, poured themselves a mug of ale each, and took to eating. Immediately, it was obvious that this food was not just good. It was great, exceptional even. Both the fish and potatoes were soft, but not mushy, generously spiced and flavored by the tangy, refreshing sauce. The ale flushed it all down with a smooth finish, and before any of them knew, they had cleaned their plates. Makhus took the pitcher and topped off everyone else’s mug, then drank the rest of its contents directly, waving it at the barkeep to grab his attention.

He smiled and gave an affirmative nod before he disappeared into the kitchen, carrying three empty plates on each arm.

Although Zelsys felt nothing wrong, something made her stir in her seat. She felt like she had something to do here, like something vital to her goals was in plain sight, yet she couldn’t quite pick it out of the unfamiliar backdrop of the inn. Leaning back in her seat and taking a swig of ale, she leisurely looked about, scanning the inn left to right, up and down, her gaze meandering back and forth, until… She saw it.

The notice board, at the other side of the inn. It was far from full, as far as she could tell from where she sat.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, rising from her seat and making her way towards the notice board. It chiefly held a number of smaller requests and advertisements, from trade offers for goods and services to simple jobs, universally written in simple writing on vaguely rectangular scraps of paper. Among these scraps, there stood out three proper missives, meticulously calligraphed on parchment in writing so clean it may as well have been printed.

Of these three, two drew her attention.

The first, because it explicitly stated in big, blocky letters “BEAST-SLAYER WANTED” at the very top, directing whoever read it to speak with the owner of this very inn for further information.

The second listing that stood out was an offer to rent numerous buildings in the town, each line stating a building’s address, condition, purpose, and weekly rent. One of these offers was a place named Riverside Remedies, described as an apothecary and with a rent nearly twice the other’s at fifty gelt. Zelsys made a mental note of this with the intention to let Makhus know.

However, something wasn’t right. She felt it in her gut. To absolutely no surprise of hers, a trio of men walked in through the front door, if the weight of their footfalls was anything to go by. One of them - who she assumed to be their leader - swaggered up to the notice board, whilst the two others walked up to the bar and began hollering for the barkeep. The two were lightly tanned and short-haired, wearing simplistic, practical clothing and bearing surplus war-knives much like Makhus’s. One had a mustache and a bandolier across his chest, three muzzle-loader pistols holstered in it.

The presumed leader of the trio gave Zelsys an unabashedly scrutinizing look, mouthing the word “Nice.” to himself as he turned his gaze towards the board. She continued to outwardly look at the board, while she focused her attention towards the periphery of her vision.

The young man was quite tall, though still more than a head shorter than her. His skin was lightly tan, he had short black hair, no visible facial hair, and a youthful, narrow face whose raw natural beauty was only matched by the insufferably arrogant look plastered across it. He wore well-tailored, immaculately clean clothing in the form of a simple dress shirt and trousers combination.

“You’re new in town,” the young man said to her in an offhand manner. “Beast-hunter?”

Zelsys gave a simple nod, considering just snatching the notice and taking it to the bar. She saw an insufferable smirk form on the young man’s face before he said, “You won’t get much work competing with us. Join my crew.”

The tone in which he said it was not a request or even a command, but rather a simple statement, as if the boy had full confidence that she would just go along with it. Even though she may have considered it under different circumstances, just the way he said that one sentence made her want to actively go against him out of sheer annoyance.

“No thanks,” she mockingly dismissed as she snatched the listing that said “BEAST-SLAYER WANTED” off the board, and spun on her heel with the intent of inquiring about it at the bar. She could feel his rising anger, and it brought her great satisfaction. When the resentful words “Stupid cunt.” resounded from behind her, it was as if sweet music to her ears.

What wasn’t as though music to her ears, however, was the distinct sound of the boy’s companions rambunctiously making their order of two pitchers of ale, demanding, “Put it on Mr. Halxian’s tab!”

The barkeep nodded along with a rather noticeably fake smile, which soon faded to a more genuine one when he turned his gaze towards her, noticing the parchment in her hand.

“Had you pegged for a beast-slayer!” remarked the four-and-a-half-fingered man, idly cleaning a mug as he began to explain the situation. “So about the contract… I don’t know what it is, I’m pretty sure neither do the folks payrolling this. It’s been scaring folks away from one of the nearby fields, destroying crops, killing what little livestock we have, what have you. The important detail is that every time it shows up the Fog rolls in, so we know it’s got an Azoth. Show it to me and you get your payout, two-hundred gelt plus hazard pay based on the gem’s grade.”

Zelsys raised an eyebrow, “You don’t want the Azoth?”

“I’m just a middleman,” twinkled the man. “They paid for extermination, not extermination plus resource-gathering.”

Mildly unpleasant background noise soon became the impossible to ignore gurgle-screeching of a raging rot-bear. The two thugs began loudly discussing which table to sit at, only for Halxian to take the opportunity to patch up his bruised ego by picking on what he thought to be easy targets. His victims of choice were three Ikesians that were sitting around a table out of the way, keeping to themselves and quietly drinking.

She turned her attention towards that table, fully wishing for either of the three to rebuke the young man and his cronies. The young man blustered at them, “Hey, you three, Ikes. Go find a different table.”

All three gave the young man a brief look, then returned to drinking. Makhus clenched his hand around his mug, eliciting a creak from the metal and laughter from Halxian. “You can’t intimidate me, snowman. I’m a Fog-breather. Unless you want me to re-enact the end of the war on you three, you’ll get up and vanish like your precious Sage of Fog. Understood?!”

The barkeep blinked a few times, visibly frustrated. “I’ll deal with it, just a moment,” he sighed, but Zelsys stopped him with a look and a shake of her head.

She casually approached Halxian and his comrades from behind, and by some miracle, he didn’t notice - or perhaps, he chose to ignore her. What he couldn’t ignore was her bluntly stating, “How about you vanish instead?”

Instantaneously, the young man whipped around, staring defiantly up at her, his eyes filled with a cocktail of self-confidence and resentment.

“Make me, bitch,” he spat.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time, cur,” she spat right back, smiling.

The barkeep yelled at them, “Don’t even think of fighting in my goddamn inn, you hear me?!”

“Want to take this outside, little boy?” Zelsys asked Halxian.

“Wherever you wish, hag,” he grinned. “No lethal weapons or techniques, first one to be incapacitated or submit loses.”

“So be it.”

None of the three Ikesians said anything to object, but they did follow Zelsys and Halxian when they walked out of the inn, as did Halxian’s companions. No more than a minute later, Zelsys was staring the young man down from ten feet away. The three stood a few meters behind her, Sigmund’s arms crossed as he observed. Her cleaver and Tablet were in Makhus’s grasp, whilst the gun alongside its arm-harness sat tightly clutched in Zefaris’s arms. She even took her boots off, just so she wouldn’t have to worry about breaking the brat’s spine with a kick.

In much the same way, Halxian’s compatriots took up stands a few meters behind him, but as these types of duels go, a crowd gathered well before the fighting could start. In fact, Halxian seemed reluctant to start before some sort of audience had gathered. A surprising portion of the bystanders were old men, noisily reminiscing about their own youths, though the vast majority were the youth - mostly teenagers, though a few younger children peeked through the innermost circle.

“You, old man!” he yelled, pointing at one of the older bystanders. “Countdown from three.”

The balding, spindly-looking man nodded, and pointed his calloused hand skyward. He looked to each of them in turn, first to Halxian and then to Zelsys.

“Three!”

The young man’s eyes confidently drifted across the gathered crowd, and he dropped into a low, exaggerated stance, arms and legs both wide. Zelsys just observed, subtly stepping forward with her left foot and placing her weight on it. She used the extra time to take a long, deep breath, filling her lungs to their limits. “No, that’s not the limit…” she thought, focusing to push her diaphragm further down and open up her chest to let her lungs expand even further.

“Two!”

With exaggerated, crystal-clear enunciation, Halxian recited, “Cloud-scattering Sacred Breath!”

The balding man hesitated for a moment at that, but continued with his countdown.

“One!”

The man swung his hand downward to signify the start of the duel.

Halxian took a sudden breath, creating a brief surge of wind directed towards him. Threads of Silver Fog began to rise from his open mouth, and he exploded towards Zelsys at an admittedly impressive speed, trailing veritable ropes of Fog as he went.

Her focus galvanized into a decision in the brief moment between the beginning of Halxian’s charge and the moment he could reach her. His fist was already held out high, he either didn’t know or didn’t care to avoid telegraphing his move. Perhaps he thought he was moving too fast for her to see.

In a fraction of a second she shifted her weight forward, bending her knee and extending her fist with the intent to meet his charge with an even greater counter-force the moment just before he would strike. She didn’t need a weapon to riposte.

A sharp exhalation, half her lung capacity all at once. A surge of Fog pouring from her mouth and nose, equalling an equivalent surge of strength translated into that brief forward movement.

The impact came, her fist against his collarbone. Pain shot up her arm from the force and she was quite certain her knuckles were bruised, and at least one finger was close to dislocating due to the angle of impact. He flew backward, skidding across the cobbles.

Zelsys exhaled yet more Fog, emptying her lungs before she took another deep breath, this time filling them to the fullest capacity all at once in the span of perhaps three seconds. Somehow, the Fog she had exhaled continued just drifting away and fading, and instead clear air cut through it to enter her airways. She could hear speech and hollering from people in the crowd, but they were just background noise, out of focus.

The exhilaration of combat was already filling her body, a grin spreading across her face as she kept her eyes focused on her opponent’s nearly motionless form. Coughing and spitting blood, Halxian struggled to his feet, staring at her half amazed and half furious.

“Y-you bitch!” he laughed disbelievingly. “You’re… A Fog-breather too!”

He dropped into that self-same stance as before, once more exclaiming, “Cloud-scattering Sacred Breath!”

Another implosive inhalation, a gust of wind whipping past her. Unlike the time before, he didn’t charge at her. Instead, he began circling her in that low stance, slowly, methodically, drawing a near-perfect circle with the silvery threads of his exhalation. The circle of bystanders quickly widened as he neared the edge, despite the fact he wouldn’t have hit it anyway.

All the while, she did no more than returning to a relaxed stance, poised to riposte his strike in the exact same way as before, but aware that he likely wouldn’t try the same failed approach twice. A half-circle became a full revolution, and a full revolution became two. At some point, he briefly stopped exhaling and took in another violent inhalation. She was beginning to feel the burning sensation of needing to breathe, and a realization flashed through her mind.

“Observant little brat,” she thought. “Playing chicken until I gotta take another breath.”

A small exhalation, just enough to make a visible thread of Fog. Halxian lunged, zigzagging left and right, both arms held out. An exhalation to sidestep, another to deliver a sideways kick to where she thought he was. Only, it didn’t connect. A hand wrapped around her leg, and before she knew it, the cobbles met her back, expelling nearly all the Fog from her lungs in a long wheeze.

When she regained her bearings, he had her left leg in some sort of hold, staring at her with a demented grin on his face. “Forfeit or your knee goes,” he seethed, taking hold of her kneecap. As if an addendum, he muttered “Cloud-scattering Sacred Breath…” to himself, taking in another sharp inhalation. She knew he would be able to maim her well before she could take a proper breath, that feeling of impending danger screeched in the back of her head like a wild beast. The world briefly slowed to a crawl as her mind rushed, her eyes locked to his.

Zelsys dug as deep as she could, exhaling every last wisp of Fog she had left and hoping it would render her upward kick to his head fast enough to get him off her. His head whipped to the left, and the grin vanished from his face as his fingers slipped from the fabric of her pants.

A sharp breath, rolling to the right, then up to her feet in a wide stance. His stomping boot threw up dust where she had laid moments prior as he quickly handsprung back to his feet, flowing after her in that low stance like his body was the head of a giant snake, his hands the fangs.

Just then, she realized. If he wanted to fight like a beast, then it would only be appropriate to treat him as one. “Come on! Come at me!” she mocked much in the same way she had mocked the rot-bear, grinning ear to ear as she sidestepped his charge with a larger exhalation, moving just barely out of his reach and landing securely on her feet. Fury filled his features in a split-second and he redoubled his pursuit, turning on a dime.

Mid-turn, he was as open as he would get, and Zelsys saw the opportunity clear as day. She stepped forward as if she were going to punch him again, placing her weight on the heel of her left so it could act as a pivot point. When his raging face turned to a grin, she knew she had him. “Like an open book,” she inwardly chuckled to herself.

A twist on her heel and an exhalation, raising her right leg into a kick straight to his chest. His ribs against her heel, she felt them bending under the force as she sent him careening across the cobbles again. Halxian slid over the ground, eventually brought to a stop by the foot of a man in the audience. He laid there motionless for a few seconds, until he struggled to his feet, retching and puking blood.

The boy struggled to take a breath, and he did - but it wasn’t an explosive one, it wasn’t a breath of Fog. It was a wheezing inhalation of one who had the breath completely knocked out of them and didn’t know how to regain it. “Wghr…” he tried to speak, only to spit out a tooth.

Halxian’s left eye twitched, his face twisted into uncontrolled rage. He took an implosive breath, and without any regard for his own safety charged Zelsys in an erratic dance of punches and claw-like swipes of his immaculately manicured fingers. There was little to no technique or consideration in his assault, his strikes had long wind-ups that she had no issue reading and countering.

She managed to dodge the first two strikes, but he slipped past her guard with a low gut-punch. A full-force elbow strike to his forearm forced the boy back, his arm bending under the force like a branch in the wind. Three consecutive punches, she blocked with her forearms. Halxian swiped at her, which she answered with a light uppercut to his wrist. He wound back, grunting in pain as he unleashed a right jab. A slight movement of the head to avoid the strike, whilst cross-countering with a right-handed jab of her own, exhaling as she did. He ducked under the jab long before it would have struck, well before she had committed. She turned it to a slightly downward right hook.

Her fist, his temple.

The young man spun around and fell to the ground trailing a spiral of Fog, having lost consciousness. Still riding the body high of combat Zelsys stepped towards him, oblivious to how this all must’ve looked to the bystanders.