Content Warnings

Depression / Spiraling / Paranoia (same as it has been)
Self-loathing / dysphoria
Stalking / hunting / murder threats
Loss of autonomy
Violence / head trauma
Headaches

Downtown Nivannen is a cut and carved sea of peoples, like rushing blood through the veins of the organ body of the city. Riverbanks made of buildings, sped currents of humanoid movement fanned outward from tributary skyway terminals. Massive signs in glittering lights advertise hotels and eateries, towering scaffolded metal atop shorter buildings. Posters hang from cornices, and broad avenues splinter into ever narrowing streets. Modern skyscrapers surround ancient buildings, a far higher wall than the original architects of those old steeples and libraries ever thought would ring their structures. Old and new clash hideously in some places, but harmonize into beautiful medleys in others; not unlike the people themselves.

A building easily ten stories tall, squeezed between several smaller ones like an awkward sibling, stands lankily, displaying several massive signs off its billboard exterior. The wooden marquee at the front, awash in light and shaped like a furled blanket, reads ‘SUTOLLI THEATRE‘. The side sign displays in smaller lettering:

‘Gub the Goblin – Thassalia Demetrix – “It’s Stabbin’ Time!“‘

Alabastra stops, admiring the sign above us. “Always wanted to take you two to see a goblin musical.”

Faylie says, still groggy, “Why do they specify ‘goblin musical‘ and not just ‘musical that happens to have goblins in it’?”

She smiles. “It’s kind of its own thing. There’s a word for it in goblinoid, but I forget it. They’re, like, kind of, uh, parodies, or— ah, you’ll see.” She starts to walk towards the ticket booth.

“Hold”, I say. “We are not actually seeing the show, you are aware?”

Her hand goes to her hip. “And why is that?”

“For one”—I point up at the sign—”It doesn’t start for another hour. And two—because for the umpteenth time, it would be a waste of our vanishing daylight.”

The rogue rolls her eyes. “Ugh, fine. We sneak in for dress rehearsal, then.” She turns back to her partners. “But next time we’re off the clock, and we’ve got money to burn…”

Tegan mutters under her breath, “So, uh, never then.”

“For now! Let’s find a backdoor.” She walks around the side building, pacing through the crowd as nonchalant as can be, whistling a tune under her breath.

As we reach the back of the building, a small loading dock opens up, and a staff entrance sits relatively unguarded, metal blue door labeled to ward away the lost or vagrant public. I suppose we count as the latter, then.

“Get in—ask our questions—get out. If anyone stops us, say we’re critics. At least that way they won’t call the cops.” She walks up to the metal door, testing the handle. It isn’t even locked; the rogue swings the entrance wide, and we step inside.

The dark of the interior takes a moment to adjust to after the daylight. We find ourselves in a musty brick-walled hallway, archways like portals into strange worlds, open doors revealing dressing rooms painted pastel pink to the left. To the right, a room stocked with props—mannequins waving their cloth arms in still-frame, fake swords hanging from walls, rows of costumes, statues, censers and lamps and clocks and flags, and a sewing machine and reams of colored cloth, a chaotic mess of furniture stacked and piled and thrown together.

Beyond the other edge of the hallway, a metal staircase leads up to a catwalk above an open area behind a massive red velvet curtain, held taut with rope pulleys. A mess of people mill about. Tiny green and yellow-skinned people with huge floppy ears and pig-snout button noses are dressed in various outfits of questionable historical accuracy. Goblins in costumes of Praetorians, Skjöldrian raiders, Caskian revolutionaries, ranch hands, and samurai swing fake equipment in practice battle, and hold scripts in their hands, reciting lines alongside likewise costumed human actors. Beside them, stagehands in overalls and suspenders wheel pieces of furniture into position and adjust spotlights.

We move quickly to the dressing rooms, stepping inside to not draw the attention of the cast or crew. Vanities inset with glowing lightbulbs sit in rows along the exterior wall, messy with makeup and mannequin heads holding wigs. There’s only one individual in the room, a woman in her mid-20s, with deep navy hair in a short flapper style and flat yet striking features. She seems to be out of costume, wearing just a plain white dress, and her spindly shoulders slouch forward, hunched over her stool as she applies her lipstick.

She turns with a start when we shut the door behind us. “Oh, goodness, I didn’t hear you enter!” She sounds sweet and calming, with a performers lilt that she doesn’t switch off in this private moment.

Alabastra steps forward. “Would you happen to be a Ms. Demetrix?”

The woman retreats slightly, planting her feet on the floor. “That’s right.” Her eyes start to dart. Then she chuckles, and her face snarls. “Ugh, Gods, security truly needs to be tightened around here… I’m not signing any autographs, today.”

“Well, I wasn’t gonna ask… but now that you mention it I guess I wouldn’t mind one.” The rogue smiles. “We wanna ask you some questions, and not about your acting career.”

The actress stares at us, arm curling to her side, nervous energy as she shifts in her seat. “Alright. Perhaps I was being too kind. You need to leave.” That is a shockingly natural response, actually. What exactly was Alabastra’s plan, again? Because so far, all we’ve done is corner this woman alone in a back room.

“H-hold on. You went missing recently, we just wanna know where you disappeared to.”

“Are you daft, or malicious? Either way, I will call the police!”

Alabastra backs up slightly, curious tilt to her head. “… Wait, what?” There goes here critic plan. The rogue says it almost involuntarily, not at all in response to the woman’s threat, and her eyes squint in horror at the actress, like the declaration was shocking.

Faylie shambles forward, still tired. “Look, we really, really don’t wanna bother you, it’s just important because we know—”, she yawns, and continues, “Know about your, y’know, lycanthropy, and you were having issues that a lot of other people were having and then you were cured of those issues and if we can figure out how maybe we can help other people!” She picks at the corner of her eye, not helping her rambling persuasive attempt.

Ms. Demetrix slams a hand on the vanity. “Oh, that is it!” She stands, and marches towards us. Without care that we’re the only ones in the room, she marches right past us, and throws open the door.

“W-wait!”, Tegan says, waving her hands in front of her.

Thassalia waves her hand out in the hallways, shouting, “Mr. Cork, come here, quick!” She turns back to us, arms crossed, back against the door, foot tapping. “You are so in for it! You don’t even know!”

Again, Alabastra backs up, looking at the woman’s face with sheer confusion. I start to look around for an easier exit, wondering if we should abandon this venture entirely… yet to have come this far only to be stopped now would be an intolerable waste of effort. If she won’t give us the answers…

From around the hallway, a goblin in a button-down and a flat cap peers up and around the corner. “What is it—”, He starts in a nasally, croaky voice, then stops upon seeing us.

We stare at the goblin. He stares back. Thassalia’s grin grows wide and nearly wicked.

Then, he says, “Oh. Finally, you showed up!”

“What?!”, Thassalia says, turning around.

“What?”, Tegan, Faylie and Alabastra say.

“… What”, I deadpan.

He points at Tegan and Alabastra with two-pronged fingers. “My understudies! You’d think you’d have rushed here after getting the call! C’mon, you’re late!” The goblin ushers the two forward. He mumbles, “At least one of you is in costume already!”

Alabastra looks to Tegan, wide-eyed, then back to the goblin, and her face cracks into a disbelieving smile. “Yea. Absolutely. Sure I’ll just… get into costume, then?”

Thassalia sputters, “W-wait, Mr. Cork, you don’t understand, they’re not even actors—”

He interrupts, “I wouldn’t be putting gates on who’s a real actor after your last performance, Demetrix.” The woman blushes, ears turning red in embarrassed fury. Silently, Alabastra stifles a chuckle. “You’re already on thin ice after missing so many shows. Don’t test me—I will replace you.”

What in the Hells is happening right now?

Mr. Cork looks to Faylie and I. “Wait— who are these two?”

Faylie speaks up, “Oh, we’re just here to support our friends! Ha-ha.”

The goblin drags his hand down his cheeks. “Ugh. Of course. I assume you at least paid for their tickets?”

“Absolutely”, Alabastra lies.

Cork waves us away with the back of his hand. “Just go wait in the auditorium.”

Of all the ways this could have gone, this is by far the most inane. Faylie looks to the other two with a guilty shrug. Tegan stares ahead in abject horror, but Alabastra smiles like a champion. I only turn and start to walk away. At least they had the good sense to leave me out of this.

* * *

Sitting in the otherwise empty theatre, only Faylie next to me, the emptiness feels all the more like a vacuum for the lack of a susurrus. We sit in a top row, and I’m woefully unable to find a comfy position in the bizarrely constricting seat. And in that open lonely space I take in just how ridiculous this entire venture has become.

Of all the avenues and variegated paths, we had to stumble down the one leading us to musical theatre. The lowest of the performing arts. I shift, anxious to be out of this situation despite it being the only path forward. At least I’m not having the worst time out of the four of us, if Tegan’s turmoil was anything to go by, but that is cold comfort.

The wide auditorium carries sound like a windswept valley, made obvious when Faylie’s voice echoes beyond her, “This is so exciting! My parents used to never let me go to the theatre in the Faewilds!”

I do not care. I am not curious. I don’t care. The faun stares into me, her excitement dulling at my refusal to engage, as I white-knuckle the armrests. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her turn back to the stage, ears flopped over.

We sit in silence for a while in blissful silence, only interrupted by the occasional clamor from backstage that raises my brow.

Still, we’ve a long wait ahead of us, and I find myself wishing this wait would hurry along. That it was an hour later already.

Tick.

I blink, and suddenly everything is different.

The lights of the auditorium are dimmed and low, and where before all the seats had been empty, now a large majority are stuffed with theatregoers, chatting amongst themselves and settling into their seats.

W-wait… what? I look around in a panic. What just happened?!

I turn to my right again. Faylie is fast asleep next to me, curled into her seat and drooling onto her shoulder. The others around act as normal as can be, like they didn’t just apparate out of thin air. Not unlike The Other Side, only I can tell, this isn’t the Ethereal Plane. This is real, these people look like average citizens of Marble City, nothing out of the ordinary.

I stand, my seat folding up behind me. This is an untenable complication. Regrettably, I need to find the others, and ask if they’ve noticed anything. I start by attempting to shake Faylie awake.

She flops over in my grip, looking up at me with wide brown eyes, blinking to consciousness. “Hmm?” She yawns. “Oh, hey Moodie… Oscar.”

I’m too panicked to dignify the slip-up. “What was that?”, I ask.

The faun shrugs. “What do you mean? I’ve been asleep for like…” She looks around. “Has the show started yet?”

This is pointless. I walk past her. “N-never mind.”

“Okay…” She cozies back into her seat. It was always going to be a pointless proposition, talking to her.

As I glance around the space, there is an inexplicable feeling of being watched. An eerie sense of eyes on my back, yet I don’t see anyone casting me more than the expected glances.

I look around for an exit. I can’t exactly get through the backstage from the front with this sudden crowd. As I make for the exit, multiple entering attendants file into the theatre, finding fast-filling empty seats. I brush past, bumping shoulders as I charge for slivers of daylight at the back of the dark theatre, emanating from the front of house. Back outside again, a line is forming down the block, eager to buy their tickets.

Tickets… Dammit, I don’t have a ticket! I suppose getting back inside through the front is out of the question, now. I look up at the sky. It’s well past noon, and the clouds have shifted to more of an overcast. If only this watch told the time!

Ah. The watch—did it cause this? As I walk around the corner towards the back end of the building, I reach underneath my shirt, gripping the metal. If so, that is a fascinating implication that I will have to explore later. Perhaps I should keep a handle on any time-related thoughts from here on, to avoid a mishap like that again.

Did I truly move forward in time with a thought? Or was it simply my perspective that shifted, blotting out the uneventful hour; is it a distinction without difference? Could I go backwards? Halt time entirely? No, no I’m getting distracted again. There’s no reason to push the bounds of what the watch can do. I only need it for one purpose, and blessedly it has performed that duty with distinction. There’s no reason to risk over— or mis-use.

I round the corner of the theatre exterior once more, and for the second time, push through the metal door into the back area. The hallways are inundated with frenetic motion, nervous energy as the time nears for the curtains to rise. My eyes peel over the crowd for the others. I need to see if they noticed that strange hiccup in time, and while I’m here perhaps I can talk them out of this idiotic plan. Maybe even see if they’ve already gotten the information from Ms. Demetrix so I can simply leave them to this foolishness.

It isn’t long before I spot Tegan’s shining armor, sticking out like a sore thumb, looking lost. Beside her are a handful of stagehands and performers, mostly goblinoid, but one clearly stands out. Towering over everyone else, with flowing waves of blonde hair, an actress dressed in a gaudy burlesque outfit stands with her back to the hall, shining threads of beads hanging off her shoulders, catching the light, in a slim and slightly see-through dress with a far-too short skirt, and a large feather atop her head. I catch myself staring, despite my self-disgust, my breath catching slightly. She turns, face painted with striking makeup, ruby red lips, and—

And she grins a familiar smile. Alabastra. I’d hardly recognized her in that getup. I revile inside myself. Dammit. Gods dammit that just isn’t fair.

They finally catch my entrance. Her and Tegan excuse themselves, darting towards me. “Oscar?”, Alabastra asks as they approach. She sighs, “Get in here.” Her head motions toward the prop room.

I follow, eyes glued to the ground. Under no circumstance can I look at her in any way at the moment. Though, that ostentatious, flashy get-up suits her clownish personality, her flecks of freckles dotted with glitter, glinting gold like river pans— Fuck. Stop. Staring.

We pile into the prop room, shutting the door behind. Tegan immediately lets out a sigh, shaky hands running through her short hair. “Oh, Gods, this sucks so bad. I’m never gonna remember those f-fucking lines.”

Alabastra puts a hand on her girlfriend’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, babe. It’s a goblin musical—the lines are basically just suggestions, anyways.” Her other hand goes to the other pauldron. “I’ll be right by your side.”

Tegan looks up, head tilting at Alabastra. She smiles at her, almost pathetically. “You look really good in that.”

“Don’t I?” She puts a hand to a fake pearl necklace on her collarbone. “Not my usual style—and a little demeaning if I’m honest—but hey, try anything once, right?”

I look between them. They’re acting normal. Or, well, as normal as can be expected from these two, anyways. “Did you two not feel that?”, I ask.

The half-elf looks to me. Under all that eyeshadow her normally inquisitive eyes turn especially striking, like shining emeralds glinting back the world in their clarity. “Felt what?”

STOP STARING. I turn away. That answers my question, regardless. Whatever just happened, I was the only one to experience it. As I open my mouth to elaborate, a thought strikes me. They hardly need to know. They’ve already coveted the watch once, threatening to keep it from me. No reason to inform them of something it may or may not be capable of. I shake my head. “Nothing. Never mind.” Before they can ask follow-ups I turn to the knight. “What exactly is the plan, anyways? Because if this is some elaborate excuse to waste more time…”

Out of the corner of my eye, Alabastra crosses her arms. “Yeah, this was all a big conspiracy to start up our actin’ careers. You caught us red-handed.”

Tegan adds, shakily, “Seriously, do I seem like I’m having fun?!” She is sweating up a storm under that armor.

“And I’m making sacrifices, too! This getup is not exactly comfortable.” Yes, her great sacrifice is to look drop-dead gorgeous, what a heroic and noble act. Gods stop thinking stop even thinking at all.

I huff. “Then, seriously, what is the plan?”

The rogue’s hand goes to her hip. “Twofold. One, our girl’s on thin ice in this troupe. Between scenes, we’re gonna threaten to sabotage her little performance on-stage unless she tells us what we wanna know.” Leveraging her propensity for chaos is at least a more surefire plan than most she conjures, at least.

“That seems like it’s going to draw a lot of attention, is it not? Won’t the other actors try to stop you?”

She chuckles. “It’s a goblin musical? The entire point is to go off-script. We’re just gonna do it in a way that makes her look bad, but it’s basically just one big competition to see who can derail the most.” Oh, Gods, it’s even worse than musical theatre. It’s improv musical theatre. “It’s real avant-garde stuff.”

I shake my head. I’m not interested in debating the arts right now. “Have you managed to ascertain anything yet? With your Insight, perhaps?”

Alabastra grits her teeth, suddenly getting a far-away look in her eye. “Yeah, that’s… that’s the thing. I couldn’t. It was just like Lyla Serrone. I-I couldn’t read her. Like a smokescreen.”

That is a fascinating connection; perhaps enough of one that the Gloamwood Gang would find that an acceptable lead to let me off the hook? No, there’s no solid evidence. “And the second part of your plan?”

She breathes once, regaining her composure. “I noticed she’s been hovering over her locker all night since we got roped into this. Anytime either of us aren’t on stage when she is, we’re gonna poke around her things and see if we can’t find somethin’.”

My eyes narrow. “I could just do that. Since I’m back here already.”

She clicks her tongue, shaking her head. “If you get spotted you’ll get kicked out. We all might. Honestly, Oscar, probably best you just wait here.”

Of course, relegating me to helpless hanger-on once more. I don’t even have a leg to stand on and argue, either—she is technically right. I fold inward, back against a wall, and look away, eyeing the colorful menagerie of props around me. “Fine.”

From behind the door, the goblinoid director shouts, “Alright, PLACES PEOPLE!”

Alabastra shrugs. “That’s our cue.”

I mumble, “Good luck.”

“You’re supposed to say break a leg—it’s bad luck to say good luck.”

“…”

She pauses, then clicks her tongue. “I see.” She hardly wears makeup, especially not a face this elaborate, making her seem even more theatric, yet almost breaking through the layers of suspicion, the look she gives me nearly forces me to believe she’s actually hurt by that jab. Almost. I turn away again, holding my forehead against the growing sting, until the two trod off to partake in their moronic plan.

There is something bizarre occurring. I can ignore it no longer; these ceaseless headaches, from being around the three thieves, they’re getting worse. There’s some pattern to them, I’m almost certain, yet even thinking on that grows the pain, spiderweb fractures down the folds of my mind. I just need… need to get away from them. Sooner rather than later, and the pain will stop.

Behind the door, I hear a flood of footfalls, as the performers take to the stage. A loud, resounding clang rings through the building—the sound of the lights shutting off. And then, a slow violin medley drifts under the crack of the door, music oozing through the walls, dulled reverberations as drum beats and bass sections thrum into the room, like a pounding heart banging outward into the body of the theatre.

I can hardly even hear when the singing begins, unable to make out lyrics of any kind. It’s just a high-pitched yammering struggling to overpower the backing instruments. One song ends, and after a lull, another begins, and then another, and only by the fourth do I start to hear anything worth listening to. It’s a more melancholic and dramatic sounding piece, with its smooth guitar sections and low percussions and swinging brass and rustling chimes.

Wait. Those chimes aren’t coming from the stage.

A low jangle right on the other side of the door stops with a boot-fall. Slowly, the entrance creaks open, and a figure peers their head around the corner. I duck behind a barrel, to stay out of sight, peering through a crack to keep eyes on the intruder. They appear to be a human man from first glance, as nondescript as they come, but as the figure steps into the room, shutting the door behind him, he reaches behind his back, and the illusion on his form shatters as he pulls two twinned scimitar blades to his side.

In a defensive stance, a familiar fiendling peels the interior for movement, curved horns over a sneering face, scowling into corners like he might spook out the darkness. “I know you’re there, vampire”, says Vail the monster hunter. “Come on out.”

I freeze in place, feeling suddenly cold as ice.

Vail rolls his neck, clearly enjoying the hunt as much as I am not. It had to be a monster hunter. We should have just left him to rot. Did he know just from looking at me? Has he been tracking me this whole time? Or was he set on this path by the Forsyths? I shake my head. It hardly matters now, clearly he’s been on our trail long enough to have caught me here.

He starts to prowl the prop room, checking behind every box, into every nook. I’m a sitting duck. Damn, it may be better to reveal myself early. Perhaps the fool will even listen to reason. Or at the very least, I can keep him distracted. When he’s moved just far enough that he’s further from the door than I am, I stand, arms help up, and shout, “Stop! I don’t want a fight.”

He spins, blades pointed towards me. Then, he lets out a small chuckle. “Huh. Yet you picked this fight—when you sunk your fangs into Grace’s neck.”

I bristle. “This does not have to escalate. Just leave.”

The hunger tsk-tsks. “After all the work I put into finding you?” He starts to approach. I back up, quickly against a wall, and with only one direction to continue—further from the door. Ugh. “Heard about that mess at the Serrone’s. ‘Best I don’t ask…’ that’s what your leader said, isn’t it? I knew you were up to something.”

My eyes dart around. Just keep him talking until you think of a plan. “She was right that it didn’t concern you.”

“Oh, but it did. Monsters like you roaming the streets—that’s all the concern I need.” He grumbles. “I offered my services, on behalf of Forsyth, but I don’t really care for either of their aims. I only want to see justice done for the blood you spilled.”

I’m most assuredly not faster than him, but I’d bet I’m smarter. I just have to break line of sight. “You have no proof we were there. Baseless speculation.”

“You were lucky. I didn’t pick up any blood whispers from you or your comrades. But there was one trail to follow.” He starts to drag the sharp edges of one sword against the other, a high-pitched grinding sound filling the air that is drowned under the music. “Ol’ Latchet squealed like a pig ’bout where you’d be next. Then I just had to wait until you were alone.”

An annoyed huff escapes me. The detective sold us out. Bastard. “I understand why you’ve come, but I am no danger to anyone. Not anymore.”

“So you admit you were?”

“Of course. But it is a solved problem.” He’s pushed me all the way to the back of the room. Behind the majority of this cluttered mess. A mess he won’t have had time to memorize. I study my exit path, again and again, repeated in my head, routed through phantom muscle memory. Between the armor stand and the statue—through the coat rack—over the barrels—under the shelf—out the door. I’ll only get one shot.

He points a sword at me again, looking into the side of the glinting metal. It reflects the room around it; my own visage absent. Then he looks back to me. “There’s only one solution to this problem, bloodsucker.”

Despite myself, I can’t help but laugh. I say, bitter, “Your timing is abysmal, you know. Just a few days ago I might have taken your way out. Eagerly.” My hand hovers over my satchel. Something within me crystalizes. “It seems the Gods just won’t let me die.”

Vail dashes forward. I reach into my bag, pull out a smoke bomb, and crack it onto the floor. Fog fills the space, and I run, eyes closed.

Though I am without sight, crystal memory sears into my mind, in perfect displaced time. I squeeze between an armor stand of knightly valor and a knock-off cherubic statue, pass through hanging coats, cloaks, and cloths dangling from a metal rolling rack, vault over the barrels I’d been hiding behind, roll beneath the bottom layer of an otherwise stocked shelf, and throw wide the door.

With a turn, I slam it behind me, to the clatter of a hunter swinging wildly at prey that is no longer there. I bank hard to the left and make for the exit door. The knob turns this way and that. I shake it desperately. The door doesn’t open—did he blockade it, or break the lock? I throw myself into the metal, returned only with throbbing pain in my shoulder.

Not a chance I’m getting out that way; there’s only one other route. I turn and run the other direction down the hall, hearing the slayer getting closer already.

I try the handle to the changing room, only to find that, too, refusing to turn. Behind the door, Alabastra’s voice shouts back, “Oh, hah, just a minute! Wardrobe malfunction!” I roll my eyes.

Although I could shout back, ask for help, that would mean relying on her assistance. Some part of me recognizes that for the foolish stubbornness it is, yet— I won’t let her hang anything else over me. I pull my hand away from the door and dart down the hall. The backstage meets me in no time. Various goblin actors and crewmen startle at my arrival.

The director from before, Mr. Cork, leaps from his folding chair and says, “Oh, what the hells?! You hangers-on gotta learn to stay in your seats!”

At the other side of the velvet curtain, the band kicks up a beat, and a classy piano starts a far-too smooth tune for my current dire straits. An unfamiliar voice sings in a lilting vibrato, “What do you do in the evening…“

Behind me, I only just hear the slamming of the storage room door over the din, and turn to see Vail rushing after me, blades stretched behind him in twin tails. I turn and book it past the actors, ignoring their complaints and making for the stairs.

“When you don’t know what to do?“

The goblins look down the hallway to see the approaching warrior, and their eyes light up in wild excitement. One of them says, “Ooo, a fight scene! That’s good!” All at once, they pull weapons in the forms of bone daggers, dull stone spears, and rusted machetes off the floor, and snarl wildly.

“Read a book? Play a game?“

The director facepalms. “Oh, not this early, please!” Ignoring his pleas, the goblins start a brawl right in the middle of the backstage, creating a battlefield of motion that Vail clumsily crashes into. Already on the other side of this sudden violence, I push up the stairs, running onto the catwalk above the stage. I stumble as I reach the top, shin colliding with a metal step, but I push through the pain and make a mad dash across the other side of the metal walkway.

“Every night, it’s just the same!“

I reach into my pack, pulling a large vial of acid, and splash it over the joints of the catwalk as I run, kicking up clouds of burning steam where two halves converge.

“What do you say if I tell you…“

Down below me, the curtain splits my vision into two halves. On the left I see the unfolding scuffle between the goblinoid actors, deep into their improvisation. A goblin in a cowboy outfit jumps onto Vail’s back, small jabs from a knife with a too-dull blade into his front.

“How to keep from feeling blue.“

To my right, aside the band, three figures on the stage stumble awkwardly through a scene. A feminine goblin sings into a microphone, and behind her, Tegan barely holds her own in a dance, stilted movements failing to keep with Ms. Demetrix, who wears an outfit similar to Alabastra’s. Demetrix rolls her eyes, huffing at her less-than-cooperative stage partner. She spins in a dance toward Tegan. The knight fumbles to catch her, and whispers something toward the actress I don’t catch over the music. Thassalia Demetrix stares at Tegan, and her face snarls cold murder. Then she pulls away, wrenching free of the knight’s grip.

“My advice is good to take.“

Demetrix’s hand flashes in radiant holy magic, and she produces in her hand a leather-bound book. She clutches it to her chest, whispering unheard words of power to herself. Around her is summoned a swirling tornado of blue magic, ripped through with currents of gold and black. She sends it forth, and it strikes Tegan off her feet.

“And it’s easier to do.“

Under the strange spell, Tegan goes sailing through the velvet curtains, smashing into a pile of boxes and barrels, disappearing under the crashed wooden rubble. In the place she flew through, the veil folds, pulleys buckling and releasing, and the curtain falls to reveal a partial view onto the backstage. The chorus of fighting goblins start to spill out into the stage lights.

“When you’re all alone, any old night…“

Released from the battle he’d been stuck in, Vail makes a break for the stairs, taking them two-by-two as his swords cling-clang and ping off the steps behind him. As he rounds the corner, he slows, noticing how trapped I am. Though I can see the stage below me, our view to the audience is blocked by a long ceiling overhang. Still dragging his swords behind, he says, “Nowhere to run.”

“And you’re feelin’ out of tune.“

I back up to the very end of the catwalk, shoulder blades against the railing, and stare him down. “You’ve made a horrible mistake.”

“Pick up your hat! Close up your flat!“

He tsks. “I can practically smell the undeath on you. You’re a monster—that’s no mistake.” He starts to rush forward.

“Get out, and get under the moon!“

“Actually…”, I say, and lock my arms between the sides of the railing. “I just meant coming up here.” He hits the halfway point of the catwalk, and the burned and acid-melted joints of the precarious metal give way under his weight. In a massive creaking crashing sound, the catwalk snaps in two, and the monster hunter falls away.

“Underneath the bright, silvery light…“

The metal swings out under the curtain, and my shoulders scream with pulling pain as I hold on for dear life, gravity threatening to slide me down into the pit of violence below. My vision tunnels in fright from the precarious vantage point, and I feel like throwing up. Lowered below the fallen curtain at a near-match angle, I can no longer see the stage, but hear gasps from the audience. The band keeps playing.

“You’ll be feelin’ better soon.“

To my surprise, at the edge of the snapped half of the catwalk hanging from the ceiling by metal threads, the fiendling holds on, having caught the edge, dropped sword as payment. He snarls up at me— No. Something else snarls below.

“Pick up your hat, close up your flat!“

A massive clawed hand paws and wrenches itself from the mess where Tegan had been. Long and sharpened fingers meet in a palm the size of my head, covered in a thick coat of gray-brown fur. It’s matched by another, as a huge hulking form pulls itself free. Hunched and hair-coated, an animalistic humanoid form heaves with anger, a feral wolf’s maw dripping with spit and spite. Glowing yellow eyes peer around at the sudden screams of the stab-prone actors, teeth mashing, as it lets out one long, “Awooooooo!”

“Get out! Get under the moon!“

From the hallway, Alabastra rushes onto the scene, but skids to a halt as she sees the wolven form afore her. She mouths, ‘Oh, Stardust…‘, but I can’t hear the words from this high up over the music and screams.

“Ooh-ooh! Look at those stars above!“

The werewolf turns around, ears perking in quick-twitching motions. It looks up at me, as the monster hunter now pulls himself up the accidental ramp towards me. His other sword is stowed, but his eyes are full of determination.

“Look, look! Look at those sweeties love, oh boy!“

Crouching low, the lycanthrope paws at the ground, and leaps through the air with a great show of strength, sailing in an arc for the half of the walkway I am fighting a losing battle to hang on to. I nearly panic, before it collides with the hunter, and pulls at his cloak and armor in a raking motion with its claws, rocketing them both down into the stage like an anchor into water.

“Give me a night in Rune!“

Hunched over Vail, the werewolf growls, and rears back its claws, dagger-like edges glinting with stage lights.

“I mean it. All you gotta do, any old night…“

Alabastra yells, “Stardust! Stop!” The werewolf pauses, looking into the half-elf’s eyes, shoulders drooping low.

“When you’re feelin’ out of tune.“

In a furious motion, the lycanthrope turns and bolts, rushing back through the curtain, to a cascade of audience panic. “Werewolf!”, someone shouts. Over the cover of the fallen theatric fabric, I catch the sight of it— her… bounding on four limbs up the stairs, straight for the doors. My fingers start to slip.

“Just pick up your hat! Close up your flat!“

Several other figures in the audience stand, shouting after the fleeing knight, “My Gods! Werewolf! After it!” A handful of men begin to chase after her, missing only pitchforks to wave. My wrists start to twist beyond what I can bear.

“Get out under the moon!“

With a gravity-wrought jerk downward from the falling catwalk, my grip slips from the railing, and I slide and tumble down to the ground. I land feet-first, and immediately feel my ankle shoot out from under me, knotted on itself in a horrible sprain. I collapse in pain. For a moment, my world is only spinning stars and a bassoon solo.

“When you make a date, any old night…“

I lift myself onto my forearms, still laid out on the ground. Thankfully, most of the goblins have already stabbed each other to surrender, but they’re not what I’m worried about. Vail starts to sit up, stumbling from the tumble he took.

“You gonna meet your sweetie soon?“

Alabastra rushes forward, and kicks him hard in the back of the head. He crumples. She looks at me, and offers a little smile. From his seat, the still facepalming director Cork grumbles, “Yeah, sure, why not—we’re gonna need to call a priest anyways.” The rogue turns to the goblin, shrugs, and runs over to the destroyed boxes, throwing the paladin’s blasted-away chunks of armor into the bag.

“Well, then pick up your hat! Close up that flat!“

She runs over to my side, leaning down. “C’mon, Os, we’ve gotta go”, the half-elf says, and she grabs me by the shoulders. Part of me wants to pull away, but the pain shooting through my leg overpowers any other thought. I can do nothing but accept her assistance, as she cantilevers me to my feet, arms over each other’s wingspans. With her leading, I limp out onto the stage. We catch Faylie’s eye in the audience, stood from her seat and wide-eyed.

“Get out!“

Alabastra helps me off the stage, and we meet back with the faun. I take another look around the audience, and see Ms. Demetrix to the side of the box, smug as can be. Before I can say anything, Alabastra issues, “Don’t worry about her—we have what we need. Let’s go.” My eyes drift toward the stage one last time.

“Get under the moon!“, the singer finishes the song with a final crescendo of the band, and opens her eyes to the chaos around her. The rest of the curtain falls away, covering the performers in a wide velvet red blanket.

There is a pause, before a single audience member claps.

It isn’t followed.

The views of my protagonist vis-a-vis musical theatre do not reflect my own.

Fun fact: the song I used here only barely entered the public domain, like, this year, which means I just about made it under the wire to legally use it! (Preferred recording would be the Annette Hanshaw version.)

Thank you very much for reading. Next week's a rough one, so I hope you enjoyed the fun kind of chaos while it lasted. If you'd like to see what I mean a little early, consider my patreon perhaps.

Next update is (1-29) tooth of wolf; on Sunday, September 8th.

Content Warnings

Depression / Spiraling / Paranoia (same as it has been)
Trauma response to non-consensual physical touch
Heights, and the fear of them
Misogyny / sexual harassment
Alcoholism / addiction
Suicide invoked as a joke
Mentions of war / war crimes / violence / death
Fascist sympathizing
Xenophobia
Headaches

“Take a right!”, yells Alabastra. The streets are quickly crowding with swarming Sable Guard, a flood of black armor shining in the sunlight like dripping molasses. We follow after, banking hard between the manors of Firvus Heights, hounded by the faithful of the fortunate. The aureate streets behind us fill with such a clatter I’d believe it was raining. “Bug! Got another ‘vis in ya?”

Faylie, stumbling behind as fast as her hooves can carry, yells, “Just about?” The clop-clopping replaces with hard kicks into a well-maintained lawn, kicking up divots of grass as she goes. “Tegan I need you to carry me pretty please!”

“W-why?” The knight locomotes like a freight train in her armor.

“Because I’m gonna be too tired to run after this!” Tegan slows enough to match the faun’s speed, and scoops her into her arms without even coming to a full stop. Cards fanned before her, Faylie shouts a familiar, “INVISIBLIS!”

The rest of the cohort vanish before me. I come to a stop, panicked I’m about to rush headlong into one of them. I look down at my lack of hands, and shake away the disorientation.

Ahead of me, further than she’d been before disappearing, Alabastra’s voice shouts, “Meet at the falls, we’re takin’ the quick way down!”

What the hells is the quick way?!

Behind us, I hear heavy footfalls dig deep into the dirt, and two towering metal men march interspersed in that autocratic sea, Clockwatch carried by the wave, glowing blue eyes shining through the morning dew, ill-omened lighthouses under facsimile forms, movements no less mechanical than the flesh-and-bone men they trudge with.

In this moment, I decide that anywhere is better than here. I run toward the sheer cliff edge of Augustene Hill, following north along its path.

It’s a long run—at least the next half hour of simply silently, sightlessly running through city streets, under wailing and commotion. The guard have given up their chase now that their quarries have taken to the ether, but they prowl over the Heights like bugs over discarded dinner.

Eventually, I reach the park atop the hill directly above the waterfalling beginnings of Bassarin River. It spills out from a cavern in the sheer rock below, tumbling down into the city channel from its outerplanar wellspring.

The park itself consists of a small open field, pathways winding up and down between a grove of trees. A larger-than-life statue sits on the edge of the cliff, meeting with a chest-high wall that keeps any undue accidents from occurring. The monument is of a colossal wolf—the Great Wolf Augustene, and her champion Bassarus beside her. Vestiges of the founding myth of the city, and the Republic of old, cleaned and spotless, unlike the moss-covered statues of same portrayal in the outer city.

As I approach the statue, I hazard a little ask, “Hello? I doubt I am the first one here.”

From the direction of the statue, Alabastra’s voice says from the air, “Actually, you’re the last.”

“Of course.”

“Drop the spell, Firefly”, orders the half-elf. Faylie does, and all of us are revealed in an instant. The rogue leans against the statue, flipping a knife over in her hand, pensive and lost in thought. The faun sits crisscrossed on the ground beside her, and Tegan leans over the wall, out at the city below, eyeing the skyscrapers rising to match and climb above the hilltop venue. The detective pats over his jacket, looking over whatever belongings he still has.

As we appear, Alabastra throws her mask off, tossing the sweaty black cloth to Faylie. “Hate those things. We gotta get a better dress code.”

Faylie catches the mask, as well as my own, and pulls hers off, depositing all three in a bundle in her satchel. “Ooh, what about cloaks? We could be like those old thieves guilds!”

The rogue tilts her head. “Huh. I like where you’re head’s at.”

The knight turns, pulling the Sable Guard helm off her face. “Can we worry about fashion after we’re off this hill?”

“Maybe forest green…”

“Allie!”

Alabastra chuckles. “Fine, fine.” She stretches, nonplussed despite the near-miss we just narrowly escaped from— and might still catch us yet. To Faylie, she says, “Know you tuckered yourself out, Bug, but got one more in you?”

Faylie produces her deck in one hand, held like a fan. “Maybe“, she yawns. “As long as it’s little.”

“Just a drop spell.”

Panic starts to rise in me at the prospect of what the quick way is. Surely they don’t mean—

Alabastra hops up onto the stone wall, balanced on the edge. No, no. No. No no no. Absolutely not. I back away. “You are out of your mind if you think I’m following you off the edge of a cliff, Alabastra.”

She frowns in that wretched, sideways, disapproving way. “Look, we all have to go at the same time or it doesn’t work. You wanna walk back through the Black Gates and get pulled into an ‘interview‘ by the Sables, knock yourself out. But this here’s your one-way ticket to freedom.”

My gaze moves past her, over the sprawling city beyond, stretching well into the distance in an unending concrete and metal forest, canopies of glass and trunks of steel, stems of magic rail dug through Marble City like the veins of its namesake. I’ve never gotten the view from here. As the sun rises over the streets, diagonal avenues create sliced sections of city. At the edge of the view, the distance becomes so great there’s only the amalgamated blend of grays and whites and reds, and still the city crawls out into the distant horizon.

It is a stunning view, but I have no intention of making it my last. I’ll have to trust that she wouldn’t throw herself to her death just to fool me one last time— a sharp pain rips through my skull. Yet that does sound like something she would do. But she’s correct that there’s no other way off this hill, right? I fold over, hand on my knees, as my mind starts to spin in contradicting circles, trapped in a loop of logic, folded in on itself again and again.

“… Oscar?” Alabastra’s voice is wrapped in counterfeit concern.

Behind me, Nathaniel Latchet says, “Ah, we ain’t got fuckin’ time for this.” I feel a large calloused hand start to grab at my arm.

Panic spikes in an instant. “Don’t fucking touch me!”, I seethe, shooting out from his grip.

Everyone’s starting at me. That… that set me off more than I was expecting it to. I shake my head—I’m acting irrational.

Despite the headache, I have to concede that Alabastra is correct. I’m the one wasting time, here. I march away from the detective, kicking my feet over the wall and closing my eyes. “Just tell me when to jump”, I say. The sunlight on my eyelids casts my mind’s eye in brilliant orange. Beside me, I hear the rest do the same, preparing for the fall.

Alabastra says, “On your cue, Lightning Bug!”

Faylie says, “Okay, everyone, just aim for the side of the waterfall! Don’t wanna end up in the river! Jump when I cast!” A breeze picks up, the high winds of the hilltop carrying a scent of pine. “And… PLUMA!”

I push myself from the wall, the pounding in my head nothing compared to the wind buffeting my ears. But the sensation is slow, arrested, and as I dare to open one eye, the ground approaches not nearly so fast as I feared. The five of us are gently carried down, parachuted by the faun’s magic. The approaching cityscape below tunnels my vision, and nausea turns my stomach. I elect to close my eyes once more. It’s still a long ways down.

* * *

In a crowded little restaurant on the ground floor of a tower in the sky-risen city center, chaotic movement of waitresses and customers in flashes of color sweep through the eatery. Red leather seats and green tiled floors, with wood dividing walls that create four-corner sections of eating booths. Smells of sweet syrups and cooked bacon waft through the air of the coffee shop, and the interior beats away the chill of the autumn morning with cozy kind warmth.

I pull my jacket closer around me. I never did like eating in public—even less so with these fangs. I’m not hungry, anyways. Just a coffee for me.

Unlike the detective. Across from the booth bench where Tegan, Faylie, and myself sit, Nathaniel digs into a piled-high plate full of breakfast foods, without a care for the mess he’s making of his face. Alabastra sits beside him, one hand laid against the booth seat the opposite side of the man, leaning back and biting casually into a strip of bacon from her own plate.

Tegan, having shucked her Sable Guard disguise and back in her own armor, only sips from a single cup of coffee, having already torn through her order. And surprisingly, Faylie didn’t get anything at all. Instead, she lazily holds her head up at the chin with a leveraging hand, eyes fluttering and dipping in and out of consciousness, yawning with every other breath.

As Nathaniel devours his meal, he says, “Fuck, you got any idea how good food tastes after you been locked up?” He begins to sip at his coffee, and stops. “Wonder if they got any booze?”

Alabastra gives Faylie a nod. “Bug? Go ahead and give Natey his present.”

“Hmm?”, the faun responds, sleepily and far-away. A heavy yawn curls from her mouth. “Oh, yeah…” She pats around for her satchel, then after digging through it for a moment, simply unbuckles the strap and hands the whole bag over the table to Alabastra. The strap carves through Nathaniel’s meal as she passes it over, dipping the dark cloth belt in syrup and egg. Faylie then collapses into the crook of her arm, content to sleep here in this busy diner.

Alabastra pulls a glass bottle from the bag, and hands it over to Latchet. “This was gonna be our bribe to getcha to talk, but I think at this point it’s just bein’ a good neighbor.”

The detective smiles at the rogue, and cradles the alcohol like a swaddled babe. He grabs the cork, pulling it with enough effort that his face turns an ugly shade of red, and it POPS out, vapor steaming from the flask head. The man chugs the liquid in loud gulps, before slamming it back down. “You’re an angel of an elf, Camin.”

“Doesn’t come for free, Latchet. Spill it.”

The detective wipes his hand on his coat. I’m starting to see the point of the client he mentioned in his file—this man is a disgusting schlub. “I thought I said to calm your tits until I got some amenities in me. Ain’t done eatin’ yet, am I?”

I slam a hand onto the table, and the man blinks twice in succession. “Talk, detective. I did not get dragged through this mess just to wait on your whims.”

He scratches his beard, eyeing me over and tilting a head toward Alabastra. “Who’s the nancy boy, anyways?”

My shoulders shrink in. I am most assuredly not a fan of the way he looks at me. I’d know that stare anywhere, from growing up in boy’s homes, constantly feeling like whatever I was doing, I was doing it incorrectly. I am a clear outsider to him—an acceptable target.

Leaning over the table to intercept his eyesight, Alabastra says with gritted teeth, “I suggest you ask less and answer more, Nathaniel.” Her hands are balled in angry fists for a moment, before she leans back in her seat once more, and returns to her food. Through a mouthful of toast she continues, “Let’s start with who took ya n’ why.”

Nathaniel shrugs, bringing a sausage-skewering fork to his teeth and chomping. “Ain’t got a clue. I assume someone workin’ for Mr. Serrone? Didn’t get a good look before they clonked me on the back of the head.” Ah. Fantastic. He doesn’t know a thing. All of this was for nothing. Perhaps I’ll throw myself in the river after all.

Tegan speaks up, “They didn’t say anything? When you were imprisoned, I mean.”

“Nah. They only asked me a couple things, and they didn’t torture me for no answers, either. I think they just wanted me outta the way.”

“Why didn’t they just kill you, then?”

The detective tilts his head, annoyed at the knight. “Gee, why-oh-why didn’t I think to ask that?” He picks at his teeth. “Besides, I pro’ly already knew the answer. Revenants ain’t so easy to bump off. Guess the oppos did their research.”

Tegan and I look to each other, confused. It’s not a term I’ve heard. Alabastra leans forward. “You were a revenant?”

Nathaniel laughs. “Oh, did I not mention that one?” He takes another swig of his drink, and turns to Tegan and I. “The 13th infantry division—The Revenants. They used to send us into hopeless situations during the plague wars—expected us to die. Dragon lairs, The Deep, lich towers, Caskian fortresses. Spellboys put a gem in our spines, right there.” The man slovenly reaches behind his back and taps at the base of his neck. “Lets command know if and when we bit the dust, and then—boom. Most of us that survived still got ’em.”

We all stare at the old vet for a moment. “Damn…”, Alabastra breaks the silence.

I’m the first to admit that I’m more aware of the domestic, pandemic history of the Runeplague than the battles fought in the magically sundered badlands where the northwestern border with Caskia once stood. I’ve read pieces on the heroes of war, wielding magic against the monsters that crawled from rifts of wild magic, out of the ruins of old forgotten cities into nightmares of man. But they always read like propagandist pieces to me, and hardly covered the more practical aspects of magic that I was interested in learning as a child, so I absorbed very little of their historical value. If there was ever any at all between those pages, that is.

“Yeah, that’s the kinda shit we get for servin’. Dulce et… et cetera.” Latchet piles another forkful into his mouth, and says through the wall of egg, “Damn shame it was a Lupine. Used to think they were on to somethin’.” Ah. I’m starting to see exactly why these three found this man distasteful.

His words halt the two awake women, shocked by the sudden turn. Alabastra backs up in her seat, lip snarling. “How the fuck can you say that after what you just told us?”

He only chuckles at her outrage. “Oh, you young ones wouldn’t get it. You’re used to all these collective ideas—got your head drummed up thinkin’ we’re a nation of elves or halflings. Whatever.” He lays his hand flat, leaning forward. “Don’t give a fuck about any of that. I’ve seen what really matters. I’d give anything to not have to see it again.”

“And you think the fascists got the answers?”

“They’re the only ones that seem like they even care enough to ask”, he grumbles. He pours his drink into his coffee, splashes of brown liquid raining from the edge of the cup onto the table around him, and he sips. “Ain’t sayin’ they’re perfect— but I know I want a fighter in the ring when it’s time to bout.”

Alabastra leans forward. “We’re asking questions. And maybe the answer’s not to circle our own tail scared out of our minds.” She launches into a rant, accentuated with erratic hand motions. “After the war we coulda done like Caskia—built somethin’ that actually worked for everyone. Still could, if we stopped lettin’ a couple hundred assholes stuff their pockets. Don’t you think folk deserve better than this?”

She’s getting distracted, again, debating politics with the man. I have no interest. “Regardless“, I cut in, “The Serrones had you kidnapped. Is there anything else you can tell us about them—Lyla in particular?”

He waves his hand, brushing me away like a bug on the window, and turns to Alabastra. “You don’t know what you’re talking about—you were what, a toddler when the wars ended? Now you wanna yap about wages and goodwill— But your little lefty club’s got monsters in it. They just wanna stir up all that trouble again. End of the fuckin’ world.”

“This stupid fuckin’ country’s so afraid of monsters in the dark. Nobody knows what caused the plague, Nate. Most of the people in my tent were the ones actually fuckin’ affected by it!”

“Then if they really cared, they’d talk about the monsters in our city, right now!”

The rogue points a finger in his face. “They knock your brain cells loose when they grabbed ya? That’s literally what we’re doing here, you rummy fuck!”

“Oh, soak your head.” The detective throws up his hands.

Around the cafe, several other patrons eye our racket with curiosity, roused by the sudden argument. I wish now more than ever I was as invisible to them as I am now to a mirror. The table stays silent for a moment, letting the tension cool again.

Nathaniel starts to pat around his jacket, and surprisingly, pulls something free from the inside pocket—a pack of cigarettes. Tegan raises a brow. “I’m surprised they let you keep those.”

“Why? What was I gonna do, stuff ’em down my throat and fuckin’ kill myself?” He taps on the bottom of the box to dislodge a cigarette, pulls it out with his teeth, and looks around. “Got a light?”

The two conscious girlfriends look between each other, shrugging. Without my eyesight leaving the table, I dig into my satchel and produce a flip lighter. I reach over like I’m about to hand it to him, then pull away as he brings his palm up. “Answers first. Lyla Serrone—what did you learn about her?”

His hard-boiled glare beneath a forest of bushy eyebrows tells me I’ve earned his contempt. Frankly, I’m not sure I care. We’ve rescued him, fed him, gifted him alcohol, and all-in-all ensured he has a tomorrow to see, and this grown man is acting like a spoiled child. He even pouts like one, arms crossed in anger at being denied his treats, and pulls the smoke stick out of his mouth.

“Alright. Fine. She was the brains, there—asked all the questions. Never saw hide nor hair of Beric until this morning—didn’t even know that’s where I was. She was, eh… famous, I think. Godsly, too. They called her Blessed by the Effigial, or somethin’ like that.” That would be congruent with the angel wings, at least. Being ‘Blessed‘ by the Effigial Pantheon is quite the lofty claim—assuming it’s not a lie, of course.

Alabastra looks at me, a small impressed smile at the edge of her mouth. It heralds another spike of pain. Stop chasing her approval.

Then the half-elf’s face falls into consideration over some other matter, and she says, “There was somethin’ off about her. Lyla. When I was fighting her, I… I couldn’t, eh… do my thing on her.” She stares into a corner, holding back from divulging her abilities to the detective.

Huh. If I’m understanding her right—she was immune to Alabastra’s lie detection. Lucky her.

Tegan leans on her chin, considering. “She seemed… way out of our league.” Then her face gets hot. “M-Magically? I mean? Like she was uh, powerful.” She repositions her hand so it lays over her mouth, covering for her stammering.

She was a surprisingly prolific caster for the wife of an obscure councilman. The holy, light magic she wielded was beyond anything I’ve seen of a priest before. I rub my chin, then startle myself with the sudden reminder of the scratchy beginnings of a beard that I’d resolved to grow. Ugh. I’m far too easily distracted.

“Perhaps she was a sorcerer”, I say. One of a lucky few mages who need no knowledge or avenues of external power to wield magic, simply springing forth like the wellspring waters at the heart of the hill. “She cast without invocations or implements, and seemed no less tired for it.”

From her laid-out position, Faylie mumble-yawns into the table, “Must be nice…” Unlike the faun’s current predicament, sorcerers can wield magic for far longer before wearing themselves dry. A deeper font to draw from, perhaps.

Alabastra huhs. “And what was she askin’, precisely?”

Latchet answers, “Honestly, nothin’ of consequence. ‘Who do you work for, what were you investigating, real basic shit.” He digs a piece of sausage out of his teeth, and flicks it away. “That is, eh. ‘Cept for what she was askin’ the first day she brought me there. Very first thing comes out of her mouth—wanted to know ’bout this watch I’d been hired to find.”

I lean back in my seat, hand over my sternum. If it was the first day he was taken, that was before we stole it. They nearly beat us to the artifact. Suddenly, the air feels lighter.

“And what’d ya say?”, asks Alabastra.

“Nothin’.” Nathaniel clears his throat. Alabastra’s eyes dart over Tegan and I, before back to the detective. “And they wanted to know if I was workin’ with anyone. Told ’em I worked alone. That’s Runo’s honest truth.”

The rogue considers for a moment, looking back to me, eyes flitting over my person, then asks, “Who hired you to find the watch?” She’s playing her hand close to the chest—not mentioning we read his files. I’m not eager to inform him of our break-in either.

“Never caught the fella’s name. Who knows if it’s connected.” It seems Alabastra’s not the only one playing coy.

The rogue doesn’t press him on it. “And, what were you looking into, before you got snatched up?”

He clicks his tongue. “Light me up, first.”

My fingers grip the edge of my lighter, thumbing the smooth outer edge in self-comfort. Fine. I reach across the table, sparking the thumbwheel and starting a burn on the end of his cigarette. “Now talk.”

Nathaniel takes a long drag of the cigarette, billowing smoke into the air like a sleeping dragon. “Right. These monster turnings. Seems like all over the city, half-monsters or cursed folk are revealing themselves. From who I’ve talked to, by accident, but who knows if that’s the case for everyone.” He hacks a wet cough from the smoke, and continues through the rasping, “Seems like it’s mostly those who’d otherwise be able to disguise their natures. They’re bein’ forced out of hiding.”

While that certainly doesn’t contradict what we learned ourselves, that is an angle I hadn’t considered. Not that it ultimately matters to me. I’m already cured.

The detective continues, “Some of ’em started goin’ missing after, eh, bein’ revealed. Never found one that was missin’ for more than a couple hours— ‘Cept.” His head tilts, as he recalls the details, reading files behind his eyes that aren’t there. “One of ’em came back. Case Number 412. Some… stage actress, apparently—a wereshark outta water.”

“Came back? From where?”, Alabastra ventures.

“Dunno. All I did know was that the case was called off by her family after she came home. Because she was ‘cured‘.”

I raise a brow. “… Cured.” My breath picks up again. Surely this wouldn’t have anything to do with the watch, and yet how else could he mean? Someone has some other way of expunging these compulsions?

“S’what they told me.” He smokes his cigarette again. “You don’t sound too shocked. You heard about this already?”

Alabastra swoops in, “We know of a couple ways around it. I dunno that I’d personally call them cures…” I glare in her direction, attempting to convey ‘speak for yourself‘ with just my eyes.

Latchet shrugs. “Either way, I never did learn more. Where she went to, what this cure was—the day I was gonna go talk to her was the day I got snatched.” Tapping the cigarette into an ashtray at the side of the table, he stares off into the window. “Anyways, I got a question. How did you find me, anyhows?”

She leans forward. “Lady never tells. Though, I’ll letcha know as a courtesy—cops were bribed not to come getcha.”

His face curdles, the news as rancid as his breath. “That so…?” Nathaniel leaves the still-lit cigarette in the holder, and slams the table in a flyby smack, startling the other patrons around us once more. “Damn.”

“That one got your goat, huh?”

The detective sighs, “Just confirms somethin’.” He stands, dusting the gathered crumbs off his coat. “If you’re itching to follow up, you’ll want Thassalia Demetrix, at the Sutolli Theatre.” He motions for Alabastra to let him past.

She backs up out of the booth, but crosses her arms, warding him from exit. “Well, what are you gonna do?”

“Me? I’m gettin’ the hell out of MC—out of Anily, if I can!”

“What?! You’re just gonna leave?”

The man nods his head, holding the condescending smile of a lifetime of sorrows on his face. “Yep.” He pops the ‘p‘ at the end, to accentuate his point. “I bumped off two fuckin’ Sable Guard back there. No way I’m stickin’ around.” He leans forward, gathering his things. “Besides, this whole country’s about to turn sideways. If you were smart, Camin, you and your— whatever they are would get out, too.” Yet another person convinced something monumental is about to occur in our republic.

Fists curled like it might protect her from his words, Alabastra says with a hard-edged voice, “This is my home. Hells or highwater, I ain’t leaving.”

“What, you think you got a chance, versus whatever’s comin’ next? You’re gonna get laid flat, kid.”

She shakes her head. “Even if I do, we gotta try. Maybe you’d get it if you hadn’t given up and buried your head in a bottle.”

He chuckles, once. “You can’t change the world, Camin.”

“I’ll take that bet.” She steps to the side, finally letting him out.

Nathaniel doesn’t go, for a moment. He stares at the rogue, hard-edged glower softened into curiosity, jaw grinding. For how brilliant a detective he’d been talked up to be, I’ve only seen up to now a trainwreck of a man, more fit for a pigpen than an office. But here, standing just in front of him, he seems to see a mystery all its own. ‘Who the hells does Alabastra Camin think she is?’ He appraises her, head bobbing with each pulled connection of thread in his microcosm examination, dried coffee and egg on the side of his face picked and plucked with each new entry in his case.

And then, as soon as he picks up the trail, he drops it again, and without another word, Nathaniel Latchet walks away. His sticks his hands inside his coat pockets, and quickly disappears into the crowd of the busy Nivannen streets.

After he’s well and truly gone, Alabastra sits back down, staring at us all. “Well, we got a next target.”

Tegan mutters, “I… guess I thought I’d feel better the day Nathaniel decided to fuck off forever.”

“Just like that asshole, right? Don’t let him getcha down, Dusty.”

“He’s not what’s got me down…”

She breathes out through her nostrils once. “Yeah…” Alabastra reaches across the table, holding Tegan’s hand in her own. “It ain’t gonna get any easier, babe. But you got me.”

The knight closes her eyes, taking a moment to let the words absorb. “Okay.”

I nearly mumble a ‘hypocrite‘, before catching myself. I just have to ignore them. As the two gather their things, I turn away from the light spilling through the window so it doesn’t exacerbate the rising migraine, and drop the lighter back into my bag. Perhaps I’ll have to dispose of it, so I’m not reminded of Latchet.

Alabastra looks to the sleeping faun. “Let’s go, Lightning Bug.”

Faylie flops her head over, rubbing under her eyes. “Where did Nathaniel go?”, she yawns.

“He went out for cigs.”

“Oh… well did we pay for breakfast, yet?”

The rogue claps her hands together, and says, “Right.” She pulls a small white check from the inside of her coat, and leaves it pinned under a plate.

Tegan looks down at the payment, then back up to the blonde. “Where did that come from?”

She winces, saying through a cringing smile, “Might’ve… forged a copy of the check Silver gave us?” She whispers the sentence in rapid succession.

“Allie!”

“What?”, she asks, incredulous. She pulls a cash note from the other side of her coat. “Tip’s real, at least!” She hurriedly scarfs down the remnants of her meal as she stands. “Now, let’s see if we can’t catch the matinee.”

Hi Nathaniel! Bye Nathaniel! I'm sure we'll never see him again... or at least I certainly hope so.

From here on we're into a rather long string of chapters I'm either extremely nervous or extremely excited to post, so, hope you're ready for that! Thanks for reading, and perhaps consider the patreon if you'd like to see more!

Next update is (1-28) lunafaction; on Tuesday, September 3rd.

Content Warnings

Kidnapping
Misogyny / sexual harassment
Classism
Violence, blood, death
Headaches

The rock-hewn walls of the dungeon snake into dark corridors, twisting on themselves like the stone intestines of a giant. Alcoves locked with grated iron gates lay mostly dormant, though we do pass a scant few cells with skeletal remains chained to the wall, bony arms hanging loosely from the manacles.

Fascinating, that such a thing lay just beneath the home of one so prominent. Was this some sort of bastion or guard’s office before it was the Councilman’s home, or did he have this made? The latter seems so farfetched it is nakedly ridiculous, and yet, here this place stands. It’s clearly in use, if the detective is truly to be found here. I clutch at my forehead. It hardly matters. Baseless speculation brings me no closer to being through with this saga.

Still blanketed in shadow from Faylie’s spell, we move swift and silent behind Tegan, who stays ahead of the pack and watches for trouble. “The fuck is this place”, she mumbles.

“Not the fun kinda dungeon, I’d wager…”, Alabastra says. Tegan comes to a sudden stop. “Poor taste?”

The knight turns, finger held up in a shushing motion. From around the next corner, clattering armor and conversation bounces through the tunnels. Tegan motions us to move flat against the wall, and wait.

One voice from around the corner says, “I heard you got screamed at yesterday.” His voice is old and gruff.

Another responds, naive and inarticulate, “Yeah. That wife of Mr. Serrone’s is a shrewd one.”

A clanging sound rings down the hall, like someone smacked a cauldron pot. “Watch your tone, boy. She’s Heavens-sent. Blessed by the Gods.” And the voice grumbles, “And she signs your paystubs.”

Tegan looks to us, and motions to a nearby cell, devoid of prisoners alive or dead. As silently as possible, she unlocks the cell door with the keychain she purloined, handing them off to Alabastra after she does. “I’ll distract them. Go get Natey.” She motions us inside.

Alabastra looks down at the keyring, then back at the covered helmet of the knight. Her emerald eyes, the only things visible from under her own mask, swell with concern. “Stay safe, Dusty.”

“You too.” Tegan closes the cell door, as we’re left in the cave-carved cell, too cramped for the three of us. She turns on one heel, and marches around the corner. “Hey! We’ve, uh, got a problem!”, she announces.

A pause. “… Well, what is it?”, asks the first voice.

She sputters. “Pfft. It’s… so bad!” Without elaborating, she woodenly marches back around the corner, and starts running down the hall the opposite direction from us.

For a moment, nobody follows, and I quickly start to suspect Tegan’s foolproof plan didn’t succeed. Until the Sable Guard eventually clatter behind, two men alerted and running after the faux-warden. As they spring off into the distance, Alabastra reaches back around the cell door, unlocking it deftly, and lets us out again. Down our escort, we slip unseen around the corner to another row of cells.

And there, in the dead-center cage of this affluent oubliette, the first living prisoner we’ve encountered sits and stares into the distance. He is a man in his late 40s, salt and pepper hair run through with grease and grime. The messy beginnings of a beard stick out of his chin like a five-o’clock pincushion. A dirty, old tan trench coat sits tied around his waist, his white button-down is ripped and torn and yellowed with stains, and an undone tie sits loose around his shoulders.

I can only assume this is our disappeared detective. As we approach, he lifts his head up, weakly, eyes sunken and tired. “The fuck is this supposed to be…?” His voice is scratchy and raw, and he heaves a dry cough after speaking that rips through the lines of his throat.

Alabastra kneels down on one knee to meet his eye level, and removes her mask, locks of platinum sheen cascading down her back. “Hey-a, Natey.”

Nathaniel Latchet looks into the rogue’s eyes, and then starts to laugh, which turns into another fit of dust-choked hacking. “Ahh… is that Alabastra Camin?” He shakes his head. “Not sure if that means I’m in the Heavens or Hells.”

“Given the circumstances, I’ll let that one slide.” She stands, spinning the keyring once around her index. “Not dead yet. We’re bustin’ ya out.”

Despite his sorry state, the detective cracks an ironic smile, lazily throwing his head backwards. “And why would you go and do a thing like that?”

Faylie speaks up, “It’s a super long story.”

The detective stands, wobbling on his feet. “That must be the little doe-eyes, then”, he says in Faylie’s direction. Her posture shifts defensively. Then he turns, and scans me once, up and down. “But this one ain’t got half-enough meat on her to be Tegan.” I narrow my eyes at him, and feel the muscles of my torso squeeze. There’s something exceedingly violating about his stare. What the hells is his problem?

With a quick motion, Alabastra stands in front of me. “Let’s get one thing straight, Nate. You got your freebie, but that was strike one.” She pulls the mask back over her head, blonde strands sticking out of the eye hole. “You hit three—I’m leavin’ you here to rot.”

He scoffs. “What is it with bossy dames this week…“, he mutters under his breath.

“Two.” She stares through the bars of the cage door.

Nathaniel rolls his neck, and sighs. “Fine, fine. How’d ya find me, anyhow?”

She taps her foot, arms crossed. “We were lookin’ into the same thing that got ya snatched up. At least, we think. We pull ya out, you dish your info free a’ charge. Fair trade?” I raise a brow. How highly does this man value information that his life and freedom are an equivalent exchange?

Stranger yet, he doesn’t agree right away. Instead, he seems to mull it over, chewing on the thought, considering us all. Finally, he says, “Ya got a deal, Camin. Where’re we goin’?”

“Anywhere but here.” Alabastra unlocks the door, then steps backwards, giving him enough leeway to finally walk free of his cell. He moves from the pen like a newborn deer, wide-eyed and world-weary.

Faylie whispers, “But, wait! What about—”

A clanging commotion sounds ahead of us, heralding Tegan’s return at the opposite end of the hallway, with the two other Sable Guard in tow. All three stop, and everyone stares wide-eyed at everyone else. For a brief moment, no-one makes a move or sound.

“Intruders!”, the less-sharp sounding of the wardens shouts. They both draw their swords, and rush past Tegan.

Tegan grabs one from behind, pulling him into a chokehold. Alabastra slides forward, ducking low under a swing from the other that clatters against the dungeon wall in a shock of sparks. She pulls a dagger from her belt and jams it into the guard’s underarm, with a crinkly-crunching sound as she pierces the chainmail. He drops his sword in pain. Tegan wrestles the man she has grappled, pressing him into the wall. The man elbows her in the side. She winces in pain, and throws him away from her, his own sword clattering to the ground as he’s knocked off his feet. Alabastra maneuvers away from the other man, joining Tegan’s side. The two men stand back-to-back, looking to each other, sandwiched between their two assailants, and the rest of us.

“VENTULUS“, Faylie chants. A massive gust of wind surges sideways, buffeting the two Sable Guard into the open cell, and slams the door behind them.

Alabastra darts forward, turning the lock. The two stand, grabbing at the bars of the cage, reaching at the rogue. They look down towards their belts, patting and finding empty space at their sides.

“Lookin’ for these?”, she says, holding two more stolen sets of keyrings in a triplet set in her hand, jingling like bells. She smiles wide, winks, and leads us down the hall. The guard shout behind us, relieved of their keys and pleading, but their protestations are choked under the heavy stone walls.

As we move, I notice the shadows no longer seem to blanket us. I turn to Faylie, brows furrowed in concern at her dropped spell.

She shrugs. “I could cast it again?”

And then, above us, a high-pitched droning, wailing sound screeches through the air. An alarm, whining its clarion call into the night. Alabastra sighs. “Don’t think that’s gonna cut it.”

* * *

On paper, the plan is very simple.

“INVISIBLIS.”

Run.

Under Faylie’s spell, we rush out the heavy iron door.

In practice, of course… through the windows, out to the inner courtyard, we catch several guardsmen already being stirred from their slumber by more of their comrades, recently arrived. The siren wails much louder now that we’re out from under the basement. The whole neighborhood must be awake. I curse us all for not having spotted wherever this alarm is before venturing down. Too late now—this is the hell we’ve made for ourselves.

Beside me, Alabastra says, “Shit! The fucking day shift.”

We link forearm to forearm, and speed through room after room of marbled lounges and hallways, before finally finding the non-courtyard-facing entrance. We stand in a small lobby the other end of our exit doors. A winding staircase wraps around the side of the foyer, white columns stretching up to a gold-colored ceiling. A glass chandelier the size of a printing press hangs in front of a second-story interior balcony. The teardrop-shaped platform stands just above the exit, held up by dual pillars. And standing the other side of its marble balustrade, two figures wait patiently.

To our right, a meek-looking man in his late 60s, wearing a nightcap and gown, hunched over his weathered limbs like a willow tree. His pock-marked face sneers at the caterwauling alarm, and he scratches at the whiskers of his scraggly white beard.

And to our left, a woman easily half or less his age, with tired eyes and a curt little smile. Her hair is a mop of short blonde curls, and she wears a simple dotted dress. She stands prim and proper, posture tight like a mannequin’s, and her nose is upturned as she tip-taps on the railing. And most concerning of all, she stares right at us, despite the invisibility spell.

As I look back up into her ocean blue eyes, there’s something about her that I can’t quite explain. Like déjà vu.

“Hmm. Well this certainly won’t do”, she says. We all freeze in place as the reality hits. “What in the heavens are you doing in our home—and with our house guest?”, she gestures lightly toward where I presume the unseen detective stands. Her voice is airy and even and filled with arrogant contempt.

The older man atop the balcony turns to her. “Lyla, who are you talking to?”

The woman, Lyla, shrinks slightly at her husband’s voice. Then she turns to us sharply, and simply snaps her fingers.

In a colossal shattering sound like a bomb in a window shop, Faylie’s invisibility drops, and we’re exposed to the open air!

Without so much as acknowledging the magic she’s just undone, she continues, “Latchet, darling, I realize we have not been as gracious as is becoming, but it would be best for everyone if good dogs returned to their cages.” The eerie little smirk on her doesn’t leave her even as she delivers her threats.

“Good Heavens! Call the guard!”, the man pleads, shocked by the sudden appearance of home intruders.

“Beric… we can’t wait for the guard. These heathens won’t be an issue.”

This is Beric Serrone, then. But clearly his wife is the larger threat at the moment. I look to Alabastra, then the door. We’re getting distracted. Despite the spell shattering, the exit is right there. Yet the rogue doesn’t move an inch, only watching Lyla Serrone intently.

Nathanial clears his throat. “Sorry, dollface—just ain’t my scene.”

“Hrm. Well, what are we going to do with you— and your little rat friends.” She leans forward over the railing, eyes passing over each of us. “Disgusting thieves, reeking of the cliff downs. Do you know what we do to rats, here in Firvus Heights?”

Alabastra backs up a half step, head darting around at every angle like a bird. Then snaps straight ahead of her, eyes wide with panic. “SCATTER!”, she shouts.

She darts forward at a diagonal, and her partners and the detective do the same, leaving me standing confused for just a moment too long in the center of the room. Lyla outstretches her hand, and shining, radiant light springs from her palm. It extends into columns of gold that separate out five-fold and collide in bursting holy magic where everyone else had been standing. The energy dissipates in harmonic ringing.

As the column strikes me, my heart feels like it stops. I feel withered and dried, shriveled skin peeling in flakes, and my veins alight in fire-like pain, seared and burned from within. I fall flat onto the ground, slammed hard into the rug, and in that dazed place between life and death, all I can think is how annoyed I am for not dodging.

Someone shouts, but I’m too disoriented to pick up what they say.

I feel that should have killed me. Or at least injured me such that I am no longer conscious. Yet I’m still aware. I hear the sounds of clamoring ahead of me. I open my eyes to the ceiling. The pain is immense, but bearable. I clutch at the watch on my chest. The watch. As I concentrate on it, already I feel the effects of the spell undone on my form, wound back in time like a reset clock. Another way it has saved me.

Lyla completes her thought, “We exterminate them. I only ask because I’m not sure you know— with your disgusting vermin-filled streets.” As she speaks, I pull myself back up, soreness down to my spine, dizzy, but very much alive. I look up at her, seeing double for a moment. “Oh. It’s tougher than it looks?!” She sounds scandalized. “You’re… you’re not just thieves, are you?”

From the hallway we came from, the shouting and marching of the guard fills the air. I stand, rushing forward to meet the rest. Under her mask, Alabastra looks down, concerned, but then shakes her head, and makes a break for the door.

“Ah-ah-ah, where do you think you’re going?”, says Lyla. As we reach the dark wood double doors, a torrent of shining gold energy erupts in a wall before us—a solid glinting barrier no less impassable than a steel vault, blocking our escape. Behind us, a half-dozen guards pile into the space we just were—Stygian bulwarks to contrast against the same gold-white force glowing behind them. We’re trapped. “We are not done here yet, you monsters. Conspirators! You’re here for me, aren’t you?!” Lyla’s eyes glow golden now, shining sclerae like the sun. Beside her, the councilman cowers behind a table.

Tegan and Alabastra form a line in front of us. “What’s the plan?”, the knight asks the thief.

“Fuck it, we’re wingin’ it.” She tosses a dagger to the detective, then pulls her bow from her back and fires an arrow off in one swift motion. As the arrow sails toward the enchantress, her form is encased in pure light, and the projectile bounces away harmlessly. Alabastra grumbles and darts up the stairs.

Tegan rushes forward to meet the onslaught of guards, outnumbered six-to-one, but taking a defensive stance at a chokepoint between a pillar and a wall. She centers herself low, planted like a great oak, shield at the ready. Beside her, Nathaniel Latchet stumbles forward, knife in a reverse grip, covering the knight’s flank.

I look around at the coming melee, and in the instant before the onslaught begins, I feel a strange pulling sensation deep in my mind. The whole world seems to stop, and then speed along in rapid time. Alabastra puts up a brave fight, but the sorceress dispatches her eventually. Tegan does her best, but there are too many of them. The detective is a rusty fighter, and he does not make the difference. Even Faylie’s magic fails. And nothing in my bag of tricks turns this tide.

This is not winnable fight. The conclusion is inevitable. It isn’t mere speculation—somehow, I know it.

Our only chance is getting the barrier down and getting out of here, otherwise we’re all dead. I turn to look at the faun, as she prepares her cards, shuffled in a floating array before her. “We can’t win. You have to break the spell.”

She looks nervously at the light magic behind us, then back to me. “I… I guess I could, but I’d have to concentrate, and I can’t cast anything else to protect myself, and what if someone sees me?”

My eyes rolls, and I reach into my satchel, fingers wrapping around another of last night’s creations. I pull the potion bottle free, and a small selfish thought occurs… I could simply use this myself. But, no. Even if I survived this initial attack, without the detective, I have nothing to show to the Gloamwoods. And clearly such measures aren’t enough to stop Lyla. No. This is the only logical choice.

Though a carving path of pain digs its way through my skull, I hand Faylie the potion. Visually, it looks as if there’s no liquid inside at all, yet the weight and sound tell a different story. “It’s an invisibility potion. So the guards don’t see.”

Her hands wrap around the flask, and she looks back up at me, eyes full of frightful fading stars. “But… the other mage…”

“Alabastra has her distracted.” I point up to the rogue, rushing to meet the rich woman. “Break the spell.”

“… What’ll you do?”

I look back to the unfolding skirmish. Tegan’s sword glows with holy light as she bats away an encroaching guardsman. The detective blocks a sword swing with the sharp end of his borrowed dagger, stumbling backwards. And having reached the top of the stairs, Alabastra begins a dance of frenetic blows exchanged with the sorceress.

“Mostly try to not be stabbed”, I intone. Easier said than done.

The faun quaffs the potion without another word, and she disappears from sight.

I creep over to a potted plant, and crouch behind the terracotta in cowardice. Above us, Alabastra fires off a volley toward the sorceress, who puts up a lambent barrier to block the arrows, plinking off the glowing gold with a crack. Lyla returns fire with a ray of sunlight. The rogue dodges with a quick roll, upturning a table for cover and causing the nearby councilman to yelp.

Tegan backs herself against the wall, her oncoming assault riven by the pillars like a wave split against a pier. Their attacks are coordinated, giving her little opening to do much but defend, holding out against the onslaught. The guard that had been harrying the detective draws blood across the arm, then kicks him low in the stomach, sending the newly-freed man to the ground. Dammit. If he dies, this was all for naught. Loathe as am I to participate, I have to do something. My hand wraps around a syringe in my satchel, and I stand.

“Hey!”, I shout, catching the guard’s attention.

He looks to me, then rolls his shoulders once, marching with ill-intent like a shark to chummed waters. As he approaches, sword at the ready, I can only think one thing. What the Hells am I doing?!

Desperate to keep the gap between us wide, I shove the potted plant onto the ground in front of him, and scramble up the stairs. Soil spills over the stairwell, and the poor, pathetic ficus does absolutely nothing to stop the guard. He stomps up the steps, picking up momentum to close on me. My instincts are woefully insufficient for this— yet as he winds back to bring his broadsword down in a vertical blow, something within me knows exactly where he’s going to hit. I simply need to not be there. I step to the side, and he connects with nothing but air. Inside his bubble, I swing desperately for an open slat between his armor, to jab the needle between.

The syringe snakes its way between the armor, but whether it’s pierced the inside lining or not is anyone guess, as the end meets resistance. I can only hope, as I press down on the un-plunged end. I try to step away, but the man grabs me roughly by the collar, and stops.

He pulls me into his own form, turning me around and pressing the sharp end of the sword to my throat. Every inch of me freezes under the grasping position, as I’m forced to look upon a similar scene atop the balcony.

Alabastra has Beric Serrone in the exact same position as myself, her own dagger to the councilman’s neck. She looks down at me, then back to Lyla.

The light-wielding sorceress only stares on, curtly, posture returned to her withdrawn state. “Rather bold…”

“Let them go, and I do the same”, says the rogue, as the old man shakes under her grasp.

“Or… you’ll kill him? That is the threat, correct?” Lyla stares at her husband, the column of her throat run-through with hard and tense lines. “Do it, then. Go on.”

She brings the knife up higher. “I will!” She glances to me once more, eyes darting back and forth, wild and manic.

Where before she seemed nervous, the mage now gains a confident glare, and she readjusts. “You’d be doing me a favor, really. I can always remarry. And in the meantime I gain all the sympathy of the grieving widow of a slain councilman.” Her head tilts. “Meanwhile, you’ll never know another moment’s peace, with Beric Serrone’s blood on your hands. Regardless of who you are under that mask, no expense will be spared to find you. And, to be honest—he’d be more useful as a martyr, anyways!”

Though only her eyes are visible under the mask, it is still plain to see that pure horror has stricken Alabastra; she holds not a shred of her usual confidence.

Lyla turns to the guard holding me. “Kill hi—”, she stops.

The sword at my throat clatters to the ground, sliding down several stair steps before becoming caught in the railing. The guard falls backwards over the side, fast asleep. He lands with a crunch that I have to assume for my sanity was not his neck. I wipe the sweat from my brow.

In the chaos of the moment, Lyla turns back to the rogue, preparing to unleash a spell. Alabastra throws the councilor to the side, attempting to duck low and dash at the sorceress. And for the first time in all the years I have known her, Alabastra Camin is too slow. The ray of light emanates and collides with the floor between the two women, and Alabastra is sent tumbling backwards, falling over the balcony baluster and landing hard on her side, a violent and brutal bounce to her head.

For a moment, a spike of panic runs through my heart, followed by a needle of pain in my mind.

“No!”, Tegan yells, batting away an attacker with her shield, and kicking another out of her way. She runs to Alabastra’s side, and the remaining two rush past her as she goes, both running to me.

The left one grabs my sight, and looks like he’s about to shout something, before a sword is pushed through his throat, back-to-front. The body falls away as the sword is pulled free, revealing Nathaniel behind it, swaggering and wielding the bloodied sword and dagger both. “They don’t make ’em like they used to, that’s for damn sure.” The other guard pivots toward the more dangerous threat, and the men engage in a pitched battle.

Behind them, Tegan reaches her lover, kneeling down and issuing a quick burst of her healing magic, jolting the rogue awake. Alabastra turns to look up at the still-helmeted knight, and says with a wheezing voice, “Trade with me.”

From the top floor, Lyla Serrone walks to the edge of the railing, and two golden glowing seraph wings erupt from her back. She lifts, flying into the open air of her home, floating above us all.

Alabastra rolls away, to engage the two remaining guardsmen, now returned to their feet. Tegan rushes to meet the flying enchantress. Her sword swings wide underneath the woman, but booming light shoots from the edge in an arc. It extends several feet from the sword and strikes Lyla in her center.

The sorceress hisses in pain, wings buffeting her higher into the air.

A still-injured Alabastra ducks between the blows of the guard, darting away, and plinks arrows off their armor. Unable to pierce their resolve in the frenzy, she turns and lines up a shot against the watchman engaged with Nathaniel. The arrow clanks into the back of his helmet, distracting him long enough for the detective to slip his blades into the man’s side. The detective smiles a tobacco-yellowed grin, and kicks the man away.

All four of us join together in front of the doors now, the two remaining Sable knights approaching side-by-side in mutually-covered flanks, as Lyla flies above us. She conjures another spell. Light gathers and grows between her hands, a summoned ball of energy that brightens with each second. A wind picks up through the room, carrying away unsecured knickknacks and light furniture, buffeting the woman’s hair in a wild mess, and even shattering the chandelier in a rain of glass.

Her voice booms with divine prominence, “You wretched vermin. Our Luminary Gods demand you repent!”

Behind us, Faylie’s voice chirps, “Well, I hope they’ll settle for re-treat!” An arcane card shines through the air, as a tiny sword-wielding king in blue light cuts the barrier in half. The wall of light sunders and falls away, exposing the exit. Without further comment, Faylie bursts through the doors.

We all rush after her, darting one-by-one into the open air. I hear a high-pitched whine as the spell we’d narrowly avoided burns its way through the foyer with holy wrath, immolating a path of destruction.

For my final trick for the night, I throw a second smoke bomb to cover our tracks in a confusing cloud of fog, and we make our desperate escape, running headlong into the morning dawn.

And here, two more of our crucial players are introduced. One expected... and one very much not.

Who is this Lyla Serrone? A threat? An angel? Certainly more than just a councilor's wife, at least...

Thanks so much for reading! We're getting into the more complicated elements of the plot now. And there's still so much to show you, yet... and if you'd like to see what that may look like, consider subbing to the patreon, perhaps!

Next update is (1-27) litharge; on Thursday, August 29th.

Content Warnings

Depression / Spiraling / Paranoia (same as it has been)
Reclaimed usage of homophobic slur
Gender dysphoria
Self-loathing
Sanism / Internalized sanism
Transmisogyny / Internalized transmisogyny
Personal arguments / attacks
Childhood trauma
Violent policing / punitive isolation of a minor
Drugging
Violence, blood, head trauma
Headaches

While not to the same extent, generalized warning this one gets heavy in a similar manner to 1-17. Take care of yourselves. ❤

Of course, with the blank check granted by the socialite, Alabastra could have chosen anywhere in the heights to stay. Yet, with her usual avoidance of wealth and its signifiers, I certainly didn’t expect her to choose the Gilded Gazelle, of all places. More of a lodge than a hotel, modeled after an old inn, for the fabulously wealthy and their families to stay when visiting Anily’s capital. The log cabin exterior contrasts with the paved road leading right up to the front door of the main building—a wooden lodge laid wide with a mountain-like roof assailing the air above in jagged peaks. Tall windows stretch from floor to ceiling, offering a view into the warmly lit interior, with chandeliers down a cozy lobby that looks more like a reading room. To the side of the main building, smaller cabins of alike construction make up the rented rooms, and the entire grounds is inundated with towering pine trees, out of their natural climate here in the capital—maintained, as is the premises itself, by elven magic.

As we venture inside, an elf in a well-tailored suit eyes us with suspicion from his seated position behind the receptionist desk. He adjusts the silk green bowtie on his neck, and says in a snooty voice, “How can I help you?”

Alabastra smiles, holding the check between her fingertips, and says, “Two rooms, sivleth.” I don’t catch the meaning of the last word. My grasp of elvish is dubious on a good day.

The receptionist raises a brow. “Right away…”

The trio’s leader steps close to the desk to settle the finances.

While she’s out of earshot, Faylie looks up at Tegan, with a curious tilt to her head. “What’d ya think of Vail?”

Tegan shrugs. “I guess he seemed, uh, confused? About what he wanted, I guess. Kinda wish things hadn’t moved so fast. Feels like we could’ve helped him.”

“Yeah…” The faun taps her thumbs together. “He was kinda hot though. Had that mysterious bad-boy thing goin’ on…”

“Not my type.”

Faylie crosses her arms, putting on a haughty affect. “Some of us aren’t so limited.”

The knight scoffs. She grabs Faylie by the waist, pulling her tight. “I don’t feel limited…” The faun fake-swoons in response, faint hand held to her forehead, before she leans up to kiss Tegan repeatedly.

I glue my eyes to anything else to keep them off the display. I suppose I did ask to not be included in the banter.

Alabastra walks back, two keys in her hands. “Well, look at you two eager beavers.”

With a sigh, Tegan says, “Y’know, on top of everything, I’m kinda pissed you implied I was scary earlier.”

Gait slow and exaggerated, Alabastra closes the gap between the three. “What, to that Partisan back there? Hun, big beautiful dyke in armor—he woulda ran for the hills.” She reaches under the knight’s armor, grabs at the collar of her linens, and pulls her close. “But not to me. Never to me.”

Tegan stares into her eyes for a moment, completely paralyzed, and the rogue looks like she’s going to lean in for a kiss. The knight blushes, but backs away, stammering, “U-uh. Acknowledged.”

Alabastra pulls her hands into little fists in the phantom space her girlfriend left, but nods with a bittersweet smile. “Ack-knowledged.”

This is starting to feel overly personal. “I am still here, you know”, I remind them.

The rogue turns to me. “That you are.” She flips one of the keys toward me. I snatch it out of the air, reading the ’13‘ engraved into the metal. “Plan is to get up n’ at ’em before dawn, scope out Serrone’s manor and pick up as much of their schedule as we can. If we’re real lucky, we might even catch an opening.”

Faylie whines. “We have to get up before dawn?! You’re turning into a real dictator.”

“Well, if you disagree let’s put it to a vote. All in favor, say ‘I‘.”

“I”, Alabastra, Tegan, and myself all say, raising our hands. As tiring as their antics are, this does finally mean she’s putting in some amount of hustle. I’ll take anything at this point.

“Seems you’re outvoted”, she says to the faun.

Faylie pouts. “Democracy’s a scam…”

We separate out to our rooms, the three of them locked arm-in-arm as they push into Cabin 12, giggling and laughing. I give an open-hand double tap across my face for staring, and enter my own room.

The interior is wall-to-wall with gold and brown wood paneling, and resembles a too-perfect ideal of a hunter’s lodge. A chandelier constructed of deer antlers hangs from the ceiling—I’d bet that makes Faylie feel a certain way.

Red velvet drapes over the windows, wood log furniture with seats of leather or furs half-encircles a stone fireplace, and a desk with too-narrow a workstation waits patiently for me, an ice-bucket-cooled champagne bottle to seal the deal.

I walk over to the windows to shutter the curtains, then to the desk. Clearing off the top, my makeshift alchemy kit unfurls with careful movements, and I begin my work. I’ll need an edge to be of use in whatever infiltration the rogue has planned tomorrow.

And I hardly need the sleep, anyways.

* * *

Not long after starting my work, waiting for a boil, I hear a knock at my door.

My gut turns. That had better not be…

I turn back to my station, hoping the visitor leaves.

They do not, as quickly a second knock pounds its way into my cabin. Fine. Perhaps it’s only room service. I march over and pull open the door.

Backdropped by the night sky behind her, Alabastra Camin stands just beyond the threshold, rubbing the back of her neck, guilty and shameful smile on her face. Her hair is let down and disheveled, and she wears only the bare minimum pieces of her outfit to be considered decent. “Hey. How’s the, uh, brewing comin’ along?”

I slam the door closed.

Only, it doesn’t full shut, stopped by some soft and fleshy thing wedged in-between the door and its frame. I look down to see Alabastra’s boot lodged into my cabin.

“Ow…“, she groans.

I brush off the shake of sympathy at having hurt her accidentally with a wince. “Get your foot out of my door.”

She knocks once against the side of the wood, spitting fast through the crack she’s forced open, “Look, we don’t have to do the small talk thing but can I please just say what I came here to say? Then I’ll leave.”

Of course, I should say no. Reaffirm that I want nothing to do with her any longer… but she’ll just keep trying. I’ve already proven once that my resolve is stronger than hers. She just needs to wear herself out again with this attempt, and she’ll give up.

I lax the door, though still keeping a hand on the handle, holding it there so there’s only that small sliver. “Speak.”

Her sighs echoes into the room. “I… I’ve been giving you space, because that’s what I thought you needed. But… but Tegan’s right. I should’ve just said this from the start. And I’m not just here because of her, I—” She breathes deep, shivering in the cold air. “I’m sorry. For what I said the other day—at the end, I mean, I know you’re not selfish. And I knew you were hurting— are hurting, and… and I’m sorry I haven’t treated you like it. And we shouldn’t have kept so much from you. My insight, our relationship, a lot of other stuff. I should’ve trusted you. I shouldn’t have fuckin’ lied.

“And most of all, I’m sorry for pushing you. I don’t want— fuck.” She starts to choke up. “I only wanted to show you that the door was open, and I… I fucked up. I threw it in your face when we were heated and— Gods, it shoulda never been like that in the first place. I should’ve started helping you a long fucking time ago. I’m sorry I wasn’t there earlier. I had years, and I didn’t do shit, and that’s on me. I’ve been a terrible fucking friend, and I just… I’m sorry.”

Her voice gets lower, sounding now like she’s speaking directly into the door, instead of through the divide. “I never wanted to scare you away. I… I didn’t know how to help. And that’s not an excuse, it’s just… And… and you don’t have to forgive me. Bu-but if you do, I promise I will be there. I am right here, and I’m not goin’ anywhere. I wanna make this right.” She sniffles once, waiting.

A pause takes the space, as I hold for any more addendums.

“… Is that it?”

“W-what?” She steps back from the threshold. “I mean, yeah I guess…?”

I slam the door closed again. An angry sigh rips through me, and I turn, making it two steps back toward my chair.

From outside Alabastra cries, muffled through the wood, “I’m not giving up on you!“

I guess she’s not done after all. I turn back around, and throw the door wide. “Why?!”

Her eyes are glassy, puffy bottom lids. A… another trick. It has to be. “I kinda thought I made that clear—”

“Why won’t you take the Gods damned hint?! I am done with you. I don’t want your help, or your twisted notion of friendship, or your outlandish ideas on gender or society or whatever it is you’re preaching. I just want you to leave. Me. Alone.”

She crosses her arms, and leans down. “Well, lemme ask you why? I’ve think we’ve both seen each other at your worst by now, and I’m. Still. Here. And despite it all, so are you! If you really wanted to be left alone you coulda ditched us, or said nothin’ at all. Don’t bullshit me—I know under all those layers of hatred for yourself that there’s someone desperate to get out. Someone I’m dying to meet. So why won’t you let me in?!”

I practically snarl at her. “Let you in?! You are a poison in my system, Alabastra. Hemlock in my veins. You’re nothing but a liar, unable to accept that your game is up.”

Alabastra bares her teeth. “That’s really all you think of me?”

My hands throw into the air. “Let us count the ways. You broke your oath, for one. Twenty-three people are dead, at my hands, because of you. And you never even apologized for it—because you don’t care. You’re a fucking sociopath.”

There is a pause, as she swallows a hard lump in her throat, before she says, “I’m not going to apologize for something I’m not sorry for. You deserve the truth, and that’s the truth of it. I am sorry we were in that situation at all, that’s on me. I was… overconfident. And yes, it’s terrible those folk had to die— better them than us. But what went down in that room? Not a shred of regret. And if you have to hate me for it, I get it. I know. I broke our promise. And those deaths are on my hands, even more than they are on yours. I know all of that.”

Before I can get a word in, she continues, “But you saved us. And more than that, you were asking me to watch someone I care about— fuck, someone I love die. Needlessly—because they were too in their own head to realize how much they had to live for. And I… I couldn’t—” She stands up straight, wiping away a tear. “I wouldn’t.”

“And you broke your other promise—”

“Did you… not hear what I just said?!” About what? Exasperated, she says, slowly, “I told you, I never used my Insight on you since I made that promise. I haven’t, and I won’t start now, even after everything.”

“And the things you kept from me…”

She sighs, searching for a moment. “I could come up with a thousand excuses for each one, and… and fuck I’m sorry that that’s my instinct at all. Alright, I… I live in lies. It was my world for years. Sometimes I just… I fuckin’ forget, alright? How much it hurts to not be able to see the truth. I own that.”

“And… what you… implied about me.”

Her gaze softens. “Never. I’d never lie to you about that.” She takes a moment before continuing, sorting out her thoughts. “I know what it’s like. To feel like you missed some fuckin’ rule book on how to be happy. To feel fucking jealous. To want something so bad, but not have the words to name it… not knowing what the fuck is wrong with you, what that emptiness means. Like even if you did have the words, you couldn’t really grasp it. Like you’d just be pretending, because that’s all you know how to do.” Alabastra takes a breath. “I know all of it. And I can’t stand seeing you drown anymore. I just wanted you to know that it’s okay to come up for air.”

My eyes dart around. How could she possibly— No. She’s lying. She must be lying. “You’re just… you’re trying to manipulate me. That’s all this is.”

She sputters, for the first time tonight seeming shocked. “Manipulate you?! Are you swallowing Lupine propaganda now? All this at the mere suggestion that you might be happier as a girl? I know I shouldn’t have thrown in your face, but it’s not shameful!”

“…”

“You…” She blinks. “You don’t think it’s shameful, right? That I’m shameful?” Her voice cracks.

I stare off into the distance. For a while, we just wait, the weight of her words washing over us both, as her face twists in pleading.

My mouth contorts to say something— anything— but nothing comes out.

And then, for the final time tonight, I slam the door in her face. Not furious like before, but resigned and pained. An unspoken plea that she just leave. Moments stretch on into viscous and crawling time, as I simply stand there at the inside of the doorway. And finally, I hear her footsteps retreat.

My lungs release shaky air into the ether, and I can only think to stay there for yet a moment longer. I try to let even a single thing she said sink in, but it slides off, rain rolling on a glass window.

It… doesn’t matter…

I collect myself, to finish my work. I’ll need to sleep eventually tonight after all, it turns out. I shouldn’t be thinking of that conversation into the dawn.

And perhaps I’ll try to brew something for this damned headache.

* * *

My hands clutched a broken bottle, barely fitting between my miniscule fingers.

This is an early memory. I must have been eight or nine… Nine. According to the case worker. I had no reason to disbelieve her, but… I couldn’t remember.

I’d run away. That was all I knew. That, and there was this feeling, that they couldn’t find out, couldn’t discover the dark thing at the center of my being. I needed to hide it, and I needed to get away so I could do that. Child logic.

I had tucked myself between two rotting boxes. The alley smelled rancid, stale and rotting, and a disgusting layer of muck coated the floor. The jagged edges of the bottle in my hands glistened with crimson ichor. I never learned the source. Balancing on the tips of my feet, elbows to knees, I rocked back and forth, shivering in the night air.

Despite it all, I was… calm. Alert, ready to bolt or act, but not panicked. Holding that broken piece of glass, I felt in control. Prepared. Sedated. Prepared and sedated and controlled… that was me. In the eye of the storm of chaos, things were still. Controlled and prepared and sedated—everything made sense.

Footfalls rounded the corner into the alley, and two figures entered the scene—a police officer, baton already out, and my case worker. Her name was Yasmine. She was an older human woman, dark skin, wearing small rounded glasses at the tip of her nose. Her face scrunched up as she tsk-tsked down at me. “Oh, Oscar… what are we going to do with you?”

‘Oscar’. The name didn’t quite sit right, but I supposed it was mine.

The officer said behind her, “Stay back, miss. He’s armed.”

“He’s a child”, she bit back. “A very troubled one at that.”

Apparently this wasn’t the first time I’d done something to this effect. I’d been told I had a reputation for violence, running, and rambunctious and disturbed behavior outside even the expected limits of a child. I didn’t particularly feel the urge to do anything of that sort in that moment, or many of the ones after. In truth, I’d only ever been told of my belligerent history. Since this memory, I’d never felt any desire to add to it. Not unless I was hungry—but even then, that was a solvable problem. Yasmine would allude to me like I was a dog on a leash, one step removed from tearing throats.

I looked up at her, and dropped the bottle. There was no need to continue this charade. “Where am I….?”, I asked, shaking voice confused and lost.

She pulled her face into a pitying side-pout. I’d hated that. Pity. I didn’t want to be pitied. I wanted to be forgotten. “You’re a long way from the orphanage, and I’m not too sure they’ll take you back after… this.”

“Okay…”, I whispered.

Yasmine sighed once, shaking her head. “We’ll have to hold you somewhere for a few days, until we find someone that will take you in.”

“Okay…”

The officer said, “Well, we can toss the little guttersnipe in a cell, I guess?” He looked over at me. “S’what we do to criminals.”

Pushing her glasses to the bridge of her nose, Yasmine said, “He’s not a criminal.” She sighed. “You men see every problem as a nail to your hammer.”

He squared his shoulders, set off by what she’d said. “Ma’am, I can’t let a violent thug roam the streets. You wouldn’t understand—we have to make the hard choices.” He stomped toward me, and roughly grabbed me by the arm. It wasn’t hard—he could wrap his whole hand and then some around my malnourished form. He pulled me to my feet, and I yelped in pain.

“Stop!”, yelled Yasmine.

“Come find us at the station”, he said. I couldn’t help but struggle against his grip. He was pulling too tight, clamping around my bicep so hard I feared it might snap. I tried to pull away, and he only grabbed tighter. “Stop fighting and it won’t hurt!”, he seethed down at me.

I looked up, vision shaky and blurred, trying to find some humanity in his eyes. It made logical sense, I realized. I went limp in his grasp, letting the man lead me into an awaiting wagon, where we pulled off into the night. I’d end up spending three nights in a dark, clammy, cold iron cell, but that officer was, ultimately, right.

It would have been worse, had I resisted.

* * *

The manor of Councilman Serrone is more modest than Forsyth’s estate, though that hardly says much. Tucked between several buildings, the home is certainly well-to-do, but less sprawling, the end point of a line in a proper neighborhood with the homes of other politicians, magnates, actors, and athletes. The manor wraps around itself, creating a central courtyard within that an archway gives a peek into. Tall stacks of floors taper to a single tower standing corner-to-corner with a street intersection.

And this early in the morning, before the crack of dawn, the Sable Guard move as if sedated, yawning into their gauntlets, and fighting to stay awake through the tail end of their night shift.

We watch from the bushes of the opposite building, peeking between the hedges to observe. Faylie lets out a high-pitched yawn, slumped against the shrubbery and rubbing her eyes. “This sucks.”

“Try to think of it as a learning experience”, Alabastra says, peering through a pair of binoculars.

“What am I learning?”

She clicks her tongue. “If you have to ask, it means you haven’t learned it yet!” The half-elf hmms to herself, ignoring Faylie’s pouts at her comment. “Lotta guards, but they aren’t very alert.”

Tegan shrugs. “This is a councilor’s home. Isn’t that the norm?”

Alabastra shakes her head, handing her spying implement off to the knight. While she peers through them, Alabastra explains, “Usually they don’t bother packing this tightly around any one home. And why would they? After all, whole district’s off limits, free of dirty little thieves.”

“They’re expecting trouble”, I deadpan.

She nods, not looking in my direction, bristling. “And yet the force is slackin’ off. Means they’ve been expectin’ that trouble for a while.” The rogue puts a gloved hand to her chin, starting to pace. “Our second councilor this trip, and both’re Lupine Party.”

That is an interesting coincidence. For all their dangerous rhetoric and rabid groundswell support, the Lupine party holds only a small fraction of seats on the Assembly. Disconnected from politics as I am, even I know that. Still, it likely doesn’t mean much. So the collection of rabidly violent extrajudicial authoritarians are likewise involved in less-than-savory back-end dealings. What a revelation!

Faylie starts to grab at the binoculars from Tegan, who swats her hands away. Her ears fold down like switched levers. Then she turns to look at Alabastra, a curious tilt causing one antler to dip into the hedge. “How old is the Lupine party, again?”

Alabastra looks up, tallying in her head. “Guess it depends on what you’re askin’. They’ve got roots in some smaller groups, ’bout two, three decades back? Right after the Runeplague. But the full-blown party, with the wolves and the flag-fucking…” She starts to mutter under her breath, fragments of sentences, years, and dates, almost rambling. “Nine years? Roughly.”

“Heh. Ruff-ly. Because of the…” Faylie tapers off as Tegan turns her head slowly to stare down at her. She laughs, nervously. Then, without warning, she snatches the binoculars from the knights grasp, and blows a raspberry to gloat.

“Wh— Allie!”, Tegan exclaims, running to her leader for assistance.

The rogue only shrugs. “Nobody made you fall in love with a couple-a kleptos, Dusty.”

I groan.

The other three stop, the mood smothered in its crib. An awkward beat hangs over our side of the shrubbery. Another twinge of pain shocks through my skull. Fuck.

Already I’ve broken my rule. I’d resolved after last night to stop interjecting into their conversations at all—to quit inviting their ire or interest alike upon me. Yet it just came out of me. I couldn’t even help myself.

Tegan clears her throat. “Uh. So… Allie, what do we know about Serrone specifically?”

The rogue says, “Beric Serrone… been on the Assembly for… few years now? Always seemed like a scaredy-cat to me. Obsessed with his wife. Honestly, not much beyond that—he’s not one for the spotlight. Not like I memorize every detail of every Common Assembly member.”

“But you… knew where he lived?”

Alabastra grins. “Well, I do remember the important stuff, hon.”

Ignoring their conversation, I tap on Faylie’s shoulder, holding my hand out for the spyglasses. She whines, “I just got them!”

“You’re using them backwards”, I deadpan.

“Oh.” She looks down at the binoculars, then sadly passes them over.

Through the lens, I see the laxing watchmen, yawning, lazy and cutting corners in their patrols. They’re already tired. An idea starts to form in my head. I hand the spying implement back over.

Digging through my pouch, I pull out a small familiar potion of pale blue soporific liquid, and a freshly-made ceramic sphere filled with billowing smoke. Carefully, very, very carefully, I pop open the rounded cork at the top of the cannister, and empty the vial into the swirling catalytic mixture.

“Watcha got there?”, asks Alabastra.

I reseal the ball of violent potential, and hold it out in my hand. “This will, I believe, subdue any in a large area. For a short time, anyways.”

The rogue raises a brow. She cracks no jokes, beams no smiles. Only stares, passively. “Cook that up just now?” Her lack of geniality is strange— but exactly what I wanted, of course. Finally, some professionalism.

“And last night.” I stand, dusting myself off. “But putting the outer guard to sleep hardly helps us once we’re inside.”

Tegan huffs, leaning back into the shrubbery, which swallows more of her than she was likely expecting. She pretends not to notice or care. “Then, what’s the plan? Just hope we stumble across him without anyone spotting us?”

Alabastra looks back through the hole in the bush, then to her armored girlfriend once more, and this time, does indeed grin mischievously. “How ya feelin’ about a costume change, Stardust?”

* * *

From the side of the building as the outermost patrolling guard rounds a corner, Faylie weaves a spell through the air. “VERTO“, she utters, card outstretched, and in the center of the courtyard, a flash shines. Iridescent light swirls and folds on itself, like a mass of multicolored tentacles. The attention of the Sable Guard is drawn immediately, and they spring to action.

They shout for each other, and the outer patrolling watchmen come running, to see what’s got the rest worked up. And as they all crowd into the courtyard, Alabastra underhand-tosses my creation into the center of the yard. It cracks and releases its bounty. Immediately, infused purple gas starts to pour over the space, a cloud of opaque fog swallowing the guard. And through the fog, one-by-one, the vague outlines of the men start to drop to the ground, displacing the haze around them like fallen trees in a misty forest, as they’re knocked out by the Subduant-infused smoke bomb.

Faylie quick-swaps the card between her fingers for one depicting a single hand wrapped in clouds, holding a wooden wand. “VENTULUS.” She swipes the card from right to left, and the magical emanation of the hand points its wand forward. A gust of wind blows away the smoke, quickly as it came, leaving bare the slumbering Sable Guard on the floor.

I look down at the scattered sleeping bodies, dropped over this courtyard like flies. “That won’t persist for long. Maybe a half-hour, if I’m being optimistic. Which I’m not.” I am only so generous at all because the guard were exhausted to begin with.

Alabastra dusts her hands, looking down at the unconscious protection. “Hells, that sounds like plenty to me.” She turns to Faylie and I. “Masks on, you two”, she orders, pulling a black cloth wrap over her nose and head, leaving only a sliver of her eyes exposed. She tosses two more to Faylie and myself.

Grumbling all the while, I put the mask on, having to let my hair loose to do so. As I do I ask aloud, “Why are we not just disguising ourselves with magic?”

Faylie says, “Because that spell is hard! Who knows what’s in there? I wanna be ready for anything!”

Beside us, Tegan, having shunted herself of her own armor, stored safely in Faylie’s bottomless bag, now pries the metal carapace pieces off a guard of her size, pulling a dark metal helmet over her face. “This is a terrible idea”, she complains, voice muffled and menacing under the dark steel bucket. “You know I suck at lying.”

“Just remember your lines, babe”, says Alabastra. “‘I need to check on the detective. Everything’s fine outside.‘ We’ll be right behind you.”

“R-right.” She straps the last vestiges of the armor to herself, leaving the slumbering guard in his linens. “Do I look alright?”

The rogue appraises her. “Definitely the hottest styx copper I ever saw.”

“Don’t joke like that”, she says, genially. Tegan steps past us, fishing the keys off the guard’s belt as she goes, and unlocks the door. She greets the unknown interior with hard footfalls, leaving the door open just long enough for the rest of us to slip inside.

The interior is a tight corridor of plaster, decorated to look opulent, but without regard for taste. Console tables, gilded picture frames, and soulless formulaic landscapes paint a picture of a house as a desperate status symbol instead of as a home.

Tegan begins to march down the hall, head darting side to side, as the rest of us huddle around Faylie. “UMBRA“, she whisper-casts, Moon card shifting phases until it disappears into eclipse. The shadows of the surrounding areas cling to us, a soft blanket of night. Shadow magic. My gut turns when reminded of the similarities to my banished other-self’s capabilities, but it is a lesser spell, and more convenient for the situation than full-blown invisibility. “Whew. Really giving my willpower a workout this morning.”

It isn’t long before the hallway opens to a reading room, ugly patterned carpet in a cramped two-story library, branching off to other rooms further beyond. The second floor hangs over the edges of the first in an interior balcony, wooden arches like rows of empty gravestones. At the other end of the room, a Sable Guard stands at attention to Tegan’s entrance.

“Is something happening out there?”, he asks, voice younger than I’d have expected.

“Uhh.” Tegan swallows. She had better not ruin this. “I need to… check on the detective. Everything’s… fine outside?”

The security sentry stands silent for a moment, the open face of his helmet giving sight to the confused downturn of his frown. “Yeah… sure, okay. He’s downstairs.” I wipe a drop of sweat from my brow.

“We’ll be right behind you.”

“Huh?! We?”

Why.

Tegan fumbles. “Um, uh, I, uh. Me. Right behind you.” If she could shake out of the armor she’d have left the metal in shelled chunks on the floor by now.

The other guard stares for a moment longer, and the tension feels nearly ready to snap. Then, he chuckles. “First day, huh? Don’t worry, you’re not alone—I just started last week. C’mon, I’ll take you to him.”

The ill-guiled knight sighs, and follows behind the sentinel. We stick to the shadowed sides of the room further back, under the blanket of darkness, as we wind through wide corridors, the entrance lobby, and a recently-cleaned dining hall. We reach another hallway, and sitting at the end of it is a black iron door with chains affixed to its front. The guard steps forward and unfastens the chains with two quick turns of a key, then swings the heavy entrance open with a dull thud into the wall. A set of stairs descends into a dark basement.

He takes a few steps down, then stops and turns as Tegan crosses the threshold. “Make sure to close it behind you! They really drilled that into me on my first day here.”

“Uhhh…” Tegan starts to look back towards us, then stops herself. “Ye-yeah. That makes sense. I’ll just. Close the door. Behind us. So that it’s… not open!”

“That’s… how a door works!”

She moves for the handle, and freezes. What is she doing? She turns her head in our direction, then looks back at the Sable, and whispers under her breath. “Fuck. Sorry, man.” And in a rush, Tegan launches forward down the stairwell, grabbing the Sable by the helmet guard and slamming his head into the wall of the stone staircase twice. He collapses onto the steps.

Alabastra rushes forward. “Geee, Dusty, the hells was that?” She doesn’t sound angry, only bewildered. “We coulda just unlocked the door, y’know…”

Tegan sighs. “Right. It’s just— my oath. ‘Never shall I choose Advantage over Loyalty‘…” She lifts the guard of her helmet up, revealing an abashed grimace. “Sorry.”

The rogue chuckles, placing a hand on her lover’s exposed cheek. “You’re adorable.”

I cross my arms. “The guard is hemorrhaging through his helmet.”

“Oh! Shit”, Tegan says. She turns, kneeling over the felled guard. Alabastra produces a spool of rope from her bag—how much of that does she have—and hogties him, with an extra loop over his mouth. As she goes, Tegan pulls the man’s helmet off, concentrating on the source of the blood at the side of his head, trailing over his face. Her gauntlet glows gold, and she stands. “Okay, uh. He probably won’t have brain damage?”

“Eh.” Alabastra shrugs. “These guys work for fascist kidnappers-slash-murderers. I think his egg could do with a little scrambling.” She turns, and closes the heavy iron door behind us. A single torch at the bottom of the stairs is our only guiding light.

With cautious footfalls, we descend into the dungeon beneath the councilor’s abode, steps echoing in steady rhythm.

An apology... rejected. Seems words may not be enough for this problem. At least you tried, Allie.

And now we arrive at our target manor. Does the detective wait inside? Alive or dead? And just why was he taken at all? Perhaps we'll see...

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Next update is (1-26) aureate; on Saturday, August 24th.

Content Warnings

Depression / Spiraling / Paranoia (same as it has been)
Graphic depiction of decaying bodies
Large spiders / bugs
Infection
Fascism
Abusive parents (heavily-implied)
Headaches

“And… got it!”, announces Alabastra, as she cracks open the crypt lock. The heavy slate doors slide open, daylight spilling into the dusty insides of the tomb. I take only a quick look inside before casting my eyes back to the graveyard we find ourselves in. Sprawling, neat, and layered, the second graveyard I’ve visited today, and far more austere than the last, adorned with obsidian statues of the Goddess of death. Skeletal hands emerge from the sleeves of her black veil to beckon the departed into the beyond.

Standing outside the family tomb of the Hosglower dynasty, a name I’m unfamiliar with, the rogue gestures us quickly inside. The interior of the crypt descends into the earth, stairs opening into a wide chamber for the slumbering dead, peaceful in their stone beds evermore. Urns in alcoves carved out of the wall doubtlessly hold cremated ashes, and shelves display books and personal effects, jewelry, ornamental swords, and even children’s toys in a ritual of comfort. Black unlit candle holders and unfurled scrolls of scripture are the only signs anyone makes any regular visits here at all.

As we all walk down, Grace is the last behind us. Alabastra looks over her shoulder, and holds out a hand. “Wait up here, Silver Spoon. Might get dangerous. Just make sure nobody comes in behind us.”

The socialite grabs her forearm. “But… Vail…”

“Tell us somethin’ only you’d know, so he knows you sent us.”

Grace thinks for a moment. “I guess… mention how I broke my arm last Heimsfest. Father didn’t want me to go to the hospital until after the party was over so I didn’t cause a scene, so he took me instead.”

The rogue winces at the anecdote, then nods. “Can do. We’ll be out in no time.”

With a scraping sound of stone on stone, Tegan closes the crypt door behind us. We’re left in darkness, not a problem for myself or the half-elf, but the other two stumble around without sight.

“LUX“, Faylie says, as a small light emanates from her hand, outstretched into the chamber.

Alabastra’s hands go to her hips, tapping her foot. “Secret entrance… secret entrance… Hmm. Look for scuff marks on the ground, disturbed dust, anything that looks too clean. Fuckers came through recent, so there should still be signs.”

We fan out, searching the premises for marks of entry, footsteps, anything—but after several minutes, nobody catches a clue. “You sure this is the right place?”, asks Tegan, watching the graves with a paladin’s eye.

Mock-offended by the insinuation her information is wrong, Faylie upturns her nose. “He said Hosglower.” She moves to one of the candelabras, igniting the candle with a snap of her fingers. The light in her hand goes out. “Arm’s getting tired. I’ll light the rest.”

Faylie moves from candlestick to candlestick, until the room is awash in a warm orange glow. As she walks to the last to finish her rounds, she stops. “Huh. This candle isn’t real.”

Alabastra hurries over from the bookshelf she was trying every book from. “That sounds like our ticket to ride.” She grabs at the metal pole, attempting to maneuver it around, only to find it stuck in place. She pushes it every which way, but nothing happens.

I think on the interior of the building. The entrance couldn’t be built into the walls of this place, or it might run counter to the other graves and crypts here. It would have to be built from the floor. But, then, what could be covering it other than the graves…?

Hmm. I move to the sarcophagus that the candelabra sits in front of. There are scratch marks at the side of the lid; scarce are the reasons someone would have to open a coffin again at all, let alone often enough to etch wear and tear into the edges. “At the risk of sounding sacrilegious… Open this coffin, Tegan.”

The paladin hems and haws. “Uh. Lemme just…” She paws at the symbol around her neck, and her eyes beam with gold. Immediately her face turns sour, and she backs away from me. Detecting me. “Fuck. I forgot.”

My fists squeeze into tight balls. I suppose I still count as undead even with the watch’s influence. The sides of my neck grow sore, throat muscles constricting. “I think we’d notice if there were any undead in here, paladin“, I hiss at her, reviled by the reminder.

“Right”, she says, cutting the glow away with a fluttering of her lids. She walks back to the sarcophagus, grabbing the sides. With a mighty heave, she throws the lid aside, revealing an empty tomb. I look to the rogue. “Try again.”

Alabastra grows her annoying grin across her face once more. “Sure. If you ask nicely!”

I almost snap at her again for that little comment, but there’s honestly no point. I’m starting to tire of the— Ngh. Like someone lit a fire in my synapses, the headache returns once more. “Just… just do it”, I say through clenched teeth.

She eyes me suspiciously, narrow mirthless rays cast down. Wordlessly, she tests at the candelabra again, and successfully pulls it backwards. With a click, the bottom of the sarcophagus falls out, revealing a trapdoor down into a dimly lit staircase.

“Huh.” Alabastra walks forward, stepping into the sarcophagus. “Well, they always told me I had one foot in the grave, but I—”

“Please stop.”

* * *

Even the sewers are nicer.

Not by much, mind. No amount of affluence can excise that smell. But the brickwork is better maintained, there are guard rails separating the walkways from the filth river, and there are even lights. Fluorescent bulbs overhead, flickering and giving off nearly less than a torch’s, but lights all the same.

We exit out from the tunnel the stairs meet with, crawling through an open portcullis in the wall. The moment we do, Alabastra walks to the railing, head swiveling side to side. It doesn’t take long to find signs of our query. The stench of a rotting corpse mixes horridly with the refuse. Flies swarm over congealed blood, and a cold and lifeless disemboweled body sits at just the other side of the river, over a stone bridge.

“Ngh, fuck”, Alabastra forces out through a grimace, holding a hand to cover her nostrils. “Anybody got anything for that stench?”

I roll my eyes. If the malodor weren’t so assaulting to myself I’d consider letting her fester, but I’d also like this to be over. I reach into my bag, producing some incense in a bowl and a lighter. Covering the smell with an equally strong one should at least assist. I light up the incense, holding the brass bowl out as I fetch a work glove so that I don’t burn my own hand.

“Guess that’s something”, says the half-elf.

Over the bridge, we get a better look at the corpse, swatting away the teeming insects. It’s a human, dressed in the old uniform of a soldier, perhaps early 40s. I’m no expert in forensics, but I’d imagine he’s been down here a week or more, at least, judging by the pallor and the bloat.

“Ew, ah, no no no”, Faylie yelps, turning away from the sight, head buried into Tegan’s breastplate. The knight instinctually rubs the back of the faun’s head. I’d never have taken the faun for squeamish, for all her talk about fireballs and her flippant attitude toward violent escalation.

It only takes a moment of appraisal at the body for Alabastra to say what I’m already thinking. “Not our man.”

I intone, “The Partisan mentioned that this ‘Vail’ was chased into the sewers by one of their own. I suppose this is him.”

“Lucky for us”—she walks past the corpse, taking a large step over the outstretched legs—”He left a trail.” She points to streaks of blood, leading around a corner and down a significant stretch of the waterworks.

We continue on, close enough to the deceased for a moment that the incense does nothing for the stench. I consider myself thankful that I’ve ironed my stomach against foul influences, or my insides would be without by now.

… Like Faylie. She heaves and retches on to the floor, teary eyed. “Sorry…” She holds her nose, closes her eyes, and sprints past the corpse. Alabastra has to catch her by the forearm to keep her from spilling into the river of sewage.

The rogue pulls her close, both up against the wall. Sighing in relief for a moment, she says, “Not our finest dance, Firefly, but still sweet.”

Faylie smiles briefly, then her cheeks putt out. “Yugh. Don’t say sweet right now.”

Past the body, a trail of smeared crimson leads further on. Even here in the upper city, the underburrows are like another world—any one of these passages might descend down into forgotten caverns, buried sections of the old city, vestibules of forgotten lore, and the burrows of awaiting predators to pounce. These tunnels eventually connect to the cliffside, dig down to meet the lower city’s subterranean network, and even run headlong into the beating nexus of the city itself—the source of Bassarin river.

Somewhere under this plateau, beneath the footfalls of the wealthy and powerful, lies the heart of the waterways. A ceaseless fountain of life springing forth eternal rivers that flow out into the city, and beyond. An endless, aqueous flowing tap into another world of infinite fresh oceans. The reason for Marble City’s founding, and success. A portal to the elemental plane of water.

The streams running through these sewers, the river that cuts through Nivannen, the tap water in my home that slakes the thirst of my profession; all of it flows from the same source, monitored and controlled here by a convoluted series of piping, aqueducts, and basins to industrialize that most quintessential source. Though how to navigate toward that center from here would be a nightmare of twisting passageways. Our current destination is almost certainly more modest.

It isn’t long before the bloodstains start to dry up. Or, more likely, washed away bit by bit. That is, until they turn into a side passage, diverting away from the sewers into a rockier tunnel, before connecting again with what looks like an old brick chamber here in the underground. A bloody hand smear points down into a stairwell, like an accidental arrow.

“Creepy, but helpful!” Alabastra leads us down the stairway. Should the fiendling have set up any traps, I’m glad to let the rogue bear the brunt.

Down the stairs we find ourselves in a concrete and brick nook, likely a maintenance space, full of vertical pipes and tubes, smelling of damp mildew. The dark and eerie ambiance croaks with water droplet sounds… and skittering. I tense up.

At first I believe it to be little more than a nuisance—until the tapping on concrete and metal starts to grow louder.

Faylie says, “Is that…”

Tegan tenses her grip around her sword, and draws. “Yep.”

From out of the darkness leap several horrid forms bearing mandible and claw. Six dull-pink insects, the size of raccoons, each with six legs along the front. Their backs rise in a bulbous elongated abdomen ending in a stinger, and four angry eyes each stare beady and black at their prey. They move in a swarm.

The knight rushes forward, her shield up to make a wall against the onslaught of ant-like enemies. Alabastra dashes back, nocking her bow and skewering one of the vermin through-and-through. It squeals in a horrible hiss as it dies. Cards already out, Faylie conjures an un-shouted barrage of raw magical force to assail the bugs, bursting one in a shower of disgusting liquid insides. Tegan’s sword buries through the hardened carapace of a third, and it twitches to expiration.

A bug skitters past Tegan and makes a leap for Alabastra. She spins to avoid the sharpened pincers of its front legs, using her bow like a bat to beat it away in a manic escape. I hardly even have a moment to savor her misfortune, as a click-clacking draws my attention just in time to my side as another of the insects is now upon me!

I back up frantically as it scuttles after me. In a panic my hand fumbles around my bag for something— anything that would help. My legs trip behind me, and I land with a hard crack on my tailbone. A sword-sharp point at the end of its spindly leg rears up to pierce through my chest.

With closed eyes I smash the only thing I managed to pull from my bag against the craggy exterior of the awful thing. Glass shatters before me, and I open my eyes to see a lavender liquid sliding off the creature. It stumbles from my accidentally issued Subduant, swaying like it’s drunk, tip-taps of its pincers across the concrete.

Tegan cuts it in half. She turns to me, sheathes her sword, and sticks out a hand to lift me up.

I look around at the rest to see the one that had been harrying Alabastra is burned with Faylie’s magic. Skittering down the maintenance hall tells us the last has retreated from its mealtime folly.

Brushing myself off, I stand on my own, refusing the outstretched hand of the paladin.

Alabastra says, “Fuckin’ aricades.” She spits down on one of the insectoid corpses. Now deceased enough to get a proper look at their physiology, they seem halfway between spider and beetle, a foot-and-a-half of vicious killing potential. I’ve never seen one up close; it’s not an experience I was ever hoping to have.

Strange that aricades would infest upper city sewers such as this. Perhaps this section of the city isn’t patrolled often; it would track with how long that body’s been left unattended.

At the side of the concrete nook, a blue-painted door is shut closed, but light spills from underneath the cracks. Alabastra walks forward and, bizarrely, raps her knuckles against the metal. When she receives no response, she creaks open the door, peering her head around the corner. Beyond the threshold, it seems to be a supply closet, or perhaps an office.

“Oh shit”, she says.

Following after, we step inside to see the near-still form of a fiendling laid out on an old ratty mattress. The figure has dull, ruddy red skin like terracotta, and curved black rams horns that poke at the stained cushion. Dark brown hair cut short half-covers the face, stuck-to with sweat. Notably, the figure looks to be asleep, bandages wrapped all around the torso, in two sets. The bandages around the midsection are stained and bled through, but the set around the ribcage is not. Strange.

In the corner of the room, two scimitars stand on their blade tips, pinned to the wall with a pile of dirty clothes. The wrapper remnants of rations, several more aricade corpses, and a canteen at the fiendling’s side tell a survivor’s story.

Vail, if I’m to make the logical assumption, is clearly on the verge of death, judging by his ragged breaths and infection-wrought fevered shivering. Alabastra steps forward, fishing through her pack. “Alright, let’s getcha up, buddy.” She pulls out a healing potion.

Something twists within me. I almost… almost grab at her forearm, to tell her to not waste the resources. That saving him is a waste of time.

And then I think about what I just leapt to. Why was that my first response? Ugh, the headache from before returns doubly. Without a word, I dart out of the side room to catch whatever passes for fresh air in this swamp. Hands on my knees as I try and concentrate to dull the pain, I search my thoughts.

Am I not supposed to be a healer, ostensibly? Yet, my first and foremost priority is seeing this done, isn’t it. It’s… the logical course of action, I suppose, surely. Why should I care for some unknown fiendling who ran headlong into danger? If anything, he probably deserves it… Right? All that matters is returning to my shop. Returning to my shop, and being free of her.

I shake my head. Regardless, they’re unlikely to be swayed from this path until they’ve tended those wounds. I turn back into the room to see Alabastra using now a second potion, wasteful, pouring over the midsection.

My head flashes, briefly, with the image of Grace in a similar position. Dammit, I almost leave again.

Tegan’s eyes glow, and her gauntlets shine much the same, held above the injured man in a torrent of divine healing magic. She pulls away a moment later, and says, “Okay, uh, that’s probably the infection taken care of? Unless he had something nastier than sepsis.”

“After a week in this place? Entirely possible”, Alabastra says.

He’s lucky the knight knows what she’s doing. Killing infections, poisons, or other invasive maladies is a risky prospect, wholly different from the typical suturing of healing magics. Destroying the infection may have taken yet more blood with it, but I don’t doubt he wouldn’t survive otherwise.

The wounded fiendling’s eyes flutter open, orange like the hellfires his lineage dates back to. I briefly consider if he might have been hearing the same clarion call as the others afflicted with urges, but Nathaniel’s files didn’t mention fiendlings, and the city would certainly be far more aware if they were likewise cursed. He did mention a half-devil—commonly misconstrued, as I’m led to believe.

And then I recall that Grace said he was a monster hunter. Before I have time to consider if this was a greater folly than I’d thought, he backs away in a panic, already awake, grabbing at his clothes to cover himself. He’s livelier than I’d have expected. I suppose slayers are made of sterner stuff.

“You wouldn’t dare“, he snarls through rows of pointed teeth. His voice is strangely high, almost prepubescent, mixed with a gravely attempt to sound deeper, and his accent has a vague western drawl. He’s a long way from home.

Alabastra holds up her hands. “Woah, hey, we’re friends. We’re friendly. In fact, I’d bet we just saved your life.”

His eyes dart, ready to bolt despite the near-death. “I don’t have friends…”

Turning her nonviolent gesture into a shrug, Alabastra looks back to the rest of us, then the fiendling again. “I think you’ve got more than you realize. Vail, right? I’m Alabastra, that’s Tegan, Faylie, and Oscar.”

“How do you know my name?”

“Grace sent us. She said somethin’ about…” She snap-taps her forehead with the edge of her thumb. “Heimsfest… fuck, help me out, Bug?”

Faylie steps forward. “Grace broke her arm and you helped her one time! She was really worried about you, apparently even more than Prudence was…”

At the utterance of Prudence, he shivers in places, looking around, panic glinting in his eye. “And… either of them here?” He starts to move toward the clothes pile, eyes still locked with the half-elf.

“We had Sil— um, Grace wait outside, in the graveyard. She was real worked up about you. Must think you’re the cat’s pajamas.” Alabastra crosses her arms, smiling down at the wounded man. “Are you?”

Vail stares at her, unsure and anticipatory. “She’s not here, then?” Then, he sighs, pulling on his stained undershirt, repaired with patchworks far older than this mishap. “Then at least they won’t see me like this.”

Alabastra stares at him, a strange sort of smile growing on her face. She seems to have a thought— that she quickly abandons, tossed to the side of the river bank. “Y’know, I think I like you.”

Rather reasonably, his response to that is a bewildered shrug. “Wha—?”

“Call it a hunch.”

This has quickly grown tiresome. “Alabastra“, I snap, “We have him. Let’s go.”

Vail nods. “Yeah, I agree with your lanky friend. I spent long enough in this sewer. Mister Forsyth hire you then?” As he asks, he pulls an arm through a long, ratty, and slightly burnt trench coat, that flows behind him like a ruined banner. He wears a wide-brimmed hat with holes cut for his horns, and the spurs at the bottom of his boots jangle as he slips them on. He cuts an admittedly intimidating silhouette, despite the shorter stature.

Faylie speaks up, “Um… no, it was Grace… like we said!”

He narrows his eyes, still not seeming to quite believe that it was really the girl who sent us. Then, he picks up his scimitars, considering them for a moment. The light glints off the silver edges, as the room shines back along the dual mirrors. I take a step back to not let my lack-of reflection be caught in the view.

“Are we in danger?”, he asks.

Alabastra brushes a hand through the air. “Nah”, she says, “Just some aricades. Though, you might wanna watch your back when we get topside. Partisans still lookin’ for payback.”

A hopeless little snort escapes Vail. “I’d think they had enough…”

“It’s never enough for those chuckle-fucks. Best to lay low and hope they get bored.”

Tegan adds, “I’d, uh, strongly second that. They’re dangerous.”

The monster hunter considers, then smiles, exposing a forked tongue between his sharpened teeth. He pushes past us, out into the open maintenance area, moving with the earned poise and confidence of a trained killer. Swinging his swords around, he observes the corpses of the aricades, and on a dime, spins at a returning skittering. Before any of us have time to react, he slides past an approaching bug come back for seconds. His swords cut the thing to three pieces in a dual-armed stroke.

He looks back to us. “So am I.” Calmly, he ambles up the stairs, sheathing his swords.

“I like him”, Alabastra says, only loud enough for the four of us. “But… be careful.”

The paladin only nods. “Don’t need to tell me twice.”

I say nothing, but maneuver to the back of the knight.

Faylie, meanwhile, seems to miss that memo on safety entirely, bounding past us to tug on the hired thug’s coat. Vail stops dead in his tracks, spinning on the heel of a boot. “Um, you wouldn’t happen to know another way out of here, would you?”, she asks. “I really don’t wanna go back through Corpse Alley.”

Vail chuckles, relaxing. “No. None that aren’t watched by the Sable Guard, anyways.” He climbs back up the stairs, spurs clinging with each step. He says, “So, where do you four factor into this, then?”

“We’re just the hired help”, says Alabastra. “Grace was real worried.”

He looks confused for a moment, gait slowing as he reaches the top of the staircase. “Then you’re just… mercenaries?”

Obviously, the insinuation’s stirred something within Tegan, as she issues a direct, “No.” Then, when we all look to her, she stumbles. “Uh, I mean…”

Alabastra swoops in. “I prefer to think of us as freelancers. ‘S’even got free in the name.” Self-important meddlers is the most apt description I’ve found.

“And your pay for this job?”, Vail probes at us with… I’d almost call it camaraderie, were he not so jumpy.

“Pro bono. Just a ticket into the upper city.”

Vail stops at the threshold back into the sewers proper, turning to face the rogue with squinting eyes. “Nobody works for free.”

Gods do I hate that smile on the rogue’s face. That self-assured grin that screams that she hasn’t learned a thing. “Well, that’s fitting then. We’re just a bunch of nobodies.” She shrugs, willfully oblivious to the tension of the fiendling, compressed like a coil. “It was right around the corner, no big deal. Not like we’re on a crunch.”

Still blocking the exit, the longer Vail stands there, the more he seems ready for anything. I suppose a certain amount of paranoia is warranted. “What’s your game?”, he asks out of the side of his mouth, eyes shifting back and forth between us, making me hyperaware of my own movements.

“Probably best you don’t ask. Trust us, it ain’t a thing to do with you or your business.”

“Usually when someone says something like that, there’s a good chance they’re angling to stab the other in the back. So what’s it gonna be today, huh?” Upon second consideration, I am starting to like this person.

The rogue smiles. “Oh, that’s good. Who taught ya that one?” She walks forward, causing the fiendling to flinch, just-so. “Look, I know trust ain’t easy to come by, but if we wanted you dead, we coulda offed you back in that room, told Grace the Partisans got ya, been done with it.” She says it so breezily it almost doesn’t register as a threat. She pats him on the shoulder. “So… trust us or don’t, but I’m gettin’ the fuck out of this sewer.” Alabastra pushes past him.

Vail looks behind him to the back of the half-elf’s longcoat, and mumbles under his breath, “Who the fuck…?” We all follow after.

As we walk, I notice our tagalong still holding his side in pain. He’ll need yet more time to rest and heal, though I’m unsure where he’s going to receive that care. Having been fired, it seems likely that his circumstances are only going to worsen. Not that it concerns me.

Faylie breaks the silence, clopping up to walk alongside him. “I like your outfit!”

He shifts, slightly. “Boss said I had to be imposing. Used to be I’d wear something more practical…” He lifts one leg a little higher mid-gait to show off the back of his boot. “But I think I’ll keep it. Mostly for the spurs—I like the way they jangle.”

Alabastra chuckles, turning to face us as she walks backwards. “Guess you’ll get to choose your wardrobe now, at least. Silver linings…”

Vail pulls at the edge of his coat. “I might still get my job back. Mr. Forsyth’s not entirely unreasonable.”

The smiles falls from the half-elf, biting her lower lip. “Yeah… maybe. Doubt it from a Lupine, but I hope it works out for ya.” She clears her throat. “But if it doesn’t, and you need a place to stay, there’s a little parish called Stilton in the waterworks under East Grennard. Can’t promise comfort, but they’ll take ya in. Could use a monster hunter, really.”

Clearly the words don’t strike quite where Alabastra wanted them. Vail raises another suspicious brow. “How did you know that?”

“Grace mentioned it!” Faylie speaks up as she fishes through her bag. She produces a clothespin, and snaps it onto the tip of her nose. With a now nasally muffled voice she continues, “Guess you must be one tough cookie, right?”

The former monster hunter only hmms in response to the faun’s antics. He looks back to Alabastra. “I’ll consider it.” 

As we near the exit I light the incense bowl once more, masking the horrid scent of the rotting corpse.

Vail chuckles. “Reminds me of home.”

I roll my eyes. “Okay.”

He appraises me for a moment, perhaps having forgotten that I could speak. Then he looks passed me as we round the corner, down at the corpse. “Gods, how long have I been down here…?” Vail covers his nostrils, withdrawing within his ratty coat.

“Not sure exactly. At least an extra week on top of what you’re thinkin'”, Alabastra says, hopping right over the body with the aplomb of a gymnast. “Grace was waylaid.”

Vail looks up, panicked. “What do you mean?!”

Tegan holds up her hands. “She’s fine. Actually, uh, that one back there healed her up.” The knight points to me, and I dart my eyes away. Dammit, look at me less.

As we all cross over the other side of the bridge, meeting back with the tunnel into the crypt, Vail says, “Is that so…” He looks me over once more, trying to read me like a book jacket.

Alabastra interjects, “Hey what’s the deal with you n’ Prudence, then?”

The fiendling turns, orange-red eyes glinting in the dark like sparks. “You’re asking too many questions.”

She only shrugs. “Ah, well, you know the ol’ saying… do unto others…” She stops, having pulled herself up and out of the grave, eyes now locked on the mausoleum exit. “Oh, huh.” She vaults over the sarcophagus edge.

We all follow behind, driven curious by the mad half-elf’s impulse. Crowded into the chamber, we all see what’s interested the rogue so suddenly. She plucks a note card from the inside crease of the door, wedged in as a notice, an awaiting message for we sewer trawlers. The card is written in flowy, fancy handwriting, and only a scant few words are lettered in a hand quick enough to have left a smudge of ink on the side.

‘Father’s men taking me home. Find me there. -G‘.

Alabastra passes the note between all of us, brows knit in concern. As Vail reads the words, he backs away, suspicion rising within him once more. Jumpy one. “This… this had better not be a trick, freelancers.”

“‘Course not. We’ll go together—prove it.”

I shoot her a dagger glare. We are most certainly not.

But she’s already out the door. Dammit. Dammit. Dammit. Why must the universe conspire to put everyone else’s problems in the path of my own? Vail darts after the rogue, clearly intent on showing the way to these Forsyths. I bury my head in my hands, and follow after.

* * *

Even for all the gaudy, ostentatious estates of the heights, the Forsyth’s manor is truly amongst the most flagrant displays of wealth I have yet seen. A sprawling garden leads up to a home with a steepled shape, wider than it is long, like a stretched church. Made of clay and marble brick alike, a clock tower is built into the home, denoting it in the skyline as a landmark, and over-plenteous turrets give the roof a shape more like a mountain range. Gold is etched into the metal railing on the second floor balcony, and the home is swaddled in greenery like a babe in the crib—trees and bushes, flowers and vines, a uniform jungle buttressed against the house. Mother nature in facsimile.

As we walk through the garden, constructed of three tiers of penned platforms, decorated with statues and fountains and a great square pool of water to our right, lantern lights switch on as the day begins to fall to night, painting the sky behind the manor in brilliant pinks and oranges.

It takes little effort to spot the peculiar scene unfolding afore the front doors.

A fair few armored Sable Guard are standing outside the home, at attention and ready for conflict. Half surrounded in a semi-circle by the guard, Grace is mid-heated conversation with a man in his late 40s, blond hair slicked back and shining, sporting a tan three-piece silk suit that looks like it may cost more than my shop. The man bears a family resemblance to Grace—same honey blond locks, same piercing eyes of blue, though Grace holds a certain softness that is absent in the man, who’s all hard edges and lines. He almost looks elven, only without the pointed ears to match. And the sheer command he conquers drowns us all in his pull.

Alabastra wisecracks to the rest of us, “And there he is. The Chief Embezzler himself.” That’s quite the sensational accusation. I’m not sure if she’s referring to anything in specific, or simply making an assumption. Part of my absent media diet; if this man is infamous, I’d have no way of knowing.

Vail pushes toward her, horns threatening to poke the half-elf in the sternum. “Watch what you’re saying—and where you’re saying it.”

She holds a cocky smile. “I hate to break it to you, but you’re not gettin’ your job back.” When his unamused expression doesn’t change, she sighs. “This isn’t gonna go how you’re thinkin’.”

The fiendling turns with a snarl, matching up the stairs and calling out, “Mr. Forsyth!”

The man in the suit turns, a plastered politician’s smile over his face, as farcical and threatening as any of a thousand lies that might spill from his lips. While I don’t know the man in specific, his Lupine Party is inescapable. A small but rising cohort spun off from the Conservatives, they take opposition power to new heights. The folly of a representative democracy, I suppose; even, or especially, the ugliest parts of the public will be represented.

Beside him, Grace lights up at our approach, especially seeing Vail at the head of the pack.

With a voice filled with smug confidence, Arthur Forsyth says, “Ah, and here he is now. Along with these… mercenaries you hired, Grace?” Grace stares down at her father’s feet, gripping one arm and nodding solemnly. He eyes the four of us suspiciously. “Hm. I wasn’t expecting them to be— Ah, never mind. You found my daughter, and my waylaid former employee to boot.”

Cold and even, Alabastra only says, “Sure did.”

Vail speaks up, “Mr. Forsyth, I know I have no right to ask, but I… I would like a second chance.”

Councilman Forsyth laughs, shaking his head in disbelief. “Ah, of course. Always begging for table scraps.” I flinch. I knew Lupines could be unpleasant, but that was outright blatant. “First—where exactly did you find these mercenaries, young lady?”, he asks back to his daughter.

Grace begins to hem and haw, issuing out a meek, “I was… I just went…” She cranes her neck toward us, looking for help.

And the moment she does, the councilman’s face drops. He grabs his daughter’s chin roughly, turning her face further to the side to peer closer at her neck. There, two twinned pinprick scars stick out against the light of the sunset.

Blood rushes to my ears. I feel like I’ve been wrung through a spinning wheel, and a cold creeping crawls up my spine. I can only stare in horror, not even having the wherewithal to mask my spiraling guilt. Grace locks eyes with me, and in a flash of memory she’s lying half-dead on the floor. I shunt my eyes, and feel an arm lock with mine. In this instant, I cannot even bring myself to care who’s.

Murderer murderer murderer…

“What the hells is this?!”, Forsyth seethes.

“It’s… it’s nothing! Just, I was— I was attacked in The Reds—”

“Oh, of course!“, he interrupts, yelling in her face now. “The filthy disgusting runoff—what were you thinking, stepping foot out there?! Now it’s a hunting ground for vampires and Gods know what other monsters—do you realize what your antics nearly cost this family?!”

Finally I find the fortitude to beat back the rising self-disgust, straightening my back and putting on an even face. Thankfully, it seems he failed to notice my miniature breakdown. I turn to my left and see it was Tegan who pulled me close in the moment. I wrench my arm free of the knight’s grip.

Grace stammers, “Th-th-they saved my life, though…”, she points in our direction. In my direction. A half-dozen sets of eyes fall on me, and all I can think to do is stare straight ahead and hope this horrid moment ends.

Alabastra steps forward, a determined fire powering her gait. “Councilor Forsyth? Excuse my ignorance but… do your guard always watch you and your daughter like hawks?” Sticking her neck out again. At least she has the finesse to do so subtly. “Maybe it’s a heights thing, I dunno…”

The man glances around, noticing that the Sable Guard do indeed seem to be staring on at this scene with curious eyes. Like his hand was caught in the cookie jar, he finally lets go of his daughter, glancing toward us, as Grace looks like she can breathe again. “And who are you mercenaries, precisely?”, he asks.

“Nobody important, Councilman. We’ll just settle up with your daughter and get out of your hair.”

He looks back and forth between his daughter, the rogue, and then me, again and again, eyes like a grandfather clock. He grinds his jaw in tiny circles. And when he’s had enough of chewing us all between his grinding teeth of authority, “Huh“, is all he says. Then he looks to Vail. “Upon further reconsideration… come talk in my office, boy. I may just have work for you, yet.”

Vail lets out a colossal sigh of relief. “Of course, Mr. Forsyth.”

Arthur Forsyth reaches forward to pat Vail on the shoulder, and leads the fiendling inside. The hairs on the back of my neck raise, and the others look as suspicious as I feel. Still, once the councilor out of sight, we all lax our shoulders.

With abashed posture and downward glances, Grace turns to the rest of us. “Th-thanks. And… S-Sorry about this. I was hoping you wouldn’t have to meet him.”

“Can’t change your blood, Silver. But do remember what we talked about, yeah?” She glances to the Sable Guard still gathered outside the home, too far to listen in, but close enough to watch. Grace nods, and Alabastra continues, “Anyways, we got your guy back, though I’m not so sure he was pleased about it.”

“That’s Vail for you.” Grace steps forward, rifling through her jacket for her checkbook. “You’ve done more than I could’ve hoped. Thank you… what do I owe you?”

Tegan speaks up, “Nothing. We said we’d help you and we did. So, uh. That’s all?” She nods to herself, to indicate she’s reached the end of her sentence if nothing else.

“That hardly seems fair.” She looks to me. “You especially, you saved my life, and—”

“No”, I say. “We’re even.” In truth, I likely still owe her far more. But at this point, it would be a dangerous prospect to settle that score any further. This will have to do.

Alabastra starts to walk forward, but looks to the Sable Guard as they shift slightly in response, and seems to think better of approaching any further. Instead, she bows her head low toward Grace. “This place doesn’t deserve you, Silver Spoon. Don’t let ’em burn the decent outta ya.” The rogue plants her hands in her coat pockets, and turns around, leading us out of the garden.

And then, a few steps down the way, Alabastra stops, and turns around again. She whispers sheepishly with a disarming smile, completely ruining her own exit, “Actually, eh. Maybe if you could just pay our hotel fee tonight…?”

Hi Vail! Bye Vail! I'm sure we'll never see him again...

Anyways, side quest complete! ✅ Thank you so much for reading.

Next update is (1-25) bloodroot; on Monday, August 19th.

Content Warnings

Self-loathing
Depression
Spiraling / brief panic attack
Unhealthy coping mechanisms
Fascism
References to violent queerphobia and misogyny
Mind-altering magic / hypnosis
Headaches

Pushed into a crowded Skyway cart, the thieves find a booth, pulling themselves and the girl inside. I look frantically for somewhere else to sit, but the other pedestrians fill the car like liquid, quickly taking every seat save for… the booth beside theirs.

I consider standing, but on the off chance we’ll need to do any running or climbing or the like today, it is likely for the best I don’t. With a groan I sit down in the empty seat across from a luggage station, sharing a back with Grace and Faylie.

The doors shutter and slam closed, and the tram cart surges forward. We’ve a long journey to go, practically one end of the city to the other, through the rest of The Reds, all of Nivannen, and even up and past Ceruel Rise, the less aristocratic and non-restricted half of the hilltop. Although I’ve never actually been to Firvus Heights, I’ve spent quite a bit of time in the Rise. Years, in fact—the Lazuli Institute’s campus sits squarely in the heart of the district. Although it’s not quite so opulent as Firvus, there’s still an air of contempt about Ceruel, even if a desperate sort. Begging to be included in the heights, with not nearly half the luxuriance.

Our ultimate destination has me more nervous than I thought I’d be. Those palatial mansions of untold wealth sit atop the hill, buttressed next to the governmental seats of Anily’s power—the Common Assembly Capitol building, and the old Virtum Castellum, once the palace of the emperor when Anily was the Republic of old, now the home of the chancellor. Monuments to old wars and older heroes dot the streets; the nation’s capital wears a lavish dressing, demonstrating exactly who those institutions are truly for.

We’re still a ways from there, of course. At least an hour or more of this arduous ride, and all the while the four still chatter behind me. I collapse my head into my awaiting hands, trying to focus on anything else.

It does not work.

“So”, Alabastra says, “How’d you hear about us, anyways?”

Grace responds in a smaller voice, that I nonetheless pick up, “Well, my father has some… business associates… that were familiar with you and your record.” I prick up my ears. She doesn’t mean…? “I may have gone… a little bit… behind his back to talk to those associates to find a third party that would help?”

There’s a tapping sound on the table, though from who I’m not sure. The rogue’s voice is only barely audible above the din of the train, but I am lamentably disposed to picking it out. “And who might these associates be?”

“They rhyme with ‘Scion Intricate‘?”

Faylie gasps. “The Lion Mystic Pit?!”

“Those are slant rhymes at best“, I groan, then duck my head further into my arms as I hear them turn to stare. Dammit, keep your mouth shut.

Presumably once they’d had their eyeful, Grace says, “Father does some dealing on the side with them, when the need arises.”

“Pop’s a big deal then?”, Alabastra doesn’t ask so much as she states. She’s almost certainly correct; there are no nobodies in Firvus Heights. “Wait, what’d you say your last name was, again?”

The younger woman lets a nervous laugh escape. “Well, it’s Forsyth? As in…”

“Councilman Arthur Forsyth?!” Hands, presumably Alabastra’s, slam onto the table. “Knew he was a damn dirty dealer. No offense.”

“Only a little taken.”

My fortunes continue to grow worse. At least I’m vindicated in my earlier approach; if I’d walked up to the Black Gates with a councilor’s daughter half-dead in my arms the Sable Guard would have had me executed by sundown. I have no desire to understand the now-banished monster’s reasoning for anything, if it even had what could be called reason, but I am curious if it sensed or signaled her out as a person of interest, or if its luck was simply no better than mine.

As for the councilor—I only know very few of the hundreds on the Common Assembly, and don’t recognize the name. But it seems the rogue, political junkie that she is, is keenly aware.

Faylie says, “Wow. We hardly ever make friends with people that are important.”

“Hey”, Alabastra retorts, “Most important damn people in the whole world are sittin’ in this tram car, s’far as I’m concerned.” She of course just means herself, even if she doesn’t realize it.

“Well, yea, but… you know what I mean!” Before anyone has a chance to respond, the faun continues, “And wait, so… the Mystic Pit recommended Allie?”

Grace sucks breath between her teeth. “In a roundabout way? I think they mostly brought you up to mock you, but it seemed quite obvious based on what they told me that you were exactly the sort of person I was looking for!”

“Then it seems our reputation precedes us. Girls, I think we’re makin’ the big leagues.” Alabastra clicks her tongue.

Tegan says, “Uh… I’m not sure that’s a good thing?”

“It’s a neutral thing!” She pauses for the elicited groans of the knight, then says, “So, Silver Spoon, tell us about this guy we’re findin’? Ya didn’t say much ‘cept that he was in some hot water.”

They didn’t get this information before? I roll my eyes. They blindly agreed to this job of hers before even hearing all the details. Never mind that the risk of any of their usual activities is tenfold amplified under the eye of the Sable Guard and Clockwatch. And they’re looking for someone else on top of the detective now. More distractions. Complications.

“Right”, begins Grace, “His name is Vail. No last name. He is— was, well, he worked for my Father.”

“I’m guessin’ he wasn’t the cook?”

“Not exactly. Is there a nice way to say he was basically Father’s attack dog?” I raise a brow, unseen from the rest. Why would a Councilman need his own personal guard? Then again, she did mention he deals with the Iron Syndicate. Is our government truly so fragmented, that our most powerful feel the need to involve themselves in organized crime?

Alabastra chuckles. “I dunno about a nicer way, but I think I get the picture. But, you said he used to work for him. What’s the wire on that?”

“It’s a long story…”

“It’s a long ride.” I can hear the grin on her face as she says it.

Grace sighs. “My older sister Prudence started getting really close to Vail—”

Faylie interrupts, “Ooh, a forbidden love?! How romantic.” She swoons through her own words. I take my glasses off and massage the bridge of my nose. Not a single one of them is capable of turning off for even a moment.

“Well, I guess so, yeah. Except, I guess it probably doesn’t really work out like the fairy tales”, the socialite says with a wistful tone. Perhaps I shouldn’t judge, but she’s still young, and affluent besides. What could she know about heartbreak? “Prudence started, well, hanging around some people that she probably shouldn’t have. Partisans.”

Ice forms at the pit of my stomach. Partisans. A voluntary patchwork of militias loyal to the concerningly and ever-increasingly popular Lupine Party. She’d mentioned them before, but I was hoping it was rhetorical. Suddenly the thieves’ propensity for violence seems more critical.

Alabastra’s voice is deliberate. “Ah. Your sister… She’s, uh…”

“I don’t think they let women join, but she says she likes their company. I’m not sure why.” Grace lets out a frustrated huff. “Mother and Father didn’t care—Mother actually encouraged it! But Vail had a problem.”

“And so he tried to put the ice on your sis’s new hang. Gonn guess it didn’t go too well?”

The young woman hmms. “That’s the thing—he tried to get Father to listen, but I suppose he let slip that he and Prudence had been, um, involved. Instead of helping, Father fired him on the spot.”

“Gee. Cold.”

Faylie adds, “Your dad sounds like a jerk. Um, no offense again.”

Grace shuffles in her seat. “Some taken. Again.” The more I listen, the more obvious it becomes how truly naive this girl is. Perhaps that’s what signaled her out for the monster; unlike Faylie, whose innocence is a veil for her more devious intents, I think Grace may very well have been born yesterday. “But, after he was let go, he went off to find Prudence. That was a couple days before I left, and I hadn’t seen him since. Over a week now.”

“And just to be clear”, Alabastra says, “This isn’t about your sister?”

“No. If Prudence were really in trouble, Father has… other means of helping her out. But Vail has nobody. He used to be a monster hunter, I think. He told me this job was supposed to be a redemption, or something like that.” The other table gets eerily silent for just a moment at that, but Grace doesn’t seem to notice, “The point is, he’s a good guy, and I don’t wanna see anything bad happen to him.”

After a moment, the other three get a handle on whatever had them struck speechless, and the rogue responds, fondly, “You’ve got a heart of gold, Silver Spoon. Rare thing for a ritzy kid.”

“Thank-WOAH!”

The tram takes a sharp turn, and we all jostle over in our seats. I always forget about that bend. As I straighten myself out, I catch the city below. The inner district approaches fast, Bassarin River beyond, flowing out from the colossal Augustene Hill. It strikes me how little I’ve been this far east since I took stewardship of the shop. West, too, come to think of it. Anywhere, really. It hardly matters, of course. I don’t expect that to change, after this is over. I clutch the watch under my shirt.

Grace continues, “You’re all even better than I expected. Well, except, if you don’t mind me asking… It seems like you and Oscar aren’t on the best terms—”

I whirl around. “Don’t ask!“, all four of us say at the same time. My eyes lock with the rest for a brief moment, I catch a miniscule upturn at the corner of Alabastra’s mouth, and I turn back to stare down at my table, feeling my face blanch in shame.

“Oh. O-okay…”

“We like ya, Silver Spoon, but it’s personal. Ya follow?”, says the rogue. Personal for her, perhaps. There’s nothing… personable… Ugh. I’m too flustered to brood.

The socialite says, “I understand. No personal questions, got it.” She says that like it’s not the first time she’d had to be told this.

Alabastra says, laxer than before, “Well, I didn’t say that. The three of us are an open book—save a few redacted chapters. We’ll letcha know if you step on a landmine.”

“Then, can I ask—the three of you seem really close. Are you… together?” She whispers the last word, nearly inaudible.

I can’t believe she’s just… asking. And here I thought they taught etiquette in the heights. Who does that—asking other people personal questions, despite only knowing them a short while? Or even a long while. Ever, really.

The three start to giggle amongst each other. I’m sure they’re enjoying the chance to be coy about their relationship with yet another person—

“Guilty as charged”, says Alabastra. “I’m dizzy with ’em.”

She just… told her?! Without any preamble, or mind games? She kept it from me for two years, and told this inconsequential person she’s only known for two hours? My fingernails dig into the table, as I white-knuckle the sides. Do not show your reaction, under any circumstances.

In fact, I shouldn’t have a reaction at all. Why is this still affecting me, even after I’ve sworn the three out of my life? I don’t care… I shouldn’t care. Is there something else wrong with me? Am I some sort of deviant—obsessing over their intimacy like a watcher from the shadows, or… Or a bloodsucking fiend. A monster, still, even if I’ve excised the involuntary parts. It shouldn’t matter. It does not matter.

Grace says, “Oh, wow. You’re so candid with it!” Rub salt in the Gods damned wound why don’t you?!

“Loud and proud”, retorts Alabastra. Except with me… fuck. Stop! I dig my fingers through my hair as if I might puncture the skull and rip out the brain matter insistent on this disgusting fixation.

Grace speaks in a shrunken voice, “I, um. I guess I’m jealous. Father would never… um. I wish.”

Ah. The others mutter under their breaths, and sigh in understanding. “Oh, Silver…”, says Alabastra.

Dammit, on top of feeling like a degenerate, now I’m also guilty of ignorance. It’s hardly the girl’s fault, asking for advice from the first people like her she’s possibly even met. Oblivious, uncharitable, perverted wretch, no better than the very same perpetrators of her woes in the first place. You nearly killed her you moronic solipsistic unlovable—

“Oscar.” My head lifts. Alabastra stands over my table, having gotten up from her seat at some point. Something twists within me. “It’s okay, just breathe. Listen, we can—”

“Stop“, I seethe. “I don’t want your fucking help.” I rise, pushing past her, to stand somewhere else- anywhere else in the train cart. I can’t listen to this anymore. I need to be gone.

I know they watch me as I go, as do the other commuters, nosily observing the dregs of this argument as if it were their Sunday entertainment. I can’t even bring myself to care. Back to the thieves for the rest of the ride, I stand with a bent and craven spine, pulling at my hair as the train cart rattles on into the unceasing day.

* * *

The skyway station intersects cleanly with the Black Gates to Firvus Heights. The rail system cuts here, then continues on past this checkpoint into the heart of the hilltop.

The Black Gates stand more than eight stories tall, an imposing opening to the surrounding wall that cuts the plateau from the ascent. Constructed of Stygian marble brick, the still-standing ancient structure from the age when such defensive measures were necessary now serves to ward against a different kind of invader—of unworthy boots on the brick streets of the ancient empire.

Even the police force of the masses is considered unwashed. Instead, the Sable Guard, a branch of the Anillian armed forces tasked with protecting the Common Assembly, patrol the streets. They swarm over the Black Gates like ants, marching in their black leather boots. The sun glints off their brass-trimmed silver breastplates, worn over their jet high-collared officer uniforms, adorned with intertwined narrow twisted silver and onyx epaulets joining with alike aiguilettes pinned to the plate.

Beside them stand a twinned set of Clockwatch. They’re near-exactly like the one in Ma Cozzo’s possession, but decorated much more like the Sable Guard, mechanical officer’s hats atop their heads, and a deadlier suite of weapons integrated into their systems—swords and crossbows and strange arcane crystals.

All in service to ensuring Firvus Heights stays clean and ‘safe’. Officially, from what I know of history, the policy to close off the government district is an emergency measure, meant to keep the ruling body isolated during times of great strife or stress to lower the risk of disaster. Not an entirely unreasonable protocol, though perhaps cowardly. The crisis of the Runeplague, which triggered these measures, certainly qualified; of course, considering that the Runeplague ended nearly thirty years ago, the insulation has grown far less popular with time. Few councilmen would ever vote to end the partition, though, since nearly all of them live on the other side of it.

“Ain’t it funny…”, says Alabastra, “They put the big gate inside the city. Almost like they’re afraid of us.” I roll my eyes. She can’t help herself, even when the guard are mere feet from us.

A queue of awaiting visitors to the district file from the checkpoint, looking to be let inside. Some seem aristocratic enough, likely having gathered the proper paperwork for their exemption tickets—petitioners or hopeful inventors looking for patents or wealthy tourists. Some amongst this crowd are sure to be turned away, though; perhaps they’re desperate enough to try begging. Not that it would do them any good; even if they were let in, their pleas would still fall on deaf ears.

But most are dressed in servant’s, custodial, or secretariate attire, clearly on a commute to their day-jobs tending to the uber-elite or performing low-level dignitary duties at the administration buildings. Permitted to work here, but not live here.

We join the line, shuffling forward like cattle to slaughter.

Faylie starts to pace around in place, clip-clopping into the ground and eliciting curious glanced from the upper-crust queuers. “Ughhh, why do these things always take so looong?”

“It’s been five minutes”, I intone, then mentally smack myself for not ignoring her as I should.

“That’s my point!” How are fae simultaneously of an ageless realm beyond time, and also wildly impatient? And annoying.

Alabastra shrugs. “Part of it’s intentional—discourage folk from even trying to interface with this shit by makin’ it archaic. And part of it’s just incompetence.” At least one Sable Guard gives the rogue a narrow-eyed stare.

I whisper harsh and directly into her back, “You’re drawing attention.”

“Who, me?”, she says, aloud, like a loon. “Guess they got better taste than I thought.”

One day, I’m going to find out precisely which God forced this half-elf into my life. And I’m going to dissolve their temple in acid, brick-by-meticulous-brick.

Finally, we near the front of the line, and I see the awaiting Sable Guard standing at all corners of the crossing. The interior of the onyx wall is solid and featureless, save for a room within the left-hand side of the inner gate. A guardsman out of armor sits at the other side of a customs booth, ink and quill in hand over a massive ledger. Sunken purple bags under his eyes denote his lack of sleep, or at least his lack of caffeine. A pang of sympathy runs through me.

Grace steps forward. “Guess I’m up!”

“Knock ’em dead, Silver. Figuratively.” Alabastra shoots a finger gun toward the nearest Sable Guard. There is truly something wrong with her.

The socialite walks to the window, abuzz with nervous energy. The customs officer sighs, “Name?”

“Grace Forsyth, and these four are with me”, she says, one hand on the counter and the other cast out to us, a sailing line pulling us from would-be choppy waters.

At the utterance of her name, the guardsman picks up, pulled ever-so from his day-job stupor. “Arthur Forsyth’s daughter?” She nods, and he continues, “Your father put in a notice to inform him right away when you returned, Ms. Forsyth.”

“Oh… just a notice…?”

“We were to send a search party, but we hadn’t yet gotten the authorization from the councilor.”

She was missing for over a week, and the Sable Guard were yet to even begin their search? Either Grace is more the black sheep of the family than she let on, or her father is so absent he may be transparent. The revelation seems to strike the girl speechless for a moment, before she settles back to herself and says, “Well, I’m here now.”

“Of course, Miss. The four with you, their names?”

Before Grace can speak, Alabastra moves a half-step forward. “Scillia Stonesap, and that’s Polli, Philomena, and M-uh-uhnsker.”

“… Muhnsker?”, the guard asks.

I sigh, eyes squeezed closed like that might block out the ignominy with the light. “That’s me. Muhnsker“, I fume.

“Very well. I trust they won’t cause any trouble, Ms. Forsyth? They’ll be your responsibility so long as they remain in the ward.” He refers to us like stray dogs, brought in from the rain.

Alabastra says with a mock-salute, “We’ll keep our nose clean, mister, honest to Runo.” The officer doesn’t acknowledge the half-elf, instead still staring at the other blonde like he hadn’t even heard her.

Grace says, “I’ll keep them out of trouble.”

The officer nods. “And do you need an escort home, Miss?”

“That shouldn’t be necessary.”

With a flick of his pen, the Sable Guard signs off on our entry into Firvus Heights, easy as could be. And much faster, too, than the majority of the others who’d been waiting ahead of us. The other guardsmen around the gate usher us forward, and for the first time, I step onto the hilltop.

The streets are not paved with gold, but they may as well be, the way the metal shines, engraved in every other surface. A wide grand road stretches up the hill, right down the middle of the district, carving it in twain with a long and majestic view that lifts out of sight, blocked by its own ascent. The central thoroughfare is wider than several city blocks, and cut with a dividing parkway through its own center. Veins of snaking streets branch from the main boulevard. At the peak of the hilltop, I catch the top dome of the Virtum Castellum, where this road finally leads, the first spoke of empire planted into the ground.

So very opposite of Grennard, whose buildings are packed tight and crashing into each other, the homes here have space to spare, free standing and sharing nothing but fences, if they share even that at all. Some estates are large enough that only groves of trees divide the space between a property and its neighbors. From those trees, leaves turning orange and brown blown from the branches are dutifully shuffled into piles and bags by busy streetcleaners.

The buildings themselves are a mess of styles, some plastered with pillars to look more like a government building than a home, while others are stacked and topped with turrets and towers. Some curve around themselves, multi-winged monstrosities. Even the more modest homes host their own brushes with opulence, immaculate gardens tended by hands that most certainly do not own them, statues of marble and bronze alike situated proudly afore the front porch, crescent overhangs and superfluous windows and other architectural quirks, all these variables adding to one simple equation—these people have more money than the Gods.

Above us, the Firvus section of the skyway races along. Even the transport is nicer; the tram looks outright luxurious, as I catch an interior coated in red velvet, a wet bar glinting light off the liquor-filled bottles, carrying sparce travelers despite the busy line.

This is a level of affluence I couldn’t hope to achieve if I labored myself to the bone for the rest of my life. Not without engaging in some amount of corporatization of my work, anyways—precisely the opposite reason I run that shop at all.

And faced now with these fortune-built street, I’m struck by how frivolous it all is. How gleefully wasteful. Do the ultra-wealthy here even enjoy their riches? How could they possibly? Less has always seemed like more to me, but the sheer excess on display is blinding in its light.

“Hate this place”, says Alabastra. “Skin’s crawling just bein’ here.” She shivers for effect.

Faylie remarks, “It is pretty, though.”

“Too pretty. Like a poisoned berry. Don’t touch a thing, alright Firefly? Folk are jumpy, don’t need an incident like last time.”

The faun nods, a determined little smirk on her face. “Got it. No statue ding-dong doodling.”

Grace has a quizzical tilt to her head at their antics. “Why did you give the Sable Guard fake names?”, she asks.

Alabastra turns to walk backward, facing Grace. “Our line of work requires some discretion. And, uh, speakin’ of… you’d be doin’ us a real solid if you could cover for us, case anyone comes askin’.” She leans in closer. “We were never here. Capiche?”

The rich girl looks confused for a moment, until realization strikes her. “I’ll… make something up, if anyone asks.”

“Attagirl.” She pats her on the shoulder, and turns forward again. “So, what’s our guy look like?”

One finger to her chin, the girl thinks a moment. “He’s a fiendling. Red skin, black curved horns, dark hair, usually dressed like someone from out west. He should be easy to spot…” Grace’s eyes go cold for a moment, dour and struck. “But, I’m not sure that’ll help much with finding him.”

“And why’s that?”

“Well, the last thing Vail said was that he was gonna go have a chat with the Partisan that got Prudence into all of this.” I’d guess by the way she says chat that she didn’t pick up on the subtext.

Tegan’s eyes dart, looking almost as jumpy as Alabastra in this environment. “And you don’t happen to, uh, know who that is, do you?”

“His name’s Gari.. I don’t know much about him, but I’m pretty sure he works at the polo stables. At least, he sure smells like he does.”

“Then that’s where we’re headed”, Alabastra asserts, confident as ever.

The younger woman looks panicky. “W-wait! He’s a Partisan, like I said. He might be dangerous, or have friends with him, or call for help…”

Alabastra waves her hand to bat away the concern. “Yeah, I figure. That’s why you hired us, right? Because we aren’t scared of those thugs?” She puts her arms around her girlfriends. “We know how to put the screws on his type. Right?”

“Right!”, Faylie chirps. Tegan issues a less confident shrug.

“So, then, let’s make this little jackboot sing.”

* * *

I never agreed to run afoul of Partisans. While they’re not an ideal enemy for anyone, they’re only liable to make themselves an issue for socialists, anarchists, avowed monsters, homosexuals, Lupine critics… actually, anyone they don’t like, come to think of it. The stochastic nature of their ties to the party is the only thing keeping them from being truly paradigm-shifting; instead they’re confined largely to irrelevance outside of the few instances they can muster an obstructive and organized response to something that’s riled them up. More likely, they’ll harass individual persons, places of business, or small communities until they’ve driven their enemies out of town or into the ground, little better than a common street gang.

As a shop owner myself, that makes them just like any other organization with a capacity for violence—dangerous to be on the wrong side of. With how imperative it is that the shop keeps running, I have steadfastly refused to endanger that by making my opinions about the Lupine Party’s neanderthalic understanding of history, social orders, the economy, or basic medical facts known. Some thoughts are better kept to myself.

Of course, Alabastra would disagree. She practically makes a hobby of disrupting Partisan activities. I would know, seeing as she takes the opportunity to brag about it every chance she gets. Like now. “And those nitwits had the bright idea to steal black powder of all things. Black powder! The one thing that’d get ’em canned despite the badge bias.”

“So then, there are Partisans that might know who you are?”, Grace asks.

“Oh, no. We got all disguised up that day. And thank the Gods we did. They’re not any more dangerous than anyone else, individually, but get a bunch of ’em together, they swarm like bees. Carry a grudge like ones, too.” The half-elf turns to Faylie. “And speakin’ of disguises…”

Faylie grips the back of her neck. “Actually, I think we should do the other trick.”

The rogue crosses her arms, fixed in on her partner in concern. “Glowbug…”, she begins.

“Allie, are we really gonna disguise ourselves for one guy? Come on!” She raises her voice, stomping one hoof into the ground. “I think we’re kinda past the point where enchantment magic is off the table!”

I suppose they have some sort of agreement in place to refrain from charms, mind-altering magic, and the like. I’m not sure why. Manipulation seems tailor-made for these three.

Alabastra breathes deep, nostrils flared in indignation, considering through her discomfort.

Faylie’s eyes grow wide, and she stares up, sunlight glinting like shining stars in her irises.

“… Well that’s just not fair”, Alabastra sighs, giving in under the weight of her girlfriend’s wordless pleading. “Fine. But nothin’ dicey.”

Faylie gives her a thumbs up. “No cubical activities here!”

Not a short while later, we arrive at a massive field upon a leveled-off section of the hilltop. Easily a sixth of a mile ringed in by a low fence, a set of wide stands across the other side of the field, around the back of one of the many estates of the Heights. The wide and empty space feels emptier still for its surroundings—a horribly lonely patch of land given life only when it comes time to trod over in sport.

We circle around best as we can up against the treeline, making for a building to the short western side of the field, painted in reds with white trim. Rows of horses sit in their penned-in dwellings within, long faces hung over the doors, tails swooshing in the light breeze. The smell of horse manure hits me before long, and I elect to stay upstream of the wind.

A few men work at the stables, restocking food supplies or nailing repairs into the woodwork. As we approach, Alabastra asks Grace with a pat to her shoulder, “Point out our mark for us?”

She looks over the assortment with an appraising eye. “That’s him!” Grace signals out a man who looks to be in his late 20s, short black hair, a well-trimmed mustache, and a nasty grimace on his face. He pulls a horse by the reins into a stable, the stallion kicking and struggling against him. “Garin. His family owns the stable, I think.”

“Doesn’t seem like he’s very good at his job”, says Tegan. Eventually the man does corral the horse into the pen, under whinnied protestations the whole way.

Alabastra shrugs. “Stay here, Silver. Don’t want him recognizing you. You too, Dusty. Don’t wanna spook the fucker before we get the spell dropped on him.”

The knight crosses her arms. “Right.” She’s still keeping things rather cold between the two of them. Unnecessary now.

“Bug, get around back of him. Oscar? Gonna need that acerbic wit of yours.”

I stare at the rogue.

“… Please?”

This is a terrible idea. But arguing would only waste more time. And would mean prolonged conversation with her. Better these inane plans are done with. “Fine.”

We walk across the grounds to intercept the plain-clothes Partisan. As we go, Alabastra’s eyes peel over the space, like she’s expecting an ambush or sawblade trap or the like. The paranoia that goes hand-in-hand with a criminal lifestyle has always seemed the least glamorous part to me. The three thieves act nonchalant after the fact, but it’s always been painfully obvious when they were mid-job or in a lying-low phase by how they jump at every little shadow. Perfection is a necessity; they’re always only one mistake away from a steep fall.

When we reach the outside of the stable, Faylie crouches low, moving slowly around the back of the building. But as she does, a different a stable worker exits one of the horse stalls, dusting his hands.

“Damn”, whispers Alabastra. “Alright, quick change of plan. I’ll get rid of this guy. You go talk to the Partisan.”

“What?!”, I hiss under my breath, an involuntary, almost catlike gesture of rage. She wants me to talk to the thug on my own. I’d ask if she were insane, but I of course already know the answer.

“Just distract ’til Bug can get the spell off. Get him angry if you gotta, but not too angry.” Before I can object again she pats me on the back. “Good luck.” She darts off to intercept the other worker before he can spot the faun, while also keeping the man’s back turned to Garin the Partisan.

I fume for a moment, before gathering myself and marching to our quarry. He speaks before I even get the chance to. “Hey, you! What do you think you’re doing, this is private property!” He carries a posh affect, smothered in privilege and indignation.

And suddenly I’m struck with the ignominy of this situation. I have no idea what do say or do. I’m not exactly a bastion of interpersonal skills. Dammit, I suppose I’ll need to improvise, but all I can think about is my untempered annoyance at this entire venture.

Wait. “Oh, this is just my luck”, I seethe, pinching the bridge of my nose as I lean back on a support beam. “Absolutely ridiculous.”

“The hells are you talking about?”, he asks, throwing down a dirty rag at his side as he jeers down at me.

“I’m being expected to speak with some thick-skulled braggart, is what. Unbearable. I never asked to be here.”

Garin tilts his head, mouth agape at my audacity. “Guy… I don’t think you know who you’re messing with.” For a moment I think my ruse hasn’t worked, until his head twitches just so. “Who sent you?”

I throw up my hands. “In fact, this whole endeavor is a colossal waste of time. I’m taking my leave.”

He steps closer. I smell rotting fish between his teeth. “You’d better tell me who the hells sent you.” He snarls and fronts like a dog off its chain. He smells blood. Right where I want him. “What are you talking about?”

My arms cross. “I promise you, you do not want to know. I mean, could you even imagine the indignities I have suffered up to this point? For the Dawnlord’s sake, this is just the tip of the iceberg. I’ve been lied to, press-ganged, implied to be soulless, made to climb far too many buildings. Slashed, stabbed, possibly shot. Dredged through my own misdeeds. Mocked, ridiculed, made to wear a disguise I certainly did not enjoy, no matter what they implied, and don’t get me started on the damned raven!”

The Partisan stares for a long moment, rage given way to pure confusion. “… What?”

“Just turn around so this can be done with.”

“TU MEUS ES“, Faylie whispers her spell into the air behind him. Her card carries the image of a chariot rider, outstretching his hands and lifting them higher into the air as small illusory claps blink around the man’s head. He whirls around dizzily, eyes catching on the faun, and then those eyes start to glow the same pink color of the card illusion.

He blinks, as if suddenly exposed to bright light, rubbing his eyelids, and then looks down at Faylie. “What is… please… let me help you?” Especially compared to his previous machismo, he sounds outright docile now. Pacified and without emotion. In a trance.

I step beside the faun. “He’s charmed, then?”

“Yep! We can ask him whatever we want! He’ll do his best to help us, as long as we don’t ask him to hurt himself or his friends or do something entirely outside his nature.”

My arms across. “Helping us doesn’t count as ‘outside his nature‘?”

The man looks back to me, blank and stupefied. Faylie giggles, “Nah. Only really powerful enchantment magic can get you to do something you actually don’t wanna do. He’s helping because, deep, deep down, even if it’s really buried, he wants to be helpful. Or, at least follow orders, I guess…” She appraises the partisan with a head cock. “I wonder if he’d dance for us?”

“Stay focused.” We don’t have time for her games. I meet the man’s empty gaze. “You. We’re looking for a fiendling named Vail. Red skin, dark hair. Likely dangerous. Have you seen him?”

His glazed over and glowing eyes pass to me, vacant expression obscuring whether or not he’s following our conversation. “Yes. At his room at the live-ins’ estates.”

Faylie says, “What were you doing there?”

“Me and my boys wanted to teach that devil a lesson… Bastard thought he would tell us what to do with our dames…” Despite the violent underpinnings of his words, his dizzied and dreamlike state is accentuated by almost a pleading in his voice. I am rapidly becoming uncomfortable.

“And he’s okay, right? You didn’t, like, kill him…?”

The partisan shakes his head. “He ran off… Furio chased him down, into the waterworks, but we haven’t seen either since. If he’s killed the old man he’ll pay for that… if he hasn’t already bled out.” The severity of his threat is dulled by his hypnotized monotone.

If I actually cared about this fiendling’s life, I’d think that would put us on a time crunch, but considering that finding his corpse will just as soon end this debacle as finding him alive, I can’t bring myself to care either way.

Though, the strangely casual cruelty of the thought, should, logically, have made me feel different, shouldn’t it?

And from seemingly nowhere, a headache starts to come on. Just a low, buzzing little thing, not from a physical exhaustion, or migraine, but a mental one, emanating deeper within my skull. It’s nothing, I’m sure.

Faylie harumphs. “Jerks”, she mutters under her breath.

“I’m sorry…”, the man drones.

She pouts. “Oh, it’s not your fault.”

“It quite literally is”, I deadpan.

The faun gasps. “Oh yeah!” She’s getting distracted again. I issue her a speed this along hand motion. “And, how’d they get into the waterworks, anyways? I thought entrances were super restricted up here.”

He murmurs, “There’s an entrance in the Shade Garden, that nobody knows about… in the Hosglower family’s mausoleum.”

She looks up at me. “Woah! Secret entrance!” She thinks for a moment. “The Shade Garden… I think that’s the temple to Corva!”

Another graveyard then. My eyes roll. “Do we have everything we need?”

“Sounds like!”

“And he won’t remember any of that?”

Faylie’s head shakes. “Probably not. The charm went down pretty smooth, so, it’s unlikely to leave any scars!” Then she looks back to the hypnotized thug. “Garin, you’re not gonna remember any of this, but I just want you to know that I’m very disappointed in you!”

Why did it have to be Faylie? I sink my face in my palms, and hear her clip-clop back around the side of the building. When I look back up, the enthralled militant seems like he’s about to cry, staring off into the distance.

Part of me wants to reconcile that, perhaps, Alabastra had a point to ask the faun not to use this kind of magic. Taking a person’s will like this, it’s… I shake my head. She allowed it regardless. She must— she clearly— she wanted—

The headache grows worse. Dammit. Gripping my forehead, I march back after the others, preparing myself mentally for yet another idiotic venture through dank and dark tunnels.

Allie's nothing if not resourceful. Friend's acting like a jerk? Just sic em on people you don't like!

As for our protagonist... well, a stalled car can only try and run for so long before it starts to tear itself apart. Or in other words... goin' real great!

Perhaps consider subbin' to the patreon if you'd like to see what happens next! And thank you so much for reading.

Next update is (1-24) frankincense; on Wednesday, August 14th.

Extra note up top: gonna start putting (spoil tagged) Content Warnings on the site versions of these updates!

Content Warnings

Depression and self-loathing
Trauma
Religious trauma
Brief panic attacks
Grief and guilt
References to parental death
Assumptions of manipulation / projection

I journey back through The Reds alone.

Before the others disappeared, their spirits presumably shunted back into their bodies in The Other Side, we agreed to meet at our destination after a quick separated detour. After all, the majority of our equipment was left behind at our homes following our mutual kidnappings. It was a plan I was more than eager to accede to—for some time away from the three of them, if nothing else.

And so once more I enter my home to blessed silence, only this time the weight of my eventual duty hangs over me, not unlike the specter they impersonated. I wonder if the detective is truly already deceased, in that mansion he’s been sequestered to. If so, disrespect of the dead is clearly a favorite amongst their hobbies. At least, if I’m anything to go by.

There are preparations to be made. My satchel, left discarded and still full of alchemy equipment, waits patiently anew for my unwilling endeavor. I move to restock it with what I can of my herbs… but I am truly running dry, even of the basics. Not that the fae would care, but I’ve already more than paid my dues, monetarily most especially.

I’ve tried to keep a tight control over the margins of my shop, always knowing exactly what I put in and exactly what I get out. Sometimes I imagine myself less a storeowner and more a machine that turns money into potion into money again. In and out, import and export, just enough to keep the lights on, and a little extra for a rainy day.

This has been more than just a rainy day. I haven’t yet had time to fully process—will I weather this storm? Ah, I shake my head—the question is irrelevant. It’s do or die. I don’t have a choice. I’ll make it work, even if I have to sell the clothes off my back. The machine does not stop running, and the shop does not go out of business. This, above all else.

It strikes me that the fae found me here, at my place of work. Unserious as they seemed, I can’t discount the danger they pose. They may very well seek compensation in other ways, if I don’t perform to their satisfaction; cut into my business, interfere with the margins, unbalance the whole system. Better I jump through their hoops then let them leash me for profit.

I throw on the coat and cap from before. The edge of the hat digs at the base of the tail I have my hair in, but letting it down would draw yet more attention. Growing it out drew me enough through my adolescence. It’s always been the attention I couldn’t stand.

As disorienting as invisibility can be, I do often wish I was, at least to others. That I didn’t have to be seen. Better yet, that I didn’t have to interact at all. Just stay in my hovel, employ someone else to run the front end of the shop. It’s no wonder my paren— The Bromleys used a similar method, though they typically tag-teamed those duties, switching between brewer and dealer as their whims arose.

Laying against the edge of the shop counter, I spot the estoc Alabastra had “gifted” me. I don’t even know how to use a sword. Yet, it may scare off an attacker easily intimidated.

Or, it may invite only trouble, justifying lethal force against me for being armed. And even if I was forced to use it—

Murderer.

My hand pulls away from the hilt. I had best not.

Relocking my door, I make for the temple, unsure if I hope I’m first or not.

* * *

Of course I’m not.

Standing outside the Palace of the Sun, I see the trio milling about, back in their bodies and no worse for wear. They’ve yet to walk inside. Were they waiting for me? Alabastra and Faylie continue to yammer away to each other, but Tegan looks more distant, standing off to the side. She glances up nervously at the temple. Strange. I’d have expected the paladin to be the most at-home in a house of worship.

As I approach, Alabastra begins to greet me, over-familiar. I hold up my hand in a stop motion. “Save it.”

The temple seems to be at a lull visitors-wise, thankfully. A few pedestrians look like they’re about to walk inside, then stop at the strange trio-plus-one standing at the entrance, and turn off to continue about their days without their customary blessings.

Unbothered by my bluntness, the rogue says, “Well, let’s do this thing.” She enters the building, whistling a jaunty and nonchalant tune. I follow behind.

The other two do not.

“Hey, it’s okay”, Faylie says. Alabastra and I turn back to see the faun rubbing Tegan’s arm. “We’re right here.”

The knight’s lower lip quivers in suspense, and she seems almost arrested by some invisible force, a barrier of psychic blockade preventing her from crossing.

“Dusty…”, Alabastra says, heartbreak in her voice. Probably more deceit. She pushes past me, back to the knight’s side. “Shit. You wanna wait out here again?” Again? Ah, right. They’d mentioned, some ways back, that they’d come here before, to talk to Kansis about the… incident.

But then, what’s the knight’s handicap? She looks like she’s going to shake out of her armor, acting as if she’s being fed into a meat grinder. I’m not exactly comfortable with temples either, yet I’m not making that anyone else’s problem.

“Come on“, I say, “You’re wasting time.”

“Oscar!”, Alabastra bites, upper teeth bared in wrath. She turns back to Tegan. “Ignore him. Just focus on me. It’s okay.” Her hand rubs against the knight’s neck.

I lean against the open door, gut souring, tapping my foot. The two girlfriends comfort their third for reasons I can’t possibly ascertain, until the knight finally pulls her wits together. She swallows a hard lump in her throat, and says, shakily, “Sorry. I’m good, just, uh. I’m good.”

Alabastra’s thumb brushes Tegan’s cheek. “The goodest.” The knight blushes, still looking distant, but placing a gauntleted hand overtop the blonde’s.

Convenient, how quickly she’s forgotten how ‘pissed‘ she was at the rogue. Hypocrite. I roll my eyes, groaning as I walk into the building.

The interior is once more awash in brilliant light, a low population of the faithful and their flock. No sign of Kansis, from what I can tell. Behind me I hear the three shuffling in tandem, a six-legged monster of sound. We divert to the temple’s dorms, arriving at our target room.

I’m about to knock, then stop, hand held in the air. “Perhaps…”, I say, turning to the rogue. She’s eyeing me with a cold gaze; she’s not still pretending to be upset about that little tiff at the door, right? If it isn’t false, then all she’s really angry at is that I snapped at one of her little playthings. Regardless, I continue, “Perhaps… you should knock. If she’s awake, she’ll… well. I can’t predict how she’ll react.”

The blonde crosses her arms. “Fine”, she says.

I press myself flat against the wall, an unseen nightmare at the outside crook of the hallway view. Faylie still holds tight onto Tegan, who only stares ahead, numb and nearly unblinking. She’s malfunctioned. With effort, I stop myself from scoffing. After all, it’s not like she could possibly have worse memories of this place than I do. She isn’t even a born Marblan. Drywater’s just some dismal little town the other side of the country.

The rogue raps her knuckles against the door to ‘shave-and-a-haircut‘. A moment of silence passes, then the door swings open. A familiar voice says, “Ah! Miss Camin, ta what do I owe th’ pleasure?”

“Kansis!”, she greets the Father, “Mind if we talk out here?” Her head jerks to the side to indicate the hallway.

The dwarf ambles from the room, closing the door behind him. As he looks over the four of us, his brows hitch in surprise at my sight. “Oscar?! What are you doin’ here?”

“I…”, I begin, not sure where I’m going.

“He’s with us”, Alabastra butts in. I shoot her a glare. Still making choices for me.

The Father smiles wide, like that’s somehow good news to him. “Huh. I had no idea ya knew these three!” I wonder how well the thieves know Kansis. They’ve never seemed the worshipping type. Quite the opposite, in fact. I pull into myself, not a fan of the attention.

“We wanted to see how the girl’s doin'”, the rogue continues. “Ask some questions too, if she’s up and about. And since we were in the neighborhood, we brought the one who saved her.”

Feeling the circus of eyes on me, blazing like stage lights, I turn, looking into a far off bottom corner of the hallway. “What she said”, I intone. I’m not so confident I will be talking to the girl at all. In fact, perhaps it’s better if I did in fact just turned invisible for the next… however long this takes. I’m sure I could brew at least one disappearing elixir from the supplies I have left. No, no. Better to not waste materials.

Kansis’s palm pats my shoulder; it is the warm and stone-solid grip of a hand hewn from once-unfeeling rock, made into something kinder, like a sword melted into promise bands. I look down at his bulbous nose and rosy cheeks, stretched above his benevolent smile.

Sometimes I wonder, if I am burdened to be a man, what kind of man I should be like. And so, why not one like Kansis, gentle and affirming, an unshakable rock to tie oneself to? It still wouldn’t be pleasant, of course, but at least I’d be of service. I’ve always admired that about the Father—yet somehow, I can’t imagine it for myself. There’s nothing solid at my core to moor another vessel to. All I have is herbs, too much time in a library, and guilt. Those aren’t the building blocks of a man of faith and healing, the bricks with which to construct a righteous self. I could pretend, fabricate—but that certainly wouldn’t make me like Kansis, who radiates genuine substance like the star he worships. I cannot lie, and still be the kind of man Kansis is. But then, the other kinds of men that leaves me with sound far less appealing still.

The Father says, “Well, it’s good to see you’re makin’ friends, Oscar. Ya could do worse than my favorite problem solvers…” Ugh. Out of respect for the clergyman, I bite back my objections. Problem solvers, then. Perhaps he’s one of their usual bounty-givers, paying them for various monster hunts, sewer trawls, the like.

Wait… did he pay to have me hunted…?!

Actually, I’d prefer not to think about that. He continues, “Ya came at a good time. She’s just about wakin’… she’ll be up n’ about, soon.”

“She’s doin’ well, then?”, asks the rogue.

The dwarf nods. “Much better, aye.” He turns to me. “That care ya showed her really did save her life, Oscar. And then some. I was about ta write ya up a letter about it myself, in fact.”

Alabastra says, “Mind if we chat with her privately, Father? Could be we talk about some, eh, sensitive matters. Don’t wanna bring any bad business your way.”

Kansis’s face grows sterner, then he nods again, slower this time, deliberate. “If ya insist, Alabastra. I trust ya. All four of ya, in fact—”

“We’re like, the trustworthinessest”, says Faylie, with two thumbs up, arm still hooked with Tegan’s.

The cleric looks less convinced than he had been the moment prior, but says, “Right. Then, I’ll leave ya to it. Come talk to me again before ya leave, aye?” With that, he turns, departing into the main hall of the temple.

Leaning on the closed door, Alabastra says, “We’ll go in first and explain the situation, Oscar. Don’t wanna give her a shock.” As sensible an idea as that is, I don’t feel up to dignifying her with a response. Instead I shoo her toward the door, and stare back into the hallway. I trick myself into believing the tile pattern is a fascinating enough distraction, until eventually she gets the hint, and without another word, the three enter the chamber.

Alone in the hallway, I hear the muffled voices beyond the door, hushed prayers and whispered weeping from deeper into the temple, chimes and bells, footfalls echoing off the halls of the sun god. The Dawnlord has never struck me as a particularly comforting god, despite the disposition of his followers. Perhaps it’s only my bias against daylight, or perhaps it was reading about his past reputation as a god of war and conquest. The Gods share so little of what their opinions on their own domains are. Only offering vague hints through the powers they grant, the esoteric signs they speak through. Those ideals change with the tides of time, consolidated or forgotten or revived or scorned. Eventually sunlight, and later still light in general, grew synonymous with all that was good and right with the world. The ephemeral nature of the divine turned a worship of holy and righteous fire, burning the wicked out from the veins of the lands, to one of peace and healing and love and truth.

Though according to Kansis, outside this temple, the pendulum swings back the other direction. There’s little taste in the public palate for peace, for the gentle balm of dawn’s glow. Now more than ever, the people ache for the old God’s wrath, and he’s far from the only one in the pantheon who’s followers seem to feel that divide.

The door beside me opens. Faylie’s head peaks around the corner, fully horizontal, antlers like loose nails stuck out of the wall. “C’mon!”, she chirps.

I approach the threshold of the dorm, and stop. Clouds of sour guilt cook inside of me, an athanor set on calcinating my sins. Crimson hot like fire, the imagined judgement of nonreal flame beats me back from the entrance. My shoulders pull into the blades of my back, and I press the watch hard into my sternum with a heartbeat-booming arm.

Faylie looks to me. “Mo—, um. Oscar?”

I am not at home. My hands are stained red and she’s covered in blood and I am not at home.

My hands shake and I need to-to vomit, to save her life and get home and wait for someone to strike me down and— I open my eyes. The faun is staring at me again, in the… the temple.

No, that… those feelings were before. It’s in the past, it isn’t now. Get a damned grip. These inflicted recallings of best-forgotten moments leave me stricken with indignity and shame, but I can’t let them run roughshod over my life. I’ve beaten back the violent yearnings in my skull and the rampant bloodhunger in my gut a thousand times; I will not be beat by something so small as a memory.

I grit my teeth and walk into the room. The other two kneel around the dorm bed, Alabastra holding her hand across the blanket. Under said comforter, sitting up half against the wall, I see Grace Forsyth, the young woman who’s life I nearly ended, who I only narrowly saved. Golden blonde hair in a short bob, dressed now in a comfortable if simple tunic, with bright blue eyes that would better befit shining in wonder than the look of horror at my entrance. On instinct, she backs up, pulling the sheet further over herself. I wince.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright”, says the rogue, “It’s just like we said. He’s not gonna hurt ya.”

She raises a brow. I do not move another step. Grace says, in a youthful but wound-shaken voice, “You’re… you’re really not?”

I shake my head. “No. No harm will come to you.” I grab an arm, feeling suddenly like my words were insufficient. Damn my ineloquent tongue. What is the protocol for meeting someone for the first time that you previously stabbed and then healed? I hazard a guess. “I… want to… apologize.”

“… Sure?”, she says.

Was that the wrong approach? It hardly matters, I’ve already started. There’s no way out but through. “I, well. I regret… what happened. The previous week. It… it shouldn’t have occurred, not to you, or anybody.” My eyes dart to the floor. Exquisite tiling, really. How did they accomplish that coloring… “That is all.”

Grace considers me, tilting her head. “Yeah. Okay…” She sounds listless and spacey. I don’t have enough experience to know if that’s just her natural demeanor or the blood loss. Or perhaps some amount of potion or drug in her system. “But… why? Why did you do it?”

Perhaps it’s best to save her from the more brutal truth. That whatever dwelled within my heart thought her only value was sustenance. Little better than a rabbit in a fox’s jaws. “I’m not… entirely sure. I was not in control. A monster took hold of me.”

“And this monster—it’s actually gone? It’s not coming back?”

My insides compress. I deliver a precise, “Never. It’s gone.”

The young woman nods, then looks confused. “Then… I’m not sure I get it. If you weren’t in control, then why do you feel so responsible?” She looks to the thieves, then back to me. “I mean, didn’t you also save me? It seems like it wasn’t your fault.”

I open my mouth to start, then slam it closed again. That was… not the response I expected. Where do I begin to answer that question? Why do I feel responsible? I scramble for reasons—my own failures, my selfish insistence on continuing to breathe despite the space and life I inevitably take, the very real blood on my hands, stained evermore no matter how hard I scrub it out. That was the throughline, wasn’t it? It was still my fault, regardless of control. Though I’m unsure how to put any of that into words, nor do I believe she even should know the bloody details. Instead I stand still, struck silent as my thoughts circle the wagons.

Alabastra says, “Huh. You’re quick on the uptick… Grace, wasn’t it?”

“That’s me…”, she says, “And, um… well, I never caught your names?”

The half-elf chuckles. “Oh, right. There’s me, jumpin’ the gun again. That’s Tegan, Faylie…” She looks to me, considering for a moment. “Oscar. And I’m Alabastra.”

Grace gasps, leaning forward with wide and unbelieving eyes, as if the name was a stage actress’s. “Alabastra… Camin?! The same Alabastra Camin that stopped the 5th Street cyclops rampage last year?”

Oh Gods. I squeeze my eyes closed. Alabastra says, “Oh. You’re familiar?”

“And the same Alabastra that took Ronson Marselan to the cleaners?”

“… Allegedly.” She looks between the other two, smiling wide. Faylie excitedly joins her partner’s side, and even Tegan seems to have been shook from her stupor enough to look shocked. “Well, girls. Seems like we’ve got ourselves a fan.” The indignities never cease.

The girl, who I’m suddenly less happy to see doing so well, says, “You’re who I was looking for!” Grace pulls the blanket off herself, scooching forward on the bed to get closer to the edge. “I needed an adventurer type that wasn’t afraid to tussle with Partisans, and you came highly recommended. They told me I’d find you in The Reds if I looked hard enough. I never thought you’d find me first! I’d like to hire you for a job!” Suddenly she seems full of energy.

Already I have a headache, increasingly annoyed at the turn of events that of all the people in the city I could have wrought this fate on, it had to be someone connected to the thief, even tangentially. The overwhelming series of misfortunes is too much.

“A job?!”, I say. This was my idea, but that does not mean I have to enjoy the turn it has taken. “No, absolutely not.”

Alabastra stands, facing me. “We haven’t even heard her out. She came all this way just to talk to us, and besides, we need her help. We’re not just gonna short-change her.”

“This is a—”

“Yeah, yeah—a waste of time. We get the picture.” She waves her hand dismissively in my face, then turns back to Grace. “Don’t mind us. He’s not a monster. He’s just bein’ a pill.”

I turn to leave, throwing the door wide. “This is the last thing I need.” Foolish selfish timewasting bastards. I’m of no mind to hear it. I need to be anywhere but here. “Find me when you’ve tired of your own sanctimonious garbage”, I say over my shoulder.

“Osca—”, the rogue begins, but I’ve already slammed the door shut behind me.

* * *

Behind the Palace of the Sun, rolling green hills unfurl into a wide park, marked by shading live oak trees with gnarled branches stretched and coated with moss, gardens of multicolored carnations trimmed carefully along concrete paths cut through the greenery, and penned in from the urban jungle beyond with spiked iron fencing. A beautiful, peaceful pasture, turned dour and morose by the litany of gravestones laid out in rows upon rows, up and down the grounds.

I don’t make a habit of trips to the cemetery as often as I should. For a long while, my method for handling unpleasant memories and guilt was to push them aside, deprive their fires of oxygen until they starved and sputtered out. So as ashamed as I have been for it, best practice to maintain that war of attrition was to avoid reminders, to sidestep the glaring signs of my misgivings to avoid falling into a spiral.

But if I’m to be inundated with memory regardless of my actions, I may as well do what I should have done all along.

A handful of mourners and pedestrians and clerics rove over the cemetery, totaling a dozen or so, scattershot over the park to the effect of near-emptiness. I hear a bird trill in the trees above me as I walk, whistling songs over-cheerful for their nesting spot of choice. Perhaps someone should inform them of their discourtesy.

I almost regret not bringing flowers, as I take in the rainbow assortment of daisies and tulips and carnations dressing the sites of the departed, left behind to eventually blow away in the wind. I wish I could appreciate the gesture, the fleeting of something beautiful like the drifting of lives, burned in quick and demanding flashes. But most of all it seems to me a waste; half of these would serve just as well distilled down, especially the extravagant bouquets, crafted by botanists of an artistic eye rather than one of use. Still I cannot deny the fundamental sentiment of the practice. A compromise, perhaps—a single trimmed bushel of white lilies; a simple and elegant sort of beautiful. I’ve always felt… almost a kinship with lilies. Nothing wrong with a classic.

The winding pathway eventually cuts the opposite direction from my destination, and I make my way over grass, autumn leaves from the nearby shedding trees crunching underfoot. The freshly trimmed grounds cast the premises in an earthy smell, nevertheless evocative of the rotting nature of the soil, how it claims all it sees interred. The cyclicity of life brings little comfort when tragedy comes not from death, but death made sudden. The unlucky, cheated by the reaper and mother nature, brought low from the chaos they conjure. The random firing and colliding of beings onto other beings, sometimes shattered by the force of the encounter. Sometimes even, sundered both in kind.

Finally, I come to a stop. Two headstones stick from the ground, twinned eyes of rebuke to gaze and shame their killer-cause.

Delia Bromley
Alchemist, Loving wife and mother
866 – 912

Pravid Bromley
Alchemist, Devoted husband
870 – 912

I remember there being some amount of discussion of what to put on the headstones. Eventually, the argument was resolved when the bickering of the halfling families ran past the deadline, and the coroners defaulted to the simplest epitaphs they offered.

No one has been here in some time, I can tell. None besides the groundskeeper, keeping the weeds from burgeoning and breaking the stones. I would not be surprised if my last visit was their last visit as well. I shoot my hands into my pockets, feeling the eyes of judgement upon me.

“The— ah.” My throat seizes up as soon as I begin. I swallow the lump at my vocal chords, and try again. “The shop is… well. There was an incident, with a— hm. It doesn’t matter.”

“…”, the graves say back.

A lattice network of guilt knits itself in my chest. “I’m seeing to the repairs now. Well— not now. As soon as I am able again.” The gravestones, alike in slate-gray granite, stand sharp and square at the edges, and are so unlike their eponymous substitutes. Mother was warm, soft, a safety blanket in a cold night. And Father was more like wood than stone—malleable, creative, resolute but able to bend, even if sometimes toward the worst. “Margins are… thin, but I will, of course, manage.”

In the distance, I see an adolescent couple leave a bundle of flowers upon a weathered tomb. An old woman, praying before a grave so fresh the dirt has yet to settle. A young girl, wrapping her arms around a headstone as her father watches on. I must seem to any onlookers no different than these other mourners.

But this is not grief. I have no right to call it as such. This is only duty. An onus to remember, to ensure that they are not forgotten. It is the least I can do. If I could not be their legacy in life, as the child they were so eager to bring into their family, then at least this way, I’ll have repaid them. Still a poor balance of the scales, but what else am I to do? Perhaps this was always how it was meant to be—death, ever stagnant.

I clutch at the watch. The cold metal at my sternum rebounds my near-still heartbeat back into my chest, the drum-beat dirge of ages in its impossible gears. This, then, is what it was telling me. If I cannot live, I can at least stagnate in such a way that they, too, subsist forever. The undead carrying the dead, dragging the past forward. Almost as if nothing ever changes. I can carry their candle long into the dark night of forever.

‘They’ll always be with ya, Oscar…‘, says Father Kansis in a memory.

No. I turn. Kansis looks up at me in the present, smiling in consolation. I could have sworn he’d said that before, too… hadn’t he? I clutch my forehead. “You’re… surprisingly sneaky, Father.”

He chuckles to himself, a knowing smile creasing his face. “I thought ya’d be here.” He joins me at my side, looking down at the markers obtruding from the dirt. “Ya know, your mother loved this place, gravestones n’ all. She’d stop by nearly ev’ry weekend. Did I ever tell ya that?”

I feel like he must have. It sounds familiar, somehow. Yet, I can’t quite put my finger on it. “It does sound like her…”, I say, noncommittally.

Due to the relatively short time she’d actually been in my life all things considered, we’d not had the chance to speak as much as I’d have liked. But I do recall her more macabre sensibilities. How she could look death and atrocity in the face, grit her teeth, and laugh. How obsessed she became with her own disease, the mechanics of its symptoms and effects, even as it wreaked havoc over her biology. She continued to make morbid insights right up until she couldn’t any longer. The journal of her self-research would later be published by epidemiologists studying the Runeplague, especially her own advances in limiting contagion.

She was an excellent alchemist, after all. Though, I can only hope my own nature never skewed her results; my condition can be an unpredictable beast, at times.

Kansis continues, “Too often, at this temple, we’re forced to bury those we know so tragically little about. Those without homes or families, or those too young to have gotten to know.” His eyes scan the ground for meaning. “But, in the case of Delia, it brings me some small comfort to know she’d be happy ta have been put ta rest here. And with him beside her.” He motions to the other grave.

The two loved each other so devotedly; he could not stand to see her hurt. I never blamed him. If anything, Father— Pravid was wiser than most. He saw in me a storm, and was the only one I’ve ever known who ran from it before it was too late. Hurricane Oscar. It just isn’t fair that their love wasn’t enough. “I hope you’re right.”

“Well, I can’t pretend to be certain. But it’s all I can do ta carry her memory. Ta honor her.”

Blood rushes to my ears. Does he…? But he makes no further indication of knowing more than he lets on. A coincidence, surely. I shake my head. “That is what I’ve been trying to do.”

The clergyman says nothing for a moment, gathering his thoughts. When he finally does speak again, there is a purpose in his voice that had been absent before. “I’ve seen a great many things in my time. Champions fighting on the frontlines of th’ Plague Wars, th’ grand mausoleums of my home, the chateau-isles of the Enderin Archipelago.” He looks up at me. “But never once have I seen someone who was undeserving of happiness. I know it doesn’t come easy fer ya. But if ya truly wish ta honor her, Oscar… th’ best way ta do that is to live well.”

I feel as trapped underground as the myriad corpses under my feet. He wouldn’t feel that way if he knew. Truly knew. It would be a greater wrong to live well while they’re gone, not an homage. My eyes dart, and I turn to walk away. “I’ll consider your advice, Father Kansis.”

He sighs. “At least lemme walk back wichya. Give a foolish old man some company.”

“… Alright.”

We walk side-by-side, back toward the temple. I attempt to think on what Kansis said, but every time I try and internalize his words, it is as if they bounce off an impenetrable wall over my heart. It is a nice sentiment, but misused and wasted, on one such as I. Yet I doubt he will stop trying. I hope I am not forced to make Kansis see what the rest saw—the truth about the person they’d so steadfastly clung to the hope of helping. Perhaps it’s yet another layer of my curse, to draw in those wishing to perform charity, or at least the illusion of it, so that I am forced to push them away, over and over. A cruel complicity.

Kansis interrupts my thoughts as we walk, “Perhaps ya can answer a question for me, Oscar.”

“I suppose I can help?”

“What… exactly is th’ nature of those three girls’ relationship?”

I stop in my tracks, sputtering like a broken generator. “I— Ugh.” This is the absolute last thing I expected, or wanted, to talk about, with anyone, ever. “Actually, I stand corrected, Father. I can’t help.” Briskly, I walk ahead, refusing eye contact.

* * *

As we reach the back entrance of the temple, we’re greeted by four individuals exiting before we can enter. The three thieves, together with the girl. She’s back on her feet, and changed into the attire I’d found her in that night, along with a packed bag. I can only hope they got her to agree to take us into the heights without a pointless errand. Perhaps payment of some other kind, though if she’s truly from Firvus, I doubt she wants for much.

Father Kansis tilts his head. “Grace, what’re ya doing out of bed? Ya should be gettin’ your rest.”

The girl smiles. “I’m actually feeling much better, Father. In fact, I think… I think it’s time I go home.”

The cleric breathes deep through his nose, with the bloated overbite wrought of bittersweet news. “Ah. I… see”, he says, “Well, it’s been a delight to have ya here, Ms. Forsyth. I’m sure whatever business you have with these four, they’ll see to ya well.”

Grace steps forward, and envelops the dwarf in a warm hug. “Thank you”, she whispers into his ear, only barely audible to the rest of us. The clergyman sniffles. He always was mawkishly sentimental when it came to goodbyes. Still, I stop myself from groaning.

Alabastra says, “We’ll take care of her. Maybe even show her ’round the Reds. Doubt she got the tour.”

I glare at the rogue. That had better be a joke.

Kansis says, “Whatever your reasons for departing home, Ms. Forsyth, you can return here, should ya need, in warmth.” He looks to the rest of us. “And that goes for all of ya. You’re welcome anytime in th’ Palace of the Sun. Walk in the Dawnlord’s light.” He dusts his hands along his robes, and departs inside the temple.

We wait a beat. “Alright, gang. We’re gonna have to hoof it all the way the other side of town, so, best we not kill anymore daylight.” Alabastra turns, walking us around the side of the temple, through a trellis-laden arch meeting back with the road.

As disinterestedly as possible, I say, “You’ve agreed to take us, then?” I don’t look to the girl, but hopefully she at least has enough wits to know I’m speaking to her. Then again, she did come to The Reds, at night, looking for Alabastra Camin of all people. Perhaps I’m giving her too much credit.

“Well”, Grace says, “You can’t exactly take my job if you can’t get onto the hilltop, now can you?” I groan, ignoring the chorus of stares. The girl trips briefly over her own shoes, stumbling to keep herself upright. She must still be adjusting to walking after her week waylaid. By the time the others have helped her right herself, I’m already ahead. I know where we’re going, regardless.

We begin our march down the road, busy streets laden with a frantic energy, an anxious susurrus hanging over the pedestrian crowds. Like the whole city’s seen a ghost. As someone who has in fact seen several today, I’m of a mind to believe them all overly-aghast.

“Are the people here always so nervous?”, Grace asks.

Faylie’s clip-clopping stomps into a more rhythmic drum beat as she starts to skip. “Ohh, y’know how it is. The newspaper’s got everyone all riled up about ‘monster attacks‘ and ‘gunfights‘ n’ stuff. Nothing to really worry about.” Despite the faun’s attempts to paint them with an unserious brush, those do seem worthwhile things to be scared of in her specific instance, considering she was actively involved in most of it. Still, while the rest of the populace are prone to panic at the sight of their own shadow, the situation is hardly so serious as to warrant this level of dread. Surely.

The rogue adds, “I still think they should call it the Marble City Re-Acta. Because they’re— ah, you get it!” I hear Alabastra brush Tegan’s armor with a clank.

Tegan says, “That really wasn’t very funny the first time you said it, Allie. Or the second.” She seems to be back to her old self once more. Whatever the Palace of the Sun stirred within her, clearly it wasn’t so dire. “Or third.”

“But it’s gettin’ funnier, right?”

“Why would it get funnier?!”

Grace adds, “Actually, I don’t get it.”

Alabastra chuckles, likely still pleased with herself. “You’re not exactly the target audience, Silver Spoon.”

It is bizarre, to hear them all yammer on with a fourth person to rib at. Part of me feels obligated to warn her of the hot stove she’s inches from laying her hand on, but I doubt it would be taken to heart, regardless. Better that the naive are burned once, so that they might learn.

For her part, the young woman only says, “‘Silver Spoon‘? Is that like, a nickname?”

“Just my little habit. Ain’t always so good with names. Helps if I, y’know, make it make more sense. Reorganize the ol’ mind shelves.” Alabastra’s jovial, bouncing cadence, which once seemed so natural to me, now only comes across like performance. She belongs on a stage. Preferably a dismal one, where audiences could pelt her with tomatoes. “If ya don’t like it, either you don’t gotta put up with it long, or it’s liable to change. First one never sticks once I get to know folk better.”

“Oh… alright! Well, what are the other’s nicknames, then?”

I hear shuffling, the sounds of Alabastra pulling her girlfriends in for a group hug. I roll my eyes as she says, “Well, Faylie started out as ‘Antlers‘, but these days she’s Firefly, or Glowbug, or such derivatives. She’s small, but fierce, n’ lights up my life like a night in summer.”

“Allie“, Faylie whines, playfully.

She continues, “Tegan used to be ‘Clanks‘, on account of all that racket, but now she’s Stardust. My fundamental building block, brilliant, liable to explode like a supernova, and so very beautiful.” She’s so saccharine I might gag.

“Allie.” The knight’s tone is far more curt, but panicked, tampering her own stammering embarrassment. She can go ahead and drop her act, already. It broke in that temple, after all. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if this whole thing was just some pity ploy they rehearsed.

Grace says, “Wow… You’re… open, aren’t you?” I twitch, and my hands dig so deep into my coat pockets I might wear a hole through them. “And Oscar’s?”

My footfalls halt, the others skittering to a stop behind me. Although I dare not look back, I know they’re all staring. Alabastra clears her throat. “We’re, eh, between nicknames right now.” Clumsily put. I’ve half a mind to inform Grace exactly what that means, but that would only prolong the issue.

Mostly, I just want this to end. To not half to talk about or listen to this drivel, feel their eyes on me, be acknowledged in any way. I’d give anything for everyone to stop talking about me. Anything.

The socialite says, “Oh? And why is—”

CAW, sounds a cry from above.

I’ll admit, I walked into that one.

Paella the raven makes its first bothersome appearance of the day, swooping onto Alabastra’s shoulder, as the rogue says, “Well, there’s my favorite feathered delinquent! Where ya been, Pae?” As she speaks, she digs into her pocket, pulling a collection of peanuts from a brown paper bag I hadn’t realized she had in there, cracks the shells, and holds the nuts out in her hand. The bird pecks at the selection, ruffling its feathers.

“Would you get rid of that damned vermin?”, I seethe.

Alabastra’s face drops into scorn. “Did you forget? Paella saved—” She stops mid-sentence, looking like she’s stopping herself from spitting the words. “Y’know what? Never mind.” She looks down at the bird, scratching its neck feathers.

I tap my foot, waiting for the endless distractions to finally end. The bird lets out a croaking sound, tapping its claw into the half-elf’s shoulder.

“It’s great to see ya too, girlie”, The rogue says, “But we gotta split again. We’re headin’ into the heights, which means no following. They don’t take kindly to tough street birds like you. Understand?”

The bird CAWs in response. Then it flits its beady black eyes on me, and flies in my direction. Instinctively I wave my arms out to bat it away if it gets close. It takes a sharp left before colliding with me, and flaps its wings hard into the sky above. As it goes, I slowly relax, readjusting my jacket, and turning back on my heel. Still plenty of ground to make.

“Weird bird…”, Grace says.

“Oh, you have no idea“, says Tegan.

As quick as I can, despite their continued chatter, I march without stop, every footfall one step closer to finally being rid of them for good.

Happy birthday to me~

And as my first birthday gift to myself, I get to release one of my favorite chapters as of yet! Not because it's particularly flashy or has any big revelations or whatever, just that it was, uh. Rather personally important to me. So I hope you enjoyed too!

And as my second gift to myself... this story means a really great deal to me, and releasing it at all is quite important in its own right. That being said, getting a bit of extra support would truly be potentially life-altering. So, after some amount of deliberation I have decided to set up a lil' Patreon for Witch Hunt!

At the moment the only tier available is offering an early update, which means for just $3 you can, in fact, go read the next chapter right now!

On the page itself I also set up a lil' post asking for feedback on some additional tiers as well, if you're so inclined to give said feedback.

But my pledge for my work to remain free has not changed, and whatever I publish there, even if I eventually branch to bonus content, will eventually make its way to the public as well. This is deeply important to me to stress.

And regardless of whether you decide to offer Witch Hunt some extra support, thank you, sincerely, for coming on this ride so far. For my final birthday gift I will allow myself a bit of schmaltz and say, genuinely, it means a lot. ❤

Next update is (1-23) obsidian; on Friday, August 9th.

It was bad enough travelling with them when I could see them.

Now, I’m cursed to know they’re there, on the reverse end of reality, at odd times yammering away into the open air despite their entirely unseen selves, turning heads in my direction. Even more often than usual, anyways.

It has only now set in that despite my very best efforts, the universe itself has conspired to force me back inside their orbit. That the very process by which I freed myself has trapped me once again. Spiteful criminals and their petty debts—making a workhorse out of me, in recompense for deeds that were never my idea, or never my intention at all. At least if this is the only price left to pay for immortality, it will disappear in time. Kings and lords and archmages have sacrificed more for less. This will all pass in the blink of an eye, when viewed back with an everlasting lens.

But seeing as I currently lack said perspective, Alabastra’s voice drifting through the air behind me sends my hairs on end. “Your Auntie sure is somethin’, Lightning Bug.”

Faylie chirps back, “That was honestly the most I’ve talked to her in years. But, yeah, she’s pretty great!” Their voices, carried over from the realm of phantasms, are hollow and echoey, like I’m eavesdropping down the other end of an empty hallway.

“And is she, uh…”, says the disembodied voice of Tegan. “Y’know?” The rustling of her armor through the planar divide leaves a ghostly clatter, that would be eerie were it not so annoying.

“Is she… what? Super strong and powerful? Famous? Funny with a fox trot?”

Tegan stumbles over her next words. “She’s not, like, a faun, so… is she really your, I mean, by blood—” The knight cuts herself off with a high-pitched whimper, for what reason I cannot begin to guess.

“Oh, my sweet knight”, says Faylie, then puts on what likely amounts to her best impression of a wizened old sage, “You still have much to learn about the Faewilds.“

“Uh. I guess so, yeah.”

Alabastra chuckles. “Oh, wow. It’s been a while since we’ve had a ‘Sheltered Tegan’ moment! I missed those!”

“Yeah…”, says Tegan, curt and deflated.

An empty, uneasy silence follows. My gut twists. That’s just like the rogue, to barrel through barriers without regard. Although I ultimately couldn’t care about Tegan’s feelings less, it is a cold comfort to know that I’m not the only one who sees it.

“… Anyways”, Faylie finally fills the silence, “We can trust her! Probably. As long as we don’t promise her too much, or become reliant on her, or make her angry or anything like that.”

There’s a single clap as Alabastra says, “Good enough for me! Hells, ‘probably‘s’ our comfort zone.” I roll my eyes. Yours, maybe. She continues, “And that little trick she taught ya?”

“It’ll help us clean up our mess—just a little thing. Auntie said most magic works from here! Which, by the way, this is so screwy!” Then, the faun yaps directly into my back, “You’re missin’ out, Oscar!”

I stop dead in my tracks, balling my fists in rage.

“For the last—”, I begin, turning around to face… nothing. A passing couple of fiendlings eye me with confusion. I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Can you please show yourselves…”

The three thieves apparate before me, their forms translucent and immaterial. Faylie stares at the ground, chewing the tarmac with her eyes. Tegan pouts, brows furrowed, and Alabastra only stares. They fall silent, just as Forrest had described.

I start again, fuming with rage, “I will explain this once, succinctly. I am here to absolve my debts to the—” I stop myself, and look down at the faun. “Is there something else I can call them?”

“The Sylph Squad…”, Faylie says, sadly. She flits briefly out of reality as she does.

For the love of the Dawnlord. “Is there anything… else I can call them?!”

She thinks for a moment, disappearing again. “Well, they got their start in the Gloamwood, so, sometimes other faeries would call them the Gloamwood Gang?”

“Good enough”, I sigh. “My debts to the Gloamwood Gang. I’m not here to chat with any of you, or ‘patch up‘ your ridiculous insistence on friendship—I am here to do a job. The only reason I’m sticking close to you at all is that, loathe as I am to admit, you remain my best chance at finding the source of these transformations. But do not include me in your pointless banter, and certainly don’t expect me to be pleasant about it. Is that understood?”

The three tense up against the salvo. One by one, they nod, hopefully getting the truth of the matter through their obstinate skulls. “Understood”, says Alabastra, disappearing from sight. The others follow behind. If they continue to chatter at all, they do so in the Ethereal Realm, out of earshot of me.

Finally, some peace and quiet.

* * *

I’d never actually gotten a solid look at the Carlivain Hotel from the outside. In fact, my only view of it at all was that tiny room. But now, a good walk and skyway trip later—that the thieves made clear they were very glad to not have to pay for—we’ve journeyed all the way to the eastern edge of The Reds, bordering the high rise city center borough of Nivannen, twinkling with the light of the new world and split in twain by the River Bassarin. New buildings seem to come up every month in the inner city, raised in rapid construction by the ambitious cosmopolitan graduate mages out of the Lazuli Institute—a whole new era of the classic wizard’s tower.

And stood like the gated portcullis into Nivannen, the Carlivain Hotel looms as an upside-down T, short side wings and a colossal middle rising above the alike-shaped intersection it meets.

“Anyone else think ‘Carlivain’ was compensatin’ for something?”, says Alabastra. I squeeze my eyes closed. If I just pretend I didn’t hear that, it cannot affect me at all.

The hotel’s intricately carved exterior is marred of its grandeur by the cavalcade of cops swarming it. Even days out from the… incident, they still cling to the premises like flies to garbage. Unsurprising, considering a firearm was obtained. That old rifle likely sent a shockwave through their department. They’ll have none of the usual excuses or pretentions of laziness for this—they’ll want every detail. Fortunate, then, that we’re here to erase the margins.

I pop the cork on the oil flask. Just from the smell it’s obvious that it’s not only diluted, but expired, too. If I sold this I’d be sued for snake-oil business, and rightfully so. I was right to wait until the eleventh hour to use it—it may not even last to the twelfth.

The cold slimy lavender fluid slides over my forearms, and I rub the soapy liquid into my skin. The world takes on a foggy-blue tint, and much like The Other Side, an ever-present mist drifts over the busy street. The flow of pedestrians, the buildings, and even the sky all turn hollow, faded in color like a photograph. No necromantic shortcuts—I’ve arrived in the Ethereal Realm by way of alchemy, however shoddy.

The three thieves are made manifest before me, as they observe the cluster of law enforcement with practiced perception. “Alright, team. Business, then pleasure. Head in, clean up the emotion gunk, and after that we find someone who might know where Natey is.” Alabastra accentuates with a chop into her hand.

Faylie asks, “Does this count as therapy?”

Alabastra shrugs. “Actually… think it might be the opposite. C’mon.”

With otherworldly footfalls, blanketed behind the thin veil of reality, we step into the Carlivain Hotel, this time by choice. More cops infest the building, as bothersome as any termite plague. They dart between doors, making themselves busy through the boredom of their posts. Days old as the act is now, any of the serious investigating has already moved on from this place. This crew is near-certainly just hopeful to catch a criminal idiotic enough to return to the scene of the crime.

Ah. Well. Anyways…

The cops aren’t the only ones milling about, of course. A slew of reporters from all over the country has descended upon the lobby, desperate for their scoop. The Carlivain was, before all of this nonsense, one of Marble City’s more famous hotels. That it was owned and operated by a criminal element for some, if not all, of its tenure, is only one of the many details of this story that journalists undoubtably salivate over. They interview whichever officers will talk to them, or the few of the hotel’s staff permitted to continue working. It’s mostly cleaning staff, by the looks of it—picking up not after the battle, but the messy police. Though, I’m not entirely sure who’s paying their wages, if the proprietress is—

I wince. No longer in a position to issue earnings.

Otherwise, certain sections of the lobby have been cordoned off by rope and wooden barricades. Behind them, tables are set with gathered evidence. One particular table catches my eye, covered in brass scrap metal gears and plates, the largest piece a head half-again the size of a human’s, cold and dead robotic eyes staring ever more into nothing. If I were a touch more foolish, I’d let myself grow curious over how the thieves managed to subdue that thing. Hmm. They probably just ran from it.

As we pass the metal remnants, Faylie says, “Alright, so Auntie said I’d just have to cast this in the, like, vague area of where any of us might have had some blood spilled, so… lobby, restaurant, then upstairs?”

“You’d know better than I”, I say.

Faylie stares a moment too long, then produces a card. It depicts a floating hand bearing a single overflowing cup. She concentrates, holding the card out. “OBLI.” The ghostly pinkish mirror of the card’s illustration depicts the hand turning the cup over, and as she raises her arm into the air, the magical contents spill out in a rose wave of cloudlike cotton, washing over the space around us in a tidal sea, stretching across the room. Thankfully the embellishment seems completely unnoticed by the cops on the material plane.

As the cloud passes over various sections of the floor, it’s as if stains are ripped out of the carpet in plumes of red steam, hitting the pink and impossibly creating billows of iridescent rainbow mist, sent flying up and away.

And one such cloud drifts up from near where I’m standing, and collides with my form. For a brief moment, I feel butterflies in my stomach. In a manner than reminds me of my now-solved ordeal, I am inundated with emotions that are not my own. But rather than the bloodthirst I was accustomed to tuning out, instead I feel… a confused sort of intimacy. Pride. Comfort… love?! Like cozying up against a warm blanket, cared for by a beloved, knowing with absolute certainty that they’re safe in my arms… Relief… All of my girls made it out okay…

I snap back into my myself, darting away in a flurry as I realize what just occurred. That was… those were Alabastra’s feelings. I’m not even entirely sure how I know that… My stomach flips, and I snarl at the thought of having shared anything with her.

“Oscar?”, Alabastra starts. I flinch, arms pulled against me as if the words might hurt. It’s not like I can put that past her. Perhaps she even orchestrated that… somehow?

“I-i-it was nothing.”

She stares for a moment, then waves her hand. “That all of it?”, she shouts to Faylie.

Faylie, who had briefly disappeared into the restaurant to perform the same deed, ducks around the corner, swiping the card through the air with a thumbs up. “Think so!”

“Alright. Oscar, they had us in room 16-F. Show Faylie up.”

I cross my arms and glower. “You think you have any right to order me around?” Her audacity knows no bounds.

“You said you wanted to be useful, right? It’s that or twiddle your thumbs”, she says. Dammit, fine. But not because she told me to. She looks to Tegan, back of her hand lightly tapping the human on the shoulder. “Let’s see if we can’t find a badge who was snoopin’ Latchet’s place. Maybe even Not-Fuck himself, if we’re lucky!”

Tegan stares a moment, a blank gaze over Alabastra that hides a roiling underneath, before she nods, and diverts an opposite direction.

Faylie looks up at me, beaming a large and oblivious smile. I roll my eyes, dig my hands into my pockets, and march up the stairs. The clip-clop of her hooves across the lobby floor echo with dull reverberation into the fog plane around us, as if a thin layer of still water blankets every surface.

As we reach the ascent of the balcony over the lobby, Faylie looks to me. “Hey, check this out.” Then… she starts to float off the ground, grinning without a care as she lifts higher and higher. “Pretty cool, right?” Her slow rise reaches the ceiling, and she passes right through it.

My brows furrow so low they dip into my eyesight. With a groan, I walk up the stairs, not chancing the elevator, and certainly not attempting… whatever she’s doing.

 As I walk up to the next floor, Faylie’s head pops out of the ground, still cheery, and wiggling her fingers. “OooOOOooo! “

“Idiot“, I seethe, turning over to the next flight. As I reach the third story, the faun floats up again, dejected, ears flopped down the side of her head, shoulders slouched, like the saddest ghost I’ve ever seen. My eyes roll.

By the eighth floor I’m starting to regret my choice of stairs, already feeling the burning in my legs. And by the fifteenth, my lungs are struggling for breath, made worse by the only air in this horrible plane being so misty. I fold over, hands on my knees. It seems the watch’s immortalizing effects don’t protect me from my lifestyle choices. This is why I don’t go out much.

As I look into the hotel hallway, I’m caught by the sight of charred and blackened floors, wallpaper cracked and peeled from heat, exposed sections of wood burnt. Faylie says, “I kinda— mighta gotten carried away…” I raise a brow at her. She caused the fire? I suppose all those threats of fireballings weren’t rhetorical. “Anyways, feel free to catch your breath, I’ll handle this.” There’s an undercurrent of gravity to her words that she fails to hide—a weight. Perhaps even guilt. I shake my head. If that’s the case, well, perhaps she should feel guilty.

Back to the stairwell wall, I catch my breath. Something about this plane feels wrong. It’s hollow and empty in a way the material plane isn’t. Though, I suppose that’s fitting. The dead usually are. A creeping feeling crawls down my back, hairs standing on edge. The watch feels warm on my chest, compared to the cold Ethereal clamminess, and I clutch it for comfort.

The faun returns. “Okie-doke… going up!” She sticks her index finger high into the air as she ascends again. I trudge after her, up what is thankfully the final flight of stairs.

As we pass through the halls, a scratchy burgundy rug at our feet and flickering lightbulbs above, I reach a section coated with dried blood. A bored police officer stands outside a room labelled 16-F, open to the nauseatingly familiar sight of the room we were trapped in. The second I catch a glimpse, my mind flashes with images— his eyes burning into my brain as the life leaves him. A gasp catches in my throat, and my vision tunnels. I backpedal, shoulder blades colliding with the opposite wall. I can’t feel my fingertips. I feel the— handle of the knife, greeting me like an old friend.

I turn away, walking aimlessly down the hall. I’m not sure where to—anywhere but here. Murderer… murderer murderer murderer murderer murderer…

An angry swelling hot tear wells against the side of my eye, and I wipe it away furiously. Useless, incomprehensible moron, what did you think was going to happen, coming back here again? My fists ball at my sides.

“Oscar?”, Faylie says at my back. Why can’t they get the message?

I turn in a rage. “Don’t!” She jumps like I’m an animal reared for attack. I feel disgusting, vile, like I need a bath. “… Just… Just go. Do your damned job.”

She looks nervous for a moment, then without another word, turns and walks into the room.

The second she’s out of eyesight, I close my eyes, and collapse against the wall, sliding down to the floor. I clutch at the long strands of hair above the forehead, heaving the feeling out in several colossal waves, frantic expirations to excise demons, hot breaths against the forearms. I prefer to think of the body in constituent parts, when I get like this. Break myself down piece by piece, section off the dying mind from the half-living body. That way I can at least get what needs running back in order again. I bend the knees and stand. No one has any use for these worthless little breakdowns. For Runo’s sake, I shouldn’t even be having them anymore. I’m fixed. I’m cured! What is the matter with me? Don’t I know a good thing when I’ve got it?

After a moment, the faun returns, looking somehow even more distraught. But she meets my eyes, and gives me a tiny nod. I turn, leading us back down the stairs.

Thankfully, the return trip isn’t quite so bad as the ascent. As we arrive back at the lobby, I see Alabastra and Tegan at opposite ends of the lobby, but both looking directly at the same individual.

Wandering through the Carlivain Hotel, the distinct and irascible form of Officer Nottham, the very same that had harassed the rogue some days ago. He still wears the glasses he had been wearing, even indoors.

As we rejoin, Alabastra says, “Thought he’d be here. Didn’t I, Bug?”

Faylie claps, her brightness returned just as quick as it had left her. “Ooo, are we gonna get him? Like, really, really get him?”

“Information’s the most important thing. We need to know if the law ever did find our private eye. But I think I’ve got the angle to get us both at once.” She snaps her fingers, bringing the crook of her thumb to her chin. “He thinks I’m just for show? Then let’s put on a show.”

* * *

As I have come to expect, this plan is absolutely moronic.

With ghostly taps on his shoulder and whispers in his ear, Alabastra’s lured the officer into the hotel’s basement, boiler room roiling heat, noisy generator churning, and crates of spare supplies in stacks. The heavy boots of the lawman stomp into the stairs as he descends. He surveys the scene intently, wriggling his nose. Alabastra had assured us his curiosity would get the best of him. I suppose she would know.

“Places, people”, she says, standing by the door.

Faylie stays in the center of the room, arms raised like a puppetmaster at the start of a marionette show. Tegan stands by some shelving and stacked crates where various bits of kitchenware, paint cans, cleaning supplies, and spare bits of furniture are tightly packed along the wall. I simply lean against the side of the stairs, ready to do the one and only part of this plan I was willing to enact. My hand hovers over the power breaker for the basement, waiting for the rogue’s signal. For her part, Alabastra’s fingers dance above the doorknob in anticipation, eagerly awaiting her own orchestrated chaos.

Nottham reaches the bottom of the stairs, looking around, mustache twitching from his half-snarl.

“And… action!“

For a moment, I consider ignoring her command, but that would only waste time. Better to get this done. I shut the lights off.

The room is cast in darkness with an electrical buzz-thrummed clang.

The officer turns with a start, hands on his waist. “What in the—” He starts to pace around the basement floor, peeling the corners. “Shoddy electric work. Leave it to the power company, can’t hire good honest Anillians”, he grumbles.

Alabastra slams the door shut, using her picks to jam the locking mechanism.

Nottham spins on a dime toward the door, frozen for a moment in shock. He walks back up the steps, and tries the door, jimmying the handle to no avail. Again and again he tries, even slamming against the door with his shoulder, growing more frantic by the attempt. “H-hey! Anybody out there?! This ain’t funny!”

Only inches from his face, Alabastra smiles wickedly. “Oh, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet”, she snarls, a curse muffled by ethereal distance.

The policeman continues to slam into the door, banging on it with his palm. “Let me out!”, he shouts, pride abandoned.

Having already begun conjuring, Faylie weaves a sound through the air. “Noooootthaaaaaam“, a whisper from the ether drifts through the basement, a haunting chill suffocating the air.

He turns. “Who—”, he begins. His wild look of terror is unmistakable. This is working. I steam from the corner. Of course it’s working..

“Dusty, that’s your cue!”, shouts Alabastra.

Tegan darts to attention. She lifts a single plate from the shelf, and lazily shakes her hand, causing the plate to quiver, as she waves it around like a sad flag. She looks back to the other two, shrugging, clearly having absolutely no idea what she’s doing.

But the officer looks to the ‘floating plate’, from his perspective, and lets out a yelp. Tegan smirks unsurely, and tosses the plate over her shoulder. It shatters on the floor behind her, and the officer backs against the wall.

“Throw one at his head!”, shouts Faylie.

The knight looks bewildered, but picks up another plate and throws it like a discus at the wall in Nottham’s vicinity, too wide a miss to have been accidental. Nevertheless, it smashes into pieces, and he yells, “Gah! You d-damned demon! Show yourself!” He stands, shakily pulling his baton from his belt and swinging it wildly. He retreats back down the steps, swatting the air around him in a swivel, jaw jutting and neck bulging in panicked rage.

Faylie says, “Well, if he insists!” She concentrates, arcana spilling forth as she fully realizes the spell she’d been casting. Whispers and random screeching wails sound discordant chaos into the basement, and illusory blood starts to drip from the walls, rolling slow streaks of crimson down the dark brick. As she does, Tegan picks up her own tempo, starting to throw more and more plates, supplies, even a chair across the room in a cascade of random violence.

And several feet ahead of Faylie, an apparition appears, conjured from the mists to show through to the material plane. She creates the image of a tall man in a beige trench coat, with a fedora hat. He looks to be in his late 40s, the weight of years starting to set into his face, gruff and stoic. This must be Nathaniel Latchet. Or, at least Faylie’s approximation. It’s hard to say if this is an accurate portrayal, especially through the mage’s ghastly embellishments. His eyes are sunken slightly into his skull, colored a ghostly pale blue. Lines of dark veins run under his skin, and his sleeves are too long—when he holds up both his arms, the edges droop over the sides of his hands. That seems a superfluous and overly-silly detail to me, but it seems to work on the cop, as he shrieks like a scared cat.

Alabastra steps forward, clears her throat, and says in a much deeper, gruffer tone than is usual, “Nottham! How could you do this, Nottham?!” Utilizing her pre-feminine voice, I wonder if she even sounds similar to the detective at all, or if the ghostly ambience is performing the majority of the cognitive dissonance. She walks in circles around the cop as she speaks, to sell the ominous effect.

“Nathaniel? Latchet?! It… it can’t be!”, he says, wide-eyed. He’s actually countenancing this.

“But it is!“, declares Alabastra-As-Latchet. “Returnnnned… from the graaaave!“

I massage my temples in annoyance. “Really?”, I groan. I’m surprised her teeth aren’t full of brick pebbles, the way she’s chewing the scenery.

She turns to me. “Oh, cool off, it’s part of the process”, she says, presumably not letting her voice through the material for that quip. Then back in her Latchet impression, she wails, “Whyyyyy, Nottham?!“

Nottham falls to his knees, taking his sunglasses off. His eyes tell a story of completely sincere distress. “I-I don’t understand, Nate.” His horrified expression looks outright silly when seeing behind the curtain so to speak. “How’d… how’d you know we were lookin’ for ya?”

The rogue opens her mouth for a moment, eyes darting as she decides what to say. “I’m an… ace… detective! Even! In DEATH!” The facsimile Nathaniel waves his arms through the air, jacket sleeves flopping side to side. My face buries in my hands.

Tegan continues to smash various bits of furniture against the walls, even throwing out a paint can that spills its oily white over the floor. She takes a second to look back. “Think you should tone it down a little, you two? Natey’s pretty aloof.” Even as she tears the basement apart, the knight continues to be the only one approaching sense.

“Don’t you question my artistic genius!”, says Faylie.

The illusion’s back folds in on itself like a piece of paper in the wind. The cop flinches. “Ah, Gods! Nate… I’m s-sorry! I di-didn’t think they’d… kill ya?!” They? Then, the police did find the detective after all. Or, at least whoever took him. I cross my arms and lean in.

“But they diiiiid!“, Alabastra says. She looks to the rest of us and shrugs.

“You shoulda got your badge back when ya had the chance, Nate! None a’ this woulda happened!” Nottham pleas at the apparition of his apparent former colleague like a soldier mourning a comrade. If this were anyone else I’d feel sorry for him. But even as repulsed with Alabastra as I am, that doesn’t extend to sympathy for the cop. If anything, they’re more alike than either would admit. Just users. Petty manipulators. Only one ever had the chance to do so to me, but this officer would do the exact same, given the opportunity.

Alabastra says, “If I wanted to be a strike-breaker I’d go fucking bowling, Nottham!“

“W-what?!”

The rogue coughs into her fist. “I- I mean… I would never rejoin be- uh, because they have… mandatory unions in the underworld!” The illusion waves its arms again.

“Oh, Gods, no!” Nottham slams his fist into the ground.

My teeth grit in impatience. They’re having far too much fun with this. Never mind that it’s rather in poor taste if it turns out the detective actually was killed.

The officer pleads, “Nate, I’m… I can’t believe this! Please don’t h-hurt me, I never meant for this to happen!”

“You must assist me, Nottham! I cannot pass into the great beyond, until justice is done!“

He squints and nods with purpose. “Tell me how!”

Alabastra stands flush with the illusion, saying from its position, “You must name your guilt, Nottham! Only by admitting what you’ve done, will my spirit be set free!” I will credit the rogue with one thing— she’s skilled at extracting confessions. Not that she would ever have the thought herself, but she would make a terrifyingly effective fed.

The cop breathes deep, eyes shunted like the truth pains him. But he heaves it through his throat against the guilty traction, “We… we knew where ya where, Nate. In that mansion in the heights. And we didn’t come get ya.”

The rogue grins with triumph, clearly enjoying her enemy beaten before her. She leans down, partially to appraise him for truth, and partially to take in the look on his face, a sinister smile at his anguish. “And whyyyy?“

“Because… because of that donation that came in. It would really help the force, Nate, and… they told us they weren’t gonna hurt ya none!”

Standing straight for a moment, Alabastra crosses her arms, and says just for us, “Law on their payroll. They sold ol’ Latchet out for a buck. Damn. We were more right than we knew.”

Mansions and bribes—our foes are clearly more monied and established than any of us realized.

Tegan says, “Think we should risk any more questions?”

“Just one more”, she responds. Then in her put-on melodramatic ghost voice, “And who paid you?!“

“I don’t know!”, the cop laments. “Some councilman… Ah! Serrone! I think… Councilman Serrone! I’m sorry!” He lies fully prostrate on the floor, practically pleading for his life.

That’s it, then. The next clue we needed. And not a moment too soon… already I can feel the oil starting to slip its hold on my form, and I imagine their own trick for moving through the realm won’t last much longer, either. This preposterous charade worked well enough—I refuse to push my luck.

I stand from my spot and say, “We’re finished, then.”

The damned rogue stands there for a moment, the smile that had been on her face fading as she looks down at the cowering cop before her. She starts to grind her jaw again, the mirth draining from her cheeks. “I’m… I’m not satisfied.”

What? Nonsense, on so many levels.

Faylie tilts her head to the side. “Whaddaya mean, Allie?”

Her hand starts to shake. “He doesn’t… he can’t know it was us that got him with this. And he’ll never feel sorry. Won’t even think twice about the shit he said. It just it doesn’t feel like I won.”

“… So?”, I say.

“So?! He harassed me, that’s so! He made me seem like… f-feel like… Fuck! He doesn’t get to just get away with it”, she says, skipping over her words like disjointed thoughts are wrestling for control of her tongue. Then her focus sharpens, and she cracks her neck. “And he won’t. I’m not finished.” Alabastra is nakedly furious, and preparing to escalate.

But I couldn’t care less for her asinine revenge fantasies. “Yes you are”, I say. Selfish dullard, her damned pride. “You are not going to waste our time. My time. We have what we need, now let’s go.”

She turns to me in a rage, ready to launch into some rant on the righteousness of her cause, no doubt. Exactly what I’ve come to expect of the hypocrite.

Then, her anger drops, as quick as it came. She blinks, considers, and shakes her head. Biting her tongue like she’s poised to chew it down to the meat, she digs deep through her conscience, considering. In a moment that feels like years, she subsumes her petty desires for comeuppance into practicality, blatant on her face as the realization dawns upon her. She knows it. I know it.

Alabastra returns to calmer waters. “Okay.”

The faun says, “Hold on, wait! We can— we can so still give him the business!”

“Nah. He’s right, Firefly.” She looks down at the cop one last time, fists balled. “We’re done here.” She marches for the stairs.

The illusion drops as Faylie released the spell, the environment she’s conjured swirling away into shadow, the detective’s form liquidating and pouring like water from a bucket, washing over the cop to elicit one last scream. Tegan drops the last bits of detritus she’s left un-smashed onto the ground, and all of us make for the door.

Nottham simpers, but stands, looking in confusion, searching for the light at the end of his ordeal. “N-Nate?”

* * *

As we pass through the hotel’s kitchen, Alabastra says, “Well, we got what we came for. Mostly, anyways.”

“Right on time, too. I think Forrest is, uh, waking us up?”, Tegan rambles, waving her arm as it slowly starts to disappear.

“Councilman Serrone’s mansion in the heights…” Alabastra pinches her chin. “That means gettin’ into the upper city. Damn.” The rogue snaps in frustration.

Casually as can be, the three phase through the outer wall of the hotel. I follow trepidatiously, feeling a strange sort of pulling as I go, like a sudden acceleration. When in the open air once more, the world starts to take on a brighter shade of color—the oil is nearly entirely faded. I remind myself to demand a lesser price for this rubbish work.

Faylie asks, “How’re we getting onto the hilltop, Allie?”

I’d thought thieves such as these would have a more reliable way into the upper city. “You mean you don’t know?”, I mumble.

Alabastra says, “Ah, it’s always a case-by-case thing. If ya got time to forge docs and put your glad rags on, sometimes all you need is a tearjerker. If your business is quick and you’re quicker you might sneak in…” She thinks for a moment. “But we’re gonna need a longer stay—give us time to scope our marks. Nah, easiest way in is to get a pass from somebody who belongs up there.”

The faun shrugs. “I can’t think of anyone… On short notice, anyways…”

I stop dead in my tracks.

The three turn back to me. “Oscar?”, the rogue says.

“I might know someone.” A horrible idea… but I’ve already said it. And the rogue is correct, the simplest path into Firvus Heights is to follow behind a native socialite. My nails dig into the skin of my palms, nearly hard enough to draw blood.

“That’s great! Who is it?”

Tegan adds, “Will they really help us?”

“I’m not sure…” I draw my shoulders inward. “Technically, we’ve never met.”

When outlining the story I had this part in my head as just "the gang does some scooby-doo villain shit". I mighta gotten a little silly with it.

Thank you so very much for reading! ❤

Next update is (1-22) lilium; on Sunday, August 4th. (My birthday!)

The woman’s office is adorned with portraits of herself. Her visage repeats again and again on the walls, as if a hall of mirrors reflecting her. Each painting is distinct, but carries over a degree of iterant traits from the last—an askew pose or a variegated outfit, like the still frames of a film, played in clockwise perigon glances.

There’s a small window behind the ornate desk, but fog coats the glass, barring view to what lies beyond in an opaque and shifting haze. We’re upstairs from the basement below, having passed through a small supply store between, in which I saw no shoppers browsing the shelves. Only the basement receives visitors, it seems. It does strike me as odd—why hide the bar, both underground and planarly?

Antitia stands in front of her desk and leans backwards, one foot thumping the wood in unsteady rhythm. She takes a long drag from her cigarette, and smiles curtly at the gathered kidnappees. “Well, you lot sure made a mess a’ things.”

“Kinda our specialty”, says Alabastra with a smirk and self-satisfied shrug. Our. I almost object then and there; but no, she doesn’t deserve even that acknowledgement.

Faylie steps forward, grabbing her bicep guiltily. “It really was my idea to use your name, Auntie. I didn’t realize you would actually have to get involved!” She looks around. “I never even knew you were interested in mortal stuff at all!”

The fae taps on the desk behind her, rapping on it in little off-beat percussions. She chuckles. “You don’t need to apologize, honey. Can’t blame ya for a well-constructed con.” Antitia lazily deposits the cigarette holder along a tall crescent-moon ashtray, smoke still drifting from the end. “Actually, this whole affair’s been a blessin’ in disguise, really.”

The three thieves share a glance, confused. Alabastra lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Well, in that case—it was our pleasure.” She performs a small bow.

“Yea, yea, don’t get ahead of yourself.” The fae’s eyes roll at Alabastra’s confidence. The correct response. “This little tiff you’ve set off has been the excuse we needed to dip our toes into mortal waters. Never let a good casus belli go to waste, after all. We can gobble up this mortal gang’s holdings like a pig at the dinner table.”

The rogue smiles at that, no doubt imaging her former associates suffering fae curses.

Faylie says, “But why? I thought you were still stealing those moondrops for the Unseelie, not running a dang ghost bar!” At the utterance of Unseelie, the temperature in the room quite literally drops several degrees. I grab at my arms, rubbing against the sudden chill.

“When the moon’s tears dried up, that business did that same”, Antitia responds with a quick snap to accentuate. I suppose that’s the usual Faewilds nonsense, then. “Opportunity’s knockin’ in the mortal realm, and Marble City in particular. It was even before your little plan, in fact. You just happened to pull us in a tad early.” Early? Opportunity knocking? She did claim to all but see the future, before in the bar.

Alabastra has that usual ‘I’m trying to figure out everything because I am an impulsive meddler‘ look on her face. “And how’d you find out it was us that put the frame on ya?”

Antitia stares down at her niece. “I’ve had a charm on this one ever since she was twelve. After all that trouble she got into, I had to make sure I knew if she was ever in danger. I feel it in my heart, every time her fate gets near a possible end. Which was quite a lot, that night.”

Faylie laughs nervously. “Haha. Oops?”

“Not that I coulda done anythin’ about it—you brush with death like ya breathe, kiddo.” She reprimands Faylie like she caught her hand in the cookie jar, not like she regularly puts herself in death-defying situations. I will try to refrain from judging all Faewilds families based on these two, but that’s a rather blasé approach to peril. She rolls her eyes, and continues, “Then we heard about the Carlivain, and us gettin’ implicated in particular. Wasn’t hard to put two and two together on who would know enough about us to frame us, was in a hell of a lot of danger the same night it happened, and has herself a history of mayhem.”

Then Faylie’s to blame. The bitter thought rots in my mind. I was still technically correct—it’s their fault I’m caught in a web of idiocy once more.

The faun herself looks a little nervous. If I cared I might wonder if she knew about that charm of hers. “But… how did you track me, Auntie? I mean, I know mom and dad know I live in Marble City, but we move a lot!”

“We sent some men out to investigate the Carlivain. Spoke with some corpses, read some minds. Learned about your little heist second-hand, and tracked ya down with a blood whisper.”

The corpse-speaking and mind-reading indicates that they must have necromancers and psychics in their employ; unsurprising considering the menagerie downstairs. But that third thing she said… “And, a blood whisper is…?”, I ask.

“Old monster huntin’ trick. Psychometry from spilled blood leaves emotional echoes, like footprints. Duck soup for our former monster hunter-slash-necromancer to follow.”

Alabastra looks concerned. “How’d ya even get in to investigate? Whole place is swarming with pigs. I mean, there are limits to what illusions’ll getcha, and it sounds like you were castin’ spells left n’ right.”

Antitia outstretches her arms into the space around us. “We had a little ethereal help on that end.”

The Ethereal Realm—a shifting, strange plane of insubstantial unreality, just under the surface of the physical, full of fluid fog, seen into with spells and by the mad, and slipped into by ghosts and planar travelers— Oh.

The Other Side. “That’s where we are”, I say, mostly to myself. Suddenly I feel foolish for not making the connection earlier. Then, this building we’re in, it must be manifest but empty in the real Marble City, but populated here, in this pellucid verse. I’d have assumed nothing in the Ethereal could be made permanent—an establishment seems to run counter to the realm’s ephemeral nature. It’s supposed to be the osmotic outer layer of reality; the threshold into the planar verse, where stranger still realms like the Faewilds and elemental planes and the various Heavens and Hells lie beyond. “How is that possible?”

The fae smiles. “Close, but no cigar. The Other Side is… special. Carved out of the Ethereal, but made not quite so. This is a place that shouldn’t exist. We’re nowhere—population, anybody.” She gestures to the window. “But the real Ethereal Realm’s near enough to taste. And step into, if ya got the gumption. That answer all your questions?”

There’s only one I still need. I cross my arms. “How did you find me?”

Robeno laughs, and walks around the back of her desk. She cracks open a drawer, and pulls out a familiar stone amulet, inset with a glowing red gem. Ah. “Got some pretty strong reads off this little doodad. Figured your trinket, and ipso your very violent fourth, wouldn’t be far behind wherever it was pointin’.” Damn. I should have taken the tracking amulet, too.

Awfully quiet so far, having been tapping her foot and not meeting the woman’s eye, Tegan speaks up, “Okay, wait, could any monster hunter pick up that trail and find us? Like, uh, one that could be hired by the cops that are there, right now?”

Antitia so-so’s with her hand. “Trail should be too dry to follow by now. If they haven’t come knockin’ yet, they likely missed their chance.” She rolls her shoulders. “Plus, blood magic’s a real tricky art. Monster slayers are a dyin’ breed, and even if they do find one, hard to get a read unless you know the folk, or got blood to compare. We only found you so easy because I let ol’ Forrest borrow the vial I had of Faylie’s.”

“You have a bottle of my blood?!”, Faylie exclaims.

The fae continues with a wince, “But, if you’re paranoid of the buttons, we could swing through and clean up your mess, just to be sure.”

Alabastra says, “Aw, Singsong, we didn’t even getcha anything in return!”

Miss Robeno smiles wryly. “Not yet ya haven’t.” She crosses her arms, and turns her back to us, looking out the window into the roiling fog. “You didn’t think we were operatin’ out the kindness of our hearts, did ya?”

“Nooot even for family?” Faylie’s bargain ends in an upward trill.

“Especially not for family. I can’t be playin’ favorites, now can I?” She tuts, glancing over her shoulder and fiddling absent-mindedly with her scarf. “We are ready to capitalize on what ya did, but that doesn’t mean we’re not out for a little recompense.”

Exactly at the moment I thought I was free of this nonsense, the very process by which I arrived here is what pulls me back in. The cruel irony sends my shortening temper over the edge. “This has nothing to do with me. Count me out.”

The fae woman only laughs, turning around and stepping toward me. She considers me carefully for a moment, and says, “If anyone’s got a price to pay, it’s you. Your little atrocity carnival has sent our reputation into the gutter before we even had a chance to get it off the ground. Now, we got time enough to fix that, but you owe us.”

I nearly spit in her face. I never wanted any of this to happen. I never asked to be a Gods damned weapon. And now, after being used as one, I’m being blamed for the blood spilled? I have half a mind to launch into a tirade.

But before I can begin, Alabastra says first, “That’s not fair. Oscar really isn’t a part of this—let him leave.”

A frustrated snarl rips through me, and I shoot daggers at Alabastra. Why can’t she let me solve my own problems? She just wants credit for getting me out of this debt—so she can take it on herself. “Stay out of this!”, I seethe, then turn back to the fae. “I wasn’t in control when the… violence occurred.”

Antitia narrows her eyes as I speak, and retorts, “Whether or not you meant to do the particulars yourself, it was still your choice to purloin your little trinket, wasn’t it? You made yourself a part of this.” She lifts the tracking amulet with one finger. “Now, we could be convinced to forgive your debt and letcha leave, no strings attached—if you gave us somethin’ in return. Mayhaps…” She stares directly at my sternum.

I put a protective hand to my chest, as if her gaze alone might pry it from me. “You said you wouldn’t take it!”

“And I won’t! But that doesn’t mean I won’t… ask for it. Fair’s fare is fair.”

Then that’s her game. She wants me to bargain away my only cure, or force me into this confluence of chaos once again. On second thought, I am starting to hate her almost as much as Alabastra. It had to be a fae, and their forsaken obsession with deals. “Fine. I’ll play along. What do you want?”

The faery looks to the other criminals. “Ornery one, ain’t they?”

They at least pretend to not immediately agree, instead shrugging indecisively. Faylie says, “He’s had a rough week.” I glower at her, attempting to convey ‘stop talking‘ with just a curl of the lip.

“Far be it for me to question that.” Pulling herself taut, Antitia explains, “As I mentioned, we’re lookin’ to scoop us up some prime real estate and assets from this Iron Syndicate lot, and put ourselves in a mighty fine position for when Anily starts to boil over. It’s why we built The Other Side in the first place.” I think back to our meeting with Vatrizia. She’d mentioned something similar. Like criminal elements all over are readying themselves, seeing a domino before it falls.

“This isn’t a job offer, is it?”, Alabastra says. “Because, not that I’m not flattered, but I’ve sorta… been there, done that, never goin’ back?”

Antitia shakes her head. “While that heist and escape you pulled proves that your skills would be useful—no. Not today, anyways.” Alabastra wipes a bead of sweat from her brow. The fae continues, “No, we need help with somethin’ a little more specific. See, we’ve been dealin’ with a certain complication, courtesy of the big city.”

Faylie tilts her head. “Complication? I didn’t think anything on the mortal plane could stop you Auntie.”

She chuckles. “I can’t even step foot on the mortal plane, honey. This is as close as I get.” Faylie seems confused by that. I nearly need to remind myself not to care enough to be curious. Antitia says, “We’d love to get on this opportunity, but starting a few weeks ago, we’ve been runnin’ into this little issue. More than a few of our own started actin’ all out of sorts when the sun went down. Forgetting their duties and taking to flights of whimsy. Our changelings started copying everyone around them, and our lycanthropes started having trouble keepin’ their muzzles on.”

All three go bug-eyed. Tegan, spine stiff and straight, says, “C-could you, uh, say that last part again?”

“Our werewolves and wererats and werebears been transformin’ like it was a full moon every night.” She stares for a moment overlong at the knight, then shakes her head and puts her fingers to her temples. “They’re some of our best earners and enforcers. We can’t run an operation like this. We want you to figure out why this is happenin’.” Then the strange transformations are affecting fae changelings and those cursed with lycanthropy as well—though, the second was almost certainly a given.

Alabastra pats Tegan on the shoulder, and steps forward to say, “Well, you’re in luck, Singsong. The three of us were already takin’ a crack at this case.”

“How serendipitous“, the older woman responds through a wide and knowing victor’s smile. “Who says mortals can’t carry a Fatetune?”

“Not me!”, says Alabastra, very obviously only pretending to know what she’s talking about.

The glowing eyes of Antitia narrow like a hooded lantern in my direction. A thought seems to have occurred to her. For how alien fae mindsets are said to be, her mannerisms are quite human—yet something is off about them. As if her entire demeanor is practiced, a little too perfect, unnatural to her. She’s following stage directions, donned a coat of humanlike savoir faire, taking embellishments on some baseline ‘How To Be A Person‘ manual. If that were the case precisely, I wouldn’t mind a read-through myself.

“And… the three of you, huh?”, she says.

With guilty hands in her coat pockets, Alabastra cuts in, “Like I said, he really doesn’t need to be part of this. We can… we can take on his debt—”

“No!”, I shout. I don’t even look at her. Instead I stare right back into the fathomless and lambent white voids set in Antitia’s skull. “I’ll pay my own dues.”

It was never my intent to owe anyone anything. But these otherworldly racketeers clearly see the situation different, and I imagine them even more unyielding in that position than the half-elf. But now, faced with owing them directly, or passing that debt onto Alabastra… I don’t want a single thing over my head that she holds the strings of. I’ll owe a thousand mobsters, loan sharks, scoundrels, or hags before I owe her one more thing.

Antitia nods. “Then speak it with me.” She looks between the four of us, and her next words are not so much spoken, but felt through every open pore of my skin, every corner of my still-shattered mind, breathed in and bled out and run through me like the narrow-avoided stake.

“Enigmatic tribulation
Cattywampus alteration.
Elucidate, shine a light;
Strive to fettle-fine our plight.
Bound in blood and word and bone.
Troth made true, it is known.“

It is an entirely involuntary compulsion to repeat the words in chorus with the others. Our joined promise flits into the air, and I feel a chord of magical intent snake itself around my heart.

“There”, Antitia says, “That’ll serve as our shared covenant—until our business is done.”

Under compulsion of a faerie pact. Exactly when I thought the insanity was over, I have instead hit a new low. But I just need to finish this out to this woman’s satisfaction, and then never think of this again.

Alabastra says, “Already got the perfect place to start.” Of course she does. “Singsong, you said you were thinkin’ of sending some roughs out by the Carlivain to scrub up our blood gunk?”

“Repellently put, but I was, yes. Though, you keep callin’ me ‘Singsong‘ and we’ll see how far my hospitality spreads.”

The half-elf winks. “Don’t tempt me with a good time, Miss Robeno.” Her grin could melt ice. Braggadocious oaf— isn’t that her girlfriend’s aunt?! “But I was actually thinkin’ you send us to clean our own mess. Through that Ethereal place, like you did! Let us kill two birds with one stone.”

“Oh? And who’s the poor second bird?”

“Aw, don’t make me spoil all my surprises…”, she begins. I fire another glance in her direction. She’s truly learned absolutely nothing. “I-I mean— Well, we were on the trail of this detective that might know more, and… the cops might have a bead on where he disappeared to. Was thinkin’ we try and finesse their lead out of ’em.” Ah. So she’ll explain herself to her, but not to me. Typical.

The detective, then. Only days ago, I might have argued against this course of action, how unlikely it is that we actually find him, or that he would have any information of note. But that would require speaking to Alabastra, something I am still steadfast in my refusal to do. Besides, there’s never been any point in trying to talk her out of anything. And, as idiotic as her methods are, I must admit they bear results. Her nose for trouble isn’t what’s in question.

Antitia considers, then nods. “We can accommodate that. I’ll teach Faylie the knack. Talk to my man Forrest across the street to crack into the Ethereal Realm proper, or the bartender if you want more information on them shifters… or just need a drink.”

A double snap-point is Alabastra’s affirmative response. “We’ll hop to it.”

“Now, give us some privacy. I need a word with my niece.”

Faylie lets a nervous little smile creep across her lips. “Um. Nice to see you?”

The fae rolls her eyes. “Yea, we’ll see.” She snaps, the world shifts, and the three of us are shunted from her office in the blink of an eye. The door slams shut behind.

* * *

The Other Side isn’t just the bar, I learn. It compasses a whole city intersection. The buildings opposite the nondescript store stand several floors tall, creating a four-corner plaza of stone walls and brick streets. Just past the edge of each building on the block—in fact cutting the northwest abode in two—a massive dome of moiling, smoke-like white fog encircles and entraps the crossroads. The omnipresent brume drips from the hazy dome like condensation, suffusing the space in an eerie miasma.

But it is far from the empty and lifeless common the ghostly ambiance would imply. Instead, much like the bar below, a medley of multiplanar travelers cut in and out of the four cornerstone structures. Floating specters, winged devils, creatures of fire and rock, even an angel of impossible torus shapes and seraph wings mantled with sporadic blinking eyes; some of these pedestrians pass through the fog layer, back and forth, swallowed up or spit out by the cloudy canopy. Most make their way to and from the canteen, but the other corner shops do attract their fair share of ambling patrons. The glass storefronts promise cafes, a general store, and even an establishment of ‘Mystical Attunement‘.

A short number of days ago these sights might have shocked me, but I’ve become fast accustomed to nonsense. The absurdity only seeks to remind me of my misfortune. I grip the watch under my shirt. At least I’m not on the clock for this; the only time-sensitive facet of our current venture is my eagerness to be away from these three.

As we step into the busy street, Alabastra says, “Right, where we headed first?”

Before I can object, to my surprise, Tegan answers instead. “We? Maybe you should go alone for now, Allie.” I raise a brow at the knight. Her tone is cold and curt.

“Oh. Yea. I’ll just… go talk to that bartender then.” The rogue bites at the side of her mouth, looking askance at the ground, downright sullen. Then, hands in coat pockets, she turns and darts back into the building without another word.

I stare at the knight a moment longer. While I feel I would normally be curious, my stance is unchanging. I want nothing to do with them, and that includes their petty dramas. I elect to say nothing.

Yet she decides to fill the silence. “We’re, uh… I’m kinda fucking pissed at her right now.”

“…” I stare into the street.

“It’s actually… about you. Kinda, I guess.” The knight grabs the back of her neck, groaning. “She… ugh. She broke a fucking promise.”

My arms cross. “I see.” Knights and their oaths…

Tegan continues to ramble. “And like, obviously she didn’t do it to hurt anyone, and I’m glad you’re still here for sure! But, she brushed it off like it didn’t mean anything, and… and then the shit she said in that conversation, pressing you when she shouldn’t have, it… Fuck.” Her hands run through her hair. “Gods, she doesn’t have a patient bone in her body, sometimes. She can just be so… much. And she knows it, too, of course, like I keep fucking telling her and she doesn’t listen until it’s too late—it’s-it’s like she hears you, but she doesn’t learn until she’s already crashed into the wall!” Tegan’s erratic hand movements and quickening pace remind me of a released pressure valve. She’s been building this resentment for some time now.

I wonder, then, if I’ve found an unexpected ally. “So, then, you’re no longer with her?”

“What?!” She steps back, blinking in confusion. “No, no, I still love the shit out of her, it’s just, like— well, y’know. She fucked up.”

Ah. Of course. “Okay.” So then nothing’s really different then. She’s more of a coward than I thought.

“She has to make it right with you, and once she does, then we’ll be okay too. Until then, I… uh. Just wanted to let you know that I’ve, like… got your back!” She moves to pat me on the shoulder.

I step away before she can reach. “Are you done?”

“Uh… what?”

“Because if I recall correctly, I told you that I was done with her. So regardless of your gripes, if you’re still intent on following her around like a guard dog, then I am done with you, too.”

Her face falls in stunned silence before she can pick her words off the floor again. “Alright, uh… I guess it’s all still pretty fresh for you. That’s totally fair, just… y’know, if you ever—”

“I liked you more when you talked less”, I interrupt. She bites her tongue, finally. I turn, walking toward the mystic’s shop, where this Forrest is supposed to be. The knight’s footsteps follow behind, some distance away, shuffling across the street in a metal clamor.

As I look up at the building we approach, the full sign hanging about the doorway reads, ‘Forrest’s Emporium of Mystic Attunement‘. The sign itself doesn’t look congruent with the rest of the building, likely placed atop it after the fact. In fact, now that I look to the rest of The Other Side, many of the otherworldly additions look quite recent. I wonder where in Marble City this place, or rather the place that this place was carved from, is; it looks like an older neighborhood in The Reds, perhaps towards the southeast? Impossible to tell, really, thanks to the foggy dome that surrounds the area, almost like a grim and ghostly snow globe.

We walk inside. The interior is draped in wine-colored velvet curtains, floored with a burgundy carpet. Stuffed yarn dolls hang from the ceiling alongside prismatic wood beads and bushels of herbs—patchouli, amaranth, witch hazel, foxglove—a meager but respectable selection. Taxidermized creatures, elaborate masks, dusty old tomes stocked on the bookshelves, black wax candles lit against the dull indigo glow of The Other Side, and even a tarot deck on a round table in the center—this all seems more like Faylie’s domain.

Operating the occult outlet is a bizarre figure, when compared to his surroundings. Easily 6′ tall, crystal blue eyes and covered in fur, what looks to be the massive form of a bipedal and hunched black bear, wearing a top hat and matching dark plum suit tailored for his hulking anatomy, and a pair of glasses on the bridge of his snout. A lycanthrope of the ursine persuasion, slowly pinning a needle through a small cloth doll clutched in his paws. He doesn’t seem to notice our arrival.

“Are you Forrest?”, I ask.

He looks up, a slow and easy gaze, taking his own time. “Who’s… asking…” His voice is like smoke— deep, old, and rumbly, yet sly and wistful.

Right to the point, then. “Antitia Robeno said you could get us through the Ethereal Realm.” I’m hardly in the mood for pleasantries or frivolities.

The werebear sniffs, snout pointing up, appraising our scents as if a jeweler would a gem. “Mmm. Of course… I smell her on you… along with…” He stops, then narrows his eyes at Tegan. “Do we… know one another, sister?”

Tegan stiffens like a board. “Uh, no! No, never met, sorry… brother?”

He looks at her a moment longer, furry brow raised as he pulls a rather human gesture of curiosity, looking bizarre on his zoomorphic form, face muscles not quite made for it. “Ah… my mistake. Though… I suppose, we all know each other… In a sense?” Of course, it was too much to ask that anyone else here was coherent.

“Uh, can we just move on, please? The Ethereal Realm. Just that, nothing else, thanks.” At least the knight’s propensity against personal questions remains reliable.

“… Very well. Forrest. Many call me a mystic… a necromancer, but… I prefer to think of myself as a… simple purveyor of strange oddities.” He taps his bear claws together, click-clacking in keen interest. We have his attention, at least. “What… exactly do you need to pass through the plane of fog for?”

I groan. “That is a long and exasperating story.”

His large, fur-covered body leans over the counter, hair standing up with intent. “I’m all ears.” For emphasis, he wiggles his rounded bear ears, jutting out either of the top hat.

My eyes roll. Are fae beings just naturally nosy? “I’m being strong-armed by your boss to assist with these involuntary transformations. We’re going to the Carlivain Hotel, and it was suggested that we might do so with ethereal aid.”

Forrest chuckles, his laugh like a newly-fed furnace, sharp bear teeth showing under his snout. “Oh… I get it now…! You must be Faylie’s compatriots! Well, I’m pleased to hear our other lycanthrope siblings will have more control of their nightly selves soon. Not that it bothers me much—I quite prefer this form!” He looks to the knight. “And, are—”

“For fuck’s sake, just, like, the magic, guy, please“, she interrupts. I look to Tegan. An unusual response…

The werebear holds up his hands apologetically, looking silly for the gesture. “Right, right, right you are, madam.” He gets up from the stool he’d been sitting on, and begins to maneuver around his shop, crouched on his hybrid hind legs. “The Other Side is… a special sort of demiplane. To get in, one needs to be invited, or know the entrances. But to leave again, all that is needed is… to walk away. Through the fog wall. It will deposit you at the place and plane you belong to… Handy, for our many visitors.”

He pulls a book off a shelf, a red and black leather tome with golden buckles on the front. With a breath, he blows away the gathered dust on its cover and tucks it under his arm. He continues, “Now, typically, you could enter the Ethereal Realm with a very powerful spell, or equally rare oils…”

Easily done. I’ve even made an etherealness oil or two, though the request is rare due to the prohibitively expensive material cost. Not a concoction I’ve ever even tested on myself—ordering the ingredients is a supply chain nightmare. “Do you have any oil, then? Or at least, a revenant heart and enough ectoplasm and rashvine to make it myself?”, I ask.

His eyes widen. “A fellow alchemist? Ah… fascinating. Well, we do have some of this oil in stock, indeed, but it is for emergencies… and as I’m sure you’re aware, they don’t come cheap.” Forrest starts to walk towards us. “Luckily, there is instead a way we can… leverage the unique properties of The Other Side to take… a bit of a shortcut.”

“… A shortcut?”

“A little… trick. To make The Other’s Side’s magic believe you belong in the Ethereal Realm.”

I cross my arms. “And how are you planning on doing that?”

He smiles, teeth bared. “We’re going to kill you.”

“Excuse me!?”

* * *

The other two thieves exit the supply shop front, deep in conversation, not yet noticing us. We get close enough to pick up the tail end of their chatter before they spot us.

“Didn’t I tell you I knew some people in the faery mob?”, Faylie says, one hand on her hip.

Alabastra laughs disbelievingly, shaking her head. “You didn’t mention they were family, Glowbug.” It seems secret-keeping is a hobby for these three. “I’d think that’d come up. We coulda had so much to talk about!” She seems rather sedate, despite the withheld information. Just another demonstration of how constantly superior she has to be. Ugh.

“I’d always just assumed this was, like, Auntie Antitia’s hobby. I didn’t realize she was so…”

“In deep?”, she asks. The faun nods. As we approach, they turn to us, and Alabastra says, “Hey-hey! Right on time!” She carries on like she and Tegan aren’t as on-the-outs as the knight alludes to.

Tegan readjusts her sword hilt, still missing more than a few bits and pieces of her armor. “Bartender say anything?” She carries that brusque and direct tone from before.

“Yep. Just like the rest—involuntary shifts, bizarre desires.” Her emerald eyes squint in concentration. They were once reminiscent of a verdant woodland to me, but now only remind me of a snake’s, full of venom and ill-intent. “Though, some are gettin’ it worse than the others. No tellin’ why… hells, could just be dumb luck.”

“Fair enough. Forrest said—”

Faylie interrupts the knight, “Ooo, you talked to Forrest? It’s been forever since I saw him! Can we go see him?”

Lines dig their way through the knight’s face. “Actually, he wanted us to come get you two. So he can, uh. It’s… actually it’s probably better if he explains it.”

The rogue claps her hands together once. “Alright! Then…” Her eyes fall on me. I snarl, and look away. “Before we get this ball rollin’… Oscar. I know bein’ around us right now probably ain’t a cakewalk. I did mean it earlier—we can handle this. No judgement, no debt, no strings attached—”

“Absolutely not!”, I say, “Even if I was willing to let others pay my way, which I am not—I can’t trust you at all. You can say you won’t hang it over my head, up until the moment you do. That is not happening. So for the last Godsdamned time, Alabastra—I will pay. My own dues.” It’s already enough that I’m having to work with them again at all… that they’re so insistent on being heroes about it is an infuriating additional layer. This is to be the furthest thing from camaraderie—naught but business. And I refuse to be anything less than a reliable collaborator. If this is to fall apart again, it will be solely on their heads.

She bites her bottom lip, then nods once. “Okay. Consider it dropped.” Doubtful.

Tegan and I lead the two back toward the shop.

As soon as we enter, Faylie gasps, and runs forward. “Forrest!” She wraps her arms around the werebear, as his eyes go wide with a start. “Oh-my-gosh it’s been so long!”

The werebear lets out a rumble of a laugh, bracing himself on his roundtable, before it starts to threaten to tip over under his weight. “Faylie Nevis! Why, last time I saw you, you were… ’bout ye high!” He puts a hand out.

“I’m… still pretty much about that tall!”

Forrest looks down, and puts the hand lower, clearly unsure. Then he turns to Tegan and I. “This is all of you?”

The rogue puts a suspicious brow up. “That it is—what’s this about?” Though I’m of course not pleased about this particular course of action, it is some small comfort that for once I know something she doesn’t.

With a withered hunch, the necromancer opens up the book he’d pulled off the shelf, careful to not shred the pages with his claws. “Now… I will need the utmost cooperation from the four of you.”

“W-wait!”, Faylie shouts, “I wanna catch up first, Forrest! Whatcha been up to? Have you talked to dad lately? How’re you likin’ Marble City? Or, I guess this only technically counts—”

“No.” I seethe down at the faun, “Stop wasting time.” Her ears flop down in disappointment.

The others look shocked for a moment, before Alabastra’s face shifts to a neutral, and she clicks her tongue. “He’s right, Bug. Gotta get this show on the road.” She looks to the werebear. “We can yak it up later— Forrest, right?”

“Indeed, madam.” He nods even lower, crouched low enough to actually meet our eyelines now. Then, his hand starts to hover over the book. “Now… do not be alarmed. Despite the peculiarities, this is rather routine spellcasting… I assure you. I am going to grab at your souls—”

Alabastra blinks. “I’m sorry—”

Undeterred, Forrest continues, “Then, I’ll perform some temporary magic to, ah, pull them, and your perspectives with them, out of your bodies—”

I deadpan, “Are necromancers capable of conceiving of any solution that doesn’t involve creating corpses?”

“Your… bodies will be left as… essentially empty vessels, but…” He seems content to not address my comment. “I’ll keep a watch over them here. They’ll be ready to accept your souls back inside them once again, as long as I, ahem, ensure they remain breathing.”

Less scared than she had been a moment ago, despite the horrifying insinuation, Alabastra starts to smile. “And… we can get into the spooky realm?”

Forrest nods. “Indeed. You will… essentially be as ghosts!” He adjusts his glasses, a ridiculous gesture seeing as he doesn’t even see through them, and puts his hands behind his back, like a lecturer. “Now, a few things you should know… Firstly, while the Other Side plays by a… separate set of rules, once you leave here into the Ethereal Plane properly… your interactions with the real world will be… limited. Mortals as you are, you’ll only be seen, heard, felt, or smelled at any one time on the material plane. Only one of those four.”

“Why would I wanna be smelled—”, Alabastra mumbles under her breath.

“And secondly, I’ll be granting you… roughly an hour or perhaps two to complete your business, before I end the spell and bring you back here. Hopefully that should be time enough without… risking your vessels.”

A scheme quickly dances behind Alabastra’s eyes, and she asks a follow up, “Could we come back here and keep doin’ this, then?”

Forrest laughs. “Sure! So long as you don’t mind running the incredibly and increasingly likely risk that it becomes permanent!”

“Wait, what?”, asks Tegan. “Actually, uh, on second thought are you sure we should be—”

Without another word, Forrest swirls his hand above the spellbook. The pages slightly lift into the air, as if pulled by some unnatural gravity, and a teal-green energy swirls amidst the werebear’s claws, forming into a glyph between his hand and the book. “PRECARIUS MORTUUM“, he chants, and the deathly energy swirls around us like a snake, constricting, then rising up in a curl above. It dissipates with sounds of screaming, and the three thieves drop.

Their bodies lay on the floor, fallen over unceremoniously. And where they had been standing, translucent simulacrum versions of the women look down and amongst each other with curiosity. They glow slightly, and float just off the ground, much like the ghosts elsewhere in The Other Side.

Yet as I look down at myself… I’m still exactly as I had been. My shoulders droop, and I stare cold murder at the mystic. “You forgot one.”

“I most certainly did not!” He looks agitated, as if his mistake is my fault, somehow. He wrinkles his snout, and looks me over, truly taking me in. “Ah. You… wouldn’t happen to already be undead, would you?”

I snarl at the bear. How quickly I’ve forgotten his beastlier nature. “You could have informed us that might be a complication.”

“You could have asked!” The werebear shakes his head, sighing. “And precisely what manner of dead are you? Do you… have a soul?”

Shame and paranoia drum a heartbeat thump into my ears. The question bounces behind my mind. I… How do I answer that? Do I answer that? Do… do I… Regardless, the facts of my vampirism aren’t something I’m inclined to divulge to a stranger. I stare him down, not letting the fact that his question rankled me show through.

Tegan steps forward. Terror grabs me by the heart. What is she— “Does it matter? It didn’t work.”

He grumbles. “I’d at least like to know why…”

“Too bad”, she declares.

I sigh in relief. But before this can fall off the deep-end into Faewilds gibberish, I say, “Forget the spell. I’ll take the oil.”

Forrest growls, befitting his ursine demeanor more by the second. “You should know that’s not an inexpensive thing you are asking for…”

“Put it on my damned tab, then.”

He shakes his black bear head, the skin and fur bunching around the collar of his suit as he stands again. “Fine. But you’re racking up quite the debt, young man.” I wish the bear would stop talking. He turns to Faylie. “Hasn’t this one been informed not to make deals with Fae?” I roll my eyes. As if any of this was my idea.

Back behind the counter, Forrest produces a vial of viscous lavender liquid, handing it off to me. I turn the vial over in my hand, catching it instantly for what it is—cheap. A poor quality elixir, improperly mixed, or perhaps even purposefully diluted. I can’t stand a cost-cutter, shoddily sabotaging their own work for pennies on the dollar. I deposit the vial in my pocket with a scowl. I’ll have to wait until we’re closer to use it, just so it doesn’t run out.

“Thanks“, I seethe.

He wrinkles his snout, and turns to the other three. “Well… the three of you are welcome back… anytime.”

Perfectly fine with me. I march out the door, and the others follow behind after only a moment longer.

Alabastra dusts her hands, her now ghostly form floating off the stairs and back onto the street. For a moment, she looks like she’s going to say something in my direction. A horrible idea. Then she visibly considers otherwise. Instead she turns to the rest. “Alright, team. Let’s shake a leg.”

And just like that, the gang is back together again! Yay! And they're getting along just... great! Just, really, uh...

Really great... And hey, now I can technically say that all of my main characters have, in some way, died, so that's cool!

Anyways, as always, thank you very much for reading.

Next update is (1-21) ectoplasm; on Tuesday, July 30th.

Having had it happen to me more than once now, a large enough sample size to make a truly unbiased summation, I am now absolutely confident that I hate being kidnapped.

My hands are bound behind my back, and a rag over my head obscures my vision. I can discern the presence of light in whatever room I find myself in, and make out some vague spots where figures, whether object or person, occlude that light, but otherwise, there is no indication of where I am. This could be anywhere.

Of course, my first and most obvious thought is the most frightening. Somehow, someway, we weren’t careful enough, and the Syndicate have come calling to avenge the slaughtered Cozzos. If this was them, I’d think they’d have learned by now to simply kill their foes on sight, but it could be that kidnapping is their standard procedure, of which they have no ability to deviate.

The only other possibilities for who this could even be are wild straw pulls. Monster hunters or an angry mob, who discovered my deeds and wish for revenge? Others chasing after the watch? The ones who perpetuated this urge-driven plot in the first place? At least the Syndicate has the most obvious method and motive.

But then, how? I never thought I’d want to remember that night—in fact, perhaps I still don’t. A lack of memory may just help me play dumb. If their evidence isn’t rock-solid, it could be the thing that saves me. Of course, the largest potential for that to go awry is also the most glaring possibility for why I’m here at all.

She sold me out. Captured by her old allies and desperate to make amends, Alabastra would have no reason not to throw me in front of the train. Gods dammit, the more I think about it, the more sense it makes.

I hear walking ahead, and low muffled voices. I suppose I’ll soon find out.

A sultry voice like syrup drifts toward me, announcing into the air, “You awake, honey?” I have no idea who she is, but her tone sounds theatric. She speaks out of the side of her mouth, performative, like she belongs on a stage. “Faster than I thought. Barely gave us much time at all, didn’t’cha?”

“Who are you?”, I ask. No point in pleading, the ‘where am I‘s and ‘why are you doing this‘s; the first question should answer most of my follow-ups.

“Antitia. Or Miss Robeno, if you’re feelin’ a might bit formal.”

I stand corrected. That answers no questions at all. “I… think I meant the royal you.”

“You think? Well, mayhaps you’ll get your story straight on the double. Hard to deal on shaky terms…” She’s closer now, several feet ahead of me. Judging by her silhouette, she’s of human size and shape. “A clouded mind—and there’s few minds as clouded as yours that I’ve met, honey.”

I start to dart around. Is she reading my thoughts? Damned psychics. “Stay out of my head!” I do my utmost to wall away my secretive or embarrassing thoughts.

“Am I in your head? Mmm, mayhaps she is, and mayhaps she isn’t. Could be she just happens to know what kinda fate’s in store for you.”

“My fate…?” That sounds like a threat. I start to struggle against the bindings, the scratchy rope worming around my wrists.

She laughs, an easy little chuckle like wind through wood chimes. “Your future, one could say. Though it’s a little hard to spot, all things considered. I can only see the shape of it—which is how it always goes. But I can’t read sign nor symptom. Yours is bein’ shooed out the door, like a raccoon at the sight of a broom. ‘Get a move on, future!'”

… What? She’s nearly as confusing as Alabastra. But, the future? Wait. “Is this about the watch?”

The sound of her hands clapping together like she’s getting the dust out drifts to my side, circling around me. “Mayhaps it is. That devious little trinket and I don’t play nice”, she says, indignant but familiar, as if a bartender talking about a banned regular. If this is a Syndicate member— well, they’re four for four on producing women who are insane, at least. But something about the way she speaks doesn’t sound delirious. Even if the particulars are absurd. “It is a curious little thing, isn’t it?”

“You can’t have it”, I seethe into the rag, hot breath bouncing back into my face.

She laughs again, in on some joke that I’m not. A feeling I am sickeningly accustomed to. “You can keep your little whatchamacallit, honey. At least for now. We certainly won’t take it from ya anyhow. Won’t touch hide of your things, nor hair on your pretty little head.”

Whoever this is, she is clearly enjoying this far too much. Either that itself was a lie, or all of this is just some elaborate hazing ritual. Knocking me out, keeping me prisoner, walking circles around my words, vague references to concepts unexplained to me—this all feels far, far too familiar. I hazard a guess. “Alabastra? If you’re in here, this is not fucking amusing.”

“Woahhh, hold your horses, honey”, the mystery voice says. “Let’s not jump ahead, now. That’s my prerogative, not yours.”

“Did she put you up to this?!”

The click-clacking of her heels sound off behind me. Then the noisy clinking of glass, like she’s rifling through bottles, and the glug-glug-glug of someone pouring themselves a drink. “We don’t get put up to so much as we’re the putter-uppers.” The pause gives me time to smell the alcohol from the other side of the room. She drinks, letting out a satisfied little, “Ah. And speakin’ of—we didn’t snatch ya up for nothin’. We do still want somethin’, of course.”

I see. Now I’m doomed and I look foolish. What else is new.

She moves again, drifting back ahead of me. Close enough that I can smell the honeysuckle scent of her perfume. Her entire form blots out the light. “But to answer your earlier question…” The bag is ripped off my head.

After a moment of adjustment, I find myself in an underground bar, cavern ceiling above us, and a stage ahead, with polished clean floors and a wet bar to the side that disappears past my view behind me. Tables are scattered between the tall intricately etched pillars, with dark metal chairs left empty.

A scant few other individuals mingle about the open space, figures of wildly diverse body sets, from rain thin to fur-covered and wider than a carriage. They’re dressed in colorful suits, unlike the typical Marble City style of blacks and reds, and with accentuated and exaggerated features; ridiculously large shoulder pads, or vests overtop the suit jackets, extra ties, or slit skirts over pants. The woman before me wears a sparkling green dress with a colossal white lambskin scarf draped around her. Her bright orange hair is cut short into curls that frame her delicate features, and she carries a long cigarette holder in one hand. And her eyes glow—radiating a pure, shining white light.

And there’s something stranger still about her, and the other bizarre individuals around her. They’re all flat-looking, not quite fully three-dimensional, and almost lightly translucent. As if they’re not truly here.

Behind her, likewise tied up and bagged on the stage—of course—I see Alabastra, Faylie, and Tegan, still seemingly asleep and bound to each other in a three-spoke formation, nestled between band instruments. My gut turns in disgust.

Antitia says, “We’re somethin’ of a… family unit. Bound together to get the undoable done, and further our lot in life.”

My eyes narrow. No sense in prolonging this, I suppose. “You’re the Syndicate.”

She laughs. “Oh, heavens no! No, honey, we ain’t from around here at all—least, not ’til recent.”

Not the Syndicate? Then…? I focus on her again, and her compatriots. Among them I even manage to spot the-the redcap that kidnapped me, snarling at me from across the way. Redcaps are from the Faewilds…

No… No. Absolutely not. There is simply no universe.

Faylie’s voice flits through my head. ‘I know… the faery mob!’

Mother. Of the fucking. Gods. “Oh, for FUCK’S SAKE!” I start to scream, thrashing against the pillar I’m tied to. “I’ve had ENOUGH! LET ME OUT!“

I could kill something. I really could. Absent my hungers, I know that is not a thought born of my vile inner compulsions, but simply the pure, unadulterated hatred that brews from the unique confluence of infuriating events unfurling before me.

What exactly did I do, to piss off the Gods as I have? Was I someone truly, extraordinarily evil in a past life? Did I breathe wrong when passing by an errant temple—take Corva’s name in vain? Why am I the universe’s damned chew toy?! Whatever reason, I am entirely over it.

“Oh dear, I think we might’ve dosed this one too hard”, the woman says, looking down at me with pity. “Honey, this ain’t—”

“You! Aren’t even real!” I turn my screaming toward the slumbering three. “HEY! WAKE UP! You aren’t fooling anybody!”

The woman, an illusion, that’s all she is—conjured up by Faylie as some ridiculous trick, steps forward, glowing eyes meeting my own as she bends down. “Now don’t go spoilin’ my surprise, honey, that ain’t very neighborly of ya.”

From the stage, a disgustingly familiar voice causes my gorge to rise. “Wh-what… the fuck…”, says Alabastra. I roll my eyes. She’s pretending. Probably put herself in that rope.

“Oh, now look whatcha done.” The woman turns, heels clacking along the shining floor toward the stage. “Well, go off script and don’t be surprised by the improv, I suppose.”

Bags on their own heads, the three women on the stage start to stir, testing their bindings. “Ah, damn…”, the half-elf laments, head darting around aimlessly. “Front door ambush?! That’s a low blow— whoever you are!”

Tegan grumbles, “We did the same thing like three times in the last year…”

“Yeah… on Taxcasters and Partisans.” Alabastra’s bagged head turns toward the woman. “So, uh, put us wise…” She trails, almost playfully.

I shout across the way, “Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know what’s going on!” It’s obscene that she’s even still letting this charade continue like this.

“Oscar?!” Her shoulders slouch. “Oh, thank fuck you’re okay!” My blood boils at that. As if she cares. As if she has the right to care.

“I know you’re part of this, Alabastra!”

The woman in the dress, who I’m certainly still not convinced isn’t an illusion, puts a hand to her hip. “Seems this one’s sore about somethin’. Dunno what ya done to cause that, but you’d best fix it quick lest we get a repeat of Zursday.”

Alabastra sputters. “Y-you know about…” She shakes her head, abandoning the question and looking back toward me. “Look, Oscar, I know you’re probably still angry, but I swear, we ain’t got a clue who this is!”

Faylie chirps, “Wait a minute! I know who that is!”

“That… that’s a coincidence!”

The redcap climbs onto the stage, a difficult-looking task considering his height, and rather strangely, as he bends down, he disappears from sight entirely. Without source, the bags are pulled off the trio of thieves’ heads in a single grasping motion, and the redcap reappears. Bizarre. The three seem to be in a state of half-readiness, like they were only partially through their morning routines before they were ambushed; Tegan’s in barely any of her armor and Alabastra’s hair is left loose.

Faylie turns to the woman of glowing eyes and says, “Auntie Antitia!”

“Auntie?!“, I say, at the same time as Alabastra and Tegan, to my chagrin.

The woman, Antitia… Robeno, if I recall her likely false name, steeples her hand over her forehead. “Yes, hello Faylie dear.” She seems exasperated with the entire situation, as if she didn’t ostensibly orchestrate it. “This is not how I wanted this to go.”

Faylie sucks breath between her teeth, cringing. “Ooo, mom’s really not gonna like that you kidnapped me!”

Antitia groans. “Yeah, well she’d like that you were runnin’ around committin’ crimes in my name even less. Which is why she ain’t gonna find out about any of this.” She snaps a finger toward the redcap. “Be a doll and get my niece untied, would ya?”

The redcap—I refuse to acknowledge him as a Faerie Mobster—moves to unleash their ropes. Once more, he vanishes, and invisibly their bindings are cut, setting them free. They grasp at their untied wrists in comfort.

Alabastra paints her face with false guilt. “Then ya heard about our fun little prank?” She shoots the mobster finger guns. They don’t work on her any more than they work on me.

“Oh, it was real fun. It’s even more fun that you kicked off a damn turf war between us and this city’s largest outfit! Oodles of it!” Antitia puts a hand to a stuck-wide hip.

So that’s what this is allegedly about. Assuming this isn’t an elaborate setup at my expense, which I’m still more than inclined to believe, they found out about our framing job, and have sought us out for… revenge? Recompence? They don’t seem particularly angry, if that’s the case. More annoyed, like we accidentally broke their wagon wheel—not put them on a collision course towards incalculable violence. Moreover, how did they find out that it was us? The most likely answer remains the same as I first assumed; these three sold me out, and this is just performance, to mask their innocence, and continue stringing me along. It is admittedly elaborate, but I can’t put anything past Alabastra anymore.

She holds up her hands in surrender, recognition of who exactly she’s speaking to starting to dawn on her. “Right. In our defense…” Typical start. “We had no idea you were actually in MC. It is… bizarre to meet you, by the way. Alabastra.” She sticks out a hand.

The fae woman grunts in annoyance. “Antitia Robeno… and I know who you are.”

The half-elf crosses her arms. “Oh. Of course.” She puts an index to her lips, then points to the fae, confusion and amusement mixing. “You’ve… heard of my work?”

Antitia doesn’t answer. Some part of me takes a measure of schadenfreude at that. Doesn’t feel good, does it? Instead, she walks back toward the center of the speakeasy, and points up. “You got one thing wrong, honey. We ain’t in Marble City. Not quite.”

I lean forward, still tied to the pillar— did they forget I was here? Regardless, the implication is frightening enough to dull that annoyance. We’re not in Marble City? I look around the space again. It’s impossible to tell where we are, geographically, from this underground vantage. I’m hardly some walking encyclopedia geologica or dwarf. The ceiling just looks like stone to me.

The others search the same, looking for clues in the roof. Antitia chuckles. “Your answers ain’t up there. You are where ya were, but not anymore ya won’t be. Because this…” She snaps her fingers. “Is the Other Side.“

And the second she says it, the whole world shifts.

What had previously been an empty establishment, in the blink of an eye is full-to-brim of motion and sound. The cacophonous waves crashes into me before I have time to think. Chatter and conversation, chiming drink glasses, yelling, laughing, shuffling. And music. Lively jazz music with a quick and bouncing melody kicks into a brass chorus, with a swinging drum beat droning up and up like a chase. The music bounces off the walls of the establishment—its nucleus the stage that the three thieves stand on. All around them, the previously laid-aside instruments find homes in the hands of a skilled six-man band, blasting their fast-appeared melody right into the thieves’ ears.

The three startle, believably shocked. The band look to be mostly humanoid, less exaggerated in form than the fae, yet there’s something off about them. When I try to concentrate on their individual features, they seem to become less defined. In fact, I can literally see straight through them. They’re faintly translucent, glowing a light teal color, their feet don’t quite tough the ground, and telltale phantasmal whisps drift away from them like smoke.

The phantom band aren’t the only ones to have suddenly appeared, either. The bar is now full of patrons, hung over their drinks or talking or flirting amongst themselves. The open area around Antitia is awash in a sea of revelry, churning waves of a carefree dancing crowd. The tables are packed—it’s a full house. Some of the patrons are as ghostly as the jazz players, others more like the fae, some simply tangible humans or elves or dwarves, but they’re all alike in their drunk and blithe smiles. None seem particularly phased by the individual still tied to a pillar in the center of the basement, but a few do start to hoot and holler up at the stage, wolf-whistling at the confused women.

Antitia herself, as well as her lackies, in sharp contrast to the spectral performers, are now more defined. That previous disconnect over their forms is gone, as they appear fully realized.

And a bizarre, omnipresent fog drifts aimlessly through the space. Gossamer clouds clinging to the air, as if in a steam room. It’s difficult to ascertain through the colored lights of the basement, and the red-tint of my own glasses, but I swear it’s as if the whole world took on a new coat of ocean blue.

Over the racket I can’t hear whatever it is Alabastra says to Antitia as she pulls herself off the stage, a wide and delirious smile growing on the rogue’s face. Faylie claps her hands together, clearly pleased, and Tegan’s eyes go large as dinner plates, jaw hung open wide enough to catch flies.

Feeling ridiculous, and unsafe, staying on the floor amongst this spontaneous assembly, I stand to my feet. An awkward affair, considering I’m still affixed to the pillar, but I manage. The reality—or, unreality of the situation, as it were—has me at last conceding that this is likely not some illusion conjured by Faylie. Though that still doesn’t discount their possible complicity.

A fae gentleman of unnaturally thin proportions, long and lanky limbs, and tendrils sticking from the tips of his ears stumbles past me, his gold-brown liquor sloshing out of his glass mug. He appraises me with a curious leer, the peculiarity of the sight dawning on him.

“What?“, I bite. He jumps back slightly, and continues on his merrily drunken way. Gods, I can’t stand when people stare. Rudeness crosses planar lines. A fascinating annoyance.

Speaking of, the thieves and Antitia continue to natter, casting the occasional glance my way. Whatever they’re talking about, they’ve clearly decide I don’t need to hear it. Hells, they’re probably discussing next steps on their meticulous plan to ruin my day. They can continue on with the next agenda item already—this one has grown stale.

One of the band members, a woman in a feathered cloche, steps away from her bass, and floats just off the ground toward a rounded, wheel-spoke microphone. Her spectral hands wrap around the stand, and she bellows a low, smooth, and haunting melody. The music takes a slower, more lax turn, and the din of the bar turns less chaotic in kind.

Finally, the four finish their chat, and approach. Ahead of the pack, Antitia looks me up and down, and says, “Well, these three assure me you won’t be a further issue. You’re not feelin’ partial to gettin’ obstructive or violent, are ya?”

I can’t help but sneer. “You kidnapped me, and now you’re asking me not to get violent?” This whole situation is ridiculous. I was supposed to get away from this brand of insanity. “Don’t you see my mind or the future or whatever it is you were alluding to?”

“I told you, the shape of it’s all wrong. And even then, that ain’t how that works. Ain’t got a clue what you’re gonna do next, honey.” She takes a breezy drag from the tip of her cigarette holder. The cloud of smoke roiling from her ruby red lips suffuses with the unnatural fog. “Can’t blame me for bein’ careful—or did somebody else go on a rampage through the Carlivain?”

A knifepoint spike of pain jabs behind my eye. Reminders of my misgivings is the last thing I need. I nearly object that no, it in fact, was not me—but is that even true? I’m still not decided on how to feel on the savage affair, and I’m not partial to coming to that conclusion here and now. I only want the ordeal behind me. “I’m no danger to anyone. Not anymore. Just let me go.”

Her mouth puckers to one side in consideration. “Well, we’ll take your word for it, then. But our business ain’t quite wrapped.” She whistles out toward another of the suited fae, still in their spots from when the bar surged with motion. An absurdly large man with a pig’s head steps behind me, releasing the binds on my arms.

The second I’m free, I consider the merits of running. The cons being that I’d likely not get far, I’d have no idea where to go or how to return home, and that I may even be swiftly dispatched. The pros being that I would not have to speak with Alabastra.

It’s truly almost worth it.

But self-preservation wins out in the end. Besides, I don’t actually have to speak with her to begin with—just the fae woman. All in all, her only sin against me is kidnapping. I can pretend the rogue’s not even here.

“We’ll talk in my office.” Antitia sashays through the crowd, meeting the door the opposite side of the bar. “Too damn loud in here.”

Enter Antitia Robeno, and The Other Side!

I have quite a strong sense of voice when writing the vast majority of my characters, and that's so especially true with Antitia, who is definitely all she appears to be. 🙂

Thank you so much for reading.

Next update is (1-20) aether; on Thursday, July 25th.