The night was clear; there was not a single cloud in the brooding midnight sky. All along the great walls of a Illistair, braziers threw out a flickering orange glow. This gave the wall a certain halo and illuminated the stones below, showcasing the frankenstein of architecture -- a mirror of its varied past. Atop the burly bastion, Silhouettes paced back and forth, their legs hidden behind the parapets.

Tink!

Something smashed into the wall. Heads peeked over the lip of stone.

Tink! … TINK!... TINKTINKTINKTINKTINK!

Shooting up the wall was a flood of crawlers, their stiff legs punching into the side of the wall and ripping large stones out as they clambered upwards. The orange of the braziers cast over their slimy bodies and reflected off their almost metallic spearheaded feet.

Bells began to chime, soldiers began to yell, and strings began to twang. Arrows whizzed through the air, some slamming into the mucus bodies of the crawlers, while others bounced off their legs. Stones and filth alike toppled from the side of the wall, but after the fourth volley, suddenly blood poured as well.

Two mighty legs curled over the edge of the parapet, suddenly shooting outward and punching through a cuirassed soldier before flinging him over the wall -- a curdling scream on his dying breath. Soldier’s leveled their spears, but soon a myriad of the crawlers swarmed over the lip of the wall -- and then there was a crumbling noise and the wall began to shake…



“You’re very lucky you know,” The young nurse put on a sympathetic smile, her hands deep in a bowl of murky water, “Not many people take a hit to the ribs so well -- if the hoof had cracked it, it could have been a slow death.”

A wide eyed man with shaggy black hair and a stubbled face stared at her. He was naked from the waist up, a patchwork of white bandages over his chest and side. He was laying on a thin mattress of cloth and hay that itself was laid in the corner of a small room, an empty blood stained bed pushed up against the opposite wall with the nurse in between.

“I’m not sure if that makes me feel much better,” He said dryly, his eyes falling down to look at his bandaged side, “Now- now we are sure it’s not cracked?”

“Trust me, you would know,” The nurse flicked her hands dry over the bowl, old bandages floating atop the water.

“How?” He asked, leaning up on his elbows - -a wince of pain wringing his mouth and causing him to squint.

“For one the pain would be unbearable!” The nurse said with what the man could almost pin as joyful enthusiasm.

“It hurts, a lot,” The man quickly said.

“Unbearable?” She finally turned to look at him and he shook his head slowly, “Well there.”

“...How else?”

“Mr. Jarren,” The nurse chastised, “Don’t you think you may be a bit too distrusting of my diagnosis?”

Jarren looked away and the nurse continued, “This is Wisserbury, after all -- we are the best of the best… now please, try and relax. You need it.”

“I suppose you’re righ-”

Thump... Thump....

Jarren cocked his head, “What’s that?”

“Mr. Jarren…” The nurse turned fully to him, a scowl on her face. Before she could continue her scolding, a great crack deafened the scene, stones erupting from where the wall used to be. By the grace of god, gods, or luck, Jarren managed to spring (painfully) from his bed just in time to avoid a large chunk of building from collapsing onto him. His eyes widened with terror, grey dust filling the entire room alongside globs of silent monstrosities.

The grunts scampered quickly towards him, a great pool of blood seeping out from under a segment of broken wall and splattering over their legs. Jarren swallowed a gulp of air and dust, quickly turning away from the beasts. He sprinted full speed out of the room and into a long corridor. On either side people were darting from their rooms, wild with terror and all funneling into a singular direction. Something itched at Jarren’s skull and he turned around, sprinting in the opposite direction of the masses, his side flaring with pain.

The grunts began to pour out of where his room was, along with a handful of other rooms on his side of the corridor, but as he sprinted away and snuck a glance back -- they were chasing the panicked crowd going down the other end of the corridor, arms flailing at the stragglers and beating them to death with sickly thumps. Jarren’s head snapped back to his fore, and just in time.

Quickly, Jarren ducked under the swing of a lone grunt, the fist slamming through the open door it caught instead. Without missing a beat, Jarren kept running -- giving thanks to Teid for his luck. The hall whipped by him, and he no longer dared look to see what could be chasing him as he ran. He turned left, right, ran straight through a ward of the dying and sick -- turned left into an empty hallway, sprinted down it -- the ground shook.

Ducking again, he slid under a falling wooden beam and his side roared with pain. He cut off a squeaking yelp and pushed back to his feet -- right. Straight ahead he ran, the moonlight of the outside playing on the dust that now filled the hallway. Another slam and he gritted his teeth, the exit so close. Slam! Sweat began to form and he pumped his legs as fast as they would go, the pain ricocheting all over his body now-- SLAM!

Jarren leaped with all the force he could muster, the open night air washing over his body right before it was hit with a blast of rubble from behind. The impact forced Jarren forward through the air, eventually slamming into the debris and filth covered ground with a skin scraping roll. Dazed, he looked behind him.

Half of the Wisserbury hospital laid in a pile of crumbled stone and broken wood, a heart seizing gap in the Illistair wall next to it. A cold shiver fought his heated pain as his eyes were sucked into the emptiness that was between the two sides of the broken wall -- the emptiness moved, he blinked. His eyes quickly adjusted and there he saw in the distance, the largest giant he ever laid eyes on. It was at least seven men high and was engulfed in a swarm of grunts and crawlers, it’s massive arms colliding into the remains of the monastery. Its minions were making quick work of displaced soldiers and survivors alike in the most brutal fashion, the pops of bone and metal crackling over the crumbling battlefield. A powerful breeze blasted by Jarren and stole his attention away from the army of destruction, his eyes making out the culprit as it passed him -- a horse.

It was heading right for the army of filth, and atop sat a man dressed in chainmail with a fancy great helmet atop his head, a fine looking steel blade held high in one hand, and a well battered shield in the other.

“Idiot…” Jarren coughed to himself, slowly getting back up to his feet, legs shaky. He turned away from the onslaught, eyes scanning for his freedom. He cringed. There at the opposite of the fight a mass of soldiers were beginning to form, arrows notched and siege engines rolling up.

“Not that way,” He wiped the corner of his mouth free of gathering dust and spun back to the army of filth, the sight of the hero on the horse all but consumed by the lingering dust clouds. He furrowed his brow, dark brown eyes finally landing on the gap in the walls -- specifically the rightmost side as it was rather clear, with most of the filth coming around the corner of the leftern hip. His ears twitched -- the ropes of the engines were being pulled. His brow dropped and as best as he could, he began to sprint again.

The dust scratched at his eyes as he ran, tears welling. His heartbeat was in his throat and anxiety conquered his stomach -- he lost track of where he was. An arrow whizzed from behind him and he gulped. His fingers crossed, praying he was heading towards the clearing in the gap and not the-

He slammed full force into a grunt, the ooze slapping across his bare chest. He hissed, the gloop stinging his skin ever so slightly. The beast turned, bringing an arm with it. Jarren closed his eyes -- but the blow never came. A sudden shlink! erupted through the air, and Jarren opened an eye to peek.

The horseman sped off, his blade dripping with filth. Jarren looked down, he was standing in a puddle of filth. Saying a second prayer to Teid, Jarren continued his run but this time he found himself heading in the same direction as the horseman -- something wasn’t right.

Before he could turn around, a mighty ball of stone came crashing from the sky. As it landed near him with an amazing clap of sound, the dust was pushed aside, revealing a large puddle of filth and crushed crawlers. Another stone fell, then another. Jarren could feel his pulse in his teeth, his adrenaline boiling. A glint caught his eye, nearly causing him to trip over a clump of corpses.

He turned slightly, the glint signaled again. He squinted through the dust and dirt, it was metal. A curiosity overtook his sickened stomach and he sprinted over. As he approached his heart froze; there ahead of him the horse stood, wild eyed and frightened, it’s reigns pulled down to the ground by the metal clad knight that once rode it, a large pool of blood seeping from the helmet, several massive dents pulverizing it inwards.

Jarren swallowed hard and necessity overtook his compassion. He quickly scooped up the knight’s sword, and snagged his shield. Looking hard at the horse, he suddenly swung a leg over it. He kicked the knight’s hand from the reign and with his knees pressed against the saddle, he kicked the horses flanks -- and just in time.

A stone fell from the sky, smashing into the corpse of the knight and burying in into the debris and piles of bodies below. The rubble bounced off of Jarren’s back and spurred the horse faster -- CRACK!

A terrible leg that possessed the width of a bundle of pillars slammed into the ground next to him, causing the horse to buck. Jarren held tight, his eyes wide with horror as he looked up. The giant stood directly above him. Arrows littered the monster’s body, but still it attacked -- lifting a leg.

CRACK!!

Another near miss, Jarren barely holding onto the horse.

WHAM! A wet crash sounded as one of the stone projectiles of the defenders hit the beast squarely into the chest. It stumbled.

WHAM! Another hit; it fell to one knee. It lurched and then collapsed, nearly toppling over onto Jarren. The man held his horse still, he himself frozen with fear as the great monstrosity began to bubble and ooze next to him. He raised his stolen sword, either out of reflex or fright. Time slipped, the great big body began to melt and the dust began to settle. The sounds of the battle slowly quieted down, but still Jarren stayed still -- until…

“There he is!” A shout called out and Jarren turned in his saddle towards the voice. A line of soldiers, many maimed and battered, stared at him, most with large smiles of relief. Looking across, the soldiers saw Jarren sit on the horse of the hero, a giant melting right behind him and his sword raised high.

A cheer suddenly erupted from the soldiers as they began to chant, “Ratcher! Ratcher! Ratcher!”

Completely shaken, Jarren raised his sword, the cheer grew louder and so did the pain in his side.





“I would wager that they would rather slit their own throats before going with you,” Derick folded his hands together, a ring and pinky finger missing on his right hand. The man was in his early thirties, with predatory eyes the color of steel and cleanly cropped light brown hair. He sat on a throne of glorified wood, nails and knuckle-bones. His clothes were ratty and old, but not as shabby as the crooked hut he sat in. The man in front of him was completely bald, at least ten years older, and draped in an unusually nice black cloak. He wore a sneer that never seemed to leave his face, only deepening at Derick’s suggestion.

“Some have tried, but that’s a simple matter of a mallet to the hands now isn’t it?” His eyes narrowed, “Don’t concern yourself with the packages once they are out of sight, keep your eyes on the payment.”

“Anything for good old Kendles,” Derick opened his arms.

“So it’s a deal then?” The man smiled a yellow toothed smile and Derick returned it with one of his own.

“Not quite,” His words made the cloaked man wince, yet still sneer. Derick cocked a head, “You said this deal has been going on for quite some time, yeah?”

“The Friends of Foy participated,” The man jabbed a finger into his palm.

“Wolf?”

“He didn’t know, he didn’t need to.”

“Well if they did then I’m sure that means I should,” Derick gave a dumb look and the man greedily nodded, the sarcasm escaping him.

“Yes-- you’re the--”

“I know who and what I am,” Derick stood up, his height beating the cloaked man’s by an inch, “And that’s why I have to decline, find your elderly and beaten somewhere else.”

“But-”
“No buts,” Derick folded his arms behind his back, “Despite what you may have heard, the Filth Eaters do not deal in human lives, not at that price at least, not on my watch.”

“The Friends-”

“Then ask them,” Derick waved a hand, “If you can even find them anymore,” He laughed almost menacingly, his eyes turning to daggers, “I’m not to be insulted by such a price ever again or I’ll take both your ears and feed them to your-- I’m sorry are you married?”

“No,” The man grit his teeth, yet somehow was still sneering.

Derick stared for a while, “Who would’ve guessed.”

“An eighth more.” The man suddenly offered. Derick pointed one finger at him then slowly swerved it so it pointed at the ceiling.

“A quarter.”

Derick raised his hand further and the man growled, his sneer finally gone, “A half more.”

“There it is,” Derick flashed a charming yellow smile, “It’s a deal.”

“Good.” The other man seemed too ashamed to sneer any longer and Derick flicked his wrist.

“It’s getting late, Mr. Keeley.”

The sneer was back. Keeley looked as if he wanted to say something but instead pulled his cloak close to his body and stormed out of the room. Derick rolled his eyes and slumped back into his throne, a bored expression taking his face.

---

Boots silently crept across a dirty plot of land. Ragged shacks littered it in no real order, and the sound of both coughing and snoring filled the birdless sky. The owner of the boots were two large men, their footsteps eerily silent compared to their size. As they walked by a dark alley between two different rows of shacks a sudden laugh caused them to stop. They turned to the sound, a scabby man laughing into his own naked lap, his body bruised and beaten. Next to him a now bloated body laid, it’s face a hue of blue. A swollen tongue stuck out of the decaying fat cheeks. The men shared a look and continued, this was nothing unusual.

The pair passed shack filled with laboured grunts and moans, a dirt covered child squatting outside, fingers drawing in the mud, a big frown on his face. The kid’s gaze caught one of the men, the booted man giving the child a twisted face, forcing the kid to scramble away. The jokester turned to his partner, but received nothing but a stonewalled frown. The jokester rolled his eyes and flared his nostrils.

Slowly the two walked away from the cluster of shacks, finding one that was quite alone, far from the stench of the rest. Trees loomed over it, and the flicker of fire peeked through its thin wooden walls and a puff of smoke exited a latched hole in the roof. Without much ceremony the two thugs walked up to the front and only door, a thin piece of wood and slammed their foot right into it.

With a loud crack, the door jumped off its simple hinges and plowed into the one room shack, slamming into a kneeling woman and knocking her right into the open fire. She started to scream as her clothes jumped with flames, a young girl screeching in the corner while an older man scrambled to his feet. One of the thugs pointed at the young girl before roughly kicking the woman out of the fire, bringing a second boot with a resounding crack against her skull, her scream stopping, but her chest still rising and falling.

The old man tackled into the thug, but his frail body barely caused the tall man to flinch. With a strong hook, the thug slammed a fist into the man’s stomach, curling him over to the floor. The girl was still screeching madly, then with a snapping sound, the other thug brought his boot to her small body. The screaming stopped.

The thug by the unconscious woman and coughing old man turned to the other, who gave him a shrug. The little girl was slumped over, a drizzle of scarlet and saliva dripping out of the corner of her mouth. The first thug hissed a breath.

“Nevermind that, grab the woman, I’ll get the geezer.”

---

---

In all the old stories, it is said that crowns lie heavy on the head of those who wear them.

The stories failed to mention how heavy they would be while lying in the floundering pack of one lone nun.

Candle didn't know how long she had been running for. All she knew was that they had crept up on her while the world still lay dark and dead. Now, the faintest tendrils of Teid's warm sun began trailing across the sky, guided by Parrel's careful touch. Her legs ached. Her lungs burned. All she wanted to do was to lie down and rest and take a drink of her stale water. Luckily her marathon would soon be at an end, either by the death of her assailants or her own. The stiffening of the hairs on the back of Candle's neck was all the warning that she received of something lunging at her. It was all she needed.

In one smooth motion, her next step turned into a pivot as she turned to face her enemy, using the extra weight of her backpack to help complete her half turn as she gripped her ashwood spear in both hands, bracing it on the forested ground. Iron, hardened by faith, met flesh covered in Filth as the short, stubby creature impaled itself onto the tip of her weapon, momentum and gravity forcing it yet further down onto the haft. The feel of it reminded her of a knife sliding through fat, not at all like the tough shuddering of meat and bone. Grimy, pustulous claws swung just mere inches from the nun's grim and impassive face, her ears assaulted by the grunt's death throes as it gurgled into nothing, the creature melting back into the Filth from which it was made.

Her victory was short lived as another grunt quickly made its presence known as it burst from the brush, characteristically and unnervingly silent compared to its bubbling companion.

Candle dropped her spear, mired as it was in Filthy tar, drawing instead the longsword at her hip with a dull hiss of metal on leather. Individually, however, the Filth's grunts posed little threat to a properly trained warrior, much less a Sister who survived and thrived under the harsh hands of Mistress Blade at the Convent of Quiet Vigil. It was dispatched easily and quickly with several brutal cuts. Still, Candle remained alert as she knew there were more that were chasing after her, even if she had dispatched a few others similar to the first by catching them on various risky and dangerous maneuvers. The sounds of the pack that had been chasing after her from before were far too loud and numerous to account for those she had slain, no matter how groggy and addled she may have been while hurriedly awoken in the middle of the night.

She waited one count.

Two more.

Several long moments passed by in stark silence. There were no animal cries in the distance, no alarm of singing birds nor cricks of endless insects, yet neither were there crashing of Filthy limbs through the underbrush, of unwavering pursuers peering through the green cover of the surrounding forest. Eventually she allowed her muscles to relax, if only a bit.

It was as Candle went over to her spear, lifting it to allow whatever Filth that still clung to it to slough off did she hear the answer to her worries in the form of pained screams. They were bloody, human, and uncomfortable close. Contrary to how she believed she would have acted in such a situation, she hesitated. Her legs ached. Her lungs burned. And, if she allowed herself to realize it, her hands were shaking. Still, despite her hesitation, she knew what she had to do. What she must do. The nun uttered a soft prayer as she scraped off the final bits of Filth with dirt. Afterwards, she allowed herself the small luxury of letting her muscles rest for just a single second more, then shifted into a jog towards the screams that had continued to echo all the meanwhile.

The source of the raucous noise soon became abundantly clear as the trees started to thin out in deference to a nearby road: a single merchant, surrounded by corpses and puddles of Filth alike. The peddler's eyes met Candles, a plea, a cry forming on her lips before her skull caved inward with a sickening crunch, the offending grunt's hands coming away sticky with blood. The only figure left standing that wasn’t covered in Filth was a single man holding a mace tight in one hand and a shield hanging limply from the other. Surrounding him were two grunts, held back only by the pained thrashings of a ten-limbed beast. Several of its pointed legs moved in erratic spasms or already lay dead and still. One of them shot like an arrow toward the man, though the force of it was like a ballista bolt by the way it flung him aside like a rag doll as it splintered his shield. A similar blow was likely the reason why the man had such a weak grip on it in the first place.

Candle's body instinctively snapped into action, giving herself no time to take in the full severity of the situation as she dropped her backpack. The haft of her spear briefly grazed the side of her cheek as she drew back her right arm and turned herself into a siege engine with her body the machine, the spear her devastating load. A pained cry tore itself from her throat as it held the raw grief of seeing the broken bodies of Parrel's flock before her, the cold anger of having to suffer the ignominy of allowing the Filth before her to do so, and the terrified exhaustion of a scared, lonely girl that had to live in such a world. Her spear shot forth with divine fury, the missile striking true, skewering the crawling beast right in the center of its flailing mass. It died with a piercing screech in concert with Candle's own warcry as she drew her sword, daring the rest of the disgusting Filth before her to face her.

But these beasts knew no fear. They knew not what the terror in facing a holy Instrument of Parrel was, had no concept of what it should be like. The Filth had a divine will of its own, its creatures driven and filled with its unholy purpose. The pustulous lumps that sat atop the bodies of the three grunts all turned to snap at her, their bodies moving as if under a single puppeteer's commands as they began ambling towards her.

Despite her body's protest, Candle turned and ran slightly deeper into the trees. After a short while she turned around, sighting the silent beasts that chased after her, running at her as one unit. The density of the trees forced them to stagger their approach, however. The first one that reached the lone nun lunged at her, its hands slavering for the chance to crush her bones under its grip. She crouched under its grasp, her blade already positioned in a low stance as she used her legs to burst forward and score a deep slice through its midsection, metal coming away from Filth with a sickening squelch. The grunt showed no reaction to being cut by a murderous slice that would have been fatal to any mortal man, though it at least waddled and wavered like a drunken lout as its top half flailed about, unsteadying the legs that had to carry its newly unsecured weight. A swift kick was all the persuasion the grunt's body needed in order to finally separate and return to Filth.

The second grunt came at her left side, its right arm moving in a wild swing that threatened to pulverize her entire rib cage. Candle danced and dodged around a tree, using it as brief cover and came up behind the beast. She sliced at the back of its knees, forcing it into a slump as she brought her blade around to hack at it from above. With a cry, she brought furious retribution down upon the Filthy stain that kneeled before her.

As she moved to tug out her blade however, she found it stuck deep and fast in the creature's body. She panicked and froze for only a single moment, but it was all the third grunt needed to tackle Candle onto the floor. The worst of the impact was softened by her breastplate, but the grunt now lay above her, straddling and pinning her down to the ground. Death stared at her in the form of two meaty hands raised above her head. She wanted to close her eyes and look away. She couldn't.

But the hands never came down, Out of nowhere, a mace swung hard and fast from its side. There was only a dense thump as the weapon impacted into the creature, enough to throw it off Candle to somewhere she couldn't see. A man walked briefly into her vision before disappearing toward where the grunt had flown. She could only imagine what happened next as several more thumps quickly turned into a heavy string of sickening squelches. Eventually it stopped, followed only by the sound of heavy breathing, then crunching footsteps disappearing into the distance. Candle lay there for what felt like a lifetime afterward.

Once she felt like she could stand and take a step without crumpling onto the forest floor, she made her slow journey back toward where she had dropped her backpack, moving in the same direction as the earlier footsteps. Luckily she found it undisturbed. The same could have been said about the scene of carnage that lay before it, save for the absence of the Filth's walking blasphemies. The man who flew through the air sat at a small, freshly made fire in the center of it all, seemingly unperturbed by the blood and bodies that lay all around him. His mace lay comfortably across his knees as it dripped with Filth, his single working hand never far from it. His head rose as he heard her approach and raised an arm in a nonchalant greeting, then pointed to her spear which lay on the ground covered in Filth for the second time that morning.

Without a second thought Candle strode forward to join the man next to his little fire, collecting her spear along the way. She watched him nurse the flame brighter and brighter, then settle a pot into its heart. He wandered over to the cart that supported the now dead merchant, idly picking through it before coming back with a pack of what looked to be freshly skinned and gutted rabbit. It wasn't until he sat back down did Candle finally speak. "May I look at your arm?"

The man turned to look at her, ice-blue eyes piercing into her own. She met his challenge, unwavering, unflinching. He was the first to break contact as he turned aside to put down his breakfast. "Do what you will, girl."

Candle laid aside her pack and spear and came up beside the man's hanging arm. A brief inspection and a string of creative curses told her that it was at least fractured, if not outright broken near his shoulder. It also gave her a chance to actually take a proper look at her savior. His weapon and the ease of which he carried it told her that he was clearly well trained, with his corded muscle and rough, leathery skin confirming a life used to hard labour, a prominent scar running from cheek to chin. The rest of his face was hard and angular, but not unkind. His age was hard to properly guess at however, as it felt like he could have been anywhere from his late 30's to his early 60's, old enough to be her father, at least. The skull cap protecting his head hid whatever hair may have taking refuge under it, though she doubted he had any to reveal anyway if the rest of his clean-shaven features were of any indication. "Do you have any cloth or linens I may use?"

The man shrugged and pointed a thumb back towards the cart. "You're free to look."

Candle did so, coming back with a suitable piece of linen cut to size with a knife. She took the cloth back to the man's side and moved to treat him before she hesitated and gave him a last look. "May I?"

"Do what you will."

She worked quickly, setting his arm into a comfortable sling. Once she finished, she asked him, "What is your name?"

"Liam."

"... That's not your real name, is it?"

He shrugged. "And?" A pause. "Yours?"

"Candle."

He turned to stare at her unmoving expression, an eyebrow slowly creeping its way upward. It hung at its zenith for a second, two, then a wide smile cracked open on his face and he let out a guffaw that felt as if it could split the world. "Well Candle, 'least join me for a meal. Can't promise anything good, but it'll 'least be edible."

With his immediate care now done, however, her attention had shifted to the various bodies that lay around them. One lay rigid, his face locked in fear. Another was crumpled and broken, her face slack without worry. The last laid against the cart as if dozing, her expression unreadable for she no longer had a face at all. "Nothing left to do for them but pray, girl."

Candle now turned to face him and nodded. "That is what I will do."

As he made his meal, Sister Candle went about collecting the corpses of Liam's fellows, digging them graves with a shovel found inside the cart. Her screaming muscles forbid her from giving them final resting places that were too deep, but it was enough to preserve their dignity as their bodies and spirits returned back to the Cycle of Creation. She prayed for them to find contentment and joy wherever they resided next.

---

---

After Candle's impromptu funeral service, Liam divulged that he was one of three guards the lone merchant had hired in Illistair as escorts to Kendles. Ostensibly, the reason why she decided to strike out alone instead of traveling with a caravan was to rush to Kendles and sell off her stock of construction supplies first, then resupplying with some new hot product that had come into the ramshackle settlement. A derisive snort was his only follow-up to that. When asked why he went along with it anyway, he shrugged and said that he knew and trusted the skills of the two other guards. More importantly, however, was the fact that the pay was extremely ludicrous, enough to ensure his silence, but not his death. The reason why he had told Candle any of this was because he was bored and that it likely wouldn’t have mattered anymore anyways.

So now, with no prospect of being paid, yet really having nowhere else to go, Liam plundered the dead merchant’s cart with whatever seemed profitable and that he could comfortably carry, leaving the rest for Candle to take or the Filth to claim as he continued down the long road toward Kendles. Since had already planned to revisit the tumultuous town anyways, Candle decided to accompany him.

The rest of the journey to Kendles was uneventful, their entrance even more so as they blended into the throng of humanity that hovered in and around it like flies. Candle had come to sprawling town a handful of time as she wandered all over Pertovia, preaching the good word of Parrel. Of the three Stalwart Cities, she had always felt the most at ease in Kendles. As contradictory as that statement may have seemed on the surface, the Kendies at least made no attempt to hide the danger that was inherent in living there; the same couldn’t be said for Illistair, Jornorston least of all.

Once they arrived, Liam inquired as to where she would stay, whereupon she revealed her plans to build her own church to Parrel in the town by taking and renovating one of the many abandoned buildings that lay in the town’s outskirts. She had planned to ply her trade as an alchemist, healer, and priestess in order to slowly gather the labor and materials she would have needed for such an endeavor, so it was with some tainted luck then that she had found Liam and his little convoy. Liam on his part did at least offer to house her with one of his friends, but she politely refused and was adamant in the fact that she had wanted to start her first great work as soon as possible. Still, he felt uncomfortable leaving her alone as not only was she a woman wandering the urban wilds of the outskirts, but a holy woman no less while the city was held tight in the Filth Eaters' grip.

So he did not part with her yet and assisted her in at least choosing a building that at the very least lay far from the reach of the fanatical gang, though admittedly his knowledge of their territory was cobbled together from memories that ranged, at their latest, of only a few months back. Much could have changed in that time, but Candle left him little choice in the matter.

Eventually, they found a serviceable ruin that fit both their criterias: a crumbling stone building that may have once been a church in its scarred past, the only signs of which being the symbol of Parrel being carved into one of its bricks. Now it stood with only three walls, the fourth barely a collection of pebbles, the roof long since caved in. Perhaps it was an ill-advised venture to rebuild a church of Parrel in the same place where it had already fallen at least once before, but Sister Candle chose to take it as a sign of divine providence. Liam cared little whether it was one or the other, save that he did enough to ease his conscience. They parted ways soon afterward.

As she surveyed her new home, however, Candle knew that it wouldn’t be the last time she would see the errant mercenary.

---

---

The clop of hooves, the rattle of wagons on a beaten overgrown road, the plop of animal defecation, and the occasional chatter.

These were the sounds that accompanied a caravan on the move.

There were three wagons in total; two loaded with crates and barrels of supply, and one with a dozen or so passengers - primarily the young and the old. Each wagon had a driver and a guard sitting upfront, steering the mules or oxen that pulled the old, rickety things along the road. More than a dozen people traveled alongside on foot, most of them armed, while others only had the clothes on their back. None were happy to be here; Gerick included.

It was a journey he had taken more times than he could count. The caravan passed through roughly the same area on a semi-regular schedule, only occasionally changing its in ordinary route to throw off aspiring brigands. But the Filth was an even greater danger, and against such a threat there was safety in numbers. So, anyone was welcome so long as they could pull their weight one way or another, along with the weight of any 'baggage' they might bring with them.

Gerick glanced at one of the children, and the child stared back. There was no joy on that malnourished face. Gerick shifted his gaze to the child's father, who limped alongside the caravan with an axe at his belt. With a sigh, he shifted his gaze forward. Most of the people here were lost; they left their home behind, or were driven out, and now sought a better - or a the very least different - life elsewhere. The caravan would pass through village after village, and some of the passengers or guards would depart while others would sign on.

The caravan's final destination was Kendles. What salvation they were hoping to find there, Gerick did not know. A short, bittersweet life followed by an even bitterer end was all that awaited anyone there.

Which is why Gerick had no intention of staying. He never did. He followed the caravan because in exchange for his protection, they offered him a meal and possibly even a bonus at the end. Although the owner - a toothless baldheaded merchant by the name of Edgar - and many of the other regular guards did not like him, they could respect Gerick's skill with a blade and trust him not to cut their throats at night. Out here, away from civilization, that was more important than anything else. Quite a few had signed on only to attempt to betray them or make away with some of their goods, and that rarely ended well for them.

He wondered if any such people were with them now. To say that it happened every time would be hyperbole. But there were plenty of stupid or desperate people out there.

Then Gerick began to consider the item in his pack. The crown...

He had heard stories of the crowns. How they had been used to mark leaders. How they granted power and authority. Had it been an accident that he found one? Or something... more. He recalled his vision. Had that simply been the result of a mind driven mad by mushrooms? Or was there a deeper meaning to it?

In the months since that discovery, he had given in and partaken of the strange fungus on a few occasions, hoping for further revelation, to see them again... but nothing. Just the usual mix - a random amount of ecstasy or suffering; sometimes both. He shuddered in recollection at some of the more... jarring experiences, and considered once more that maybe he should stop. But maybe... just one more...

He shook the thought off. Whether he would ultimately quit the habit or not, he would not do it here. Too much could go wrong for him. He clenched a fist. Stop thinking about it... But telling himself to stop thinking about it only made him think about it more. The child was still staring at him, he realized.

With a sigh, he fell out of place, quickened his speed, and soon came upon the lead wagon, where Edgar sat. Though the man was a merchant, he had the build of a warrior - his steely gaze was set forward, and a formidable mace rested at his belt. "We shouldn't be too far from the next village. I'm going to scout ahead," Gerick offered.

Edgar grunted. "Volunteering? What's gotten into you?"

"Might be I'm possessed by a malevolent spirit. A terrifying thought. Maybe I should rest instead..." Gerick offered thoughtfully.

"Or benevolent," Edgar muttered. "Ivan! Go with Gerick here and scout forward. Make sure he doesn't cut loose."

Ivan, a plain looking brown-haired man with a battered longbow and a steel shortsword, nodded and stepped up next to Gerick, looking just as displeased as Gerick himself. "Let's get this over with..." the young man muttered.

"I wish I had your enthusiasm..." Gerick spoke in a wistful tone, before distant growls were heard from the woods on the right hand side of the road.

"Filth! To the right!" someone shouted out.

The caravan scrambled into action immediately. Those with weapons fell into a rough formation between the cart and the attackers. Half of them wielded spears, while the rest had a varied assortment of swords, axes, maces, bows, and hammers. Those who could not fight - the children and the camp followers - took cover behind the wagons. Gerick and Ivan took positions on the leftmost flank, while Edgar pushed his way to the center. "Hold your ground!" he yelled.

"And just when I was looking for something to do with my day..." Gerick muttered, before eight Grunts came thundering out of the woods. The four or so bowmen accompanying the caravan loosed their arrows, causing one grunt to fall dead as his puss-filled 'head' was popped, while a second stumbled and tripped from an arrow that lodged in its knee, smashing and popping its own head on the firm ground, before a final arrow finished him off. But the remainder carried on their charge, intent on smashing through the center, where the bulk of the spearmen still stood firm.

And smash they did. Although the spears provided a reach advantage, allowing two of the creatures to be impaled, the other Grunts simply grabbed the spears below the point and turned them away or snapped them in one hand, while the other hand lunged forward for a punch. One spearmen was flung several feet back into the wagon by an exceptionally hard punch that caught him square in the chest, ruining his ribcage while his spine broke against the hardwood. He fell to the ground, blood fountaining from his mouth, the ruined shaft of his spear still clutched in his hand. One man on the right flank saw this and fled, with the others soon following his example.

While the center backpedaled, dodged, and lunged to keep the creatures at bay, and the right flank abandoned the skirmish, the left flank did not stand idle. With battered sword in hand, Gerick charged forward, the others at his heels, and they wheeled about to catch the beasts in the side and rear. They raked their weapons across the monsters' backs, Gerick himself scoring a cut so vicious that the beast wheeled around to face him, swinging a wild fist. Gerick ducked underneath the strike, avoiding it by a hair's width, and then capitalized by plunging his blade deep into the monster's vulnerable chest.

Another grunt fell nearby, having sustained too much damage. Now only two remained; they all bled heavily, and they were surrounded on all sides. One lunged a fist at Gerick in an attempt to rectify that, but the greycloaked warrior sidestepped the attack, and suddenly there was a flash of steel in his hand and he stabbed a dagger down into the monster's wrist. In the end, the two remaining Filth creatures were brought down by sheer numbers, hacked and stabbed to pieces.

Gerick flicked the remaining traces of Filth off his sword with an expression of distaste, and then began to take in their losses. Five fighters had died in the clash. Four more fighters had fled, but already two had returned to beg forgiveness and ask to be taken back in. One was beaten senseless, stripped naked, and left to rot on the dirt. The other had a family to care for, and so he got off lightly - a swift punch to the gut, followed by being quite literally tied to the cart by a tight length of rope.

The punishments had always seemed a bit excessive to Gerick. Then again, they had left the caravan to die, and abandoning your comrades without warning in the middle of a fight was almost as good as stabbing them in the back.

For once Gerick didn't have a quip. The civilians who had taken shelter now wept over the bodies of lost friends and family members. He remembered his own losses, and realized the luxury of having a body to weep over was something not even he had received, but he did not allow himself to appear any more melancholic than usual.

Edgar allowed everyone a few minutes to rest or grieve, before putting them all to work. Weapons and supplies were recovered, while shallow graves were dug for the deceased. A priest of Parrel who was accompanying them glanced at the graves with disapproval, but gave them their last rites anyway. They could not linger any longer, for fear that there might be more Filth in the area. The sun was low, and the village was close, so it was time to get moving. One woman refused to go, staying by her husband's grave with tears in her eyes, and only after Edgar told her he would leave her behind did she get back on the wagon.

As for Gerick, he wearily fell back into the same routine, made somewhat more tense by their significantly diminished numbers. A few attempted to approach him, and congratulate him for his role in the battle, but he brushed them off. That child went back to staring at him.

Gerick sighed. If only he could be alone with his thoughts...

Echoes rampaged Jarren’s mind: several attempts at convincing the crowd he wasn’t Raatcher gone awry, with them suspecting him either modest or changed by the stress of the battle. Some even claimed his nerves were simply shot from the fight, and that he should rest -- a prospect Jarren warmed up to once his adrenaline left. There was no way Jarren could go back to his little hole, so after some leg work, he found Ratcher’s own bed.

It wasn’t bad -- in fact it was much better than his own by a mile. Not only did Ratcher have his own room in a stone house, but he had two beds and a litter of things. If there was anyone to be pretending to be, Jarren hit the jackpot.

Jarren made a satisfied face as he stepped up to the hay and cloth mattress, running his hand along it. He had changed into the dead man’s clothes -- a simple brown tunic and stitched together pants of various cloth. The other denizens of the hovel were quiet, leaving Jarren to his thoughts. The man plopped down onto the bed with a poof and gave the room another once over.

His newly acquired sword and shield leaned against the second bed, and inbetween the two was a rotten crate covered in nicknacks. A heavy blanket covered the doorway and clothes were folded by each bed. Interestingly enough, by the second bed Jarren spotted a single dress made of rough fabric dyed a faded blue -- and he’d be a liar if he didn’t suddenly get up to try and hold it up against himself. He twitched his nose as the scent of a woman entered an inhale and he closed his eyes.

“Tied, this is creepy.” Crumpling the dress into a ball he tossed it at the crate with a snapping throw. It thumped against the wood, jostling something stuck between the crate and one of the mattresses. Jarren narrowed his eyes and snuck on over, rawhide shoes creaking against the floorboards. With a flick of his wrist he snatched the object from its hiding spot. It was a stack of binded vellum -- a book. Jarren’s brows arched and he turned to sit on the bed, setting the book into his lap.

Immediately the thin book opened to a spot where a cloth was stuck between the pages. Furrowing his brow, Jarren plucked the cloth from the book and upon realizing it was folded around something, he unwrapped it. A crisp piece of parchment laid in the cloth, it’s edges nearly brown from age and alien etchings written in the secret brown ink of Illistair littered the page. Jarren nodded slowly, a fundamental truth flickering into his mind: he can’t read.

He folded the ancient paper back into its cloth and poured his eyes over the book. It was written with different letters, the kind he saw now and again in the city. He rubbed his hand over the charcoal letters, suddenly retracting his hand as one of them began to smudge. Curious, he flipped through some more pages, but it was all letters -- until.

Jarren’s eyes widened and a face stared back at him, a soft smile on drawn lips. The visage of a regal looking woman was sketched on the page. Jarren’s stomach pumped, it was very rare to see something like this, let alone done so well. He ran his hand on blank of the paper, eager not to ruin the drawing. His eyes followed the lines, from her jaw, straight nose, stern eyes, all the way up to her scalp, where a crown lay. Jarren snapped the book shut, his stomach abuzz with strange feelings.

He sat in silence for what felt like forever, contemplating the strange turn his life had taken. In truth, he had no idea... but he wanted to.

“I need to see Greum.”

Keira’s eyes snapped open at the sound of a bell ringing. She tilted her hat back up off of her eyes, shoved aside the blanket of leafy twigs and then quickly scrambled down though the branches of the tree she had been sleeping in to investigate the noise. Hopes of free breakfast where dashed by the sight of a grunt dangling from a length of rope, its hand still grasping the knife she had baited the trap with. She’d hidden the knife, which was attached to the rope by a metal loop at its hilt, in just the right way that it would be noticeable only if the filth where already coming for her. Its violent shaking that had been ringing a cheap copper bell attached to the rope was still a few moments later by a second knife carefully thrown by the lass at the monster.

Sadly she was unable to celebrate her skill at the moment as from below there came a rhythmic thumping. Peering down into the dark she saw that the monster's friends attempted to punch down the tree, scattering splinters to the ground as they gradually chipped away at its mighty trunk. The things were made, or where perhaps simply apt at, breaking down barriers of civilization, so a single tree, no matter how sturdy, would eventually fall if she left them to their devices.

“Gods you bastards have gotten persistent haven’t you.” she complained as she reached up and retrieved a sling from her belt where it sat next to a pouch of stones. Using it in the branches was difficult, but with some careful climbing and the help of the rope she had used to secure herself to the tree she found a spot with enough room to swing the little leather strap around.

Using the sling she accelerated and then launched a small rock down at her attackers, the projectile punching a small hole in one of the grunts’ shoulders. A second followed up, hitting the head this time and this actually downed the monster. As she gradually pelted the creatures to death with rocks in the dark she was lulled a kind of zen by the rhythmic whir whir whir thunk of her sling. Either she’d take them all down or the tree would collapse she’d have to deal with the consequences then. It was rather pointless to worry incessantly about which event would occur, it would only make her more likely to flunk her shots, so instead she considered what the implications of the filth’s attack was while fending it off.

In her mind it proved her hypothesis, that the crown she now wore beneath her hat had been the tipping point from the odd grunt knocking on her grandfather's door to a larger swarm coming for them lead by a Crawler the very night she had brought it home. Most of the time hiding in a tree, ditch or cave would be more than enough to avoid the filth. Maybe one would find her bait, but it having friends was rare and this many was almost unprecedented.

Then again, maybe she had just gotten particular unlucky tonight.

On the other hand it was fortunate, Keira thought as one of her stones thudded harmlessly into the earth instead of striking true, that there wasn't a crawler with this lot. The scar marking her cheek was a stark reminder of how close one had gotten to ending her on the night before she and her grandfather had to leave their home behind.

She was broken from her thoughts by two things. The first was that she was out of stones. The second was the groaning and splintering of timber.

“Fuck” Keira swore, “fuck. fuck. fuck. Fuck.” she continued to swear as the tree slowly bowed in surrender to the filth’s relentless hammering at its trunk. The girl shoved the sling in the empty stone pouch before fumbling with the rope attaching her to the doomed forest sentinel. The knot came undone as the fall continued to accelerate, after which Keira hurled herself from the tree and fell into the arms of one of its lesser children, its leafy top cushioning her landing some but more importantly meaning she wouldn't follow her sleeping spot all the way to the ground.

Branches splintered as the tree fell until it crashed into the forest floor with thunderous applause, which roused the early morning woods. Birds flew into screeching into the air all around as Keira half slid, half clambered down from the arms of her savior. There were still filth left after all, and she’d rather not risk them dropping her tree again when she was almost out of things to throw out of it.

The two who had survived her hail of stones and also not been crushed by their first and last foray into being lumberjacks where already barreling towards her. A throwing knife caught one in the arm while a second blade missed the other completely and thumped into the carcass of the tree instead. Party tricks where not good in combat she reminded herself as she hoisted her weapon, stood her ground and anticipated the enemy's attacks.

Keira carefully sidestepped the first one’s blow, grunts weren't exactly subtle about winding up their punches, and drove the point of her pickax into the thing’s head in retaliation. She kicked its melting body in the groin for good measure, giving her the leverage to pull her weapon out of it again just in time for its friend to arrive. She dodged around the now fallen body of its ally, putting the corpse between her and the stubby legged grunt, and baiting it to charge her again. It obliged and in the process got bogged down in the filth, allowing Keira to dance around it and drive her pick into its back.

She extracted the digging implement from her final foe, her breathing heavy as the adrenaline died down and the exertion of the brief fight caught up with her, causing her to tap the head of the pickax to the ground and lean on the end of its handle for a few moments while she caught her breath.

“Are we done?” she asked the dark forest, foolishly tempting fate while still a little out of breath. When the night failed to produce any more horrors she grinned to herself and said “yeah I thought so” before taking some time to wipe her pick on some grass and then sliding it back into its holster. She dusted off her hands before getting to work cleaning up the mess.

It was dawn by the time she had collected all of the rope, knives and stone from around the fallen tree, so after a spot of breakfast consisting of stale bread and a few blueberries from a bush she’s spotted yesterday evening the girl headed for home.

“I’ll cut your ears off, I’ll cut your stomach open, by Tied, Parrel, Ligdon and Fuckin’ Oorick, I’ll feed you your own damn fingers!”

A short man with long brown hair waved a crudely hammered together shard of metal. While lacking in elegance, much like it’s owner, it was long and sharp. Across a turnt over table stood a burly man with two stud wrapped fists and a hunk of metal tied around his chest, a stiff club in his hands. The large man wore disinterested eyes and a curled snarl.

“I already told you, Rat! I’m not here for you!” The brute growled, but the small man just snickered loudly.

“Ooh! Think you can pull a tricky on me do ya? I know exactly why you are here.” Rat spat while stabbing the air a few times. His other hand was curled around a roll of leather tied off with a cut of string.

“I shoulda known the twins would fuckin’ try and double cross me, yes” Rat chattered his teeth, “But too bad for you!” The man suddenly leapt into the air, one foot expertly landing on the edge of the turned over table and launching him forward in a deadly thrust.

CRACK!

The club came down reflexively, smashing Rat in the side and sending him into the wall. The squirrelly man quickly scrambled to his feet, a pained laugh on his breath.

“Now you’ll get yours.. Oh yes, I’ll pop your eyes and--”

“Oorick’s boiled ass!” The brute swore and charged the small man. Rat yelped and suddenly retreated, slipping by the man and out the shack’s door. The brute groaned and shook his head.

Morning dew soaked Rat’s feet as he darted between the shacks of Kendles, a laboured breath in his mouth and a sharp pain in his side. He clutched the leather tightly against him, pumping his run with only his knife wielding hand.

“I’ll kill him, I’ll fuckin’ kill him,” Rat hissed between breaths, “I’ll go back there, damn right. I’m not runnin’, I’m just thinkin’, and when I’m done thinkin’, I’ll be stabbin’, Oh he is going to feel my edge, nobody messes with me, NONE!” He groaned loudly through the pain growing in his side, “Fuck that bitch, fuck her brother, fuck Kendles, fuck grrr--ah!” He shook his head in anger.

A warm trickle began to drip from his shirt and the man looked down. Scarlet mixed with dirt was dribbling from under his clothes. His swiveled on his feet, heading towards a different direction before.

“I’m just thinkin’” He muttered, heading right for a rumored chapel.

---

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Candle settled quickly into her new, humble little abode. The reality however, was that her current situation hadn’t changed too much from when she still camped in the wilds. During her travels, she had made her home in the scattered ruins of Pertovia many a time. The one she had tented in now was merely another, albeit one that would not remain that way for long. What needed to be done before any work may begin, however, was to ensure the safety and security of a most curious object that plagued her almost as much as it intrigued her: the rusted iron crown tucked away in her rucksack.

She had dared not remove it from its cushioned place in her bag while in Liam’s company. It is rumored that the Filth comes after those who grow too great in their ambition or power, and what greater ambition was there than to unite people under one banner, one cause? What great power would they hold? What greater symbol would there be of that fantasy than a crown, a terrible artifact worn and wielded by the kings and queens of eld? Perhaps it was just superstition, a convenient tale spun by those who wished to guard against such hunger and the Filth just a mindless force of destruction, a phenomena as natural to the world as earthquakes and storms. Or perhaps the Filth was crafted with a purpose, a vengeful weapon meant to strike at those who dared to rise above their station. Whatever the truth may be, there were power in stories, and it would not benefit anyone if rumors of a priestess of Parrel holding a crown was to circulate.

Calling upon her knowledge of similarly built chapels in the past, Candle made her way towards the back of the church and into a room where the vicar would have slept. Like the rest of the building, it was bereft of any furnishings, all of them likely already destroyed or repurposed long ago. What she searched for however would be hidden in the stones themselves and after a thorough investigation of the room she had found what she had been searching for: a small hidden alcove hidden underneath a loose flagstone. She was pleasantly surprised to see the remains of a holy text still embedded within, long rotted with age. Whether it was left because the alcove had continued to remain hidden all this time or because those who had found it thought it not worth pilfering, it still bade well for the job she would require of it.

Placing the iron crown gingerly into the hidden hole, she covered what bits of it she could with the crumbled paper then replaced the flagstone back into the floor, taking care that it blended well amongst its other kin. Done with her surreptitious task, Candle dusted off her tabard and made her way back towards the main sanctuary. And now, she only had the immediate task of cleaning a stone ruin that had lay abandoned for years yet weathered the constant ravages of a town regularly plagued by Filth. A daunting task for many, perhaps, but not to a Sister of Quiet Vigil.

The first order of business and the first step towards rebuilding the church: finding a broom.

“Oi!” A voice suddenly pulled her from her task, it echoed from the still doorless entryway and bounced off the stone.

Candle jumped, caught off-guard and more than a little embarrassed at having been so, immediately dropped her hand down towards the handle of her sword as she turned to face the voice. What she was met with was a ratty looking man holding a long shiv in one hand. What was more worrying, however, was the growing band of red from his chest. ”You’re bleeding,” she stated, still in a crouched and readied position.

“Fancy that,” He pointed his shiv at Candle, face paling from his wound, “Are you the new gobble who has been mucking around the past year giving old men paste for their rumps?”

Candle’s eyes narrowed. ”Only to those who don’t threaten me with sharpened metal.”

“Can’t blame a man,” He didn’t lower his weapon, “In a world like this, who knows what sort of harpy might try and take advantage of a man like myself, and when. I can meet you in the middle, yes, I’ll stop pointing -- but I’m keeping it, and you do your good deed for the day, yeah?”

She didn’t like the man. Nor could she ignore the fact that he was currently bleeding on the floor of her new home. Yet ultimately, she had dealt with similar characters (or worse) during her many brief sojourns in Kendles. She could hardly blame them either, considering the environment they lived in. Mentally shrugging, she allowed herself to rise and nod at the rat-man and walked quickly toward her rucksack, but she did not allow the man to leave her eyesight.

Rummaging inside, Candle produced a lengthy piece of linen that she had appropriated from the dead merchant’s stock as well as several other sundries that she would need. A dagger appeared in her other hand and she walked back towards the man, keeping a good pace away as she indicated for him to come closer. ”I’ll need you to remove your shirt.”

The man cocked his head, oddly bright eyes that betrayed a certain intelligence flickering over her dagger. He swallowed hard as if thinking over his options and then suddenly let the leather bundle under his arm drop to the floor with a thud, “Don’t move.” He hissed as he slide his shiv under the rope of his pants. With a painful jerk, he tossed his shirt over his head as quickly as he could. Immediately his eyes jumped back to her dagger, relaxing when he realized that it had not moved in the split second. He lifted his arm, peeking at his own wound for the first time.

Purple bruises scattered all around his ribs, with a crude nail stuck right into him, it’s protrusion running alongside his bone and peppered with splinters. The man seemed to lose a lot more color at the sight.

The sight of the wound made Candle purse her lips. The object didn’t look as if it had penetrated too deep nor hit anything too vital else he likely wouldn’t have been able to walk here in the first place. There was the risk of broken ribs, but there was nothing she could do about that. ”Sit,” she ordered, handing him the linen. ”And hold this.”

The man quietly complied, his eyes still stuck on the nail.

Candle kneeled next to him, her free hand exploring his chest as she poked and prodded in various places. Luckily, it seemed as if most of the bruising was superficial and would heal given time. The nail remained a problem.

Taking her dagger to the linen, she cut out a small square, followed by a long strip and then a rougher patch of cloth. She dug out a bottle of alcohol and began wetting the linens with it save for the rough patch, of which she offered to the man. ”In case you want to bite down on something,” she explained.

The man sucked in a breath and snatched the rough fabric and stuffed it into his mouth, his cheek puffing as he grumbled.

Preparations done, Candle placed a steadying hand on the man’s shoulder as she first cleaned the site of the wound with the alcohol, washing away whatever blood and grime she could with as little liquid as possible. Once satisfied, she began her impromptu surgery by using the small, cleaned square as a makeshift glove, wrapping it around the nail head. ”One,” she counted.

Then she pulled.

“Ligdon’s chapped ass!” The man spat out the cloth as he swore loudly, “Holy Teid’s titties and fuck-- OW!”

Immediately she placed the tail end of the long linen onto the open wound. ”You’ll live,” was all the consolation she offered as she wrapped and tied his bandage.

“I fuckin’ better -- after all this, and I still have a traitor to-” He cut himself off, “Business.”

”It’s none of my concern, as long as you’re aware that I treat anyone who comes under my care equally and fairly.”

The man stared at Candle for an uncomfortable amount of time before exhaling a short breath, “I don’t know you, but I can tell your experienced... if not a little too welcoming. Just look out for a woman by the name of Lauriel and her brother, if they come in here bloody and gagged, don’t help them -- they’ll cut your throat, I swear this.” He shifted his shiv around in his rope belt, “Damned merchants.”

Candle raised an eyebrow. Liam had mentioned at some point in their travels that the merchant who had hired him was named Lauriel. ”And if this merchant already happened to be dead?”

“Then I’ll give Teid a big kiss,” The man spat, “One of her goons came at me this mornin’. Oh yes, tried to fool me with a big speech about being there for the room next door -- but I could see those beady eyes staring at me, oh yes.” The man stood up and swiveled his shoulders, testing his bandage as he continued to mutter, “Remember the name Rat, it won’t be so obscure for too much longer, oh no.”

With his own beady eyes and long, unruly mane, Candle doubted she would be able to forget a rat-like man named Rat. Perhaps he came from some strange convent of his own. ”So what will happen to you if her people realize she’s dead and that the last person to have a spat with them was you?”

The man’s eyes snapped back to Candle, “You said it again!” They narrowed, “Why do you think she is dead?”

Candle shrugged. ”Because I saw a female merchant named Lauriel have her life taken by the Filth.”

Rat stared for a while, slowly backing up to his discarded leather bundle, “Oh yeah?” His voice was suspicious, “So you know Lauriel, eh? And she is dead, yeah? And you’re saying she has goons, no?” He slowly scooped up his bundle, eyes never leaving Candle, “I-- uh, don’t suppose you have her end of the bargain with you?”

A hand casually came to rest itself on Candle’s pommel once more. ”I saw someone die who I later learned was named Lauriel and was informed that she has ‘goons’ by you. As for whatever bargain you may be searching for, unless she was truthful in dealing only with selling construction supplies, of which I have plenty of her tools if you desire them, I doubt I do. The only other person to survive the attack was one of her guards, Liam, and he had plundered much of her cargo. I believe he’s out trying to sell a good amount of her stock right now, if you’d like to catch him.”

Rat was rubbing his chin as Candle spoke, “No...” His voice was quiet, conspiring, “No, no fool would try and sell what I’m looking for in Kendles.” He slowly widened his eyes, and secretly he knew he had misjudged the goon from earlier, but neither his ego nor paranoia would admit that openly. He looked up at Candle and gave his best smile, unfortunately, “What if I were to stay, I’d like to linger around here -- wait for your friend. You helped me, I promise I won’t make a mess or bring any ill into your abode.”

Candle blinked. ”You can stay if you clean your blood up from the floor. The dust will be hard enough to clear as it is.”

“Isolda? Is that ye, girl? What are ye doin’ in me fecking--? Wait, why do ye have a blade...? Wait...wait! No!”

Isolda jolted awake, her pale blue eyes snapping open as she nearly toppled out of the wagon she'd been sleeping in.

Silvery white moonlight drenched the forest clearing, reducing the young Kend’s surroundings to a disturbing blend of foreboding shadows and patches of unearthly radiance, as Isolda frantically looked around, taking in the familiar sight of the two other covered wagons that had defined her world for the last few days and nights. Edgar's Expedition, one of the longest-running, and, if you believed the jovial boasts of its hulking caravan-master, most successful wagon trains in all Pertovia was currently encamped in the middle of a small forest clearing. After the Filth attack earlier in the day, nobody had felt much like pushing on toward Alfwig so the caravan-master made the decision to let everyone rest for the night before resuming their journey at first light.

Now, in stark contrast to how noisy the wagon train was whenever it rambled toward its next destination, the only sounds were the pitiful, grieving whimpers of Helga, who'd lost her husband during the Filthspawn ambush, and the low, gravelly voices of men rolling dice or recounting the day's events.

Pressing her palms against her eyes and trying not to think about the nightmare that had woken her, Isolda realized she'd forgotten her list. The list her da had trained her to go through whenever she found herself in an unfamiliar place. Taking a steadying breath, the dark-haired Kend leaned against the canvas covering of the supply wagon and started at the beginning. Where were her weapons? Moving one of the folds of her dark blue, beautifully-dyed Jornish wool cloak aside, Isolda examined the wide leather belt circling her narrow waist. She could barely see the sweat-stained, leather-wrapped handles of three iron daggers poking up above the belt, each one pressing against the cured leather breastplate she wore over her long-sleeved tunic. Thankfully, Crapper, Tiddles, and Wanker hadn't been stolen while Isolda slept. Smiling like she always did whenever she imagined someone asking her why she'd not only named her daggers but also given them such ridiculous names, the young woman's expression soured as she felt the familiar weight of the knife in her right boot. She hadn't named that one.

After all, that was the blade she'd used to kill her...

Shaking her head and irately swatting a few strands of black hair out of her face, Isolda decided it was high time to move to the next item on her list. Where was she? She leaned out of the back of the wagon and frowned at the familiar, skeletal trees surrounding the clearing. The Bleakwood, a massive forest that dominated central Pertovia, was unique because it was the only place on the island where one could find night oaks. These impossibly tall trees had pitch black bark, which is where their name came from, and always sported silvery-white leaves regardless of what season it was. When the moonlight touched these leaves, they almost seemed to glow. It gave the entire forest an eerie, unsettling aura.

Shuddering and pulling her hooded cloak tightly around her slender frame, Isolda asked her final question aloud, her voice barely audible over the moaning of the wind and the creaking of the night oaks. "Are ye safe?" she muttered under her breath, her eyes darting from one cluster of people to the next. She knew her fellow travelers didn't trust her. Some of these men and women had traveled with Edgar's Expedition dozens of times so they'd formed bonds born of shared misery and conflict. Isolda Foy, or Ingrid Feldspar as she was currently calling herself, was not one of those people. In fact, over the last three years, she'd gone out of her way to avoid interacting with people at all unless it was absolutely necessary.

Of course, everything had changed when she'd found that crown amidst the pale, bone-white marble columns of an abandoned ruin. The crown that was currenly resting at the bottom of her travel-stained leather knapsack.

Truth be told, Isolda didn't know if she was safe or not. After the first day of traveling with the caravan, she'd offered to help Helga and her husband, Osric, carry their belongings. Osric, a red-faced man with all the social graces of a castrated bull, had proceeded to call her a "filthy, sticky-fingered Kend cunt" and told her if she was looking for someone to pickpocket then she could "go fuck a grunt." The remark had stung a bit more than Isolda had expected, especially since she'd been called far worse by people whose opinions she actually cared about. Shifting atop her wooden perch, hoping and failing to relieve some of the numbness spreading through her arse, Isolda's gaze flicked over to the wagon housing the young and infirm. Helga's sobbing, which was coming from said wagon, had continued unabated since Edgar had told her to leave her husband's grave or get left behind. While she was sorry for Helga's loss, Isolda couldn't help but think if Osric hadn't been carrying so much he might have been able to dodge the blow that had snapped his spine like a twig. Hindsight notwisthanding, nobody had spoken to Isolda much after Osric insulted her, most of them glaring as she passed and clutching their valuables, so, when the Filth attacked, she'd decided to focus on shepherding any children she could to the relative safety of the wagons. She'd done her best to distract them with outlandish, entertaining stories while their parents died a few dozen feet away. Maybe it was cruel or cowardly of her, but she didn't owe these people anything.

Why was she doing this?

This question, which definitely wasn't part of her list, ate at Isolda, and she couldn't shake it no matter how hard she tried. If only she had a nice, full wineskin of Jornish red, maybe she could finally enjoy a little peace. Unfortunately, there seemed to be a distinct lack of wine in Edgar's Expedition. Her oilcloth wineskin, which was draped over the linen-wrapped bundle containing the ivory crown, was sadly deflated and empty.

Just like she was.

Wincing at the thought and deciding to try and comfort Helga, Isolda started to clamber out of the wagon bed when she felt a gentle tug on her right pants leg. Mentally kicking herself for allowing her thoughts to wander, the Kend looked down and found herself staring into the brown eyes of Oleander Kemp, one of the younger children traveling with Edgar's Expedition. His father, Johan Kemp, was a woodcarver if she remembered correctly, though the man was also suspiciously skilled with the handaxe he always seemed to have clutched in his meaty hands.

Smiling wanly at the boy, Isolda pushed back the hood of her cloak, revealing her gaunt, sunburnt face, and said, "And a fine eventide ter ye, Ollie. Ye feelin' alright?"

Shuffling nervously from foot to foot, the six-year-old said, "I'm fine, Miss Weldspurs, but I can't sleep cause that lady won't stop crying. Also, Papa said he'd tell me a bedtime story after supper, but he drank that funny-smelling juice he likes so much, called me a little shit, and then fell asleep on the ground over there." Ollie pointed toward the second supply wagon, and, as Isolda craned her neck to look in that direction, there was indeed a man-sized lump dozing on the forest floor. Somebody had apparently decided Johan didn't need his boots anymore, because he was barefoot. Sniffling, Ollie said, "He ate all our food for today, too, Miss Weldspurs. Do you...ummm, do you have a little extra, maybe?"

Isolda's smile faded as she considered the dirty-faced, somber child. She'd meticulously rationed out her meager foodstuffs so she wouldn't have to rely on Edgar and his dubious "meats and breads of the highest quality" to sustain her as the caravan continued its journey. If she gave Ollie so much as a single chunk of hardtack, she'd run out before they reached the village of Kendles. Before they reached her home village.

Licking her lips, Isolda sighed and stretched out her arms, and Ollie, grinning as only a child that's about to be picked up can, allowed her to lift him into the wagon and set him down beside her. "Now, listen, Ollie," she said as the boy looked expectantly at her, "I don't have much, but I think I can spare a little piece o' hardtack, aye? Jest a little piece." Winking at the lad and ruffling his greasy hair, Isolda reached into her knapsack and pulled out a lump of grayish-yellow awfulness. With a bit of effort, she broke it in two and offered the larger chunk to the boy, who was practically drooling. When she saw Ollie was about to take a huge bite of his piece, however, Isolda, moving with surprising deftness considering she'd just woken up, snatched the morsel back and said, "Hold on there, Ollie. Yer liable ter break a tooth that way. Ye pop it inter yer mouth and soften it up fer a bit before tryin' ter bite it, aye? Watch me."

The boy's brown eyes narrowed as he watched Isolda put her small piece of hardtack into her mouth and roll it around in her jaw for a few moments. By the Four, this tasted like shit. Isolda couldn't remember what village she'd passed through or which peddler she'd traded with in order to get her hands on this abomination that dared to call itself "food, but this was awful. Even by the low standards of hardtack.

Isolda carefully broke off a piece of hardtack with her teeth and swallowed before handing Ollie's chunk back to him. "Now ye try it," she said, her words slightly muffled by the foul-tasting mass in her mouth. Eagerly, the boy grabbed the hardtack and crammed it into his mouth, his cheeks bulging as he scooted closer to Isolda. Or "Miss Weldspurs" as he called her since he couldn't properly pronounce Feldspar. He kicked his dangling legs happily and looked out over the silent wagon train.

It was almost peaceful. If you ignored Helga's endless weeping and the guttural cursing of someone losing at dice.

"Miss Weldspurs," Ollie said once he'd swallowed enough of his hardtack to speak, "can you tell me a bedtime story since Papa fell asleep? It doesn't have to be long, like the one you told us when the..." And the boy paused, looking around fearfully for a few moments, before leaning back toward Isolda and whispering, "When the Filth came. It could be a short one. Maybe one with magic in it? Do you know any stories about magic, Miss Weldspurs?"

Isolda slurped at her hardtack for a few moments, buying herself some time as she stared into the middle distance. She just couldn't move past it. Why was she doing this? Why was she going back to a place where she was known as the Red Knife of Kendles? As the Kinslayer? Why was she going back to the village that, in the wake of her father's death nearly half a decade ago, was under the boot of a gang of madmen led by some feckwit named Derick Eight Fingers? Every time Edgar's Expedition had encountered a traveler from Kendles and they'd discussed recent events, Isolda's heart grew heavier and heavier. She had so many questions and so few answers. Even after three fecking years.

The young Kend nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt an urgent tug at her sleeve. Glancing down at Ollie and realizing he'd asked her a question, Isolda smiled shakily and said, swallowing what was left of her hardtack, "Do I know any stories about magic, ye say, Ollie? Now, what kind o' question is that? O' course I do. Jest give me a moment ter think." Furrowing her brow as she tried to bludgeon her sleep-addled brain into action, Isolda’s grin widened and said, a hint of sadness coloring her words, "Well, it's a long one, unfortunately, but we'll jest start at the beginning an’ see how far we get, aye? Sound good?"

Ollie, sounding and looking like the child he was for the first time that night, giggled and, without prompting, snuggled against Isolda's side, popping his thumb into his mouth and staring up at her with barely contained glee.

Isolda wanted to scream. Not because of the admiration in the boy's eyes, but because she didn't deserve it.

Monsters didn't deserve admiration.

Laying a slender arm across the boy's shoulders, Isolda began to speak, her voice low and quiet. "Once upon a time," she said, her lilting Kend accent sounding almost musical, "there was a young Jornishman that left his family an' friends behind. Nobody knew why, but he'd seen somethin' terrible, somethin' that drove him right out o' Jornorston. Sure, he was sad about leavin', but he also knew he couldn't stay. So, he left, an', as the sayin' goes, all roads eventually lead ter Kendles. He found himself stayin' in a crumblin' lean-to on the northern outskirts o' the village."

Resting her free hand flat on the bottom of the wagon and leaning back into a slightly more comfortable position, Isolda said, "Now, this young Jornishman had one goal, Ollie. He wanted ter help people. Somehow. Problem was, he didn't know a damned soul in Kendles an' nobody there knew or trusted him. He was a stranger, an outsider, an’ most o' the Kends thought the Jornishman would be gone the next time the Filth attacked." Isolda paused as she heard Ollie whimper and felt him shudder, and she winced, realizing the boy was still shaken up from what had transpired earlier.

In all honesty, so was she.

Squeezing the lad's shoulder reassuringly, Isolda said, "But the Jornishman wasn't afraid. He wasn't goin' ter give up. Whenever merchants passed through Kendles, he'd offer ter help them load or unload their cargo an' the like. They were suspicious at first, but they soon came ter like an’ trust the dark-haired stranger 'cause o' his kindness an’ wit. He loved ter make 'em laugh, ter remind 'em the world isn't such a terrible place. Whenever someone in Kendles lost a loved one ter the...erhem, well, whenever somebody lost someone, the Jornishman offered ter help in whatever way he could." Smiling down at Ollie, who was staring at her with that unnerving intensity only children have, Isolda said, "That's somethin' ter think about, aye, Ollie? See, the Jornishman wasn't expectin' to get anythin' in exchange fer all his hard work an' help. He was doin' good fer its own sake. Ye understand?" Ollie nodded and grinned, the delight in his eyes breaking Isolda's heart.

Because the story wasn't true.

The Jornishman had, in fact, been trying to catch the eye of as many influential people as he could from the moment he set foot in Kendles. He wasn't just kind and clever. He was ambitious, ruthless, and refused to let anyone stand between him and his goals. Grimacing, Isolda said, "Anyways, after a little time had passed, word o' the Jornishman's good deeds reached the ears o' a powerful...uhhh, a powerful sorceress named Celeste Kalten."

Ollie let out an excited gasp, pulling his thumb out of his mouth, and said, “A sorceress?! Really, Miss Weldspurs?! She could use magic?!”

Isolda nodded slowly and said, “Aye, that she could. She was a mighty sorceress, indeed, Ollie, an' she was the leader o' a powerful family in Kendles. Called themselves the Coterie.”

The boy frowned and said, “The Cot...Cotermummy?” When Isolda shook her head, fighting back the urge to laugh at the serious, almost adult expression on the lad's face, Ollie said, “The Coatseree?”

Chuckling, Isolda said, “Try it like this, Ollie. "Coat," like those frilly things the Wallies wear, aye? Then "err" like ye can’t think o' what ye was goin’ ter say. An’ "ree" at the end. Put it all together an' what do ye get?”

Grinning triumphantly, Ollie said, “Coat-err-ree! The Coterie. I did it, Miss Weldspurs!”

Ruffling the boy's hair and squeezing him tight, Isolda nodded and said, "Aye, ye did, Ollie, but keep yer voice down. Don't want ter wake yer da, do we? Speakin' o' which, let's get back ter the story so ye can get to bed, aye? Ye need to be well-rested fer when we reach Alfwig." Nodding solemnly, Ollie fell silent and Isolda said, "Right, so the sorceress invited the Jornishman ter join her family, because, jest like him, she wanted ter help people. She wanted ter make Kendles a better place. Celeste did her best to teach the Jornishman everything she knew." The young Kend paused, pursing her lips and trying to think of how to phrase this next part. The part where, in reality, the Jornishman likely poisoned Celeste so he could take control of the Coterie and pinned the murder on four innocent men. Four innocent men that disagreed with their elders' decision to allow an outsider to assume command of Kendles' most powerful gang at the time.

Why was she doing this?

Pushing the vexing question aside, Isolda said, her words coming slowly at first but gradually picking up speed, "But, ye see, Ollie, there were people in Kendles that didn't like what the Coterie, Celeste, an' the Jornishman were doin'. They wanted ter rule Kendles fer their own selfish reasons. They wanted ter use an' abuse the people in the name o’ greed, gold, an' glory. So, these men ahhh...well, they called out fer someone, anyone ter help them. An' four evil monsters answered their call. The men told these devils how ter reach the sorceress an' how they might get rid of her."

Isolda felt Ollie tensing beside her and started to slowly, almost mindlessly, run her hand up and down his arm. By the Four, she was too tired for this, but she could hear the boy's breathing slowing down. He'd be asleep soon enough. "It's jest a story, Ollie. No need ter be afraid. The devils, followin' the orders o’ their masters, put somethin' nasty in Celeste's wine one night, something so subtle an' vile even her magicks couldn't detect it. She drank her fill an’...well, she fell into a deep slumber that nobody could wake her from."

“What did the Coaternanny and the Jornishman do, Miss Weldspurs?” Ollie asked drowsily as he snuggled his head into Isolda’s side.

“Well,” Isolda said, her mouth feeling strangely dry, “the Jornishman decided he wasn’t goin’ ter wait fer the Coterie ter act. He spent the next seven days an' seven nights tracking the devils. And when he found them he said, “Monsters! Ye’ve placed my teacher an' dear friend, Celeste Kalten, under a foul sleepin' spell. I demand ye restore her.” Ollie let out a thrilled squeak, and Isolda winced. So much for wearing the lad out.

“Did the Jornishman have a magical sword or a dagger from the sorceress to help him fight the devils, Miss Weldspurs? Did it have magical fire around it?!” Oleander asked eagerly, all signs of tiredness momentarily vanishing from his round, dirty face.

“Oi, who’s tellin’ the story here, yerself or me?” Isolda asked and Ollie giggled before pointing at her and leaning up against her once more. “As a matter o’ fact, the Jornishman’s razor-sharp dagger did indeed glow with bright green fire when he unsheathed it. See, he wasn’t scared, Ollie, though these devils were more dangerous than any Filthspawn. Because these devils looked like men.” Blowing a wayward strand of hair out of her eyes, Isolda said, “The devils said they wouldn’t undo the spell so the Jornishman attacked with all the strength an' fury of a wolf or so the bards say. An', in the end, when the dust settled, the devils were gone but so was the Jornishman’s chance at wakin' up Celeste. But he swore that he would lead the Coterie in her name an' never forget her. Or her hopes fer Kendles an' its people.”

“What happened next, Miss Weldspurs?” Ollie asked, his words slurred with sleep and Isolda gently laid the boy down on the wagon’s floor.

The dark-haired woman brushed a strand of curly brown hair out of the lad’s face and said, “The Jornishman became known as the Wolf, an' he led the Coterie fer many, many years. He’d even meet a beautiful woman from a foreign land an’ fall in love, but that, little one, is a story fer another time.”

As Isolda started to stand, however, Ollie asked her, "Wait, Miss Weldspurs...what was the Jornishman's name?"

The young Kend felt sick to her stomach. Pulling up the hood of her cloak and not turning back to look at Ollie, she said, "Waldemar "The Wolf" Foy."

When the boy didn't respond or say anything else, Isolda looked over her shoulder at him. Oleander was dozing peacefully in the wagon bed, his thumb jammed in his mouth. Deciding she needed to get away from the caravan for a few moments, her pale, slender hands trembling beneath her black-dyed calfskin gloves, the Kend walked past a few clumps of people huddled together for warmth. Edgar had decided, in light of the Filth ambush, there would be no fire until they reached Alfwig so the caravan's passengers had to make do. Hounded by the sounds of Helga's weeping, Isolda continued walking until she reached the outskirts of the encampment, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

Why was she doing this?

“Fecking shite,” she snarled quietly, her mind racing. This wasn’t right. She wasn’t right. She needed to leave. She’d heard of people surviving in the Bleakwood for years. Although, most of those stories ended with "And then the Filth destroyed them." By the Four, the One-Eyes, or rather those members that had escaped her da's conquest of their gang, once had a small hideout not far from Alfwig. Before the Friends of Foy had destroyed it. If she could find whatever was left of the place, she’d have a defensible home and could leave this crown business behind. She could forget about going home and trying to make amends, trying to reclaim her birthright. Trying to make Kendles into something more than just a shitty village people passed through on their way to anywhere else. Adjusting her hood as she kept moving, Isolda saw a tall, gangly figure leaning against one of the night oaks nearby. His back was to her, but that silhouette was unmistakable. What had Edgar and the other mercenaries called him? Smiles?

Honestly, talking to anyone that wasn’t an impressionable child would be better than this constant barrage of questions and self-doubt.

Clearing her throat to avoid startling the sellsword, Isolda walked up beside him, his lanky body towering over her, and said, “Oi, how goes the watch, Smiles?” Isolda started to grin, but her smile stopped, half-formed, and an expression of confusion spread across her sunburnt features. Was this bastard asleep on watch? His eyes looked like they were closed. Tentatively, the young Kend reached out and poked the man with one finger, her other hand instinctively resting on Crapper's hilt.

You could never be too careful.

After a few hours of walking through the forest that smothered most of Pertovia Keira begin to see glimpses of gold in the distance and knew she was close to her new home. The last time she’d made the trip from her old home to Illistair it had been a grueling 3 day expedition with her old man to reach a place where he’d be safe from the filth. Yet as she reached the treeline she saw that the safety she thought she had found him had lasted less than a month.

The fields of various cereals and legumes that surrounded the town had great wounds carved through them filled with the wretched puss of the filth, a trail of destruction that led to the most harrowing sigh: the breach in Illistair’s walls. She’d seen the aftermath of an assault of Kendles before and even if those were often far more destructive this was far more impactful. The wretched town was made of buildings that always seems like it was going to fall apart at any moment, which made seeing them raised to the ground was a confirmation of expectation, something anticipated that had finally come to pass.

The damage done to Illistair, though minor in comparison, was nonetheless far more impactful. An ancient monument of defiance brought low by the filth and yet she saw it had not been truly defeated. When she tore her eyes away from the overall scene she could see that humanity had not fled into the wilds in response, but where instead hard at work trying to prepare for the next blow that would surely come all to soon.

The fields were empty, with every capable citizen of Illistair hauling stone debris over to makeshift stations where giant wooden tubs of mortar were being stirred. Wooden levers and ingenious contraptions of rope and lumber aided the many working people in their laborious task, knowing damn well how little time they had. As if betting on their failure to close the gap by dusk, a good plenty others were set to work on creating a wooden palisade in front of the workshop, a good bunch of siege engines waiting behind the whole ordeal.

Keira sight in relief at the sight of the tenacious Illistairans working to rebuild their home. They might not be the friendliest bunch, but she relied upon them to keep her grandfather, Greum, safe while she was away, and in that they had done well so far. She bit her lip as she tried to work out if they could ever manage to make it to Jornorston in one piece if the wall was not enough to hold of the filth. She was unsure if Greum would be able to make the trip. If he was even still alive, added a niggling doubt at the back of her mind.

Keira shook her head to dislodge the thought and then set off at a jog through the empty fields towards the town.

---

Jarren had found a cloak of sorts -- one that was clearly once several shirts and maybe even pants, but a cloak nonetheless. Mindful of the bindings, he sandwiched the book he had found between his chest and the cloak, one arm wrapped across underneath the fabric, and the hood pulled up and over his head. Anywhere else, this would likely have caused more suspicion than it deflected, but in Illistair -- it was not exactly uncommon to try and sneak around the cramped town without bumping into the very same people you were retreating from in the first place. Where safety was a currency in Kendles, privacy was the scarce resource of Illistair.

He quickened his pace as he attempted to gain enough momentum to slip through the bumbling crowd all around him. Squished between two rows of close pueblo style huts and houses that seemed to stack haphazardly on one another, the foot traffic of Illistair was thick and possibly deadly to a foriegn child.

The rank musk of the crowd caused Jarren’s nose to scrunch, reminding him to see to a bath himself -- or at the very least a rub of the mint plants and a scrape with a stick: a treatment jokingly called the rich Kend. He tightened his grip on the book, several Illistairian children weaving by him and dipping under a tall man’s legs.

With the crowd in his way, the rest of the walk was slow and uneventful. This added to his prayers of thanks when he finally managed to squeeze out of the slow shamble and nearly bump right into a sturdy wooden door. He held a fist up to the door, his mind abuzz with what he was going to say. Of course he had met Greum once or twice in passing, who hasn’t in this quarter, he was old and strange -- Illistarians love old and strange. He rolled an eye in counter-thought, at least until they become too old and strange, then they are deemed a burden or even a threat to the peace. Jarren shook his head, but at least he knew Greum would keep this quiet.

He pulled back a hand, cocked and ready to knock when he froze again; if he does this, there is a very little chance he can turn back and just go back to his old life. He scrunched his nose again and dropped his brow, why was he even doing this -- he was a survivor, not one to just throw--

Without warning the door swung open before him, revealing the old man he had come to see. He was in the midst of conversation with someone else inside the room, his head turned to speak with them instead of him “...Like I said, Illistair has seen darker hours.” before noticing Jarren standing outside. “Oh! You startled me dear boy. Give me a moment and I will be right with you.” he said.

A middle aged woman, the one he had been opening the door to allow them to leave, hurried between the two men, quietly bidding Jarren hello and Greum goodbye as she passed them by and then disappeared into the crowded streets beyond.

Jarren watched her leave before looking back at Greum, his large brown eyes flickering over the man as if still deciding on his decision. He exhaled slowly, his chest already tightening with regret, “I have something to show you.”

“You do do you? Well then by all means do come in.” Greum said, stepping aside to let Jarren inside. “I think we’ve met” the old man add as Jarren stepped inside “But I don’t think I’ve caught your name?”

"Jarren," He said as he stepped into the plaster pueblo hovel and scanned the one room abode. The old man’s home was at the cheap end of the scale of Illistan housing, a single room apartment that had everything he owned crammed inside it. Two beds sat at either end of the room, one having seen far more use than the other. At its center was a small crude wooden dining table, which had an inkwell and two books, one a half finished copy of the other, stat upon it currently. Two chairs were set by it, one of which the old man took after closing the door while he offered the other. A pail of water, running noticeably low, and a small crate with a half eaten loaf and some salted meat sat atop it was the only sign of food in the room. The centerpiece of the home was a set of shelves with a number of books and several ancient artifacts tastefully arrayed across it. The collection must have been worth a small fortune, putting it at odds with the rest of the home, but the noticeable gaps on the shelf explained the discrepancy.

"But people have the idea that I'm someone else -- which is actually why I'm here." Jarren said after scanning the room. Greum raised an eyebrow in response before scratching his chin thoughtfully. “Have you accrued another man’s troubles or his prestige?” he asked.

"I think we are about to find out," Jarren said, not taking his eyes off the shelves. He clutched his prize close for a moment, still hesitant, "Where -- where did you get all those books?"

“Hmm. Copies, most of them, or books I have been commissioned to make copies off, but i did also write a few of them myself.” he explained, sliding the half finished replica on the table over for him to see.

Jarren craned his neck to look it over, no less illiterate than before. He nodded with a fake understanding as he slowly sat into his seat, "It looks... Pretty?"

“Thank you.” the old man responded, smiling softly “I might be getting on in years but fortunately my hands are still steady enough for this kind of work.” he slid the book back over to its original. “Now then, what was the inherited item you wished to show me?”

"Oh- a book," Jarren finally pulled the book he had hidden from his cloak, shaking his hood down at the same time. With a ginger touch, he carefully placed it on the table. He pulled away from the object as if it would erupt into flames and stared back at Greum, waiting.

“I see” the man responded non commitaly, before reaching over and picking up the book. First he simply examined the outside, before cracking it open. “I’ll see if I can get the gist of what this is about as quickly as I can before we work out if you want me to read the whole thing or not” he said as peered at the book.
It has opened to the slip of cloth, same as it did for Jarren. Jarren flicked his eyes from the cloth and back up to Greum expectantly, his fingers curling into the palm of his other hand anxiously. He cleared his throat, “That was in there when I found it.”

“Interesting” the old man responded, old fingers peeling away the cloth. His eyes widened at the treasure inside, the old browned parchment staring up at him. Across its surface was an old out of date script that caused Greum to pause.

“What is it?” Jarren asked hopefully, leaning forward over the table -- as if his eyes would be any better.

“This parchment is truly ancient. No one has used Aethelian scripture in over three hundred years!” he explained as his eyes continued running over the page.

“Wait,” Jarren hunched on the table, “Aethelian? Like the time of Aethel?”

“Exactly that. This appears to be a piece of a ledger, or roster, of some sort.”

“You can read that?” At this point Jarren had scooched his chair next to Greum, turning his head every which way in an attempt to unlock the secrets of the strange letters.

“Not perfectly, or even quickly. But I think I am getting the picture.” Greum said before humming and ha-ing his way through the text. “It seems to list Aethel’s holdings,” he finally explained excitedly “these include both Illistair and, fascinatingly, the Castle of Hope.” there was an expectant pause.

Jarren looked at the old man, his tanned face gone pale and his brown eyes all the wider, “Castle Hope!? It exists?” He looked down at the paper, his gut telling him it’s clearly a fake, a silly hoax -- but who would go through the trouble in a time like this; who could?

“If this parchment is legitimate then… well....” the old man seemed at a loss for words for a few moments before coming to his senses. ”Let’s take a look at the book before we get ahead of ourselves.” The old man continued to scan the ledger for several more moments before delicately storing the parchment back in its cloth protector, Jarren’s eyes following it the whole way.

After carefully, reverently, placing the parchment to one side Greum cracked open the book it had been in. “It’s a journal.” he explained quickly before reading more, adding “Ratcher’s journal to be exact.”

“It seems he and his sister where heroes.” Greum said

"He has a sister?" Jarren echoed, guilt worming into is stomach.

“So it seems.” the old man looked over the top of the book at Jarren for several pointed moments “She’s called Lauriel.” he said, before returning to his reading.

After several quiet moments he suddenly exclaimed, “They found this in an old ruined library! Then… my goodness, then the parchment might well be real and not some phony replica.”

Jarren shifted in his seat, split between guilt over the sudden humanization of his alter ego, and the tentative excitement of legends becoming real, "So does..." He spoke carefully, "I mean if it is real... Then the armory of Aethel...?"

“Quite possibly. Here,” the old man usually presented the book to Jarren and pointed to some illegible squiggles “there is even mention of them finding a sword, shield and helmet in those very ruins that the parchment was found in. Perhaps those came from that very armory.”

Jarren clenched and unclenched his sword hand, "Ratcher's blade..." He furrowed his brow, jumping his chair closer, the excitement drowning his guilt, "What else does it say?"

“Hmm well lets see here” Greum continued to scan through the pages, then scanned what he had read for a second time before saying “Lauriel has arranged a meeting with someone in Kendles who is in possession of an ancient map. They think they can use that map and the ledger to locate the ancient castle Hope!”

"This is all too..." Jarren fell back into his seat as reality dawned on him, a mix of emotions on his face, "Oh Teid..." He put a hand on his face, "This all can't be real."

“Those who call themselves heroes as Ratchet does in this book tend to exaggerate quite a bit.... But it’s also a private journal, and we have one piece of the solution right here with us…” Greum drummed his fingers on the table while thoughtfully staring at the final page of the journal with anything on it. On it was the drawing of the crowned woman. The old man blinked a few times in surprise upon reading the notes below it. “This is supposedly a sketch of a statue of Aethel that Ratcher made… which must be wrong.”

"Aethel is a king, a man," Jarren said idly, almost feeling wrong sitting next to the confused scholar, "Right?"

“That is strange isn't it. I’d love to ask him why he thought that the statue was one of Aethel… but I suppose that brings us to the Giant in the room. Tell me, what happened to Ratcher? Or is that something I am best of not knowing?” he asked carefully.

“He’s dead,” Jarren said with a puff of breath, “He rushed into the siege and got himself killed.”

Greum sighed. “Such is the fate of heroes.” he said solemnly. “Eventually they bite off more than they can chew.” There where a few moments of silence before the old man spoke again “and considering you have this now, and what you said earlier, I assume people think you are him?”

"I tried to tell them," Jarren defended himself, "But they insisted... The people want heroes."

“People want hope, because it makes life about more than simply surviving. Without it, places like Illistair wouldn’t exist. Some people raise others or themselves up as champions. Me? I look for it in the past and considering what you’ve brought me today. Well...” Greum too a long look at the piece of cloth containing the ledger “the question remains. What are you going to do with it?”

"Not much to do with it," Jarren said after a pregnant pause, "I'm not a hero like Ratcher was, and I'm already far too coiled into his mess..." Jarren stopped as his stomach twisted with guilt, "It's unfort- sad... It's sad he died, it is -- but that doesn't mean I have to change my life -- or complete his ambitions. I mean sure, it would be extraordinary to find the armory or even do all these fancy fables of hope and heroism but really," Jarren forced a laugh then frowned at Greum's serious face and the two shared an awkward silence.

Jarren sighed, "There is one thing I can do..." He surrendered, his guilt finally conquering him, "I can at least bring the news and book to his sister... It's the least I could do-- Ratcher did save me... And I did take his identity." Jarren put a hand on the back of his neck and looked about in thought, "Yeah it's the least. She'll have far more use for it than me, anyways."

The old man smiled kindly “I can understand your reluctance, I’ve met enough of them in my time to know Heroes often have these responsibilities hoisted upon them by the gods. Luckily you have a place to hand them off too. Have you ever been to Kendles?”

“Twice,” Jarren admitted, “I never thought I’d ever go back, but I’d rather toss this from my conscious and be done with it.”

“Then you’ll know it’s not a place to tread lightly. I’ve never been personally, but I’ve heard stories from guests and my grand-daughter.” Greum scratched his chin thoughtfully “Would you mind delaying for just a bit. I’d like to make a copy of the ledger for safety's sake. Be a shame if some low life stole it before you could find Lauriel.”

“Yeah, I suppose that would be smart,” Jarren nodded, “Feel free to copy whatever you want, it’s not mine anyways.”

“Excellent” Greum responded, before acquiring fresh parchment and carefully unwrapping the document once more. “Please help yourself to some lunch while you wait.” he added as he set to work.

Jarren turned to the hard bread on the crate and frowned, “You don’t mean that lunch, do you?”

“That or something in it if you like, thought is more of the same. I’m afraid we’re running a little low until Keira gets back from her latest expedition.” he said over the scratching sound of slow careful writing.

“Kiera?”

---

The girl in question wove her way through the streets of Illistair, her hat firmly held down on her head as she traversed the crowd. She finally broke into the street her and Greum were staying. It felt like the journey from the forest to her home had taken far longer than the travel in the forest itself. The journey had been made worse by the nagging worry in the back of her mind, but as she approached the hut she could faintly hear her grandfather chatting away. Letting out a breath she didn't remember holding in she rapped a knuckle against the door and then let herself inside a few heartbeats later.

Inside she found her grandpa, who had stood up from where he had been working on writing something to come get the door. Relife and joy lit up his face when he saw her.

“Keira! Welcome home.” her grandfather said as he came up and embraced her tightly. She did the same, happy to confirm that he was entirely unharmed, until she noticed the guest in the room, at which point she lightened the embrace to an awkward pat on the back, Jarren giving the two a weak smile.

She was released a few moments later and the man introduced her and their guest to one another.

“Jarren, this is Keira who I was just telling you about. Keira, this is Jarren who has just come across the most remarkable discovery. A three hundred year old record proving that lost castle of hope is more than a legend!”

“The one with the ledgenery armory?” She glanced over at the parchment and recognised the Aethelian lettering even if she was more or less incapable of reading it. “Its real?” she said, both amazed and intrigued.

“Quite possibly.”

“Not that we will ever know,” Jarren added defensively, “This doesn’t belong to any of us.”

“What do you mean?” She asked, not entirely sure what to make of the stranger’s comment.

“It belongs to a woman in Kendles -- I’ll be returning it,” Jarren gave a nod, “And that’s about it.”

“Oh. right.” the armory of hope. It wasn’t an opportunity she could pass up. Glancing at her grandfather she knew he felt the same way. Mainly because he was minutely jerking his head towards the man to encourage her to ask “Can I come with you to meet her?”

Jarren’s eyes widened, “What for?”

Keira leened as nonchalauntly on the table as she could “Well looking through old ruins for artifacts is basically my job at this point. So maybe this woman’s looking for scavengers to help dig up this castle. Could be a good pay day” she said cooly, before totally losing said cool and adding “Also it’s The Castle of Hope! Calling it merely legendary would be a colossal understatement. There's no way you can dangle something like that under our noses and not expect a bite.”

“Hey,” Jarren held up two palms, “It’s none of my business, I just want to give the stuff to the lady and be done with it. Whatever you do, is your decision and I’m just saying it right now, I had no part in it... none!”

She gave him a slightly bemused look before assuring that “Yeah that’s fine. Your onboard with this right gramps?”

“If I were 30 years younger…” The old man mused before adding more sternly “Just be careful not to get in over your head.”

“I can handle myself out there, don’t you worry,” she assured him while still looking like she’d fought a tree that very same morning.

“So when are you leaving for Kendles?” she asked Jarren.

Jarren sucked in a long breath, “I’d say as soon as possible.”

---

---

While Rat had kept his word of not bringing any immediate ills to the church save for his presence, he failed in making more of a mess inside the ruin, as inexplicable as that may have seemed to Candle initially. She also had a feeling that whenever he would come back, the first promise would be broken as well if the brief snippet she had into his person was of any indication.

Still, the blood was cleaned as ordered, only for Rat to leave on some errand or another. He had been gone for nearly an hour by Candle’s own reading of the sun, but it at least let her finally make some headway on the dust that plagued her new home.

A wet munch sounded from the doorless entryway, and in it stood rat. His leather bundle was tucked under his arm, a sack held in that same arm’s hand. In his other, a strange fuzzy fruit was held to his mouth. It dripped sweetly and held a golden flesh covered in a rine the color of dawn -- it was a peach. Rat’s small, bright eyes seemed intent on Candle as he chewed, his lips curling into a smile.

Candle stared at the fuzzy orb he held in his hands, her eyes unconsciously tracking the juices that ran from it and his mouth. Her mouth opened, both to ask where he had managed to find such a thing and to hopefully sink her own teeth into its flesh despite the great distance between them. Saliva started to pool in her mouth. Realizing what he was trying to do and attempting to curb her own desires, Candle snapped her mouth shut and forcibly turned her gaze towards the broom in her hand and the dust on the floor, staring so intently as if the dust would burn and clean the rest of the chapel for her while it was at it.

Her curiosity could not be sated, however, and she had to at least know where he had attained such a delicacy. ”I hope whatever you were up to, you didn’t bring any trouble back here.”

“Only if you call this trouble,” Rat said before taking another large bite of the fruit, his other hand swinging the sack to and fro as if making a suggestion. He gulped and closed his eyes, clearly enjoying his meal, “You ever have a peach?”

She hadn’t. The only fruit she was ever regularly exposed to were the wildberries that grew all over Pertovia; small, sour little things that only ever so rarely had one perfect jewel among a field of many that were soft, succulent, and often savored and reminisced about all too quickly. Apples and their ilk less so, but common enough among markets and regular rations. Their tartness never seemed to agree with her, however, much less the texture they often had if not picked and eaten in the same week. She had seen peaches only a handful of times before and touched one only one. She could only imagine what they would taste like, and so silence and a hungering look at Rat’s bag were her only answers.

“How about a different question,” Rat flicked the bare pit of his fruit out of the chapel and reached into the sack for another. He slowly pulled out a plump yellow-orange peach, tinged with a deep red that promised a sweetness not often found in Pertovia. He rubbed a thumb over the fuzz and appraised it, “Are there blacksmiths where you are from?” His eyes changing as quickly as the topic, darting to where she had placed her dagger.

Eyes colored with longing watched the pit fall outside of the chapel. ”Aye,” she replied, attempting to tear away her eyes from the bag now that she knew it contained a veritable sack of riches. ”My convent used to have a small number of Brothers and Sisters dedicated to crafting the tools we needed to carry out Parrel’s will. Most of the time the lay people that followed us would have a blacksmith among their number, and they would handle the more common mundanities.”

Rat listened with an understanding nod, keeping the peach near his face without taking a bite. Finally he held it away from himself and cleared his throat, “That’s mighty convenient... barring the limit of resources... I’d say you almost have an endless, er...” He thumped his head with the back of his hand as he figured out the word, “faucet... able to acquire new metal goods when you need them. I say coincidence because I myself have a similar arrangement where I can get these little fruits whenever I damn well please.” He made an almost surprised face, “So naturally, I’d say we are in a unique position where I just give you some!” He laughed, “It’s not the Kend way, I know, but it’s the least I can do since you’re offering your dagger for the whole sack anyways.”

Visible pain flashed across Candle’s face before she recomposed herself. ”Unlike your… produce… our tools cannot be given away so freely. And I have never offered you my dagger. Each tool is made specifically for a certain member of our parish and we are often involved in its own making. They are our vital instruments, just as we are Parrel’s. In any case, I have seen many winters since the last time I was in contact with my convent, and they have likely moved somewhere new. I came to Kendles to offer my own services, and what I can do does not extend to blacksmithing,” she explained, her eyes suddenly darting to her pack that still lay in the lean-to sat against the sanctuary wall and, inadvertently, to the room where the crown was hidden.

“Oh no, I understand, oh yes,” Rat’s salesman like tone seemed to finally drop, “It’s just that this sack of peaches weights much more than you dagger as it is, it’s not like I was buying your sword... it is rare to find a stable source of metal in this town, you know.” He finally bit into the peach, it bursting with juice. He smiled and chewed quickly, swallowing with a gulp, “Not to say there is a stable source of anything -- like food.”

Candle pursed her lips, then finally looked down and away. ”Parrel guides those who have the will to first guide themselves,” she recited. ”If you wish to deal with my convent, you are more than welcome to search for them yourself. Besides,” she started to counter, staring directly where the nail formerly lay embedded inside him, then at Rat’s face. ”I’ve still yet to ask for payment of services rendered.”

“And that’s why I like you,” Rat sneered, “In Kendles, me asking for a trade rather than swiping right from you is respect enough, you know.” He laughed once, “Oh yes, fuckin’ Kendles... I bet you couldn’t tell, but...” He looked over his shoulder then back at Candle, “I can be a wee... cautious -- but you... I can smell your niavity; could fuckin’ cut it with a knife. This is the most relaxed I’ve ever been, and that doesn’t bode well for you -- can’t be relaxing people around here.”

Annoyance. Aggravation. Righteous purpose. All of it and more began to bleed into Candle’s speech. ”And it is for that exact reason that I have decided to establish a new church. If I was like you, would we be having this conversation I wonder? Or would you still be wandering around this Filth-ridden town, bleeding a trail for whoever harmed you to follow?”

Rat squinted his eyes in an almost patronizing way and smiled, “Sure, yes, you can play the same hand in the same game twice -- but what I’m telling you is none the less true. You’re out of your element here. You can’t just skip on in fuckin’ full of piss and holy cree’ and expect everyone you meet to suddenly go-” He tucked his hand under his chin and put on a wondering face, “Oh shit and Oorick’s nips, I never saw it that fuckin’ way ‘fore.” He bit into his peach aggressively and quickly chewed and swallowed, “Ye think you’re the first?” He jutted his chin at the wall next to him, “I knew the last fucker who holed up here, you know.”

”Why do you think I chose this ruin in the first place?!” Her voice began to rise, fluctuating in tone as she attempted to keep calm. This was not the first Candle had heard these remarks, it would not be the last, but it still stung to hear nonetheless.

“I bet to fuckin’ the sky and back it wasn’t because you heard about this-” Rat dropped his leather bundle and the sack of peaches, his voice a squeel of anger as he tossed the peach lazily in the air. With impressive speed he ripped his metal shank out of his pants and zipped it through the air. With a wet slunk the knife caught the peach and sent it into a wooden beam, pinning it.

“--Cuz that’s about where Derick put the head of the last one.” He spat, the peach sliding off its mark and hitting the floor with a splat as if to punctuate.

She knew about the gangs. About the turf wars, the sudden rise to power of the Filth eaters. Not an insignificant number of her patients who came under her care were victims of his ascension. Liam and a countless score of others had warned her about the inherent dangers and most of all, the stupidity in chasing her lofty goal. She still didn’t care. ”And what were you hoping to have me do by trying to scare me? Have me leave? Run? Enter under your ‘care and protection’?” Her throat became tight, her lips a thin line as she tried to keep tight control of herself.

“Bah,” Rat snarled, but his snarl was half hearted as he walked over to his shank. With a tug he yanked it from the wood, his eyes not meeting Candles, “I’ve already said my peace -- you’re a fuckin’ idiot, and I wouldn’t have said any of this if I didn’t think your life was worth keeping around.” He turned to her, “Don’t ask me why, but a kid like you should at least try to be a little fuckin’ smarter.”

Of all his words, it was his look that infuriated her the most, like she was something to be pitied. Her eyes burned itself onto his face, daring him to meet her challenge. In response, however, she only had one thing to say. ”Should you ever require my services, my church and my skills will always be open to you and to any others that might come seeking refuge under my roof.”

“And for that, I’ll make sure to urinate away from your grave,” Rat kept his stare, his eyes narrowing with pride the longer Candle looked, “But I’m afraid I still need to stick around a wee longer.” He slid his shank into his pants and walked over to his discarded bag and bundle.

With nothing left to be said, a heavy silence descended between them, awkward and long. It took a while for Candle to regain her composure, but her mantras and prayers served her well in doing so, as they always had. She resumed what she had been doing before Rat had waltzed in and continued sweeping the floor, trying to ignore the fact that presently, there was a distinct lack of a roof above her in the first place.

At some point another pair of footsteps began to plop merrily closer to the church. ”Ho there!” A familiar voice sounded, the rich tenor belonging to Candle’s most recent traveling companion. ”Still ‘live and in one piece girlie? Haven’t had yourself shanked now have you?” Laughter sounded off in response to a joke seemingly only Liam understood as he walked inside.

“Teid’s tits,” Rat remarked, “I suppose now I understand where all your fuckin’ anger is coming from.” His hand was on his shank and eyes on Liam.

”Ho!” Liam greeted warmly as his eyes fell upon Rat, a stark contrast to the gruff persona Candle received on their first meeting. Still, his eyes remained sharp as his still-functioning hand rested easily on the pommel of his mace. ”I didn’t speak too early did I girl? This gutter rat hasn’t done anything a lady wouldn’t ‘ppreciate now did he?”

“Wait just a hole shittin’ minute,” Rat closed his eyes and tilted his head, his shank slowly coming out of its resting spot, “Did you just fuckin’ call me a gutter rat?” He opened his bright eyes and stared daggers at Liam.

”The only stabbing and bashing to be done will be by my own hands and no one else’s in this holy house,” Candle warned, turning her face pointedly to the two others, to which Liam raised his hand and lowered his face in mock apology. ”Rat, this is Liam, the dead merchant’s guard.”

”So you are a rat!”

“Not a rat; just Rat,” The thief hissed, “If you have trouble with the accent, I can do some quick work on your tongue so it better fits your swollen head, free of charge.” He sucked in a breath and stood in front of his bundle, his eyes flickering with thought, “So you knew Lauriel?”

”Rat, Wolf, Fox,” Liam laughed. ”Get a few more characters and you can start your own weird little farm! As for Lauriel,” he paused, his wide smile turning into a cold and practiced grin as he sized up the lanky rat-man before him. ”I knew her as much as a guard hired by her could be. I am sorry to say however that it seems my skills were not up to par,” he said with an indifferent shrug. ”However, --

“Holy Teid!” Rat interjected, “The next Kendles has already been torn down and built -- just fuckin’ answer yes or no to the simple ones. Listen half-pint,” He pointed at the clearly taller man, “Do you have Lauriel’s package or not.”

Liam’s stanced shifted ever so slightly, danger and caution sewn into his aura. The same, cold grin remained on his face. ”And what package would that be?”

Rat squeezed his eyes shut and looked to the open sky as if praying. He mouthed a silent word and cracked a smile as he turned back to Liam, “Of fuckin’ course you don’t have it. I shoulda known any shit for brains merc like you would go for the shiny bits and baubles first -- probably tossed them away for a stroke -- possible a choke if that’s what you’re into-- but no. Fuck!” He swore loudly, “You bloated sword pushers always miss the important bits.” He turned away and swore again, “This ain’t some sort of fuckin’ thing you’d ask about, you’d know if you fuckin’ had it and I can tell by the way your pants aren’t pissed right now that you don’t fuckin’ have it.”

And just like that, Liam’s posture relaxed, a bit more personality injecting itself back into his expression. ”What can I say,” he apologetically shrugged, ”I was only hired to do a single job. But it was dear Lauriel’s poor, dying wish to resolve whatever worldly affairs she had left unfinished here in Kendles, and who am I to deny a dying woman’s will? So, perhaps I can help you find this package.”

What Candle remembered of the merchant’s last moments were ones of pleading and gore, but she decided to remain silent on this point.

“Oh yeah?” Rat fluttered his eyelashes. “You’re a real fuckin saint,” He scowled, “And who am I to deny a saint -- you can start by telling me how far away from here she fuckin’ croaked.”

”Two days walk north of here,” Candle offered, showing she was still making sure that no bloodshed would happen in her new home.

”Right, right, bit off the road. Poor girl here wouldn’t rest until she gave Lauriel and the others a proper burial despite guttin’ a score of grunts that day! I’m sure she’s too busy here fixin’ up this place and whatnot, so if you’d like I could lead you there, maybe see if there are still any good bits left that haven’t been taken.”

“You know,” Rat wagged a finger thoughtfully as he scooped up his bundle and bag in one arm, “I think you may be a very smart man, oh yeah.” He tapped his head, “You head on out, and I’ll meet you there you fuckin’ halfwit.” His voice dropped, “What kind of bastard of Oorick do you take me for, I oughta...” His voice trailed into a snarl, cutting off the threat as he eyed Candle.

Liam laughed. ”No need for the harsh words, Rat. I know how you Kendies are, all paranoid and the like, but I’m an Illistair man, bred and born! Ain’t got a single bad bone in my body, though if I do make it out there first, who’s to say I won’t accidentally take your package? After all, I’ve no idear what it is, but I do live by a very firm code of ‘finder’s keepers’.” His face turned solemn as if uttering an oath before cracking back into his amused face. ”And since you’ve no idear where it is, it’d be better if we went together, right?”

“Oh, I get it,” Rat nodded his head, “You see a Kendie.” He shook his head, “Oh no, I understand, I do.. Before you, you see a short man, kinda lanky... long hair -- name’s Rat. What a fool, yeah? He is from Kendles to boot-- but do you know how old I am?” Rat gave a funny look, “Thirty-nine. I am Thirty-nine years old, mint is on my breath, my teeth are white and I have peaches in this here bag.” He jumbled the bag, “Oh but you know Kendies, so you already knew that -- so you probably know how I did it as well.” Rat looked at the man with a stone cold stare, “By gutting cocky shits like you and turning them into sausage before their mother could even think about farting out another disappointment--”

”Enough!” Candle threw up her hands in exasperation. ”You two could threaten to gut each other all day and never be done with it. What if I went with the both of you and make sure you both don’t kill each other on the way there or back, aye? And if either of you try anything, I will cut whoever it is where they stand, then drag them back here and fix them up again. Does that sound fair?”

“I’m not stepping a foot with this sorry mound of puss until he learns some fuckin’ manners,” Rat spat, “I appreciate all you do, I really do, but even my boundless appreciation has trouble keeping me from opening Wallie fool’s throats while they sleep.”

”Fine! Then how about only I go with you, while Liam stays here and tells me whatever bobs and bits he wants me to plunder from whatever items may yet remain. Agreeable now, yes?”

A smug look overturned Rat’s snarl as he gave a bemused look towards Liam, “I think that’s quite the deal. How ‘bout a peach to keep it in stone?”

”You try to bribe me anymore than you have and I will gut you and eat all those peaches myself.”

At that, Liam broke his silence with laughter once more, this time turning it into a full, gut-bending roar. ”Well, what can I say to that but aye? Fine girl, have it your way, but don’t expect me to find another healer so quick for you if you come back with several new holes in your back. People like you aren’t exactly common ‘round these parts.”

Candle glared at both men, then set aside her broom and went about packing all her things that she had so carefully unpacked just hours before.

“Hold on, swift,” Rat held up a hand, “We can’t exactly just up and leave right now. Give it four days, we are going to want to be more prepared than Lauriel was if we expect to survive up to four nights on the road.”

Candle sighed, re-unpacking her belongings. Liam, meanwhile, smiled and stared at Rat. ”As newly made friends, I hope to see you come back alive now.”

Rat chewed his cheek as he simply stared at Liam for a bit. He rubbed his chin and shook his head, suddenly turning to Candle, “Be ready in four days, sleep behind the chapel not in it, and have Liam here do all the talking (far fuckin’ away from you) -- especially if to Derick’s goons. Peachy?” He held his belongings tight against him.

Candle looked at him then nodded, figuring it was easier to agree than talk anymore than she already had to. The road to her new church still stretched far off into the distance yet.

The woods were quiet. This was nothing unusual - it was rare for anything to make much of a racket when someone was around - and, indeed, that was what was good about it. Nothing unusual meant everything was going smooth.

And still, there was an unease in that silence that not even years of familiarity could dispel. Perhaps they even made it worse, as one who knew this quiet was well aware of how often it was just waiting to be suddenly broken. No matter how long one spent in it, it never got really predictable. Sometimes you would expect a shuffling to roll out of the undergrowth all of a sudden, only to go for the entire day without hearing a sound of anything alive, while on other days you could think you were having a break and could well make it to sunset without being noticed, and be sent running by a shambling just by your elbow. You never could be sure of anything anywhere, yes, but out in the woods it was at the worst. And the further you went, the worse it got.

Of course, most of the time the silence was not really all that. As long as you kept walking, whether you wanted it or not, you would keep hearing yourself. Birds still sang, somewhere overhead well out of sight, and sometimes forest streams gurgled loud enough to tell which way they were. It was only when you came close to an old place that these sounds would start fading, little by little. There were no streams in sight of the collapsed walls or toppled towers, and the birds never seemed to come very close. The old places were dead, and only a grave-worm would stir them up now. But then, if you got to live by being a grave-worm, it was a pretty good trade. Or so Red found, at least.

The squat, hirsute man edged his way past a low-hanging branch, weighed down by a mass of yellow leaves, and vaulted over a shallow burrow in the ground without taking his eyes away from the snippets of grey that peered out from between the overgrown limbs of a fallen tree some way ahead. A glance with the bottom of an eye now and then was enough for the forest floor, but the ruins, those were what was worth watching from as soon as possible. Not just because it was best to get an eyeful of what they were like early on so he did not have to mill about them longer than needed. No, he just liked the feeling of taking them in, grim and slightly unsettling as it was. A small cold jolt to the stomach at the sight of those enormous carcasses, almost like seeing an ugly corpse and thinking that something like that had been alive earlier, and maybe still was somewhere. Not quite like that - there was nothing ugly about an old place, really - but thinking of what was dead and what was not, it turned out, was almost always alike. It was good for taking his mind off of sore feet, too.

The hollow bulk he was looking at now was almost as imposing as he had ever seen them. It had to have been a castle or something like that once, with huge walls of thick stacked blocks, still marked by the jagged remains of collapsed turrets. As he wound through the last stretch of forest around it, he turned his head down more and more often, running his eyes over sparse large stones and pieces of ground-corners that still held together in spite of age. The massive had obviously not stood alone in its prime, but that had been so long ago that the wood had all but reclaimed the last traces of its hangers-on.

The place itself, though, was too big for that. Weeds had spread over its wall like rot on a proper corpse, but it would be a long time yet before they pushed anything loose. The trees near the crumbling mouth of the gateway were still thin, and the dead leaves under them mostly came from the older, taller ones he was still not quite out of. Just as much as one could not tell how long it had already stood there, it looked as though it would keep standing like that for a time that was lost far beyond the day-to-day future that everyone knew these days.

Something rustled in the distance behind his back, and Red tore his eyes away from the colossal ruin. From where he was, he could not see what had made that noise, nor the next one when it came, or the one after that. It could have been the wind, though the leaves around him looked still. He spat on a finger and held it up, feeling the air. Not even a breath. Something rustled again, closer, heavy. He strained his eyes in the direction he thought it came from, hard to tell as it was. The brush and fallen branches moved a few throws of a stone away, and bleak, swampy shapes pushed their way past the yellowing growth. The air was too still to really feel much, but even so his trained nose picked up the stench of Filth. A lot of them.

As quietly as he could, putting his feet down heel-first, Red backed behind the cover of a thick old tree. He knew well enough by then that this did not help any, since the fuckers, he was sure, did not see or maybe even hear, but felt things in some terrible way they had. Nevertheless, the gesture itself made him at least feel safer, a show less for them than for himself.

It was by far not the first time he had run across Filth like this, by day or night. He had always hidden when there was room to, though he knew that what saved him was not that, but the thing that he knew - that he was too small and too poor, that he walked too lightly over the earth to be worth their while getting. Some things you learned to remember very early when you were sure that someone knew you did. And now, like always, he less hoped than knew that they would not even nod his way and keep going whatever way they were going. Flies were not afraid when a dog went by, long as they knew for sure they were flies.

The rustling did not fade somewhere to the side. It got louder. Red frowned and peered out from the edge of the trunk. The lead grunt was not stopping or going sideways. It kept coming towards him, right towards him, gathering speed to break into a run. The rest were close behind. No mistaking that. They could not even be going for the ruin; the tree was a little off the way to it.

The grunts pushed off the ground with a foot, like a single body, and rushed ahead, arms grasping forward.

With a “Shit” over an inhaled breath, Red shoved himself away from the tree and burst into a sprint. He grabbed the axe from his belt, but did not stop or turn. To get caught in the open by that many of them would be a wish to be dead soon. The best, and, really, only hope now was the old place itself. While he had never quite seen how well the Filth found their way through something they could not so easily smash down, he had never met any very far into a standing ruin, either. Maybe they, too, lost their way as easily as green scrappers who got in too far, because they could not feel a dead place. No point thinking about that now. He would find out soon enough anyway.

It was lucky he had already been close when they caught up to him. He was still into the first rush when he crossed past the old threshold. He slowed down the faintest bit, quickly taking in the space beyond. There was a small doorway to the right into what must have been a watchman’s place and the rooms behind it, but some large stones had crumbled down to clog it on the other side. That left only the end of the passage ahead, and, pushing his feet to their full strength again, he ran for it. Behind his back, he could hear splattering footsteps and gurgling groans catching up to him. He swore again on another intake of breath.

The light at the further exit from the corridor under the walls came from a large courtyard, overgrown and littered with the broken remains of what might have once been statues or pillars. Between its size and the flash from emerging into the daylight after the short dive through the passageway’s shadows, Red’s eyes were dazzled for a moment, unable to find the closest way out. There was sure to be one in a place this large, but that certainty alone was not much help. All he could do was keep putting as much distance as he could between himself and the Filth, without tripping over the debris lying all about. Easier said than done.

Veering sideways on one foot, he sped along the wall, whose corners had been worn out by time to a soft almost-roundedness. It was a roundabout way, but mostly sure to keep him away from dangerous terrain. When a few blinks focused his sight again, he saw that perhaps it would have been better to take the risk. The grunts had emerged into the courtyard, and the first ones were moving straight ahead to cut him off in the middle of the curve he was turning. The way behind was barred by the rest, and, as if to make things even harder on purpose, the only clear doorway he could see was almost at the other end of the place.

Red could think fast if he had to, but in this case there was nothing to really think about. In a sharp turn, he broke his wall-hugging path and made directly for the doorway, avoiding the largest lumps of worn stone he could see with a corner of the eye. The head grunt, which had been aiming to catch him further away, stumbled to skid to a halt, swinging its abnormally long arms about. He had been ready for that. The head of his axe swept before him and caught the creature in the shoulder, slowing his run but pushing its already unstable footing into a stagger. A rough pull wrenched the weapon from the cloying mass, and he darted again before the grunt regained its balance and the rest caught up.

The last dash to the doorway was a narrow run, but still lax enough for him to make it. Fortunately, it was small enough for only one to pass at a time, or at least had gotten that way with age. Once a few steps inside, he let his dully aching legs and grasping lungs rest, the slightest moment, then turned about, axe at the ready. Just about in time; one of the grunts was shouldering its way behind him, one arm reaching. Another step back - the bulky limb smashed into the stone wall, knocking dust and broken pieces loose - then a lunge, and the axe came down between the beast’s headless shoulders. He pulled it back as soon as he felt the putrid flesh under the blade soften into yielding ooze, and sprang further into the building as the rapidly melting hulk he had left behind was trampled by its fellows in pursuit.

Inside, the ruin had held much better, though only insomuch as fewer doors and rooms were buried in collapsed ceilings. Red did not take the time to check them as he passed, but from quick glances they were mostly barren, except for mounds of dust and mouldering wood that could once have been furniture. Any of them would have been worth rustling over to see if something good was left underneath, but this time he did not have the leisure. What he needed was a place that would do for hiding. He did not go into how that would or would not help shake off the Filth - first he found it, and then he could figure out the rest.

The corridor turned, sometimes split at sharp angles - he always took the right, no point mucking things up now - climbed up steep stairs, slick with wear. It hit him he had not realised how big the place really was from out there, or maybe he had just not expected so much of it to be intact. Rooms, corridors, more rooms, a few huge hallways. The edges of his sight were starting to go dark. He could no longer hear how close the Filth were over his ragged breathing and the thumping of his heart. He was getting exhausted, and the clear spaces showed no sign of giving way to complete ruin. A thought flashed through his dimming mind - he had better make use of that before he was caught in an actual dead end.

A room that looked bigger than the rest flashed ahead along the corridor, and he dove into it when it came into reach. Panting, he glanced around. A big window, he had never broken from the wallside. Dust everywhere, dust and cobwebs. This place had been well-stocked once. His tired head ran through with amazement when he saw in the wall to the right, behind a large grey mound scattered with the rotted remains of ancient planks, another, smaller dark doorway. A long time ago, something had apparently stood covering it, though now only thick webs hung across its frame. So, Red thought. If it had been a hiding place of some kind back then, maybe, it could just as well be one now. The cobwebs meant there could not be an ambush inside. Brushing the dusty threads aside, he edged into the dark space.

By then, he had recovered enough to hear the sounds hounding him again. The heavy, damp-sounding steps were closer than he had hoped, though there were thankfully few of them. Only one. He breathed with relief - they had split up. While that still left him with at least this one on his back, it meant they could not find him all together. Even now, the odds would have been stacked against him. The rooms might have been narrow, but he was run out, and they never got tired.

One was a lot better, but, if he was not careful, still enough to do him in. As the steps approached, he hoped, this time for real, that they would go past the room, further down the corridor. But, as soon as the thought had taken shape in his head, a squat, thickset bulk with long grasping arms trampled through the doorway. They felt, of course. They did not need to see. The grunt moved, with its blind confidence, straight towards the once-hidden opening. That was bad. If he was going to make the best of the obstacle, he had to back away. One step, two, the creature came closer, three -

His back hit something large and heavy. With his attention fully on the grunt, the start was so strong he jumped with a loud “Godsfuck!”, almost losing his grip on the axe. The grunt, either having its senses confirmed or seeing an opening to strike, lunged. It was still too far to land a proper blow, but a club-like hand caught him under the shoulder, sending him careening back. The creature sprang forward to press its advantage, but its broad frame was caught in the doorway - just long enough for Red to regain his feet. A step ahead, then to the side, avoiding another blow, and the axe cut through the pustulent surface the thing had instead of a head.

Breathing heavily, he stumbled out into the light, shoving the liquefying carcass to the side with a foot. He smiled to himself as he noticed a faint grimy, misshapen footprint between the doorway and the corridor. It would have been too much to hope that stepping into that one puddle at the entrance would have been enough for the grunts to leave a complete path up to there, but if something was still visible, it meant that a few hints would be left here and there for getting out or avoiding the others. That would save him a good deal of head-scratching later.

The others, right. He listened, rubbing the dull pain where the grunt’s blow had glanced across his arm, and struggled to pick up the faintest sound over the distant noises of the forest that came through the window. Nothing coming closer. The creatures were sure to still be somewhere inside, and would be for a while, but it looked like he was safe for now. For everything they could be, he had rarely come across Filth being quiet. If another got there, he would know it ahead of time.

Leaning against the dusty wall gave him a moment to think about the whole thing. They had come after him, on his own, for the first time, and a lot of them too. Why was that? He had always been careful not to take anything they would want - his axe and knife were good, but old, and he had been wearing these clothes for years. He had not changed anything about those lately, and everything he picked up he made sure to sell straight away. Right, except-

His hand went to the large bag hanging behind his shoulder. A firm, sharp circle shape poked into his fingers through the leather. Course, it had to be that. Biggest prize in a long while, so big that none of the regulars had the pocket for it. It was not as though he had not suspected that taking the crown back into the wilds would not bring him any trouble, but he had nowhere safe to leave it otherwise - important rule for someone who went around, no such thing as a safeplace - and he for sure had not expected that kind of mob. He had thought of the idea behind crowns, of course, that the ones who used to wear them were just the kind the Filth were after now, but really? A rusty old hoop suddenly mattered more than the kind of folk he had been his whole life?

He chuckled. Did he expect the Filth to see through anything? He was not sure they were dumb, but they sure had never cared for that kind of stuff.

Shaking his head, he turned back to the smaller doorway. The crown had landed him in this shit, but there would be better time to deal with it when he had gotten out of there. For now, he was in a fresh old place, with a hiding spot of some kind right in front of him. If he had ever seen something like a perfect place for finding things, it had to be this one. Besides, he should check what he had bumped into.

Red reached into a smaller pouch at his side and produced a thick tallow candle, already burned out a third of the way through but missing the lines of old molten rivulets, followed by a rag and a small bundle. The rag was wrapped around the candle’s base, old traces of caked tallow bared as he unfolded it, and, as he held it between three spare fingers, the firesteel from the bundle threw a few sparks from between his thumb and free hand. One of them caught the wick, and he held the wavering light into the dim chamber.

Unlike most dark places he had been in, being open to the window in the next room had left the air barely stale at all, and the candle burned well. The thing he had stepped into was a tall mass of wrinkled stone and shadows. He moved closer, holding the flame higher.

An etched face met his eyes with its own stern, unmoving stare. A statue. The edges of its figure were dull and nondescriptly smooth with years, but, inside its little hiding place, it had held much better than most of its kind he had seen before. He could even still see some of the cleverly carved finer lines of a different, fleshier kind of age around its wilful-looking features. Whoever this had been, she had sure gone on looking pretty fine into her older times. Unless, he thought with a smirk, the one who had made this had just been buttering her up this way for some extra coin. Or some special noble kind of favour, he silently added, noticing a crown on the sculpted woman’s brow. It was a simple, almost plain sort of circlet, but a crown was a crown, as even the Filth had proved to him. Besides, with all the work that had to have gone into the face, maybe the artist just could not be arsed to spend a lot of time on a fancier thing.

Impressive as it was, a statue that big was not something he could take, and he lowered his eyes to the floor, sweeping the candle’s glow around the room. Like he had expected, there was not much that jumped out at first sight. What might once have been chairs in a far corner - he smeared the dust under them flat to see if anything was there, but did not touch the wooden heaps themselves; that was sure to be bad luck. A small mound in the other corner did not have anything, either. Strange, he had missed one just by the statue’s base. Not that it was any more likely - no, see. Something dully glistened in the candlelight at his feet.

Bending down with a huff, Red picked up the small piece of metal, fingers sliding carefully around rough stains of rust. A ring, looked too small to fit on his finger, though maybe if he tried… Not with all that rust on it, anyway. It had to be iron. Nothing too precious-looking in that, but the shape was a strange one. It had some pieces that poked out in a spot, like one of those, how were they, signets fancy ones sometimes had. He had never seen any on something as dull as an iron ring, though. It was nothing too fine-looking, either, just a few tall squares. They looked a bit like what houses would be if they would just turn out the way they were meant to. The fact they were not even in size just made them look even more like a row on a street, if a street only got a little taller than the space between a nail and a finger.

With a hum, he slipped the ring into a pouch and cast about in a last attempt to find something around the room. No luck, of course, but he felt he had already found more than enough. It was strange enough for just an iron jewel to have signs on it like that, and he sure as damn did not remember seeing any of that kind before. Maybe something very long ago - nah, unlikely. Either way, he had already been thinking of going to see the folks in Jornoston about the crown. He would keep this other odd thing aside for them, too. They might know what was up with it, and if not, well, they sure would find something better to do with it.

His thoughts went ahead as he stepped out of the room and blew out the candle, frowning. This place was the other side of Kendles, which meant he would have to stop there at least for the night, and he had nothing else to sell. Red leaned against the dusty wall near the window as he wrapped up and pocketed both candle and rag. He would have to go through at least some other rooms and look for smaller things to trade on the way, that was for sure. But not right now. Better wait until the rest of the Filth might have left, or at least a couple more came by there so he could take them out for sure.

He sure could use a bit of rest, anyway.

The book burned a hole in Jarren’s mind. Though it was safely tucked into the saddlebags, it felt like it was right in front of him. His inherited steed, to which he had named Hero after its late owner, lazily walked through a leave littered path. Jarren’s hands tightened around the reigns, even with the sword of Ratcher on his hip, the wilds always made him feel -- sick.

All around him were trees that could have been hundreds of years old, maybe even older. Their broad leaves were on the cusp of turning yellow, just another gentle reminder that autumn was a month away. Between the mighty trunks, not much else grew -- not this far into the thickets. It was a small miracle, or perhaps some long forgotten magic that there was even a dirt road in this part of the forest. Truth be told, it bent and dipped at such angles, that the secret may just be that it was paved between the natural giants that dwelled here. Taking in the sharp scent of the forest, Jarren couldn’t help but notice the sour smell of vinegar on the wind. His nose curled and there was a hearty guzzling off to his side.

The owner of the stench was a young man that Jarren and Kiera had bumped into on their way out of Illistair. He was cheery enough, seemed honest, and best of all -- had a cart and a donkey. The duo decided to travel with him, as there was a certain safety in numbers, especially if the odd of the three’s mount was the slowest. Jarren shook the crude invasive thought out of his mind and turned to the new man -- Orin.

Orin walked next to his donkey with Kiera and her gear, plus a bandolier of scissors, and a jank blade in his dinky little cart behind him. In one hand, Orin held his beast’s reins, and in the other he held a large glass bottle with leaves and other natural debris floating about the bottom. His aquiline nose was twisted as if disgusted as he gulped down another vinegary sip of the drink, soft brown eyes (nearly the same shade as his groomed hair) tearing up from the taste.

Jarren made a face at the man, “Why do you bother drinking that rancid mess if you don’t even like it.”

“It’s not that I don’t like it,” Orin coughed, his well squared shoulders lurched forward and gave his large billowy shirt a sort of ghostly look as it draped over his lean frame. He dabbed his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “I like drinking it, I just don’t like how it tastes,” He forced the explanation through another sour cough.

“I’m not sure if that makes any sense,” Jarren knitted his brows.

“You never drank moonshine before Jarren?” Keira asked “coz I’m assuming its kinda like that.”

“I’ve dranken-- drunken,” Jarren sputtered, “But by the four, no alcohol I ever encountered smelt like that.”

“Because it isn’t,” Orin corrected, holding the bottle suddenly towards Keira, “It’s a vinegar and forest-bit swatch. Would you like to try some? It’s good for your teeth, keeps the worms out.”

“How?” Jarren pushed.

“Trust me, I’m a dentist.”

“I thought you said you were a barber?” Jarren nudged his chin at the bandolier of scissors next to Kiera.

“A man can be two things,” Orin frowned and shook the bottle at Kiera again, “It’s good.”

Jarren watched as his traveling companion’s eyes darted from the bottle to him, then Orin and finally back to bottle, clearly regretting her tacet defence of the man’s drinking habit. Then her face scrunched up in contemplation before she seemed to steel herself and took the bottle. “Anything once” she said before drinking from the bottle. The results were unsurprising. Looking as if she was going to be sick Keira forced herself to swallow regardless and began hacking and coughing a few moments later.

“Bleh” she finally said after coughing up most of her lungs, leaving her tongue hanging out of her mouth after as if it would allow her to escape the taste. Orin nodded with a certain satisfaction.

“Yeah, that sounds about right for a first sip,” The man grinned, “But hey, your teeth will thank you for it.”

“Gods no it feels like they are melting.” she retorted, tongue still stuck out while she spoke.

Jarren’s face scrunched with disgust, but Orin gave a light hearted laugh, “That’s probably just the worms dying out from the dosage.”

“The only worm like thing in my mouth is my tongue. If your trying to kill that then good job. Its working.” Keira complained before drawing one of the two flasks from her belt and drawing deeply from it to try and get rid of the taste.

Orin shook his head, “Well now, hear me out.” He held up a finger and pointed it at Keira’s mouth, “Have you ever had a toothache or maybe one of your molars changed colors?”
Jarren was already rolling his eyes as Orin continued, almost with a spark of passion, “That’s these tiny worms that the eye cannot see. They get into your teeth from your food, which is why you should always wipe your teeth after a big meal with a cloth, and drink swatches and the like to ensure that those who escaped your cloth are killed. It’s the only way to get a good breath and a healthy mouth, Ligdon’s honor.”

“You’re crazy,” Jarren muttered and Orin gave him a challenging smirk.

“When was the last time you wiped your teeth?”

“Last night,” Jarren answered roughly, “Everyone knows to do that, that’s not some grand mechanism for fighting worms.”

“Okay, okay,” Orin held up a hand, “I won’t push it any further.”

Keira, who had been futility rubbing her own teeth while they spoke asked “If it’s just for the teeth then why on earth did we swallow that?”

Jarren gave Orin a look that certainly backed up Kiera’s sentiment. The self proclaimed dentist frowned, “What else would you do with it?”

“Spit it out? Or just put some on the cloth or something? That can not be good for the throat is all I am saying.” Keira said as she waved an unsure hand at the man.

“Sounds like a waste of perfectly fine vinegar to me,” Orin scoffed and tilted his bottle bottom up. His face was awash with disgust as he forced a swallow and a small smile. Orin’s smile twisted into shock as a small screech echoed through the woods.

A man came trampling into view, nearly falling over himself. Seeing the group of three, the mud covered man fell to his knees and began to whimper loudly, “Quick! They are coming!”

Without missing a beat, Orin suddenly leapt onto his cart and snatched his jank blade, a long stretch of randomly scavenged metals pounded into one arm-long sword. Remaining on his perch, his knee nearly hitting Kiera on the side of the head, he pointed his sword past the man, “Who?”

Jarren held his reins tightly, “I suggest you keep running then.” He called out weakly. Orin shot Jarren a confused look and then looked back at the man, who had coughed up a sobbing burp.

“Slavers, they’ve been following me all day -- I have information, news! It’s important I get this to-”

“Ah!” Jarren plugged one of his ears, “No, this is none of our business!”

“To who?” Keira asked, ignoring Jarren’s refusal to get involved as she moved to get a better look down the road.

“Anyone with the Teid be damned courage to put a damn end to this madness,” The man all but spat in his anxiety. Orin gave him a soft look before following Keira’s eyes down the path -- and sure enough five rough looking, heavily armed figures were fast approaching.

Jarren reluctantly joined them in looking but then slowly turned away, it would be very easy to simply gallop away. He rose his heel, eyes quickly making out an escape path through the trees. Keira shifted again near him and the thoughts of her old man popped into his mind. He closed his eyes and groaned inwardly, his frustration ending in time for him to hear a rough female voice.

“We are just here for old slippy there,” The woman called out past a violent looking wooden rod hammered with bits and ends of sharp metal. One other woman with an axe flanked her right, and three aggressive looking men flanked her left.

The slavers all stared daggers at the cowering, mud covered man. Orin suddenly hopped off the cart landing between them as to break their line of sight, his cheery expression gone as he swung his blade through the air a few times.

“Listen,” Jarren found the courage to speak up, “This is none of our business, I’m sure you can just do your thing, while we do ours.”

“Strike that,” Orin countered with a nod at the slaver’s scalps, “With hair like theirs, I’m afraid as a barber this is my business.”

“Yeah sod off!” Keira yelled at them along with the barber/dentist as she grabbed a knife from her boots in one hand and her sling in the other “Do you even know who I am!”

Jarren rubbed his face, his skin turning a shade of red but before he could say anything the gruff woman called back.

“Dead, if you don’t buzz off. Last call.”

“The red knife of Kendles!” she yelled defiantly, leaping atop Orin ‘s cart and doing her best impression of a dangerously competent frothing mad woman, “Get lost before I get mad and gut the lot of you.” she flipped the knife up and managed, barely, to catch it again by the point.

The name drop caused a pause, a very silent pause. Orin flinched, but kept his eyes on the enemies while Jarren abruptly stared at Keira for a long second. Jarren finally cleared his throat, catching the attention of the slavers.

“Remember that business I was talking about letting us get to?” He tilted his head menacingly and the slavers looked over at each other.

“You can’t be,” One of the men finally barked, “There is no way.”

“I cant can I?” Keira let of a bark of a laugh “you willing to bet your life on that?” she grinned widely at him before adding “before you answer that let me also point out that this here” she jabbed a thumb at Jarren “Is Ratcher. Hero of Illistair. Guy salied out alone in the middle of a Filth siege that was so strong it broke the damned wall. Not only did he cut a bloody swath through the filth but he also killed a Giant”

“Well now that’s just too much,” The woman argued, “The knife AND Ratcher?”

Jarren closed his eyes and drew his blade from its scabbard with a rasp. The white steel of the Aethelian blade caught the sun over the clouds and shimmered as he swung it once. Even Orin turned to look as Jarren held it out for all to see.

“Okay-” The woman took a step back, “Fine, you’re the Knife, and you’re Ratcher -- we have names and lives too, you know, and in order to keep those, we are going to need our friend there.” She pointed at the runaway, “We will just take him, and you’ll never see us again.”

“Uh - uh,” Orin’s eyes narrowed and Jarren hid a groan.

“Well now that’s interesting. What’s so important about this guy that your lives depend on it huh?” she asked, needlessly drawing out the interesting as she did.

“We have a job to do,” The woman opened her hands, voice nearly pleading, “You know how it is.”

“Fuck this,” The other woman growled and swung forward with her axe. The edge beared down on Orin, but the man expertly leapt to the side, his arm curling and wrist spinning as he entered a riposte. The jank blade leapt forward at an odd angle, slipping under the woman’s fighting arm and jamming into her armpit, exploding out from behind her collarbone.

Everyone froze as the woman stared down at the scarlet point of the blade sticking out of her, eyes quickly fading and body slumping. Two of the slavers shared a look as the body crumpled to the ground, and without a word they suddenly pushed past the remaining slavers in a hasty retreat. The gruff female leader stared at the three travelers, her once steel gaze broken with uncertainty as she backed up slowly.

Keira stared disbelievingly at Orin for a few moments before remembering who she was pretending to be. With forced arrogance she yelled “yeah you better run” at the fleeing slavers while quickly spinning up the stone in her sling and pointing her knife at the final remaining one threateningly, inviting her to join them.

The woman swore under her breath before reluctantly running off, now outnumbered and disheartened. Jarren raised his eyebrows and shook his head, “Well, at least it’s over.”

Orin wiped the gore off his blade on a nearby bush as he craned his neck to look back at Kiera and Jarren, “Not quite.” He nodded towards the once cowering man who now stood by Kiera.

“Um,” The man started ,clearly intimidated, “Take the news as you will but... well.” He sucked in a breath, “I caught wind of a smuggling racket in Kendles, and was quickly... well... smuggled myself -- forcefully. During my time, I learned a few things if -- well if you are willing to hear about it, Miss Foy.”

Keira sighed with relief once the slavers where out of sight, before sitting down on the cart and putting her, thankfully, unused weapons away. “Please do,” She encouraged the ex slave, “we’re headed right for that mess of a town so any info would be great. I’d also like to know where on Pertovia you learned to do that Orin.” Keira drank another drought from a flask and tried to avoid looking at the dead body their traveling companion had made.

"The same place where I learned to cut hair," Orin inspected his blade, "Why did you want a cut? I'm sure your ends would thank you."

Keira politely declined the offer, turning her attention back to the ex-slave.

"A ring of smugglers have been snatching people right out of their homes," The man continued, "While in their convoy I heard that we were heading towards Jornorston..." The man shivered, "Parrel protect the others."

Keira sucked in breath through her teeth. She’d heard the rumors of course, that the strange religious town did unspeakable things to keep the eyes of the filth away from their community, but this was the first she’d hear of them importing slaves that could be used as victims for such atrocities. Now that she thought about it, she didn’t remember hearing about them importing anything before. The town wasn’t exactly a place you passed through either, being the eastern most major settlement on the island.

“That's both strange and disturbing news.” she concluded before asking “how’d you escape? And how big is this ring?”

“I got lucky, and I don’t know,” The man all but whimpered, “I was in a group of five -- one of the children keeled over and I took the chance to run.”

“This really is a lot of information,” Jarren finally cut in, “You should probably bring it to Illistair, maybe someone there would be willing to look into it, but as for us, we already have a task.”

“But...” The man pleaded, “You’re Ratcher!”

“I’m not...” Jarren exhaled through his nostrils and looked at Kiera, “Just get out of here before you drag more trouble our way.”

The man looked over helplessly to Orin who gave him a reassuring nod, then to Kiera, eyes wide and waiting.

Keira felt the weight of the man’s desperate gaze upon her and couldn’t help but compare to the weight of the hidden crown. She looked away, over to Jarren, “There’s a child,” she tired, attempting to coax out the compasion the man clearly had but hated to acknowledge.

Jarren wiggled his nose as he thought, clearly uncomfortable. Finally he sighed, “What do you want us to do about that? We have a delivery to make -- we are not ‘heroes’. We can scare off a tiny spattering, but a convoy?”

“It’s best if you nip it off at the source,” Orin piped in, his blade hanging off his thick belt.

Jarren eyed the barber suspiciously before leaning off his saddle towards Kiera, voice lowering, “You have an old man to get back to, and I have-- well it doesn’t matter, but you get the jist. Let’s just go to Kendles, give Lauriel her things, notify the next set of able bodied mercenaries about the problem and get on with it.”

She sighed. They both had a point “We’ll look into it when we have the time.” she told the man they had rescued.

The man nodded vigorously, happy it was even considered. Orin put a hand on his donkey’s side, “I don’t suppose you want a lift back to Kendles.”

“Parrel’s pants, no!” The man swore. Orin nodded.

“I thought not,” He looked at the other two, “Kendles is only about half a day away, if we keep going, I’d say we can get there before the day is through.”

“Then let’s move.” Jarren looked over at Kiera, as if asking for assurance.

“Lets”

---

The caravan rolled into the decrepit Kendles without fanfare. It had passed through this town dozens of times, and would pass through hundreds more. Gerick appeared almost lethargic as he walked alongside, seeming to pay little mind to the ramshackle houses and half-ruined buildings.

The convoy of wagons came to a sudden stop, and Gerick snapped to attention. They weren't supposed to stop here. What was the matter?

It didn't take him long to find out. A man lie naked in the street, face down. Edgar sent a pair of guards forward to inspect him, and they confirmed that the stranger was still alive. With a frustrated sigh, Edgar ordered them to drag the man out of the way, which they did rather unceremoniously.

"Poor bastard," Ivan commented. "If the cold doesn't get 'im, the body snatchers will."

Ah yes, the body snatchers. Gerick had heard the stories. People went missing all the time in Kendles. Some people were murdered, with their body hidden so well it would be months before it was found. Others simply got up and left without telling anyone, abandoning the town for reason or another. Yet these stories were different: people being dragged off in the middle of the night, and taken to who knows where. Slavery? Sacrifices? Cannibalism? Impossible to say. The occasional kidnapping had never been unusual either, but for it to be so frequent that people outside of Kendles were hearing about it? Then it was an issue.

An issue Gerick would have normally been quite happy to overlook. He had learned long ago not to stick his nose into other people's business. Normally, he would have stayed in town for a while, performed a few odd jobs in exchange for food or goods, and then signed on to a trustworthy caravan heading out of the town. Normally.

He thought of the crown in his pack.

Again, he asked himself the question. Was it just a coincidence, or did he have a higher purpose?

Still, he did not known.

The caravan came to a stop before a tall ruined building. Once, it had been an tavern. Now, the roof of the second floor was missing and there was a giant hole in the side. Some say the damage was done by a Giant; others say it was done by time. Either way, the building no longer served as an inn, and had instead been converted into a stable.

The last of their 'pay' was passed around - a meager ration of stale bread. Gerick plucked the green bits off and began to eat. Some of the guards who were on a more permanent arrangement with Edgar would stay to act as his bodyguards and continue to keep his goods safe. The rest of the guards and passengers would scatter to the wind, going on with their lives, and perhaps rejoining the caravan when it turned back around.

Gerick finished the piece of bread, and set off toward the center of town. He would in all likelihood regret it, but for some strange reason he felt compelled to look into these... 'disappearances.'

To stay in Kendles, it is almost a necessity to develop an attitude of caring only about yourself and yours. To live in Kendles, any amount of selfishness or greed previously learned would quickly turn into uncaring apathy. Candle had known this of course, expected it and prepared for it as she went out onto the streets to preach the good word of Parrel. It still hurt nonetheless when, at best, the Kendies didn’t even deign to give her any attention. At worst, they cursed or chased her off to a different corner of the ramshackle city.

And so it was with heavy feet and a heavy heart that Candle trudged back to her lonely chapel, its lone guardian leaning on the ruined entrance way with his usual mocking grin.

”So what new truths has Parrel shown you today? Is it about the grace and graciousness of Kends to a holy woman what hath served them for near a year now?”

And as was customary between the priestess and the mercenary, she ignored him and went straight to her corner to disrobe into garments more fitting for home. Light seemed to flicker in her peripherals, and turning her head slightly to the door, she could see a small black line in the distance, just cresting past the slums on the close horizon. At least five figures, all armed were coming this way.

Dressed in only a simple robe, Candle straightened herself, mentally sighing and wishing they had come but a few moments earlier when she still had her breastplate on. Grabbing the belt that carried her sword required no extra effort on her part, at least, as she turned to face the newcomers. Liam made himself fade into the background, present and in view, but unimportant, a lazy hand resting on his pommel.

”Parrel welcomes you,” she greeted, doing her best to adopt a calm and approachable pose to the approaching group. ”How may I help you?”

The five thugs stopped only after entering the chapel properly. A few of them had scrap metal tied around their chests and thighs, while others were in a mess of survivors rags and scavenger furs. Spiked clubs, a jank blade, and chipped axes were in their fists and unamused faces were on their visage. A few of them had scarring on their faces and wrists, showcasing their allegiance to the filth eaters.

“Are you in business?” A particularly barrel chested man suddenly asked past a curly beard.

”So long as there are people to help,” came an automatic reply, Candle’s eyes unconsciously taking in their armaments and builds, her mind calculating the best and most efficient moves to dispatch them with Liam while simultaneously keeping in mind their current scars and wounds and how best to treat them if the need would arise.

“Then you pay taxes,” The bearded man said simply, “Do you understand.” The drone of his voice betrayed how many times he had to have given this speech.

Like the apathy of the Kends, this too Candle expected. She just didn’t expect it to have taken so long. ”What shall be the price.”

“People, materials, food,” The man listed, “Enough to satisfy twenty fist stones in space or weight every moon cycle for materials and food, servitude and slavery is negotiable.” He spit on the floor, “I prefer food.”

Candle glanced distastefully at the man’s glob on her recently cleaned floor before turning her eyes above and past the ruined roof to the moon that lay beyond. ”I have but recently arrived. Pray may I have time to gather the items needed?”

There was a pause as the bearded man chewed his lip, his eyes scanning the obvious ruin he was standing in, “In a half cycle I’ll be here for ten stone, at the finish, another twenty. The ten is for this month, twenty for the next -- Derick is kind, but know your limits.” He looked at the others and jerked his head as if signaling them to leave, “Don’t be late.”

Candle watched the group depart. Once they had moved far outside earshot distance, Liam made himself known with a short, barking laugh. ”With those taxes, you’d think the Filth Eaters expected everyone to be like the mayor of Illistair himself.”

”And that is why I will not pay,” Candle stated as she produced a dirty rag and proceeded to wipe away the man’s spit.

”I wouldn’t say things so lightly, or loudly.”

Candle shrugged. ”Part of my duties as an Instrument of Parrel is to purify the world of Filth. It would be remiss of my duties if I bowed to a group that worships the Filth itself.”

”Men and women stronger than you have tried,” Liam snorted, then fell quiet. Despite their short time together, he knew Candle wasn’t one that was wont to joke. ”As long as I’m not dragged into your schemes. Don’t matter to me whether you prosper or end up carved and gutted in a ditch.”

”It is a good thing for me then that those Eaters have already seen you loitering around my church.”

“For fuck’s sake, get a Teid be damned door, woman!” A familiar voice barked as Rat rushed into the ruins from outside and swiftly juked behind a wall, his back covering him from any would be viewers outside. His bright eyes shifted nervously around the chapel for a moment, allowing a short pause to give Liam a look of disdain. The small man was breathing heavily, his chest pumping up and down and his hand was tight around his metal shank, a dirt covered leather package under his right arm.

”Hello Rat. Are you here to be dragged into my ‘schemes’ as well?”

“What?” Rat spat, head dipping to look past the wall and sneaking a peek outside, “What in Ligdon’s pants are you talking about?” He jerked around, as if trying to get a different angle, “Haven’t you heard?”

Liam let out a forceful laugh, slapping Rat’s shoulder like one would a friend, albeit with the intention of breaking every bone therein, the shock caused the paranoid man to jump. Instinctively he swiped his blade almost without looking, the tiny shank slipping under Liam’s belt with a sudden snap. Bereft of its support, the mercenary’s pants began to droop dangerously low, yet Liam looked unperturbed. Rather, he looked pleased, as if it was a practiced routine the two regularly performed. ”Nothing you need to mind yourself you rodent. But enlighten us! What have your sewer friends whispered into your hairy ears?”

Rat blinked and looked down at his blade, “Huh, I missed,” he shook his head, “And the world wails in fuckin’ anguish.” Looking back outside he picked up where he left off, “Ratcher is in town, and he has brought the Red Knife with him... someone tipped him off -- he was looking for Lauriel... and now he is looking for--” Rat stood up straight, “Fuckin’ hell, what am I doing here?”

”Friendship? Food? The urgent need to tantalizingly half-spill all your secrets? Regardless, what does that have to do with us?”

”It means I am going to have to inform them that Lauriel is dead. And likely stock up on more medicinal supplies.” Candle had heard stories about the Red Knife of Kendles, this Ratcher, less so. The former would be a headache for the young apothecary if even half the tales were true.

“Ooh I hope to all that is nasty that Ratcher guts you first,” Rat pointed his blade at Liam, “At least then I can die closer to happiness, hells, maybe he’d let me live if I did it for him.”

The mercenary grinned, his hand dropping down to his crotch, his mouth already flying to let off some unbecoming comment before remembering that he was in the presence of a priestess (one who’s blade skills he had the chance to witness firsthand) and let it drop. Instead he went back to his previous point, saying, ”So then again, why should we care? It’s not like we have to tell every Dick, Van, and Dyke about one dead merchant carrying some spooky and mysterious cargo like the little mouse here keeps teasing about.”

“I always fuckin’ forget I’m talking to a pup in a wolves den,” Rat squinted, “You got his sister killed.”

Metal clanked and Rat spun around, two figures were approaching. One was a tall man bearing an ancient scabbard and dressed rather nicely with contrasting scraggly black hair and a dark tan. He wore a pack around one shoulder. The other was a young woman, not even in her twenties, an assortment of tools and knives covering her.

The darker man squinted, trying to see into the ruins, “Hello... I’m looking for a mercenary.”

“Right in here!” Rat called out before taking a few steps back and slipping into the shadows, the final glint of his eyes smiling at Liam.

Jovial and blithe eyes turned into a cold hard stare, if only for a brief moment as Liam watched Rat scurry away before turning towards the new voice. ”Bit of an odd place and an odd time to be looking for one, but aye, you’ve found one here,” the jestering tone returning.

Candle noticed curiously how Liam had taken on a dangerous stance, an aura she had only seen when she first found him among the Filth. She straightened herself once more, scabbard in hand, and turned to face the newcomers as well.

“Finally,” The man said, an ease of excitement seeping into a tired voice, sharing a brief glance at his partner. He took a step into the chapel and pointed a finger, “You worked for Lauriel, right?”

”And who might be asking?”

“Ratcher,” Jarren answered, letting his blade pop out of the scabbard just enough for the dusky light to bounce off the unusually white steel in a show of color, “All I want to know is where she is.”

Lips turned to spin a lie, but Candle spoke before it could be completed. ”She has returned to the Cycle. It was my fault, I could not save her in time.”

“Cyc- cycle? What are you--” Jarren’s face turned a hue of red as her words sunk in, “You gotta be kiddin’ me!” His voice raised in frustration as he turned to looked helplessly at Kiera, eyes wide as if asking “What now!?”

Keira grimaced at hearing the news, muttering “What are the fucking odds” into her hand while two fingers tapped her forehead in thought.

“We find the person who was going to sell her the map?” she suggested before asking the mercenary “she didn’t happen to have a really old map on her already by any chance?” the odds of him not having looted her corpse where low, they’d done the same to the dead slaver after all. Jarren seemed to flinch at the question, his frustration still clear as day.

Steadfast and resolute, Candle took a moment to appear as if she was thinking about the question before responding. ”Not that I am aware of. What I took from her wagon were construction tools and other small things I could carry in order to restore this church.”

"She died, when," Jarren asked with increasing urgency, "On the way here or back?"

”On the journey here from Illistair.”

"She didn't have it," Jarren said, his voice exasperated and turned to Kiera, "Let's just drop this off with her contact and get the hell out of-"

A sharp point pricked his back and he froze. Rat had somehow left the chapel and gone around silently, his shank dangerously pressing against Jarren's back.

"You have Laurien's side of the deal?" Rat asked calmly.

"I do..." Jarren trailed, "Are you..." Jarren thought back to the journal, "...him?"

Rat glanced over at the onlooking Candle and Liam before taking his blade away from Jarren and leaming close, his whisper just loud enough to hear.

"Keeper of Castle Hope."

"Then we have your package," Jarren gulped, eager to be free of this burden.

“Great,” Rat nearly blinked in surprise, “Where is it.”

Jarren looked at Kieran, a light in his dark eyes betraying his joy at finally being done with it all. He slinked his pack off his shoulder, causing Rat to raise his knife suspiciously.

Candle frowned, finally noticing that Rat had a knife to her guests. She threw a look at Liam who only shrugged before she took a step forward, her sheathed blade held ready in front of her. ”Rat, do not point a blade at those seeking honest answers in this house.”

Rat didn’t seem to pay her much mind, merely whispering “Fair... fair...” His eyes stuck on Jarren’s pack as the man rummaged through it.

“Hang on hang on.” Keira interjected, having recovered, finally, from the rodent named man’s sudden appearance “show us the map first. For all we know you stole the dead ladies diary and learned about this whole deal through it.”

“I-” Both Rat and Jarren seemed caught off guard. Rat narrowed his eyes, “Seems a little coincidental, doesn’t it?”

“Trust me, all of this is,” Jarren defended Kiera’s point, but with a tone begging for semantics rather than moral integrity.

“Teid’s tits, kid,” Rat made a face, “Fine.” His eyes shifted to Liam briefly, “But here?”

“They not friends of yours then?” Keira asked “Odd, seeing as they know you and Lauriel and all.”

“I guess your friend was right about coincidence, but no,” He looked over at the other two, “We aren’t friends.”

”Aw don’t mind him,” Liam interjected. ”Me and the little rodent go way back! A few days back. Back enough to know that I wouldn’t trust him to not shank you in the deep dark of the nights if any of his precious little secrets were uncovered, willingly or no.” The mercenary winked at Ratcher.

”Liam.”

”I was only trying to inform the nice people that whatever they know, they can share with all of us, priestess. For their own safety and what not. Not to mention you’d like to at least show Laury’s dear brother where she rests now right, seeing as how only you ‘n me know where their buried and all? Though I’ve got to say my memory can be a bit shoddy these days. Too much sewer stench,” Liam ended, smirking at Rat.

“Dear Ligdon he still thinks I’m Ratcher,” Jarren said with astonishment and Rat simply broke into a hacking laugh. He cocked his head at Liam.

“Now do you understand my concern?”

“I just want to be done with this,” Jarren said and held his hands up, he looked at Kiera, already prepared to give the bag to Rat, “What about you?”

“You could probably get something out of this other than paying a debt to a dead man. As for me, you know why I’m here.” she suggested to Jarren, before asking the map owner “So, rat, what’s your plan for the map now that your out of heroes to go to the legwork?” she asked.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Rat asked almost sweetly, his hand extended. Jarren seemed to hesitate, something battling behind his eyes.

“At least ask for something in return for traipsing down here with it. Courier fee or something. Also Ratcher was going to buy it not the other way round Rat. Pretty sure you ain't got no plan for what to do with this, even if you do got the map.” Keira argued.

Rat went to speak but was suddenly cut off by Jarren, “Castle Hope.”

Rat nodded with wide sarcastic eyes, “You are a slow lot, aren’t you?”

Jarrens fingers tightened around the bag as he held it shakily, “I don’t want it.”

“But you want to know,” Rat grinned, pushing his hand forward, “No one was buying or selling anything here. The Castle was going to be split between us three.”

“Then give your burden to me Jarren and I’ll handle this. Sides, you really thinking you can do this on your lonesome Rat? Place is probably deep down south and I don’t know about you, but I’ve been down there before and it ain't no walk through central Illistair I’ll tell you that.” Keria said reaching her own hand out towards the conflicted man while the other rested on her hip.

Jarren seemed to snap to attention, a deep frown forming on his face. He all but tossed the bag into Kiera’s hands, “Whatever, I’m done with this.”

“Of course,” Rat whistled sarcastically. Jarren made a face and started to walk out of the chapel before flinching. He turned and pointed at Kiera.

“For your old man’s sake, you should be done with this too.”

Rat shifted his hands towards Kiera, “You’re friend isn’t exactly wrong, you know.”

“You should leave it be too!” Jarren pointed at Rat.

“Which is it gonna be, boy?” Rat twisted his lips into a frown.

“Neither, no one, none of us, this is insanity,” Jarren’s voice cracked. The stressed man shook his head and started to wander off, possibly trying to come to terms with the stressful week he has been having, leaving Kiera alone in the bargain with Rat.

“Are you waiting for a fuckin’ tip?” Rat’s frowned deepened.

“The map. Obviously. Said it already.” Keira responded after receiving the precious bundle. “Wouldn’t want to squander something like this on someone who can't even use it.”

“I’m not giving you the map,” Rat looked shocked.

“Show is fine.” Keira responded. “I have one half of the puzzle, you the other. We work together and we both get the goods. Unless you want me to go find some other old map? Bet their more common than what I've got, at least a little.”

“You’re an idiot,” Rat accused, “But I’m willing to abide by those terms.” Rat seemed to grumble as he loosed his leather bundle from around his shoulder. With a gentle tug of the string, he unrolled the leather. Instantly the old smell of vellum wafted in the open aired chapel, a yellowed map staring right at Kiera... the symbols on the map looking instantly familiar to Candle -- they were on her crown.

“Now show me yours,” Rat narrowed his eyes.

Keira snorted a laugh, then slowly, carefully, unwrapped the old parchment and trying to make sense of what she was looking at compared to what she remembered about the ledger. “Here” she said, flipping it over for a few moments and then turning it back in the hope that he wouldn't memorise the small relevant bit. Rat’s eyes seemed to swim at what glimpses he could get while she moved it around, a stupid grin forming on his face.

Then finally, Candle spoke, her voice clear and resolute, brokering no room for negotiation nor compromise. ”Rat,” she said. ”I will be going with you.”

Liam, who had just been gaping managed to stop the urge of leaving his mouth hanging open about the monumental treasure being so casually spoken before him. ”By Teid’s tits hold on one minute, if you’re all talking about the Castle of Hope, the Castle, mind you, I’m going too.”

Rat stared at the two blankly for a moment. His bright eyes flickered between the two and Kiera, a thought slowly forming in his head. Finally he went to speak --

“I’m coming too!” Jarren rushed back in, his face flustered, as if he had just talked himself into jumping off a cliff. He quickly turned to Kiera, and then closed his mouth.

Rat exhaled and closed his eyes, “Well...” He paused again, “Okay.”

“Then let’s put lay this thing out and work out where on Pertovia we’re going!“ Keria said a touch too excitedly before turning to Candle and asking “there is a table in here right?”

The priestess stared at her, feeling the brief rush of night wind blowing through the nonexistent roof and shattered windows, chilling the young woman in her simple gown. ”Want not for the fallible and fleeting, but need and strive for that which will give you eternal grace.”

“W-What?” Jarren squinted.