What a drunken mongrel... ((Planned to be closed))

[Etheryn]

This is my character's first outing. The quest will aim to give him a basic 'grounding' in Radasanth and 'cause I'm so keen to write I'm gonna go solo for a quick pace. Also, link to my character registration for a bit of background: http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?22894-Dan-James EDIT: Derp copied and posted the draft instead of proper first post.
It was around noon without a cloud in the sky. Radasanth was almost cooking with intense heat and the air was thick with humidity. Had Coronè been moved further north or south from the equator, the capital city could be spared the full roasting of summer's peak. He felt he'd been spoiled during the years at his old port town home, always with the ocean breeze nearby to cool him, and severely missed it.

Sweat patched the underarms and broad shoulders of his plain navy blue long sleeved shirt. He'd rolled it up to the elbow. His olive drab overalls remained dry but didn't breath enough in weather like this. A simple leather pouch hung from Dan's left hip, tied by a braided cord drawstring to an equally simple leather belt. He'd used a half hitch knot, a reliable one from his years spent as a deckhand on a nameless ocean trawler. His brown canvas rucksack was light of possessions and slung over the right shoulder. His shaved head was beaded with sweat, and raw with sunburn. Gotta get me a hat.

Dan never wore hats. With an absent mind he pictured himself chewing tobacco beneath the wide brim of a farmer's hat and laughed internally at the image. Not in a million years. Idle thoughts occupied him as he wandered. He walked aimlessly for another ten minutes and mused. Posters and propaganda caught his eye. The Civil War still raged on.

“Do your bit for the Empire! Bring the fight back to the Red Devils!” was written in bold print on a poster. Dan stopped to read it. There were images of Empire navy unleashing cannons at caricatures of evil looking bowmen, all shored up in the battlements of a dark, wicked looking castle, presumably a take on the Coronè Rangers in Gisela. A wad of recruit applications had nailed been nailed next to the poster. Dan could see most of them had been taken, as there was more torn paper than application slips pinned by the nail. The recruitment drive seemed to be working.

Dan thought about the checkpoint as he entered Radasanth's boundaries. A monstrously built soldier carrying something like an executioner's axe, cried “Halt, bald man! Radasanth is under martial law in these times of war! Declare your name and allegiance before entering the city!”

“Dan James, son of Roland, allegiance only to my empty guts. Please, sir, I take up no faction and no arms.” Dan spoke with confidence despite his non-committal to any cause. He was allowed through after flashing an identification script with his age, physical description and proof of payment. It was stamped with red ink and a flowing cursive signature of an Empire scribe, proof of authenticity. The guard examined it with suspicion, looking it over several times and back to Dan, checking the details matched the person who carried it. Dan continued through the checkpoint, reprimanding himself for lapsing into formal sentence structure. He couldn't help it in front of authority figures, and in hindsight thought he sounded stupid speaking like that while wearing worker's clothing. It made him seem a little false.

Dan had been wandering the countryside since leaving his sheltered port town home of Baitman's Bay, at the mouth of the Bradbury River before the war began. He knew home would be under martial law and occupied by the Empire’s navy because of its tactical proximity to the river mouth, an access point to the rest of Yarborough and Gisela. Dan hadn’t gone back, and hadn’t remained in one place for longer than he could hold down a temporary job. The longest stay had been three months. He’d been made aware of the Civil War in his travels yet been smart enough to avoid fighting, steering clear of hotspots as they flared up. Still, he'd seen convoys of wounded military, corpses lumped on carts, and plenty more stories.

The poster stirred a memory of his journey to Radasanth by sea, on the decks of a cargo ship from the south eastern peninsula and north along the western coast. He remembered a sprightly woodlands elf who was violently ill despite the smooth waters. The elf tried to choke out tales of the battles between Empire navy and rebel Rangers along the Bradbury River, unable to get more than a sentence out before throwing up again. The memory of him acting out combat scenes with his hands, mimicking feints and parries and sword strikes, only to suddenly stop and hang his head over the bow and hurl, always made Dan laugh.

A rising noise woke Dan from his waking dream. He followed it until surrounded by the din of an impromptu trade square. Comparable to a locust swarm in a closet, there were far too many people occupying the space. The claustrophia of hundreds of other bodies was something new to Dan. Dried straw and hay spread over the red earth and dust acted as makeshift flooring. There was a distant smell of wood smoke and charred meat, which reminded Dan how hungry he was. He changed his mind when his nose registered the stagnant mix of body odour, heavy in the humid air.

The trading ground amounted to a square maybe a hundred feet on either side. It wasn't an area zoned for merchants, just an empty block of land between back alleys and taverns that become a hub for local sellers through word of mouth. It was like the space should have been occupied by another building but construction never started. Temporary store fronts, stacked timber shelving, trade wagons and caravans were packed in with no particular order. Some didn't bother and stood with their wares laid atop throw rugs on the dirt.

Hundreds of voices created a soundscape of white noise, punctuated by the sharp barks of traders hawking their wares and competing with one another for attention. Dan shouldered his way through the crowd. As he walked his nose was tickled by the different smells. Each stall he passed was different. Grease and iron as he passed a blades peddler. Fresh bread and garlic near the food stands. An almost stinging smell of some foreign vegetable caused him to cough a little.

Just as he wondered where it came from Dan was startled by a shout coming from the immediate left. He looked with a quick flinch and saw a spice vendor standing atop a wooden crate as if it were an orator's podium, dressed in a flowing black robe and face-covering maroon cloth. He was shaking an open jar of crushed vegetables (Dan assumed chilli from the smell) and pointing with his other hand at a rival salesman opposite him on the crowd's far side. Dan was standing relatively close and stinging red flakes fell on his head and neck, mingled with the sweat of his brow, and caused his skin and eyes to burn. Definitely time to get a hat. Insults flew in a foreign language from the furious trader until he lapsed to common tongue. "I'll shove my foot so far up your --"

The spice vendor was cut short. The sea of people parted somewhat and two armoured guardsmen took him under both arms and carried him from his crate. Dan needed to speak to someone from the guard but he knew now wasn't the time. There would be more around.

"We tell you almost every day. If you keep screaming at everyone..." His voice was calm, almost apathetic. The guardsman's reprimand faded from earshot as Dan continued walking. He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand and continually examined his surroundings, on the lookout for other crazies ready to dump something else on his head. The chilli started to really pain him. Dan shaved his entire head early in the morning as part of daily routine and the razor had dulled enough to make the skin chafe. Spices weren't the best soother.

"Young man! I say you, young man! You have a special lady in your life, hmmm?"

Dan looked about for the source of the voice. Of course, he'd been singled out by another black robed salesman with a maroon head cloth, somehow crooked in both posture and presentation in comparison to the spice vendor. The man had slouched shoulders and a distinct hump back. He waved a wrinkled, clawed hand over a neatly lined row of jars containing yet more herbs and colourful powders.

"Man, I've already had enough spices." Dan spoke with exasperation. The shady figure didn't hear him over the background noise. Dan's throat was dry and he wasn't interested in shouting over the crowd. Instead, he pointed with his right index finger to the spice vendor struggling against the guardsmen who dragged him away. It was almost funny.

"I sell no spice for cooking, young man. Only for the bedroom... if you get my drift." The seedy old man flashed a butter yellow grin. He put his friend hand in a pocket and poked a phallic looking length of polished timber through a gap in the folds of his robes down near the waistline. Dan cringed. The salesman laughed, then started coughing uncontrollably. Must be old. Dan could see only his beady, recessed eyes and veins accented with liver spots all over his forehead.

Disgusted in the old man's perverted demeanour, Dan turned away and continued pressing through the crowd. He suddenly decided that he didn't like this place, based on the strange behaviour of the two men he'd just met. He thought about turning around and leaving, for some reason expecting the rest of the people to be equally as weird. The bustling city and its varied characters, especially the most recent shining examples, were something new enough to make Dan feel uncomfortable.

Still, there had to be someone here who could point him in the right direction. Tired of being accosted with the same cliché sales pitch, he started pointing at traders to get their attention and shouted despite his sore throat. "Guard station? Where?"

He was met with blank looks until a stocky, heavily muscled dwarven blades dealer sitting behind a timber display bench replied. Dan realised he'd made a full loop as he recognised a recent, familiar smell of grease and iron.

"Why the hell ye wanna go there boy-o?"

The dwarf looked up through bushy red eyebrows and a thicker red beard with complex braids. His dull eyes, an odd grey blue shade, narrowed to slits as if the question was also a challenge. Dan was instantly wary. The dwarf wore a thick, black leather vest, studded with polished steel and strapped like armour. He idly tossed a wicked looking knife with long tooth like serrations using a single hand. He caught it each time without looking, massive knuckles stretching beneath his calloused skin. It looked designed for pain and nothing else.

"Mate, it's a boring story. Can you just point me in the right direction?" Dan stood straight and showed no nervousness but didn't stare back with a challenge of his own. The dwarf remained stone faced.

"I'll even shout you an ale one day. Scout's honour." Dan cracked a smile and tried to sound friendly but tension wavered in his voice. He had no desire to fight and hoped his good nature would win the dwarf over.

The dwarf burst out with deep laughter like the short standoff was never more than play between friends. He clapped his great hand down on the bench. Steel and expensive looking weaponry rattled with the impact.

"Ha! Ye have bronze balls, lad, castin' yer stereotype on an angry lookin' dwarf with more swords than teeth!" The dwarf's chuckled through the sentence and he smiled. He was indeed missing a few front teeth, enough for a partial lisp, but still spoke with a clear and sharp highlander's accent.

"Keep walking east through here." The dwarf pointed over his shoulder to a winding walkway out of the square. Any narrower and Dan would have to turn sideways to fit. "Come to a cobbled alley, turn left and walk straight. Arrive at the a main road. Turn right and just keep walking till ye see the Old Horn Tavern. Can't miss it, boy. Guard house is opposite. By chance ye find me inside Old Horn I'll expect ye to honour yer bargain!"

"Thanks." Dan nodded and turned his head slightly to emphasise a wink. Dan took a half step away before the dwarf spoke again, resuming his grim poker face.

"The guards ain't straight 'round here, boy-o. Not this garrison. Best watch yourself. Yer greener than an elf's leafy undies." The dwarf flashed a toothless rogue's grin and returned a wink of his own.

Dan took the opportunity when a path opened in the crowd. He stepped out of the trade square with a breath of relief. The sea of people in such a tight space was making him claustrophobic and he welcomed fresh air. He continued on, thinking that if someone walked from the opposite direction one of them would have to submit and turn back. Who designed this place anyway? The pedestrian traffic was ridiculous.

Eventually, Dan came to the arterial road the dwarf mentioned. He walked onwards, taking in the place around him, ignoring the traders shouting their advertisements. The cobbled road spanned no more than twenty feet, enough space the two opposing columns of horse-drawn wagons. The signs of wear from heavy traffic were apparent. Pot holes caused the wagons to bounce and tip suddenly.

Dan was amazed people actually lived in this busy street, despite all the commerce and crushing lack of room. It seemed like it could never be quiet. Dan saw housemaids hanging washing from small overhead balconies. Some had iron railings, wrought into a complex patterns as a sign of wealth. Some were bits of scrap timber nailed together. There wasn't enough room to segregate the haves and have-nots in times of war. They all lived close by in this area. Dan saw a woman dressed in an expensive looking silk day gown, dyed peach and orange, passing bread and milk to a neighbouring young mother dressed in patchy rags with a sleeping newborn on her hip. The sight elevated his spirit.

Despite being on his way to a guard house Dan hadn't seen any on patrol, bar the two dealing with the friendly spice man. Strange, as declared martial law and congested population in this particular area would almost necessitate a strong presence. Dan passed a smithy, a fruit shop, a tailor and a dingy mystic's store before seeing the guard house and Old Horn Tavern. Described in simple terms, the structure looked like a great big cube around sixty feet high and the same across. Dan didn't take much notice of Old Horn Tavern and set a beeline for the garrison front door.

The door was solid oak with a knurled iron knocking bell, set into a plain, white granite facade. Three levels were spanned by retractable, collapsing timber step ladder from street level to an upper rampart that wrapped around all four sides of the building. It seemed intended to be a vantage point for a guard to survey the streets. The ladder would allow them to climb down from the top to street level if quick response was needed, and when not in use could be drawn up to prevent anyone from climbing it from ground level. It was currently folded away on the top floor There were no windows, only slits that would allow an archer to loose arrows from inside while protected from the outside. Glass wasn't practical in a building meant to be a mini fortress. It was the only standalone building in the street, with all of its sides given plenty of space. It looked formidable.

Dan could hear a metallic clinking followed by a sudden crash of impact and then cheering. He looked up and saw a man in full plate mail stagger about the top floor balcony waving his crested shield to the street. His helmet, plumed with a colourful red feather, was on worn backwards and obscured the guard's sight. Dan saw the faceplate exposing the rear of his head. It was shaved clean just like Dan's. The guard raised his hands and cheered again, clearly the winner of some violent game played inside. He basked in applause from an imaginary crowd.

Dan rapped heavily on the door and waited. People in the street eyed him off quizzically as if he'd forgot to put pants on today.

No response. He knocked again, harder this time. The door was thick and it seemed the sound didn't carry all the way upstairs. It was being drowned out by the sound of plate mail being hit hard with something made of wood, more cheers and the crunch of breaking glass. Sounds like they're having fun up there. Frustrated, Dan took a step back and craned his head upwards. He cupped his hands about his mouth and shouted. "Oi! There's someone down here!"

Another guard, this one with his helm on straight, stumbled out to the balcony to see who called. He leaned down over the railing to confirm as if he couldn't make out faces from that high up. Dan pressed his ear to the door and heard the guard's rattling armour as he descended what sounded like a metal staircase. The noise grew closer as the guard approached the door then it stopped for a few long moments. He is so hoping I'll get bored and go away.

Dan gave a mighty thumping with the base of his closed, heavy fist. He almost fell forwards mid-knock as the guard ripped the door open swiftly and grunted "What?" The guard swayed unsteadily. His plated armour, marked on the breastplate's right side with a feather and sword crossed on a scarlet background motif, was well maintained in contrast to his unkempt appearance. The guard raised one hand, armoured yet with fingers exposed to maintain a level of dexterity, to his rounded chin. He rubbed his stubble as if turning the key to start his brain. He was middle aged with empty grey eyes and pale skin. His shock of blond hair was plastered with sweat, and a glassy redness to the eyes proved he was either very tired or very drunk. Something about his features suggested the guard came from a cold, northern land and had seen plenty of combat.

"Uh, sir. Sorry to interrupt." Dan wasn't sure how to address a guardsman, or how their ranking system worked. 'Sir' seemed formal enough. "I was hoping one of you could spare some time to help me find someone."

The guard furrowed his brow, clearly annoyed. “That's Sergeant to you. I’ve got better things to do then reunite lost runts with their mama. Get lost." He smirked, satisfied with the dismissal. Dan could practically taste the liquor on his breath. The guard rolled his shoulder forwards and pushed hard on the door with one hand in attempt to slam it shut.

Without thinking, Dan leaned forward and pressed his left hand on the door and locked in at the elbow, shifting his weight forward and simultaneously wedging his steel toed brown work boot at the door's base. Dan's body weight was like a doorstop and he was strong enough to hold it still with little effort. The guard became incensed and Dan became acutely aware of the long sword at his hip. Aware of his own footing and balance from years on rough seas, Dan realised he'd overbalanced and could easily be dragged forward and to the ground.

"I said get lost! Do NOT make me drag you back in here with me, boy!" The Sergeant almost snarled and spittle flecked Dan's face.

Dan realised his persistence had struck a belligerent nerve and he was at very real risk of being arrested or hurt. On a false pretence, sure, but it was very likely. He let the Sergeant slam the door and it rattled in its frame. Onlookers examined him from a distance as if he was truly insane, not just absent of trousers. Shortly after the cheerful shouts and jingle of armour resumed.

Dan paused in thought. On his first day in Radasanth he successfully made enemies with the local garrison of the Coronè Armed Forces. Green as an elf's leafy undies indeed.

"You have got to be kidding me... People are paid to be that stupid? And given a blade?" Dan spoke to himself out loud as he walked away, hoping someone who saw would chime in and agree. People heard him and looked to the ground without saying a word.

The dwarf was absolutely right. The guards ain't straight 'round here and the people are scared.

Unsure of his next step, Dan wandered across to Old Horn Tavern. He needed a quiet drink and thought back to his eighteenth birthday when he carried his father's pouch and a little glass bottle to a very similar place. He looked down at it, loosened the drawstring, and made sure it was empty of absolutely everything.

Bad things could happen if it wasn't.

Quickly shaking the memory, Dan stepped inside hoping to find someone who could impart a little local knowledge and give him a steer in the right direction. The young newcomer to Radasanth stood tall and surveying the patrons seated at the bar. He didn't challenge or attempt to impress, only wordlessly acknowledge their presence.

Dan nodded to the barkeep, a middle aged man in wearing an apron, short sleeved dress shirt and slacks. It was all of one faded blue colour. The barkeep was overweight, with a belly that pressed out on his apron and stretched it tight. His short, grey hair receded back to expose the front half of his scalp.

Dan looked around, still standing near the doorway as if he hadn't committed to staying. The tavern reminded him of a lumberjack's quarters, all dark timber and carved furniture arranged in no particular order. Anyone who wanted to walk from one side of the tabled area to the other would have to walk in an irregular zigzag.

A red brick fireplace, six feet across and a chimney half that width was set in the wall. It was stocked with split timber for the cold evening. It seemed that hot days mean colder nights in equatorial Radasanth. A single great horn of an unknown and likely vicious animal was set on display above it. The Old Horn Tavern's namesake was at least six feet long and a foot in diameter at the base. There were deep, dark stains around the tip that ran down into thin lines along the entire length and formed something of a ring at the base. Old, dried blood. It looked like the horn gored some poor victim, then held its kill up to drain it.

It was a lot dimmer and cooler inside. Dan was thankful and surprised more people hadn't come in to escape the heat. It was fairly empty, with only a few quiet patrons and a single dwarf reading from parchment at the bar.

In general, Old Horn Tavern exuded a simple charm. He felt reminded of his old port town through the familiar smell of varnished timber floorboards and what appeared to be handmade furniture, apparent through its lack of symmetry and uniformity.

Dan pulled up a stool at the bar, leaned in on both elbows and signalled the barkeep with a quick eye contact and genuine smile. "G'day, sir. Nice place you got here."

"G'day yourself. What'll it be?" The barkeep reached down without looking to retrieve a clean glass.

"House ale for me."

A familiar, deep basso laughter and a booming slap on the bar caught Dan's attention. The blades dealer was sitting on Dan's far left. Dan hadn't noticed him as he entered, the dwarf's distinct red beard was almost buried in the parchment. The dwarf rolled up his scroll and shifted on his stool. His boots dangled above the floor and despite his stockiness and gruff features, the stool made him look like a child in a high seat.

"Ha! Who woulda thought to find ye so soon! Hope yer promises ain't soon forgotten."

"Ale for the good dwarf it is. I do like my blood on the inside." Dan's reference to the dwarf's mock standoff was lost on the barkeep.

The drinks were poured, Dan handed over coin, and both raised their glasses of black ale as if they'd celebrating the close of a deal. They drank deeply and the house brew had an almost citrus aftertaste, uncommon to black liquor, which Dan's parched throat welcomed. The dwarf emptied it his glass in one pull. Dan set his down only half finished.

The dwarf belched. Setting the glass aside, he leaned on an elbow and adjusted himself on the stool a second time to face Dan front on. "Tell me, boy-o. What brings ye here? The war has Radasanth high strung."

"Like I said, an uninteresting story. Just looking for someone I haven't seen in a long time." Dan smiled and nodded slightly, looking back to his drink, as if confirming to himself that the dwarf was just being polite. Dan's true motivation to coming for the city would sound insane to anyone but himself and so he kept things simple.

The dwarf leaned forward a little and lowered his voice, as if divulging a secret. "Fair enough. Though I did heard yer little affray 'cross the road, lad. Left the square not long after ye and walked behind. Ye don't know the guards. Truly, this detachment of Coronè's Armed Forces is master to its own will, ain't it just?" The dwarf slightly raised his eyebrows in a matter-of-fact way, before resuming a plain and neutral expression.

Dan sighed and shook his head. "I'm not one to comment. We all have bad days. The Sergeant I met, though, sheesh... He coulda taken my head off."

"Ye'll learn not to cross him. Find ye anything of this man ye seek?" A second question about Dan's intentions, this one perhaps out of genuine interest than politeness.

"Nothing yet. Far as I know he's one of the guards himself." Dan emptied the rest of his glass and pushed it aside. The barkeep took it and put it beneath the bar table he'd been polishing absent minded, doing his best impression of boredom. Dan saw through the feigned lack of interest. The guard house was close by and naturally they were Old Horn patrons. It was good business to be cautious of anyone who was involved with the CAF guards, friendly or not.

“Keep yer reasons private and think 'bout what ye say before ye name the mark, boy. I got no interest in taking sides in this bloody grudge ‘tween Empire and Rangers. Bad things happen.” The dwarf's voice was subdued and his expression grave with warning.

"Advice well taken." Dan broke eye contact with the dwarf and looked over his shoulder and past Old Horn's Texas western saloon style doors to see a portion of the guard house. "What's their malfunction?"

Repeating the same caution, the dwarf paused to ensure none of the local ranks could be within earshot. He lowered his tone further. "They're soldiers of the war, boy. Many of them jaded by years of battle. Pity 'em not. They live for it. Glory 'n all. The thrill of lost puppies and juvenile shoplifters, all that civil police responsibility, it just don't compare. Aye, to drown the boredom yer friendly guards turns to drink."

"Why are soldiers responsible for this kind of civil guard duty?" Dan's tone suggested he was confused and knew little of the order of things in Radasanth, be it military or civilian.

"They're the Empire's strong arm but the only one they have. They're trained for combat, not problem solving and civil mediation. These men didn't learn how to order society. The previous garrison of civil police got massacred by covert night raids from the Rangers on some botched mission. Empire brought in CAF combat hardened veterans to replace 'em and fortified the guard house."

The dwarf's story explained the noises Dan heard as he stood at the guardhouse door and why he'd not seen any guardsmen on patrol in the streets, despite the looming threat of war and declared martial law. The crashing of metal and cheering from the top floor of the guard house. The Sergeant's aggression at being interrupted from whatever he was doing. All of the guards were upstairs playing Fight Club, and completely ignoring their duty to monitor the streets. Seemed Dan had upset Tyler Durden.

The dwarf paused, and made the implication with a brief flick of his eyes towards the barkeep. Best keep his tongue wet or he'll stop talking. "Second ale for the dwarf. My coin."

The barkeep readied a second glass. He pulled just the right amount of head on the black, thick ale and slid it to the dwarf who raised it again in thanks and promptly inhaled the contents. The glass was emptied and returned before the foam could settle. The barkeep tilted his head towards Dan, wordlessly asking "Do you want a second?"

"Brew's quite a fine one but if it's all the same I'll have cold water. The dwarf here is like to drink me under the table if I try match pace." Dan knew his pockets were starved of coin and he couldn’t afford to keep drinking.

"Suit yourself." Dan slid over some coins for the drinks so far and the barkeep dropped them in the front pocket of his dull blue canvas apron. Only then did Dan notice the barkeep's apron, shirt and slacks were a single item of clothing. It was like a one piece suit with a knee length, pocketed flap beginning at the mid chest and ending at the knees to act as an apron. It was only held on by three evenly spaced buttons.

The barkeep filled a pitcher with ice water and a slice of a green and brown spotted fruit that Dan didn't recognise. He poured a glass from the pitcher and sipped, considering the distinct aftertaste. It was a strange mix of menthol and sugar.

"Cheers to ye. Now, as I was tellin'..." The dwarf hushed himself again. "The current garrison were recalled from active duty on the borders in case of further attacks. Before they'd closed half the trip home the Ranger group thought responsible got carved up, or lost interest in the area and left Radasanth. I dunno which. All I know is CAF command left soldiers here in case they come back, but they never did."

"Precautionary measures? Why hasn't anyone said something about the guard?"

"Aye. Local citizens are just too scared to report the misconduct to CAF management. Easier to toe the line and keep livin' as usual. You see their temper, boy-o. Got ye close to feelin' it too, hadn't ye been daft enough to press your point. Can't tar the lot with the same brush though. Two of 'em are good men. Ye woulda saw 'em today in the tradin' post." The dwarf nodded a few times as he spoke, confirming the story to hiimself.

"Wrestling that spice man in the black robes, yeah?" Dan's scalp still burned. "Bastard got haphazard and dropped some real fire on my head."

"Aye. Bart and Kerrigan are good men and got their heads on straighter 'n most."

"Reckon they'd lend me a hand?"

"Perhaps if ye were useful to 'em. They're not part of the circle 'n they'll suffer the same wrath you almost did today should they stick their necks out too far. Think they're just gonna stay low 'till CAF management organises a redeployment."

Dan finished his glass. There was some potential in this information. He didn't quite know what he'd do with it, but it was valuable.

"If I talk to them, who was it that sent me?" Dan left his stool, stepped over with an open stance and extended his right hand to the dwarf. Dan's years of labour gave him a calloused, powerful grip. The dwarf met it equally with a mighty vice of a handshake and considered the new face he'd met. The dwarf wasn't sure what to make of Dan, but gave him the benefit of the doubt and pegged him as trustworthy.

"Alfonse, boy-o. I'll not ask yer name in return. Odds are I'll hear it about the town soon enough. Just keep yer head down if you want to keep it at all."

[Etheryn]

Dan entered his room for the night in the upstairs quarters of Old Horn Tavern. He closed the door behind him and twisted the knob twice to ensure he’d locked it properly. He carried a pail of hot water for a stand up bath and set it down on the cold floorboards before regarding the furnishings. In the far right corner stood a simple timber desk with a three legged stool tucked beneath it and an empty shelf above with three lit wax candles. Dan was thankful for whoever put them there as there was no window to let in light from outside. Some sweat yellowed blankets were folded beneath a lumpy white pillow, set atop what looked like a stretcher for the wounded. It was a wooden frame with canvass stretched between the perimeter and collapsing foldaway legs at both ends that formed a cross shape when extended. It somehow looked too small to be comfortable.

The room wasn’t tiny but certainly not spacious. Dan crossed its span with half a dozen steps, pulled out the stool, and sat down heavily. He took off his boots and socks before massaging the balls of his feet, sore with walking and work. He’d paid for the room in labour to the hefty barkeep he’d met that afternoon and he was dead tired. Dan spent close to four hours in the backrooms starting at 6pm, lifting and rolling heavy ale barrels, scrubbing floors and walls, shifting old cabinets and furniture, and fixing the pulley on a barrel lifting rig. Dan’s pockets thanked him for it; he had only two hundred coins and the barkeep wanted a quarter of them for the night. The war drove prices up and a free alternative was better.

Dan mused to himself. The day had been interesting and he mulled over what he’d learned from Alfonse. It changed his plans somewhat and made him consider the original reason for coming to Radasanth. Dan thought finding Aaron would be as simple as walking to a guard house and asking for his brother’s place of duty. Instead, he was very nearly taken in by the violent, drunk Sergeant Errik for simply holding a door open.

The internal monologue began.

Be careful about what you're getting into... This is new stuff for you. Don't dive in if you can't swim.

Dan recalled Alfonse’s mention of the previous garrison being slaughtered by Coronè Rangers who were caught during a botched covert mission and fought to escape. Dan knew little and wasn't Dan wasn’t sympathetic to either faction. With stakes like that and nothing to spurring him to take sides, he felt it would be silly to involve himself. He almost forgot for a moment why he'd come. Something's made Aaron take a side. Something would have happened. Dan pictured Aaron in a suit of armour, locked in mortal combat with the devilish cartoon men from the recruitment poster he'd seen about the city.

I may as well do something. I’m already here. I owe it to him, I’ll make it even, ‘cause I’m one of the good guys…

Dan’s thought trailed off to another mental image of Aaron, riding home to Baitman's Bay. Proud in his suit of armour, commendations and accolades to tell his mother and little brother about. Finding mother cold and dead inside with all the windows blown out and Dan nowhere in sight to explain it. The deckhands from Ross' trawler would’ve demanded answers. Dan always saw himself as an honest, straight forward man and people knew him for it. He felt guilty at that particularly uncommon display of cowardice, at abandoning his responsibility. It was a contradiction to what people said to him about his good nature. His actions that day were like a stain. He repeated the words in his head, this time a question, not a statement.

I'm one of the good guys?

In the shadow of his guilt about running from home and abandoning his accountability to Aaron, Dan felt like he was lying to himself. He'd always firmly believed he knew his own character, and that his character was one of the "good guys," but lost in the mire of his thoughts, he encountered real doubt.

He wasn't even sure he knew what it was, when he considered the "good guy" dilemma. Did it mean he was supposed to be selfless? Altruistic?

Dan thought about how a “good guy” is usually characterised by their desire to do good things for others by "giving." By donating their time, effort, knowledge, money, food, love, anything. The “good guy” gives freely of himself and feels all warm and fuzzy. By the act of giving, he's rewarding himself, the deed its own satisfaction. He's gaining something by giving away, and that is the true contradiction to altruism. Altruism is something that most people just aren't capable of. Even further, some people give because they want more in return. It can be seen early in the naivety of youth. A child shares a toy with their playmate because they want that child to share two in return, all the while being seen praised for "giving." It can be seen in adults who volunteer to work extra hours one day so they can slack off twice as much the next shift.

That was the only kind of "good guy" Dan could see himself as right now. He became hung upon the idea that because he wasn't truly selfless, all the good things he'd done were motivated by a level of greed and he'd just lied to himself about it. It was like a candle and shadow. No light without dark. For some reason, he briefly felt incomplete about not being able to obtain that true selflessness. Dan shook his head and combed over his face with his palm as if wiping away the negative thoughts. He tended to get like this whenever he thought of his secret shame about leaving home. He would ignore the positives in his life and the things around him, only to focus on the negatives as if it was all he deserved. He paused for a moment, considering the oiliness of his skin and sandpaper texture to his solid jawline. A bath and shave would be good.

You're better than most. You don't cheat, you don't steal, you don't hurt people. You do more good than bad. You're better than the bastard you came across today. Get some perspective man. If no one ever got something given back to them, they'd run out of things to give in the first place. There's nothing wrong with 'what goes around comes around' as long as you're sending around the good stuff.

Dan continued to ponder possibilities, this time something that was directly relevant to what was happening now. Nothing suggested Aaron is or was attached to this particular garrison or is in Radasanth at all. He’d joined eleven years ago, and as far as Dan knew could be deployed anywhere in Coronè. Dan never knew his role. Aaron didn’t speak of it when he came home. He could be infantry, cavalier, gunner, anything. He could be stuck away in a non-combat office job or out of the CAF entirely. There were too many open ends.

I need to get personnel records. Find out where he served and where he’s gone since.

Radasanth and the CAF were both too big and too tight lipped to Dan to consider finding him any other way. He knew that even if information was available through word of mouth it may not be reliable. Personnel records would be accurate.

But how?

Dan amused himself by picturing a few silly scenarios, such as himself wearing a burglar’s hood and climbing into the guardhouse at midnight, tiptoeing around sleeping guards and rummaging through documents until he found the staff register. He saw himself taking a recruitment slip, joining the CAF, donning a set of armour and flipping through files while his unit commander wasn’t looking. Dan tamed his imagination and tried to focus on something that wasn’t suicide.

Alfonse vouched for the integrity of Bart and Kerrigan, the two guards Dan saw in a struggle with an over-competitive and loudly offensive spice vendor in the bustling trade square. At this point they were Dan’s first and only point of call. Nothing promised they wouldn’t be suspicious of Dan and keep quiet. They may be as instantly dismissive as Sergeant Errik for all he knew but hopefully not as savage.

All I can do is try ‘em and see.

Dan got undressed and scrubbed away the day’s dirt and sweat with the hot water from the pail, an old washcloth from his rucksack and some soap he found behind the lit candles. He brushed his teeth and gargled a minty rinse. He shaved without a mirror, face scratching under the dull razor, wiped a small cut with the wet wash cloth then hung it over the desk to dry. Something made him bring the razor to bed, eying the edge as he dragged it over his thumbnail to test the sharpness, before folding it away beneath the pillow. Radasanth seemed dangerous to Dan in comparison with his years in the country. He decided to see Alfonse about a blade and look for Bart and Kerrigan at the trade square first thing after breakfast. Dan slept dreamlessly and the candles burned out.

A bellowing shout woke him within a few hours. The sound of timber impacting upon timber and breaking into pieces followed shortly. The noise came from downstairs, definitely within Old Horn Tavern. Dan rubbed at his eyes blearily and his first assumption was correct. He recognised the slurring aggression of Sergeant Errik’s voice. Dan mumbled in annoyance, rolled over and listened with no plans to leave bed. He was safe here and it was none of his business. There were others voice but too quiet to be made out over Errik’s almost animalistic snarls. The long ‘ssschik’ of an unsheathed blade brought tense silence.

“I’vva bled out mongrels jus’ like ya, ya spineless dog… Stacked ya five high like it was nothin’. You gonn’ – hicc, hicc – think ‘bout that? Huh? Think, yer guts on the floor…” Dan heard a foreboding thud of slow, delibrate footsteps, accompanied by the distinct sound of moving armour. Sergeant Errik advanced on some nameless soul, probably terrified and staring down the business end of a sword.

“P-p-please, sir… sir… I, I, I didn’t mean t-t-to s-spill your drink… I’ll buy you another, I’ll buy you another! Just leave me be!” The poor, stuttering voice sounded like it would soon burst into tears. Dan pictured Sergeant Errik bearing down on a small defenceless figure with knees shaking and quivering upper lip, his sword raised to strike and a cruel grin showing. Dan realised the situation and pulled away his blankets. He sat up and swung both legs onto the cold, dusty floor, unsure if he should do anything else. He stood, unlocked the door, pushed it slightly ajar and listened.

“Errik, mate, ease up! Ease up!” There was a second set of armour moving about. Dan didn't know the voice's owner but figured it was another guard.

“Suggest ya step right back there, girly-man… Would jus’ hate yer firsht taste of combat t’ be comin’ now, wouldn’t ya?” Erik’s words were minced as if he’d drank the entire tavern dry. The sound of jingling chain and a scrape on the floor suggested Errik turned to face whoever was trying to calm him, and dragged his sword tip in some kind of warning, menacing gesture.

“I’m tellin’ you now, man, you’ve got too much drink in your gut and you’re gonna regret this in the morning. I’m tellin’ you, ease up! He’s done nothing wrong!” The nameless voice hardened significantly, not one bit intimidated by the threat.

There was a pause, then silence, then quick padding footsteps and the swinging rattle of the Old Horn’s saloon doors being flung open. Whoever spilled Sergeant Errik’s drink sprinted out when the opportunity presented itself and continued on. Dan heard the patter of quick footsteps on the cobbled street slowly fading. Sergeant Errik burst out laughing, interrupted by involuntary hiccups and burps. Another ‘ssshick’ as the sword returned to the sheath, a second forceful shove to the saloon doors, and Errik clunked away. Dan closed the door and fell back to a deep sleep.

He dressed, slung his rucksack over the shoulder and navigated the rickety wooden steps downstairs, locking the door behind him and idly twirling the key ring on his index finger. He planned to ask the barkeep for more work in exchange for food and another night’s stay. There was a pile of broken wood near the fire pit and the closest table had only two chairs. The rest had three. Dan looked around and saw an impact point almost directly above the front doors, where the varnish coated timber had splintered open. Seems Sergeant Errik has a strong throwing arm. The barkeep already had a steaming plate of fried egg, warm bread and cheese waiting for Dan. The barkeep was wearing the same clothes and standing in the same place Dan last saw him, as if he’d never left through the night.

“Food’s free. You did a good job yesterday. Been tryin’ to fix that pulley for ages.”

The smell of hot food hooked Dan by the nostrils and dragged him wordlessly to the seat. He devoured it, only pausing to say “fankshh” between mouthfuls. Dan raised the room key on his index finger and offered it to the barkeep without looking, eyes still focused on the plate, mopping it with bread in his other hand. Dan held it out long enough for him to finish cleaning up the last bits of egg yolk. Dan stopped and looked up at the barkeep, still chewing a last mouthful of bread. The barkeep who replied with a shake of his head. Dan swallowed, pocketed the key in the front of his overalls, and wiped his face with a napkin.

“Got more work for you if you want to stay another night.”

“Thanks for the offer. Name’s Dan.” He stood, surprised with the barkeep’s hospitality to a stranger, and extended his right hand as he did with Alfonse. It was an ambiguous way to say “Yes,” but the barkeep understood. He met Dan’s grip and shook hands.

“Purvis. Come back after two. Guards ‘cross the road will be done by then.” Purvis stepped out from behind the bar and rearranged a few bits of furniture, walked over to the splintered wood above the saloon doors and poked his finger at the damage. “No promises the place will be standing by then.” Dan gave a quiet, ironic laugh that finished with a you're-probably-right sigh. He pushed open one of the saloon doors and stepped through, standing for a moment and to consider the squat white cube of a guard house opposite him, picturing the men inside lying about on the floor snoring through their hangovers.

It was mid-morning and much cooler than yesterday. The sky was overcast but didn’t threaten rain, and the clouds rolled gently with a southerly breeze coming from the Jagged Mountains to the north. Dan welcomed it and looked himself over. Dried sweat from yesterday stained his clothes. They needed a wash. He leaned down and bloused the bottom of his overalls into the top of his work boots, the only thing he could do to make himself more presentable, and then set off to the trading square to find Alfonse, Bart and Kerrigan.

The street was populated but commercial rush hour hadn’t started yet. The sound of horseshoe on cobble stone reminded him of yesterday’s pace and Dan saw traders from the dusty red square drawing their wagons and caravans to set up for the day. Many of the balcony windows overhead were drawn close with wooden blinds, patterned cloth curtains or old rags. Strange. People in Radasanth must like sleeping in. Again, there was not a single guard in sight.

Dan recalled Alfonse’s directions in reverse with no chittering noise from the trade post to guide him. One wrong turn in the unfamiliar streets caused him to double back and he eventually walked through that winding, too-narrow walkway to the square. Most of the vendors had already set up in different spots and order to yesterday but hadn’t a crowd to warrant barking at. People idled past. Dan spotted Alfonse up on his tiptoes hauling down heavy looking boxes of what appeared to be black powder from the back of a horse-drawn cart. Dan approached him. Alfonse gave first greetings.

“Good mornin’ to ye, boy-o! Would ya lend a hand? Must say, ehh, I’m a bit sore and sorry.” Alfonse beamed up at Dan through glassy, bloodshot eyes. The parts of his cheeks which weren’t covered by thick red beard were a similar colour, flushed pink by last night’s efforts. He seemed like the dwarf to sink twice the ale any mortal man could. He was surprisingly merry, despite very likely having an intense headache, as if he was proud of his ability to tolerate the hangover.

Dan asked, “Why so much of this? You gonna blow up the next person who doesn’t buy you a drink?” Dan joined in moving the boxes of lack powder. Alfonse didn’t respond until they’d emptied the cart completely. He threw an old sheet over the boxes with ‘DANGEROUS GOODS’ printed in warning. The cart wheeled off slowly, drawn by an old donkey and a driver cloaked in a black hood, short and stocky enough to be another dwarf.

“Got my fingers in many pies, I do. I’m the middle-man supplier for mining crews under the Relvest barony. If I ain’t around where people know I’ll be I’m gonna lose business. So, they meet me here to get sappin’ powder on their way out to the Jagged Mountains.”

"What's the Relvest barony?" Dan asked, trying to remedy his ignorance of Radasanth's government and social structure.

"Ye daft? They're basically the commercial glue for Radasanthia. Control the mining industry 'round here. Current Baroness is Paige Relvest, though ye'd lose yer head for callin' her by her first name."

Dan nodded and looked back to the black powder. "Mind if I take a pinch? Would be good for a camp fire."

“Sure thing, boy-o.” Alfonse wrapped up a spoonful of the blasting powder in a square of torn white cloth and tied it off with string. Dan pocketed it in his overalls making absolutely sure his father’s pouch couldn’t have caught even a single grain. If something caused his ‘potential’ to activate while standing next to fifty more pounds of the same blasting powder and he had some in his father’s pouch the result would be... Dan didn't think about it.

Alfonse continued about arranging his wares and unravelled a folded towel full of wicked knives and hooks. He picked a few up and polished them with an oiled cloth, buffing out a mirror-like shine.

“Dwarves make this stuff too?” Dan eyed off some of the weapons, thinking back to the dull razor in his rucksack. Some of them looked like torture devices, others for concealment and a few for food preparation, while the rest were standard fare hunting and fishing knives. There was one that caught Dan’s interest. It was a brown leather handled bowie knife with a ten inch dark steel blade. The point rounding in a shape a butcher or someone familiar to knives would call a ‘sheep’s hoof.’ It had a recessed gut hook on the reverse side. Dan picked it up and examined it, feeling the balance and weight of it in his hands. Most knives seemed somewhat small in his grip but this one was perfect.

“Bloody oath they're dwarven made. Finest craftsmen about and I wouldn’t recommended ye trust the steel from any other maker. Been in the blood for thousands of years, it has.” Alfonse had stopped what he was doing, folded his arms and looked squarely at Dan. His mirthful smile faded back to that neutral, if not foreboding poker face. “You plannin’ somethin’, boy? I know ye haven’t come here to bleed lambs. Ye pick up explosives powder and now yer drooling over a killer’s knife.”

Dan paused, still examining the blade while thinking of a response. The conversation between them last night was friendly and they’d gotten off to a good start but Dan had done nothing to gain Alfonse’s trust. Their hushed talk of out-of-control soldiers, the Civil War, and the simple fact Dan was a stranger blown in with the winds would lend any self-preserving man to consider the motive when said stranger was fondling a knife made for cutting with a wad of black powder in his pocket.

Dan put the blade back on display and held out his hands with both palms in a mock pleading gesture. He spread a cheeky grin. “Please, Alfonse. Don’t worry about me knifing the good Sergeant Errik because he yelled at me and hurt my feelings. Just thought I’d exercise my given right to bear arms, y’see. You got me all scared with talk of war and soldiers and murderous Rangers.”

Alfonse chuckled and resumed a cheerful expression. “Aye, boy-o, yer right. Be silly not to take steps to defend yerself in troubled times like these. Can ye pay?” Dan loosened of his coin bag and offered it to the dwarf, unsure what kind of offer to make. Dan had never been a haggler.

“I like ye more and more! Bit o’ straight shooting ‘stead of those tiresome, tight-arsed bastards tryin’ to buy below cost price.” Alfonse closed the coin pouch and lobbed it back to Dan who snatched it with an overhead grip and pocketed it again.

“I’ll tell ye what. I’ll lend it for a day, on two conditions only and two conditions only.” Alfonse produced a plain leather sheath with a buckled canvas strap at either end, designed to wrap around a thigh or forearm and secure the knife for easy access. The opening of the sheath had a retaining strap ending in a raised, slightly rusty tin stud that connected to a depressed inset button on the sheath. It would hold the blade steady no matter how violent the movement, and make it easy to release and engage the retaining strap quickly. He set the blade inside the sheath, clipped in the retainer and passed it to Dan who strapped it about his muscled left forearm and clasped the buckles. It acted somewhat like a tourniquet, making his arm seem more vascular as the veins bulged.

“See if yer comfortable walkin’ around armed like that, boy-o. Yer a stranger and people are gonna be wary.” Alfonse looked up Dan up and down, as if donning the weapon changed his image from that of a worker to a bladedancer. He’d been taught to gut a fish by Old Ross but fish generally didn’t fight back.

“First condition is ye tell me yer name and prove to me it’s yer own. Second is ye bring it back tomorrow and we’ll agree on a price, or give it back. Break me trust on this blade, boy-o, and ye’ll soon meet one similar. Ye ain’t got many places to hide.” Alfonse had folded his arms again, and furrowed his brow as if deciding on something. He tended to like his witty one liner warnings, Dan thought. They almost became a cliché. Must be a dwarf thing.

“Dan James. Appreciate it,” Dan said, extending his hand to shake Alfonse’s for the second time in as many days. He showed his identification script.

Alfonse quickly looked it over and returned it, suddenly distracted and his mouth opened partly. His eyes tracked something over Dan’s shoulder. He also turned to look. A particularly radiant female elf, angular in the face yet seductively curvy along her body, was walking towards them. Her almost glowing auburn hair was tied in a high bun and shining like the expensive jewellery and precious stones that adorned most of her exposed skin. She wore a tight, vibrant purple silk dress that left little to the imagination. Dan looked down at her feet to avoid being caught staring, and noticed she wasn’t wearing any shoes. Her toenails were dusty red from the earth beneath her. Most of the people in the crowd were looking at her or the two guards at her flank, both with obscenely muscled bodies, large tomahawks and twin flintlock pistols.

Without stopping to look at the elf, Alfonse whispered through clenched teeth “Scatter! She's a Relvest emissary! Might be a new contract! Go!” Dan took the hint and walked away, grinning as he heard Alfonse lapse into practiced flattery. “Beautiful elven maiden, come look upon the wares of humble Alfonse! See the quality on display!” Dan chuckled and thought of Alfonse throwing himself in worship to her dusty feet, trying to get a look at her leafy elf undies.

In the short time he’d spoken to Alfonse the square had started to fill up again. Most vendors had prepared their stalls and a steady flow of customers filtered in from the surrounding streets, a few carrying empty baskets to fill with groceries and take home. Dan spotted the spice vendor, and Bart and Kerrigan nearby. They didn’t seem ready to tackle the spice vendor yet so Dan approached them. Neither saw Dan coming, busy giving directions to a short elderly woman with an armful of vegetables and dried fish.

“Guardsman Bart, and Guardsman Kerrigan?” Dan stood outside of their personal space despite the swelling crowd and hoped for the best this time.

The taller of the two turned his to Dan and raised an armoured hand limply. He pointed to himself. “Bart” – he pointed to his offsider – “and Kerrigan.” Kerrigan was explaining directions in a half shout to the elderly woman who was apparently hard of hearing.

Dan couldn’t see much of Bart’s build beneath the full plate mail, though it was shaped with defined curves in the pectoral region and slight ripples over the abdomen to indicate a muscular, athletic physique. For all Dan knew Bart could be soft as cookie dough beneath it, and his puffy cheeks with paunchy neck suggested as such. His dull, brown cow eyes had weary crow feet at the corners were level with Dan’s, giving him a sense of age and maturity. His eyelids were sleepy and his thin lips relaxed as if inattentive. Dan saw a curl of black hair pressed down about the middle of his forehead but Bart’s helmet kept the rest of it concealed.

Kerrigan was a greyhound in comparison to Bart’s softer features. Slightly shorter with angular, deep black eyes, sour yellowish skin, raised cheekbones and a thin nose suggested he was born in or had parents from Akashima, a place Dan was only slightly aware of. Dan could see a thin black braid spilling from the rear of Kerrigan’s helmet. Kerrigan finished with a final "goodbye" shouted to the elderly lady, his accent no different to Bart’s, suggesting he’d been raised in Coronè. Dan decided through the leanness of his face that Kerrigan had a lean, wiry build. Both guards gave Dan their attention and waited for him to speak.

“Gentlemen, I plead for only a few minutes of your time. There’s an old friend of mine I’m trying to find who told me who’d joined the CAF some 11 years ago. His name is Aaron.”

Kerrigan’s narrow features became even sharper as he furrowed his eyebrows and stared Dan down with scepticism. Kerrigan looked to Bart who’d also been roused by the mention. The sleepiness had faded from his eyes, and it seemed he was moving the corners of his mouth side to side in rhythm to the thoughts mulling over in his head like he couldn’t think without doing it.

“We know a few Aarons. Who’s asking?” Kerrigan’s emphasised the last two words as if a challenge to Dan’s credibility.

“I’ve an identification script, if you need see it.” Dan noticed himself speaking in a higher grade of common tongue to the guards, as if it was disrespectful to take the casual tone he would with a friend.

“That makes it easy. Hand it over.” Bart extended his hand, and Dan unravelled the parchment for him, knowing fine motor skills were impaired with pounds of metal weighing down the fingers despite the gauntlets exposing his fingers. Bart read it, tried to conceal his surprise, but couldn’t help his face widening in alarm if he’d just spotted some kind of dangerous predator. He held it open at an angle for Kerrigan to see who also mimicked the reaction.

“You related?” Bart stared at Dan intently, still holding the script like the decision to arrest Dan hinged upon it. Dan hadn’t thought about the matching last names. Both guards knew Aaron, and there seemed to be some controversial history. Lying wouldn’t help Dan now and he was never good at it.

“I see you’ve noticed my surname. Please, bear no ill will over it. I’ve not seen him since the war started, maybe even some time before then.” Dan stood confidently but didn’t challenge back, hands held in front of him, doing his best to display submission to their authority.

“Can’t talk here. We can meet you at midnight. Where?” Bart thrust the identification script back at Dan and looked around carefully like eavesdroppers could be nearby. Dan was confused why the simple mention of his brother’s name seemed was like exposing an old, dirty secret.

“I’ve got a room at the Old Horn. Second on the right from the top of the stairs.”

“See you at midnight. Get out of here.” Bart tapped Kerrigan with a tinny thud on the shoulder and pointed to the spice vendor, who surely as the sun rises, was shouting obscenities and waving more of his product about to let everyone know just how angry he was. Dan stood and watched the guards tackle him with practiced coordination, a great thud and rising cloud of dust, before taking their advice and leaving the trade square.

He walked at an unintentionally hurried pace back to the Old Horn, unsure of his destination and what to do with the day. It hadn’t reached noon and he’d have to wait until midnight for an explanation to Bart and Kerrigan’s strange behaviour. Dan wandered Radasanth, learning the geography, despite feeling vulnerable to Kerrigan and Bart’s unexplainable reaction. Dan didn’t allow himself to believe his brother, who’d spoke proudly of his station in the Coronè Armed Forces, could be a nasty enough topic that people he knew wouldn’t speak of him outside secretive midnight meetings. He returned to the Old Horn and repeated the afternoon just as he'd done yesterday. Work, food, and early sleep.

[Etheryn]

Dan woke to triplets drummed on his door. The iron hinges rattled. He'd enjoyed only a few hours of real sleep, the rest of the time laying half-awake in anticipation of Bart and Kerrigan's arrival. He lay still, awake and alert but didn’t move. Another sharp tap confirmed the knock was on his door and not someone else's. He quickly pulled on some trousers, staggering a little in the dark, and opened the door. Bart and Kerrigan quickly crossed the threshold and carefully shut it behind them. Dan locked the door and wriggled the knob to check.

Dan pulled up the stool and sat, giving Kerrigan space to sit on the bed. Bart stood. They were all silent and looked at each other without knowing where to start. The candle flames flickered and cast moving shadows over all of them making the whole concept of the meeting much more sneaky and secret.

Dan’s assumptions were right about the guardsmen and their builds. Bart was indeed overweight, with a pot belly that sagged through the bottom of his green tunic and covered the top of his brown trousers. He wore a piece of tied rope as a belt and ragged hide boots. He looked entirely like a pauper in contrast to the impressive plate suits of the Coronè Armed Forces. Kerrigan, on the other hand, was toned and whippy like a gymnast. His forearms were lined with veins and as he tapped his fingers on one knee, Dan could see the muscles tensing and relaxing against his taught skin. His fingers were thin and spidery, as if his bone structure was smaller than that of an average man's. The candle light cast shadows which enhanced the definition of Kerrigan’s physique and Dan assumed there was a background in a combat sport.

“So, you’re Aaron’s brother. We got a few conditions before we start this talk. Break ‘em and we leave.” Bart folded his arms and leaned against the wall adjacent to the door, one foot crossed over the other, and regarded Dan casually. Dan nodded and kept quiet.

“You lose the high nose talk. We’re guards, not noblemen. I thought when we first spoke to you that you were about to ‘thee’ and ‘thou.’ By God, I would have made you eat dirt if you did.” Kerrigan laughed while Bart stood in the same cocky, I’m-calling-the-shots posture, leaving Dan unsure about their intentions.

“Second condition. You lose the idea that we’re going to double cross you, sell you out, or try and flog you like the rest of the pigs who wear CAF colours ‘round here. We knew Aaron years and years ago. We’re risking our hide to talk to you ‘bout him. We could put you on the path to find him. If you help us out that is.” Bart loosened his arms, slid down the wall and sat on his rear, knees pulled up in front of him. He seemed tired.

“What do you want me to do?” Dan’s mind started to whirl with thoughts of what was coming next. Bribes, threats, all manners of nastiness. Kerrigan had remained quiet but was leaning forward now, waiting for his turn to speak.

“You know what our colleagues are like, don’t you? Heard you had a run in with our boss, Sergeant Errik. You might've even heard the other night, too.” Dan thought back to waiting pensively by his door as a poor civilian almost got carved in two over spilled drinks. Kerrigan may have been the one standing up to him. He came off as the most physically capable of the pair and Dan couldn’t picture the slightly rotund Bart challenging a bloodthirsty, drunken war veteran.

“Yeah, I heard it. Man’s a right maniac.”

“He was bragging about it, saying if he sees you or the guy who knocked his ales, he'll kill 'em. The man is wrong in the head on a base level and so are the rest of his goons.” Kerrigan nodded to himself matter-of-factly and looked to Bart to continue. Bart sighed, looked at the floorboards and then back to Dan.

“These fools haven't been stationed here for a year, yet everyone is terrified of their own soldiers. It's affecting everyone here. These soldiers, man... They aren't even men anymore. They’ve spent too long in combat, splitting heads from the start of the day to the end. They can’t reintegrate to regular society. Hell, all they want to do is get back out there and fight but the orders came from the top. Master General Harthworth wants soldiers who excel in combat to stay in this region, all because of the Rangers who cleaned out the last garrison. That's how they came here. Recalled from front line duty to act as civilian police. Would’ve been about nine months ago, right Kerrigan?”

Dan interrupted. "I don't know much about the military here. Or the government. Bit like a mushroom. In the dark and fed with... y'know."

"Ah. The Master General is the Commander of our military. Absolute highest authority upon us and his decisions are final with only a few exceptions," Bart explained. He spoke of the Master General with respect like he was standing in the room.

Kerrigan nodded. A depressed, almost mournful look came over him and he looked down as he spoke. “Yeah. Anyway, nine months ago. It was our garrison, man. They were good men. Nothing like the bastards here now. We were supposed to be there. Both of us were on yearly training.” Kerrigan and Bart met eyes, both sharing what looked like guilt. “For one month each year parts of the company get put through ‘boot camp’ to keep us sharp. Except the boot camp is for soldiers who are going out to fight on the front lines, not civil police. We're still made to go. My wife and kids are thankful that we were gone that day... But we were supposed to die as well.”

They really believe in the saying "One in, all in."

“Why were only you guys at training and the rest of your garrison fighting back the raids?” Dan instantly regretted his question, realising it sounded like he was supporting the notion they should’ve been present during the attacks. Luckily Bart didn’t respond with hostility. It seemed that even if Dan called him a coward and deserter right to his face, that he'd bow his head and agree.

“They don’t send a whole company at a time otherwise the area would be left unprotected and all sorts of nasty could happen. They rotate us through every month of the year so there’s always a CAF presence in every region.” Bart explained in the same subdued manner as Kerrigan, playing with his own wedding ring that Dan didn’t initially notice. Both of the man shared the same unwavering responsibility to their families but also felt they owed a debt to their fallen friends.

Dan considered how recently this happened and how fresh the wounds would be. He chose his words carefully. He didn’t want to repeat a cliché like “I’m sorry to hear that,” or “That’s horrible.” They were empty words, as Dan didn’t know any of the friends Bart and Kerrigan lost. Anyone would be able to tell the lack of sincerity. Dan wasn't heartless but was never one to lose sleep over those he never knew. He kept quiet and waited for them to continue the story.

“Took these guys over two weeks to come back. It was a knee-jerk recall. The area was unprotected and Harthworth was left answering questions from the Assembly as to why an entire garrison got butchered behind their own walls. Thought the Rangers would come back for round two. There were no more attacks. There wasn’t even a hint of it. The fighting was happening far away from here, man. Harthworth is just covering his own arse because he thinks he’s winning the war, and would rather prevent the embarrassment of a repeat incident by having these blokes here instead of putting them back out in the field. Covering his own arse ‘n all.” Bart sounded frustrated, and rightly so. Having good friends replaced with violent animals would’ve been difficult.

“They make me ashamed to wear the same colours, man. I go home to my wife and kids knowing that all I’ve done for the day is do my best to protect innocent people from getting bullied by their own army,” Kerrigan sympathised to Bart and they nodded in agreement. Dan figured where this was all going. They wanted the new garrison to leave.

“Why can’t you just tell petition Master General Harthworth or whatever his name is? Or someone else in the chain of command about they’re behaving? Don’t the citizens speak up?” Dan asked but knew the answer would involve someone being too scared to act.

“We can’t question the tactical decisions of the highest ranking officer in the entire Coronè military. Think of how far it would go. The best result for us would be a month in the brig for insubordination. We’re just guards and we do what we’re told. The citizens are too scared to do anything too. It’s easier for them to suck it up and keep on living. Writing letters won't stop a soldier caving their head in.” Bart’s frustration sounded like it was about to bubble over. He wasn’t looking at anyone, just staring intently at a point on the floorboards as if trying to burn a hole through it.

“If you help us get rid of them we’ll do whatever it is you think we can do to help find Aaron. Before you say anything, know this. No bloodshed. You might have to duck a punch or ten, but the real risk is to us, man. Just hear us out before you make up your mind. If you don’t want in, fine.” Bart’s face looked hopeful and he already seemed partly convinced Dan couldn’t possibly refuse. Bart raised his left hand, palm open towards Kerrigan like introducing a guest speaker. It must have been Kerrigan’s idea.

“We’ve thought plenty of ways to get rid of these men. We could just let some maniac inside to blow the place up. We could poison them in their sleep. They might be good soldiers in the field but while they’re here they’d be borderline useless in a real assault. Why? Perpetually drunk. Still, we’re not killers. We don’t want to hurt them. We don’t want to be responsible for someone else hurting them, and all the collateral damage that might come with it.”

“You’re going to get them relocated. Something to get them out of here, and a new crew to replace them," Dan assumed. He couldn’t think of many alternatives. He readjusted himself on the stool, and leaned back on both elbows, stretching a stiff back from the day’s work and heavy lifting.

“Well, yes and no. That would be the best case scenario. They might be savages here but the weaker CAF gets, the more risk there is to me and my mates if we ever go out and fight. We’re gonna expose them.”

“What do you mean expose them, and to who?” Dan asked.

“Someone who can sink almost anyone from the CAF and doesn’t care about contradicting the Master General. A Chief Inspector from the Assembly. Sort of like an internal regulator for the CAF. He’s got big power but has to be completely impartial and can only act in certain capacities and situations. Sort of like a magistrate in a court. He might know something is going on, but unless the evidence is there to prove it he can’t even consider it or act upon it. I hear the guy just loves getting people fired," Kerrigan explained while wearing a rogue’s grin. He seemed sure that his slowly unravelling plan would do the job.

“Why don’t you just get this guy out to look at the guards while they get stupid?” Dan thought there’d be a good reason, but the question begged to be asked.

“As I said, he can only act in certain situations and capacities. His power is limited in that regard. Gotta be one of the only non-corrupt men left in the Assembly, yet he just can't do squat 'till certain criteria are met," Kerrigan said.

Dan spoke quick enough to interrupt but maintained neutrality. “You’re telling me you know the government is bent and you still serve it?”

“You think we’ve got the choice to pick the moral high ground? We got wives and kids who starve if we don’t get paid. There’s a war on. It’s not like we can quit, walk out, and just start a new life. Soldiers who go AWOL in the middle of a full scale war don’t get reprimanded. They get killed. Head chopped off, buried, no pension.” Bart’s tone was serious. Dan realised he’d overstepped a mark in questioning their choice of allegiance. He kept quiet and conceded an apologetic nod.

“Forget it. Let’s get back to why we can’t just send a note to the Chief Inspector and say ‘Come look at our belligerent colleagues and get rid of them.' He has zero pull in the Assembly and can only act on matters where there’s sufficient enough written, documented and filed evidence, or some horrible accident involving CAF harming our own citizens. Even if he decided one day to go out for a stroll, and he saw Sergeant Errik flogging grandma in the street for whistling out of tune, he would be powerless to do a damned thing. He’s gotta push it out of his mind. There has to be enough written account to enable his authority and let him consider things. You know what I mean? This all making sense?”

“Yeah, I think I get it. He basically is powerless to the will of the Assembly because his only authority relates to CAF personnel, and the authority doesn’t work unless written evidence of misbehaviour exists. Sounds ridiculously beaurocratic.” Dan was starting to wrap his head around the structure of Coronè’s military and government. It didn’t make him feel any safer to hear from CAF’s own troops that the government isn’t trustworthy, and that the only person who could independently discipline them was bound by red tape.

“Right. But, because there’s no one willing to put pen to paper and provide this written evidence, we can’t get the Chief Inspector to do anything about our new friends. Even if he saw their violent idiocy firsthand. But there’s one loophole, one thing that automatically enables the Chief Inspector’s powers by writ of law, and will get him down here in the blink of an eye.” Kerrigan looked like he was almost trembling with excitement. His eyes were wide and his fists were clenched. He was leaning forward and lowered his voice.

“Any plain clothes operation by civilian police that targets a Coronè citizen absolutely requires the presence of the Chief Inspector to maintain its integrity and ensure all due process is adhered to. It's part of the Chief Inspector's job, to prevent the military from harming its own people. We can run covert surveillance on any rebel target without approval. But, if the mark is a citizen, we need the Chief Inspector to sign off and basically watch it in execution. If it was found out that CAF guard went ahead without the Chief Inspector, his powers are automatically enabled again and he’d go to town on them.”

“How do you know all this?” Dan thought the loophole made sense, but questioned their sources. Bart and Kerrigan seemed low in rank despite their years of service and what seemed to be abundant knowledge of military and legal process.

Bart raised his hand. “I was one of the youngest human magistrates to sit in a Radasanthian court of law. Got sick of putting my nose in books and chased the glory of being a soldier to my wife’s behest. Never got far and the war started, and I’d have to die before I left now. All able bodies on deck. I’m stuck.” Dan somehow believed him. People didn’t make things like that up and take risks on it.

“So, you organise one of these covert things and get the Chief Inspector out. So what? Won’t Errik and his goons just behave, do the job, and be done? Won’t the Chief Inspector find out the covert op is a sham and then try sink whoever started it?” Dan was skeptical now and his tone was cautious. The realisation of how complex the situation was dawned upon him. Until the past few days he’d knew little about the flow of power, the Master General, the untrustworthy government, any of it. Now he was sitting in a dark room at midnight, speaking quietly with two CAF guards, one an ex-magistrate, about a plot to clear out a garrison of abusive soldiers by running a fake covert surveillance operation upon some hapless Coronè citizen and summoning an autonomous, shadowy G-man who could potentially sink some of the highest ranking military officials. Dan’s head almost started to spin with the gravity of it all and he almost said “I'm out,” but swallowed the words.

“Yeah, that could happen. The issue is Sergeant Errik is a moron and he can’t read or write. I could hand him a note that says ‘I am a tit,’ and he would sign his name as proof.” Kerrigan saw it all starting to come together for Dan.

“He thinks we’re too scared to cross him and he’s too proud to admit he can’t handle the letters 'A', 'B' and 'C'. Yet, he’s the only guy among us with the authority to sign off for a local garrison to begin a covert job.” Kerrigan finished explaining, and Dan finally put the pieces together.

He’s going to get Errik to sign off on orders to go undercover and tell him the piece of paper he’s signing is something else. He won’t tell anyone else about it, he’ll forward it through the chain of command, and the Chief Inspector will come out. The guards will be drunk, I’ll do something to get them to act up, the Chief Inspector will see all of it.

“Anyone ever said you guys were geniuses?” Dan was thoroughly impressed. The plan was risky but the concept appeared sound. A chance was being taken on Chief Inspector being in the right place and the right time, and taking enough disciplinary action against Sergeant Errik's crew to actually clean them out. There was more of a risk with Sergeant Errik signing the operational orders without questioning the contents. Dan figured the embarrassment of saying “I can’t read it, can you do it for me?” would be a powerful motivator.

“Where does the Master General come into this? Does he have a say?” Dan was starting to consider these men of power and how they all connected. It was starting to intrigue him.

Bart replied, “That’s just the thing. He won’t care and will let it run ahead. On paper the reason for the covert operation will be a sound one and they'll actually put together all real-like. It’ll have Errik’s signature. If anything, Master General Harthworth he’ll be happy his troops are taking initiative with their work. Don’t get me wrong, he's definitely stubborn to let anyone think his troops are less than stellar. He figures it’s a direct reflection upon him as a leader and if he knew someone was trying to expose a weak link like we're doing now he’d crush any attempts. But he’ll have full confidence the Chief Inspector won’t find a thing but dutiful warriors, because he hasn’t heard anything to the contrary. All comes back to no one speaking up. Evil only prevails when good men do nothing, they say.”

Dan thought he’d be constructive and help pick out some flaws in the plan. “If anyone finds out you’re feeding Sergeant Errik documents that could end him if he signs, you’re gone. He’ll get someone to write you up, and then the Chief Inspector will be on your tail. Not his.”

Bart joined Kerrigan’s dangerous smirk. “We never said it was completely safe. I think of it this way. These men are morons and completely unprepared to defend against attack in their current state. Put ‘em out to war, sure, but they just can’t get their heads screwed on when they only have to walk fifty feet for an ale. Good on defined battle lines but they just can't maintain a guardman's vigil. If we don’t clear them out, and God forbid another Rangers unit attacks, we’re dead meat.”

“You said before I might have to duck a few punches and chairs? Where do I fit in?” Dan was confused. Everything they’d discussed so far had no mention of any role Dan could fill.

“We actually need you to be standing in the Old Horn with Sergeant Errik and his boys when the Chief Inspector arrives. The covert job will indicate the target will be arrested in the tavern here. You need to upset them, and get ‘em to do something stupid. Try and punch you out. If they’re just being drunken louts and slacking off their duty they won’t get much. If they’re assaulting an innocent citizen, impeaching your rights, all drunk and ignoring their duty, they’ll get sacked for sure. Hopefully some time in jail.” Dan’s cheeks dropped and he suddenly realised what was being asked of him. He was going to have to individually go toe-to-toe with the Sergeant and his crew of savages. It would tie him up in this business for good. No walking away.

Dan pictured the scenario again. The helpless, small figure cowering beneath an evil looking Sergeant Errik intent on bloodshed. Except Dan was probably bigger than Errik, had steel of his own now and despite being a genuinely nice guy, he did not tolerate bullies. Evil prevails if good men do nothing. Dan quoted Kerrigan, who'd been quoting someone else, and somehow felt inspired to accept. Still, Bart and Kerrigan were asking a lot from Dan without offering anything in return.

“If I say yes, what will you do for me? How are you going to put me in contact with Aaron? Can you get something like a staff register, and I'll track him down through there?” Dan couldn’t think of anything else the two could do for him.

“Errr, well, not quite. Staff registers stay at headquarters and not with local garrisons. But... Well, the CAF guard have an intel package on him. Know where he is, what he’s doing, how to get to him. All of it.” Kerrigan figured this was about to become a precarious topic. Dan knew it. He could see Kerrigan choosing words carefully, speaking slowly and with pause, looking to Bart intermittently as if he needed advice. There was something about Aaron that Dan might not want to hear.

"So, you've got access to this in your own garrison? Did he serve here?" Dan found himself almost hanging on every word. He eyed Kerrigan off as if trying to catch out a giveaway darting of the eyes, a nervous tic, something to suggest he wasn't being truthful. Bart kept quiet.

"Never worked with him. He was a Sergeant like Errik but not a moron. Leader of a crack team of deep woodland fighters. Absolute wizard with a bow, he was. Specialised in guerrilla tactics, close quarters combat, stealth and concealment, hit and run, the works. I met him in first year’s training as an instructor for our compulsory archer’s workshop.”

“Sounds great and all, but you still haven't answered me. Why do you have an intel package on your own trooper, and why is it something that you even have access to? If you don't have access to something as simple as a personnel file, why would you have something like this?” Dan’s voice raised in volume and he could feel the heat in his blood. Kerrigan was dancing around the question. Dan sensed something unpleasant coming. He'd convinced himself Kerrigan was trying to hide the full story. Kerrigan was holding the last bit out and hoping he could get away with it. He fell silent, and looked to Bart, silently imploring him to take over.

"Tell him," Bart sighed, and hung his head. They both knew they couldn't evade Dan, hot on the scent. Dan felt a lump in his throat. Kerrigan swallowed and took a deep breath followed by a slow exhale, preparing himself.

“He defected at the start of the Civil War. Aaron’s with the Rangers now. He’s a senior lieutenant and they’ve got details on where he’s hiding, what he’s doing, and how to take him out. The intel package has been spread about all operational garrisons, and we've all been shown. If you get hold of the dossier you can find him before CAF. Sooner or later a pursuit team will gear up to go after him. We’ll get the dossier for you if you help us.” Bart's expression was grim and Kerrigan couldn't look Dan in the eye.

The lump in Dan’s throat turned into a brick and fell through the bottom of his stomach.

[Etheryn]

“Give me a bit to think.” Dan left the room and stood in the hall, resting his head on cold timber like the situation had exhausted him and he couldn’t hold his head up. There was a nauseating pressure in Dan’s stomach now, the figurative ‘brick that drops’, made of fear and uncertainty. There was fear for his own safety if he accepted the offer. He’d never been in a real fight, the kind where the loser gets killed. There was fear for the people who’d be affected if he didn’t participate in the plan, most of all his brother. Secondly the people being terrorised by Sergeant Errik and his goons. Fear for Bart and Kerrigan and what would happen to them and their families if the plan didn’t work.

Dan cast his mind back to his first night in the Old Horn Tavern where he flailed in a swamp of confusion about his own integrity. He questioned his own motivations and his character. He remembered berating himself for not achieving an impossibly Zen level of selflessness. He somehow came to the absurd conclusion it was innately greedy to be motivated to do good things by the satisfaction oneself achieves from it. Combined with memories of his private shame for abandoning his responsibilities to Aaron, Dan felt that all the times he’d called himself a “good guy” or been called one by others were retrospect lies. He shook it off, knowing that if you want to keep giving you need to get something back. If you keep emptying the tank and you don’t fill it back up, you’re gonna run empty. Then you’ll be screwed. You’ll be no use to anyone. Thoughts like this gave Dan perspective and silenced the debate with himself.

He knew that if there if there was one thing he could do right now to work towards real altruism, no matter the impossibility of attaining it, it would be to smash that brick of fear settling in his guts. Absolutely pummel it, grinding it into sand with a hammer of will. To take action with Bart and Kerrigan. If not for anyone else but Aaron, who despite the years of no contact and controversial shift of loyalties, was his only blood relation. This was Dan’s way to make up for leaving. Perhaps, along with the way, Dan could trust Aaron to help nurture and make use of his power and Dan could in turn use it for something good. He reminded himself, Man, there is absolutely nothing wrong to ask for help if I get to him. It’d be greedy you did nothing about this... this... whatever it is, and wasted it when you could’ve done something positive. It’d be worse if you lost control of it and hurt someone ‘cause you didn’t know what to do with it.

The whole time he’d been deliberating with himself, thinking about his motivations and what he’d do next, the vibrating energy coalesced about him. The thrum in the air, the heatwave shimmer before his eyes, the feeling of static electricity prickling along his skin. It wasn’t uncomfortable or malicious. He knew his father’s pouch was empty and as long as it stayed that way the energy wouldn’t rush out. The sensation was a familiar one now and it didn’t occupy Dan’s forethought. It’d been happening enough throughout the years for him to accept it as part of him, and although he hadn’t yet actively sought to study and master it, it still felt as natural as breathing.

Dan stepped back inside the room. He sat down on the stool, and looked at the floor, elbows on his knees, resting his chin on the steeple of his extended fingertips.

“I’m in.”

***

“Can you give me one more day? You’ve already done more than a smart salesman would by lending me this here beautiful piece of kit, Alfonse,” Dan chimed with a beaming smile. The next morning had come and he caught the dwarven blades dealer early at the trading post, helping him arrange a set of particularly vicious and impossibly heavy battle axes. Both had shafts over five feet in length and razor sharp crescent blades inscribed with dwarven runes and symbols. Alfonse was silent while he struggled with the last axe on his own; it was taller than him by nearly ten inches. Dan didn’t dare offer him assistance with his vertical impairment.

“I implore you, prove to me how dumb you really are and let me have just one more night. I mean, er, I’m good for it. I’ll pay you once I’m a hundred percent certain or give it back without a single scratch!” Dan’s pretend slip up finally got a smile out of Alfonse who’d been stonewalling.

“Boy-o, if I thought ye’d dupe me I would nay lend out my wares. Have it for another night and decide… Me patience ain’t infinite,” Alfonse dusted his hands off and took a stool behind his display bench, crossing his feet over and getting comfortable.

“Thanks. If you come to the Old Horn tonight, I’ll fill your guts with black ale ‘till you think I’m good looking. Deal?”

“Deal it is. You gonna hang ‘round here all day or actually do something with yerself?”

Before Dan could reply, Alfonse patted Dan on the arm and pointed. He saw a group of three shady looking teenage boys, scruffy and wearing unclean tattered clothing, in full sprint in the opposite direction from a panting CAF guard. One of them was holding a cloth bag with a long baguette poking skywards and some smaller round loaves. The CAF armour was definitely not designed for running fast or any significant distance and the boys made good their escape. The guard stopped, choking for breath as if he’d run for miles. The guard wasn’t wearing a helmet.

“You see many kids like that ‘round here?” Dan asked, curious about the effects of the war upon Radasanth’s citizens.

“Plenty. People are poor, boy-o. The Empire war machine is a hungry beast. Sucks everythin’ dry. Taxes are up to fund it. These little ones y’see running around with stolen bread… They’re just tryin’ to get by. Probably orphans.” Dan could hear compassion in the dwarf’s voice. He sympathised and remembered his own childhood as he watched, thankful for it being a mostly peaceful one.

“What about you? You lost anything because of what’s happened?” Dan meant in the sense of lost business, not family or friends. He hoped he’d avoided a sore point.

“Lost some friends, I have. But they threw their lot with the Empire. Knew what they were in for, were ready for it. I lose no sleep,” Alfonse explained without a hint of sadness. He’d accepted that war brings casualties. “Business wise the time is good for a blades peddler. I’m sure ye can – that’ll be 40 coins, good gentleman – see why.” Alfonse handed a simple yet dangerous stiletto from his displays to a middle aged, sickly looking man who had similar Akashiman features to Kerrigan. The man replied with a deep, formal bow and continued about shopping elsewhere.

“You ever feel like picking sides?” Dan had spotted Kerrigan and Brt and watched them from a distance as they completed rounds of the square before leaving for a different area. Neither party acknowledged the existence of the other. If things were going smoothly they’d have scribed the documents for Sergeant Errik to sign and seal his own fate. Probably taking them to him now.

“Considered it, I have. I know how t’ fight. Ye might even say I’m good at it. But tell me, boy-o, what do ye know of the war? The men who fuel it? Why it’s even happenin’? Sixty five coins fer that one, sir, and another ten if ye’ll want a sheath...” Alfonse was interrupted by another quick sale, this time a folding flick knife. A lot of people seemed to need the capacity to stab someone else if they had to, and it was lining his pockets. He’d made half of the money Dan had in less than five minutes.

“I won’t say I know anything. Spoke to some men who told me about the people in power, the Assembly, the Master General… but I don’t have the foggiest clue why the fighting started.”

“Neither do I, lad, and I’ve been around this area since the beginning of it all. Y’see, the cause of any war is decided by a few old men. The reasons behind that cause are a spun web, sometimes fabricated and sometimes true, but ye’ll never get the real story without someone puttin’ their slant on it. If a stranger came to you and told you to knife yer neighbours for a fortnightly wage, would ye do it? Without truly knowin’ why?” Alfonse looked at Dan now as he spoke.

“I wouldn’t,” Dan answered. He thought about his brother Aaron and the events to come tonight. He didn’t say he’d never knife anyone. Some seemed to need it.

“Exactly. Ye’d need to know deep down for yourself that the cause was right, that it was just, that you weren’t playing fiddle to a buncha crooks and their secret agenda. Yer life ain’t worth throwin’ away for something ye can’t be certain of.” Alfonse made a third sale. All this talk of war and fighting, meanwhile he sold people things to kill each other.

“The Rangers say the Assembly is corrupt?”

“They do, aye. It’s their reason fer fightin’. Lot of CAF’s own soldiers joined their ranks, lots of downs-and-outs who’d been trampled on by the establishment, all sorts. When ye see guards like our own company here in midst o’ their work, sometimes…” Alfonse leaned in and whispered “I hope they win.” He winked.

“Ey! Short arse! Yeah, you! Get ya blasted permits out,” a nasally voice crowed at them from behind. Lucky Alfonse had been whispering his sentiments about the Rangers as the voice belonged to a CAF guardsman. The same one who’d lost his foot pursuit with the three kids. He still hadn’t caught his breath.

“Sir, with the respect a guardsman is due, I must remind ye that all permit chits for weapon sales are held in registry further in town. We can’t carry ‘em with us for security reasons but I’ll offer ye my identification so it can be checked out,” Alfonse had turned around replied with an assertive voice, not aggressive or sarcastic, simply confident knowing he’d been following the rules.

Dan hadn’t turned to face the guard. Something made him want to avoid being seen or recognised until the night came. The situation didn’t leave him much choice. He slowly turned around and eyed the guardsman up and down.

The guard was no more than five and a half feet tall yet densely built with squat features, a snub nose, and bin lid sized hands. His wrists were at least the twice the thickness of a regular man’s. It looked like it’d be hard for him not to drag his fists along the ground as he walked. He wasn’t wearing a helmet and Dan could see the greasy mop of sandy brown hair stuck to his skin. He looked like a short ogre that hadn’t showered for weeks.

“Bloody daft! Ya think ye can arm these peasants, fill ya coffers and send me on a wild goose chase to find some bloody bit o’ paper that likely isn’t real? I’ll give ya stinkin’, filthy, goat lovin’ dwarven arse about fifteen seconds to produce a real proof of permission or ya gonna spend quite a bit of time rottin’ in a cold cell!”

“Ye may take me in, if yer mind is set on it but I know I’ve done no wrong,” Alfonse replied with a granite hard stare and shift in his posture. Something suggested Alfonse was thinking about lopping off the guard’s head.

“Heh, yer not stupid enough to challenge me, are ya? Yer just a gutless wonder? Yella, am I right? Heh, heh, heh-heh-heh,” the oafish guard chuckled to himself as if pleased with Alfonse’s submission. He decided to press the point and intimidate Alfonse by with a half-draw of his longsword.

Wrong answer. Alfonse reacted instantly, and flicked both of his wrists upwards to the palms of his hands to the guard. Lethal, serrated blades were forced forward from a hidden, spring loaded sheath on the underside of his forearms. It made an intimidating ‘shhting’ as they locked stiff in place and Alfonse assumed a tight, rounded stance with arms held out, offering the business ends of the blades for inspection. He looked like a little ball of danger with a red beard growing off it.

“I give ye one warning only. Come at me and ye die! Yer alone and I’ll carve yer head like a bloody Hallowen pumpkin before any of yer tin-can boyfriends can save ye!” Alfonse barked and the sudden change of attitude caused the guard to stumble back. The snub nose guard doubted himself and realised again that he was about to start a two-against-one fight (counting Dan) breach of regulations that he wasn’t too confident about. He also had about thirty less blades at his disposal than the opposition.

“You won’t be standing in a crowd o’ witnesses all day, dwarf. Sooner or later I’ll get yer eyes blackened if not cut out,” the guard spat. In the literal sense. A green ball of phlegm dripped from the middle of Dan’s chest. “Yer baldy friend here can take that warning too.” The snub nosed guard stormed away with a stride like a rock ape.

Dan picked up a grease cloth and rubbed the stinking spit from his clothes. He was furious at the display of supreme stupidity and arrogance. It boggled the mind as to how animalistic this particular group of CAF soldiers were in comparison to the rest of the serving troops Dan had met before. He swallowed his pride, satisfied he was able to keep his mouth shut through the exchange, only because he knew that Pig Nose would definitely be high on karma's list of future victims.

If everything went to plan.

“Hope you know his name,” Dan snarled through clenched teeth.

“Private Rulgh. I promise ye Dan, I promise ye this! If that happens again I’m joinin’ the Rangers just to come back to gut that son of a bitch like he was a freshwater fish!” Alfonse fumed.

“Pig Nose sounds better,” Dan replied. He took solace in a short scenario playing out in his head, where the Chief Inspector (whatever he looked like) dragged Pig Nose by the ear to a pile of horse manure and rubbed his face in it, chastising him all the while. "You will NOT break the rules! You WILL play nice with the citizens!"

His anger receded at the thought. He wondered how Bart and Kerrigan fared with Sergeant Errik.

[Etheryn]

Bart looked down at his wrinkled, aging hands as he stood alone in the guardhouse armoury basement. He saw liver spots and his knuckles ached with arthritis. He’d grown old before he ever really got anything done. He considered his wedding ring, and remembered he had a loving wife and two beautiful daughters. He thought back to the start of his earlier career as a successful and respected magistrate. His keen eye for details and infallible grasp on Radasanth’s legal system lent him a reputation for always making fair decisions. He put away the criminals who deserved it and freed those who didn’t, never becoming partial to the accused, or to the accuser. Those days were gone. His rash decision to swap professions and become a soldier had gotten him nowhere in the scheme of things. He made good friends with the crew from the previous garrison, but they were only memories now. They’d been annihilated by a team of elite Rangers, a real fight to the death, while Kerrigan and himself were off play-fighting at camp.

Now he was stuck with Sergeant Errik’s crew instead. He felt sick, knowing that if he still held his office as a magistrate, he would’ve never been associated with the disgrace they brought to the Coronè Armed Forces. He would’ve never known and lost his mates, left to live with the guilt of surviving.

On the other hand, f he hadn’t joined, it was highly unlikely someone with his knowledge of procedure would’ve been in his place today. There wouldn’t be any plan involving an unknown loophole in Radasanthian law to enable the Chief Inspector to exact his will upon these abusive, out of control soldiers playing at civil police. It took a magistrate’s knowledge to know that any CAF military personnel, acting in a police role, could not begin plain clothes operations without monitoring by the only person from the Assembly who can and would willingly terminate an entire garrison.

This is the only thing I can do.

Bart thought of Kerrigan, and their years served together. The two had become good friends. Kerrigan was shipped in from a separate company in the outlying country regions of Radasanthia, where has Bart had spent his entire career within city walls. They played off each other’s strengths to get a job done the best way possible. It gave him some faith that there was a shred of honour left in the CAF’s name, to think that Kerrigan was willing to help take the legal loophole and craft a real, feasible plan with it. It never would’ve come to fruition if Kerrigan hadn’t figured out their Sergeant, their leader, never learned to read.

He thought of Dan, the young stranger who’d come to find his brother, and would be the person to bring out the true colours of the guardsmen so the Chief Inspector could see. If he didn’t follow through the Chief Inspector wouldn’t consider their breach severe enough to warrant termination. Bart felt a black, oily guilt at not being honest with Dan. They’d made out like the intelligence dossier on Aaron James, senior Ranger lieutenant, was difficult to obtain even though it’d been disseminated to every garrison.

Bart could’ve picked up a copy right now, walked outside and given it to any stranger, with the advice “Keep a look out for this man.” There were hundreds of copies handed out about the city. Dan had no idea how much danger he’d put himself in by openly giving his name and showing his identification to people. Sooner or later an Empire lapdog would make the connection and he’d be placed under arrest with extreme prejudice. He’d be interrogated, even tortured, for information about Ranger activities.

The only thing he could do would be pull the job off without a hitch and get Dan on his way to Aaron before anything happened to him. Bart already organised for safe passage with a military convoy, food, and overnight stays in a few different Empire controlled safe houses for Dan as real payment. He’d prepared a new identification script, with the name ‘Arrundir Thrifthood,’ to give him some cover.

Bart wanted to slip the identification script to Dan when he’d seen him earlier in the day with the dwarf blade dealer in the trading square, but the contact between the two and the gravity of the plan would’ve made it suspicious. It could have given something away. Bart hoped that Dan wasn’t found out before tonight. He’d almost feel directly responsible for not letting him know the odds.

He sighed. Deception was never his game.

Bart was on inventory duty, checking and rechecking the stocks and quality of equipment stored in the dry, musty armoury. He paused and regarded the mortared grey walls, the smell of leather and steel, and his stale sweat in his tunic. It was hot down here. There wasn’t a single breath of fresh air and he’d spent almost four hours in there since climbing down around noon. The roof was only a few feet above his head, and the claustrophobia of a room full of sharp edges and metal only twenty feet across was getting to him.

He read over the operational orders, outlining a plan for the night shift to don plain clothes and stalk the back alleys and drinking holes to locate and observe an elf suspected of having sympathies to the Ranger cause, possibly passing on intelligence about guard fortifications and critical targets. The concept was sound. All it needed was Errik’s signature and seal, and he could personally deliver it to the Chief Inspector’s office for immediate vetting. The operation would run tonight if any of the other guards knew about it. They didn’t. They were already planning a night of drinking games and cards at the Old Horn Tavern.

As far as they knew, when Bart climbed out of the armoury drenched in sweat, he was carrying the equipment checklist.

“You’ve been in there for hours ya fat prick! Sure you were polishin’ the shields and not somethin’ else, eh?” Private Rulgh cooed.

“See his hairy palms? Bloke is a fiend for it. Gonna pull it off sooner or later, if not go blind,” said another shirtless guard, bald with deep black skin, wide nostrils and thick lips, wearing only canvas shorts and sandals. The guard had an open tankard of ale and was spilling it on the floor. Despite their alcohol abuse and lifestyle of sloth and gluttony, they managed to maintain impressively cut physiques.

“Private Rulgh, Private Elkington. I wish your fathers kept knotting themselves instead of your mothers. The world wouldn’t stink with your presence had he the foresight. In fact, if I were him…” Bart didn’t even look at them as he crossed the brown and green mosaic tiled floor to the spiral metal staircase leading upwards.

“If I were him, I would have just shot you and your millions of potential brothers and sisters right onto dear mother’s chin.” Bart raised his middle finger over his right shoulder, and walked up the stairs. Rulgh and Elkington were silent, then simultaneously burst into fits of screams and challenges.

“Get yourself down here quick smart, maggot!”

Bart laughed. Their cries got quieter as he got to the second level of the guard house, ignoring the crew of men dosing in makeshift cot, some still laying in full armour. It was generally forced upon him to clean it when the suits were cycled back to the armoury. These pigs didn’t bathe for days on end. The smell of sweat and alcohol breathing through the pores was noxious.

“Gonna give ye the flogging of yer life! We’ll wipe our arses with yer paperwork! Tear it to shreds and make you do it again! I swear it!” Rulgh sounded maniacal.

If only those idiots knew.

Bart looked down at the ‘gear register.’ It was far too thick to be a simple account of what equipment needed maintenance work. He did have a dummy copy of a previous completed register as a failsafe, in case Errik was able to recognise the location of letters but not understand their meaning, and took it for comparison to any completed gear register on file. It was a thoughtful last minute precaution against discovery. The next page read in immaculate copperplate print:


“CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION CONTAINED FORTHWITH
PENALTY OF DEATH APPLIES TO ANY UNAUTHORISED DISTRIBUTOR OF THIS DOCUMENT
PROPERTY OF 42nd C.A.F. HOME GARRISON

COVERT OPERATION: EAGLE EYE”

The following pages were full of mission outcomes, tactical locations, lookout points, snippets from intelligence briefings on critical infrastructure and their weak points, potential names of persons of interest, and identified risks and goals for the sham surveillance operation.

Bart climbed the final steps and stepped into the top floor of the guardhouse. He saw Sergeant Errik, alone in the room face down at his desk with a puddle of thick white saliva oozing from his mouth onto a stack of official documents. He, too, was still wearing full armour and his sword was unsheathed, stuck into a wooden filing cabinet. Something had annoyed him. Perhaps it was the difficulty in spelling his own name. How someone ascends to the rank of Sergeant without the intelligence to master the letters in their own name was absolutely beyond Bart’s comprehension.

Bart took in the space around him, looking for spare copies of the dossier. Although it was a freely distributed document, in the spirit of arming regular citizens with knowledge about adversaries of the Empire who may attack through subterfuge instead of direct assault, Bart didn’t have a copy of his own. He walked softly around the borders of the room, intermittently checking work desks, filing cabinets and caches of equipment for any leftover papers. He came up with nothing. He walked another circuit, pausing as Errik coughed and spluttered and snored, adjusting his face on the stack of papers.

Errik was out cold for a while. Bart looked at him, the mess of his blonde hair, the ruddy paleness of his northerner’s skin, and the white of his spittle made him look like an ordinary man with all the colour drained out. Must have had far too much to drink and trashed the place. There were pieces of a broken chair, loose arrows scattered about in one corner with a few shot into a cork noticeboard, above Errik’s desk, and pieces of fried meat and vegetable left on earthware plates to spoil in the heat. Flies buzzed over them.

Pig stys had more order.

A final loop with no result, and Bart’s heart sank. There was only one pile of papers he hadn’t looked at. He stepped closer to Errik – "WHAT IN THE HELL ARE YOU PLAYING AT, FOOL?"

Bart was stunned.

“Sneaking around my office? Looking to steal? I know you’re dumb as driftwood but do you honestly enjoy the prospect of spending a week rotting in a cell under court martial?” Sergeant Errik quickly rose from his desk, wiping the spit from his cheek and corners of his mouth, and drew his sword from its filing-cabinet-come-scabbard. He didn’t wave or threaten with the blade, only held it by his side and waited for Bart’s response. Errik sneered, clearly impressed with his own cunning in tricking Bart to think he was asleep.

Completely taken off guard, Bart staggered backwards. His eyes opened wide and he slipped on a rogue potato, lost his balance, and dropped to a knee. He fumbled all of the papers in his hand and quickly scrambled to gather them up. Errik walked around from behind his desk, and jabbed at the mosaic floor in front of him with the tip of his sword. He pierced a piece of the parchments and lifted it up, making sure the sword tip came dangerously close to Bart’s cheek on the way up. Errik eyed the piece of paper, and held it out at arm length. Bart saw Errik’s eyes move as if reading.

We’ve failed. The bastard can read. I can’t believe it. The bastard can actually read… Thoughts of either a swift beheading or torturous holiday in solitary confinement flashed before Bart’s eyes like fireworks.

“What’ve you done here, hmmm? You’re come for my signature? And why is it you were sneaking around, you little snake?”

“Sergeant, I’ve brought only the weekly equipment checks and a manifesto indicating what has been maintained and what needs further attention. There are a few items which need replacing from head armoury. I’ve indicated them for your attention.”

“Which items?”

Bart stood with his neck and head held back, involuntarily defensive, as if Errik was about to lash his throat open. The parchment was still skewered on the sword tip. Errik pointed it forwards, offering it to him. Bart very slowly reached up and pinched it away with his index finger and thumb. When Bart’s hand was closest to the blade Errik swiftly whipped the sword back, getting a flinch response. Errik laughed, almost sadistic in his cackling. He delighted in seeing people afraid and driven before him.

“Speak up, snake. Which items need my signature?”

He looked at the parchment Errik picked out from the floor. Of all of them, he’d nailed the dummy gear register. Bart’s heart rate almost doubled as he read over the form. He was certainly ended. There was no way out of it. Errik was going to point out once Bart handed it back for signing that this form was clearly a duplicate of a two month old, already completed and filed register. He’d look at the other paper work, find the ‘Eagle Eye’ orders, and that would be it. Bart took what would likely be the last chance of his life. With a trembling hand he offered the form back to Errik, swallowed his terror, and said “Lines three, six and nine. Two kite shields, two round shields and three broad swords. All need replacing.”

Errik’s eyes ran along the parchment, from left to right. The yellow of his teeth was visible as he grinned.

[Etheryn]

"Your handwriting is comparable to chicken’s scratching in the dirt. Bring me something as illegible as this in the future and you'll be doing it again. Twice."

Sergeant Errik turned around and leaned his forearms on the desk. He picked up a quill in his left hand then passed it to his right as if he didn't know which one to use. A quick dab of ink, three scrawls, a crinkle and a scrunch as he rolled the parchment into a ball, then threw it over his shoulder. Bart caught it. He unravelled it and looked. An irregular signatures on lines three, six and nine.

Except there was no mention of kite shields, rounds shields or swords. The only things itemised on the page related to consumables like grease, gauntlet buckles, flint, tinder, soap and shaving razors.

He was faking it. He was faking it! Yes! Yes! Bart felt a soaring elation. He made the bet and it paid off. He made a mental note to hug Kerrigan when this business was over.

"Sergeant, I've only need of your signature and approval seal. Once more on this parchment here..."

Bart handed over the final page of 'Eagle Eye.' There was a long line at the bottom of the page suggesting initials should go there. An empty space to the right was where Errik signed again, rolled a stamp in lukewarm red wax and thumped it on the page. The wax wasn't hot enough to form the full impression from the stamp. He bashed at it a few more times until it was on there. Twice. He passed the parchment back without ruining it entirely. Only the top half, which he stuffed in his meaty fist and shoved back in Bart's face. His knuckles stopped short of Bart's nose by an inch.

"Get out of here, snake. I'll remember your little attempt at treachery." Errik dropped the paper to the mosaic floor.

Bart nodded his head and took a knee to pick up and unravel the parchment. He read slowly and checked. Errik's signature was where it was needed. He'd just signed his own retirement. Bart took the moment to look around him. The Sergeant's office was meant to be the brain of a guard's garrison. He was the leader, he called the shots, he motivated his crew to serve to the best of their ability. This room was supposed to be ordered. The chairs were supposed to be tucked beneath the desk, not left in splintered piles after being used as projectiles in a temper tantrum. The paperwork should be ordered and stacked neatly, not used as a pillow to be dribbled upon.

If everything continued as it should, that sense of order would shortly return. Perhaps with some of the pride Bart felt when he joined Corone's Armed Forces. Perhaps the people would feel respect and trust in their protectors, not bone-shaking fear.

Bart wasn't done yet. He needed to get the dossier for Dan, to satisfy at least some of his own bargain. He felt another pang of guilt for tricking him. Still, something made Bart feel Dan would’ve joined in their ruse even without a reward on offer. Tonight, Dan would face up to the entire guard in full swing of their drunken fury. Maybe only for a short while but for long enough to suffer a beating.

"Shall I take your paperwork and arrange the completion of anything beneath your attention? A Sergeant's valuable time need not be wasted on menial tasks," Bart said. He looked with reference to the stack of papers which Errik had been pretending to sleep upon. His spit was slowly soaking through, causing the ink to run. It might take too long for Bart to find another copy and get it to Dan.

"You're talking about these, eh?" Errik picked up the papers and looked at them, his slag dripping on to the floor. It reminded Bart of the perpetual slobbering of a feral dog.

"Yes, good Sergeant."

"Take them. At least you know what you're good for. Get out of my office."

Errik held the papers out, gripping most of the paper tight so the only piece Bart could take hold of was covered in thick globs of saliva. It seemed Errik was on a roll, and wanted Bart to know just how much he hated him. Bart took the paper without flinching as if Errik's stinking ooze was a gift. He walked back down the stairs. He looked down at his fingertips and shook it away once out of sight, in disbelief that Errik could possibly generate that much saliva on his own. He saw a last remaining hard, green bogey stuck to his thumb.

Not much longer. Prick.

He folded Aaron’s dossier, only partly soaked with spittle, into his tunic.

Bart couldn't wait. He walked outside, dismissed the still fuming Rulgh and Elkington with another flippant middle finger, and waited. Kerrigan rolled by in an old, rickety cart full of pumpkins and cabbage, drawn by an absolutely ancient looking donkey. He was wearing a moss green hooded cloak with sleeves that entirely covered his hands. Kerrigan flashed a hand out quickly and Bart passed him the signed, sealed and ready to go 'Eagle Eyes' papers. They didn't speak and pretended not to know each other.

The cart continued on and slowed down only to navigate the left wheel over a pothole in the cobblestones. The other wheel hit a second and the entire cart bounced. A few of the pumpkins rolled onto the street and cracked open. They were soft and rotten on the inside. As any dutiful guardsman would do, know full well that maintenance and safety of the roads were of paramount importance, Bart gathered up the smelling, orange-green lumps of vegetable and carried them away.

He walked back inside the garrison and faced Rulgh and Elkington, who'd both seemingly decided among themselves to deal out a through and through belting. Their rage at Bart’s insults had simmered down to a silent, tense stare.

"Girly-man gonna cook soup for dinner?" Rulgh snorted. The oaf always stood with his mouth hung open as if trying to catch flies.

Perfect target.

Bart started pelting the pieces of pumpkin at their faces as hard as he could. Bits of it splattered the walls. A particularly putrid piece caught Rulgh square in the jaw and filled his gaping mouth, sending him staggering backwards, choking and spluttering.

They both spear talked him into a wall and started strangling Bart, laying punch after punch into his guts. Errik was standing at the top of the stairs, and even though he disliked Bart, found it hilarious to see Rulgh get smacked in the face with rotten food then almost swallow it. He was doubled over with laughter.

Despite the lack of oxygen as his diaphragm spasmed through repeated, painful blows, Bart felt that it was absolutely worth it. He fought back with elbows and kicks of his own.

***

Kerrigan's cart bounced on through the streets. His almost pre-historic donkey had a coat of patchy brown and grey, giving it a mismatched look like it'd been one donkey sewn together from the off-cut pieces of half a dozen other animals. The beast puffed and wheezed through the labour of dragging the cart in the heat. Kerrigan felt his pain somewhat, sweating profusely in his maroon cured leather armour beneath the thick, scratchy, and horribly uncomfortable moss green cloak and hood. His lips cracked with dehydration.

Three quarters of the journey from the guardhouse to the Chief Inspector's office, or at least his secretary, had been covered. Kerrigan couldn't simply take off his hood and walk there. He needed cover. The papers stuffed down the front of his armour were too valuable to lose. The sacrifice in speed of delivery was worth the certainty that 'Eagle Eyes' would actually get where it needed to go.

He looked about. The change in scenery had been subtle but it was noticeable now. The streets opened up, became wider, and the buildings actually had more than five feet between the walls of one to the next. Cobbled roads in disrepair gave way to even, smooth pavement that with functioning gutters and storm drains. The merchants were selling actually valuable jewellery, real gold, opals and other precious stones, shipped in through the prosperous efforts of the Relvest mining barony. The jewellery pushed through the merchants next to Old Horn Tavern were merely trinkets in comparison.

Kerrigan figured the war didn't affect the rich as much here. He knew there were plenty of people were people back near the 42nd garrison who could be considered 'wealthy,' at least in comparison to some of their neighbours in tatters and rags. A pretty looking dress and clay fired ornaments on the balcony didn't compare to the now sprawling, expensive brick veneer and stone fountains found in the homes in this particular area. As he got closer to the centre of Radasanth and government buildings from which the Assembly operated, it seemed the poor vanished and the rich replaced them.

He arrived in the district reserved for Assembly bodies, important officials of the military, and other men and companies of power. He'd instantly been challenged by a pair of powerfully built, dangerously armed guardsmen at a walled checkpoint. They were there to prevent undesirables from getting access to the government district.

Kerrigan pulled away his cloak and presented his identification to prove he was a serving member of 42nd garrison on official business that required the cover of secrecy. He dumped the donkey and cart. The donkey seemed content with sitting and doing nothing for days. "I'll come back for you later. Promise!"

The guards patted Kerrigan down to ensure carried no weapons or other dangerous implements on his person. He stepped over the threshold and walked for less than five minutes among even more impressive structures, covered with decorations and plaques and signatory statues of war heroes which let everyone know they stood in the beating heart of the Empire.

Kerrigan's eyes lingered on one particularly impressive structure, a building standing on four carved, thick pillars of smokey grey and black marble, as if it was a regular home propped set atop a dinner table. In fact, the entire thing was carved from marble. It had a domed roof of what seemed to be polished silver. Somehow, despite the blistering sun, it reflected nothing but an image of the immediate surrounds. The entire thing seemed impractical but beautiful. Despite its elevation Kerrigan, could see inside an open stained glass window and saw the shine of expensive, polished timber furniture and oil paintings on the walls. Stained glass windows of ancient deities and figures adorned every side, allowing the sun to flood in and cast rainbow patterns on the interior.

A circular iron staircase with a curving, undulating guide rail connected the building to the immaculate, symmetrical garden directly beneath it. The deep green lawn was of uniform length and bordered by a perimeter of white roses, ferns, and other exotic plants. Kerrigan knew nothing of gardening but something suggested it was all out of season, as if some supernatural energy enabled everything to flourish in a time and place which they ordinarily wouldn't.

There were four dark stone display pylons rising from the lawn in even spacing. If an imaginary line were drawn between each, it'd form a perfect square. The pylons were about three feet high and had what looked like pot plants on them. Kerrigan couldn't see too well from a distance, but they seemed to be miniature trees. Bonsais.

This was the place Bart told him to find the Chief Inspector. He patted at his pockets, double checking that the sham operation 'Eagle Eye' was still with him. He stepped forward into the garden, looked up the staircase and almost fell over in surprise. There was a seemingly very small, elderly man's head poking out from the top of the landing. A short grey goatee, brilliant blue eyes, and absolutely no hair or eyebrows on his wrinkled head. The man observed Kerrigan with beaming smile. It seemed he was playing fun and games, as if he'd been hiding during the entire time Kerrigan approached and waiting until the last moment to jump out and shout "Boo!"

"Come up, come up! I know what you've brought for me," the man said. His voice was high pitched and crackly with strange, irregular inflections on different syllables as if common tongue wasn't native to him.

Kerrigan climbed the stairs and looked around at the brilliant interior of the Chief Inspector's home. Or office. Or playhouse. There were ancient looking artifacts of bone and pottery, some impossible looking three dimensional geometry puzzles, and a framed, ancient looking cloth banner of red, blue and green. It was a flag. There was a dancing of different colours from the stain glass windows over every surface.

Apart from the furniture and oil paintings of strange, alien horizons and landscapes, absolutely everything was made from the same smokey black and grey marble as the building itself. Even the cutlery.

"I, uh, errr... 42nd garrison, sir. Brought you these."

"Ooh! Gimme a look!" The elderly man hobbled over to Kerrigan, and thrust out a small, bejewelled hand from the sleeve of flowing green robes of silk that seemed awfully hot given the climate. Yet, he wasn't sweating. Kerrigan couldn't see if he wore shoes or not as the robes dragged along behind him and completely covered the space where his feet should be. If the up and down bob of his awkward, uneven stride didn't give it away that he was walking, the inability to see anything beneath the swirl of his robes would give the illusion that he was floating. He was very, very strange looking. Kerrigan pictured a powerful, gruff figure when he thought of the Chief Inspector on the way here. If he'd lived on modern Earth, he would've best described the figure before him as a white Yoda without the pointy ears.

"Come on! Hand it over!"

Kerrigan passed over 'Eagle Eye.' It seemed like he'd stepped into an Escher painting. The elderly man hobbled over and snatched it up, quickly flicking through the pages as if the walls of text and diagrams needed only moments to read, and then stuffed it beneath his robe. He read thirty pages in less than thirty seconds.

"Sounds good. I'll follow you back. Tonight?"

"Errr..." Kerrigan still hadn't figured out what to say.

[Etheryn]

The hammer struck in a slow, deliberate rhythm, and the last nails settled straight and flush in the timber, fixing the backrest of Purvis’ newly repaired chair. It was the final item in an assortment of things that broken by drunks. Mostly Sergeant Errik and his goons. Dan was furious at the extent of damage and harm these men had caused in the area, all the while wearing the crest of those who were supposed to protect and serve. He figured they were criminals at best who’d somehow slipped under the dragnet and wormed their way into positions of authority instead of being corralled into jail cells.

He felt a constant, quiet anger through that day, playing over the confrontation with Private Rulgh in his head. His sneering, apelike face, the puff of his cheeks as he coughed up a wet ball of phlegm and spat it right into the middle of Dan’s chest. His cockiness as he walked away, and threats of harm for later. As Dan fixed furniture through the afternoon and evening as part of his payment for food and a room at the Old Horn Tavern, he wasn’t seeing the nail heads as he beat down with the hammer. He was seeing the tip of Rulgh’s snub nose.

Pig nosed arsehole.

He wiped his brow with the back of his head and set the chair against the wall. Despite the cool breeze drafting through the storeroom, carrying the smell of old timber and ale, he’d still built up a sweat. He cracked his knuckles then leaned backwards, forcing a stretch of his torso by putting his hands on his hips and pushing forwards. Dan looked over his work for the evening.

All of the ale barrels had been rotated and reorganised, oldest on the bottom and newest on the top, laid on their sides on each of the three layers on the sturdy barrel shelves that engulfed every spare inch of the walls. He’d scrubbed away the cobwebs, scrubbed the floor, fixed another door hinge and double, triple, quadruple checked the rigging, pulley and knots of the barrel lifting setup he’d fixed for Purvis on his first night’s stay. The repaired furniture stood neatly opposite him, and although they’d never look as good as new they were perfectly serviceable. Dan was satisfied.

He thought about what time it would be outside and he wasn’t quite sure. He knew sooner or later the local garrison would come in for their drinks and would stay for hours, but he only wanted to expose himself to them for the minimum amount of time. He’d started to figure the times of day by the activity in the Old Horn Tavern, and associated a particular level of noise with particular trading hours. He heard nothing down in the storeroom, but the packed earth around the below ground storeroom acted as a good insulator from noise, as well as heat. He walked up the ramp (stairs would make it impossible to carry full barrels so the ramp was for rolling them up) and back into the tavern proper. It was filling, and the cheerful ditty of flutes and pipes and a treble sounding string instrument met his ears. The band was new. Purvis had cleared a space for dancing and removed almost all of the tables and chairs.

He nodded silently to Purvis as an indication he’d finished the chores, collected a plateful of bread, roast meat and gravy from the side counter and took it to his room. He fiddled with the lock and entered, lit the candles sat on the pseudo-bed (more like a stretcher than anything) and ate. Purvis, or whoever cooked for him, had wonderful talents.

Never see him cook. Dan considered, wondering if he had slaves chained in the kitchen who’d never seen daylight.

He yawned, lethargic with his full belly, and laid back. He still wore his work clothes and boots, knowing that when he needed to move he’d need to move quickly. He thought about how the events were going to play out, casting his mind back to the shadowy meeting in his room with Bart and Kerrigan the night before.

Kerrigan’s voice repeated in his mind. ”The Chief Inspector will want to keep a certain distance from the tavern because his whole game is observing and intervening if he has to. He can’t observe this thing if he’s standing in the middle of it. He’ll be asking me about why they’re all drinking in their armour, not enough running the operation and I’ll have to explain they just don’t care. Your signal is when Bart asks for six beers, not ales, and two whiskeys. Got it? Get downstairs and… I dunno, call his mother an ogre or something.”

Dan tried to consider what he’d do to rile up the entire guard enough to go ballistic, yet not kill him in the time it took the Chief Inspector to step in. There were a few complications that they’d never smoothed out.

If I call their mothers a bunch of fat mountain trolls and they try to dismember me is it going to change the Chief Inspector’s judgement? I’d have provoked them. And even if he steps in, what’s he going to do? Say “Stop or you’re in lots of trouble,” while they cut my arms off then beat me with the stumps? Can I fight back? If I fight back, when do I do it?

He felt uncomfortable about it. Still, he needed that information about Aaron, and pictured Bart and Kerrigan doing something (he didn’t know what) to risk their lives and smuggle it out for him. Aaron unknowingly needed Dan to tip him off about the Empire’s manhunt for him. The people around here needed some new guards. He couldn’t back out. He thought of black eyes, missing teeth and a bad, bad headache. He yawned again and fell asleep.

The sound of clashing steel, like someone dropped a pair of cymbals, woke Dan with a start. He hadn’t realised he was asleep until now. He had no idea what time had passed and shot up from the bed to the door, opening it enough to hear the situation downstairs. The candles on his shelves were still lit so he couldn’t have been asleep for more than few hours.

“Hahah! Hahahaha! Winner again!” Dan recognised Errik’s voice. He heard the familiar clink of armour and the scrape of a chair as someone stood up and walked, cheering all the while. The wind and string band from before played a rising highlander’s tune that seemed to stir everyone’s spirit. Dan knew the guards would be down there. The rhythmic thuds of people dancing about the tavern floor and the static of dozens of conversations happening all at once told him that it’d gotten busy, the ‘happy hour’ of the night. Purvis put on half priced drinks for as long as it took the sand in a big old hourglass to empty.

Before he could rub the sleep from his eyes Dan heard Bart’s voice. “Six beers and two whiskeys for the men! On me!”

Damn it.

Dan figured you can never feel quite be prepared to take a beating. He breathed deep, took out his coin pouch, and marched downstairs. He thought back to the unfamiliar voice shouting victory and stomping around, seemingly doing a victory lap. He had a quickly thought out plan.

He smiled quietly with a bit of ironic laughter at himself. Never in his life had he needed to actually think about how to get someone to assault him.

Before he reached the bottom landing he took another breath, steeling himself, and opened his father’s pouch. He dropped a single coin inside. He wasn’t quite sure what the metal was made of. He hoped it didn’t matter, and sauntered down the remaining stairs, trying on his most arrogant, overconfident smile. He almost puffed his chest out. No one saw him yet.

The Old Horn Tavern was swollen with patrons. The line at the bar was four deep and twice as wide and Purvis was mixing drinks, pouring beers and multitasking like a man possessed. There were unfamiliar faces helping him at the bar, casual workers with the same motivations as Dan while he was in the store room fixing furniture and moving barrels. A scantily dressed elven drinks maiden wearing a partially transparent pink gown masterfully balanced a tray full of ales in one hand and a steaming meat dish in the other, weaving about the drunks and customers on her way to a table near the merrily blazing fireplace. A circle of revellers nearby linked arms and spun in a strange, shuffling heel-toe dance, increasing their tempo as the band picked up pace. The bosoms of the women bounced in time and the men stared with amusement.

Sergeant Errik, Private Rulgh, and at least ten other men who Dan saw around but couldn’t give names, all in the same uniform plate mail with superficially defined ‘muscles’ around the pectorals and abdomen, sat on the opposite side of the tavern to the fireplace. They occupied as much space as they want, and in fact there wasn’t a single other person near them. They knew better and stood well away, it seemed. The guards all had at least one ale in their hands, some with two, and it seemed Rulgh was about to one up them all and attempt drinking from three simultaneously. He tried and failed slopping an entire tankard of ale over his armour and face, yet continued with the other too. His friends gave him raucous cheers and slapped him heartily on the back, apparently proud he was ‘manly’ enough to try the feat.

Dan saw a table set aside where Errik and another nameless guard sat opposite each other. They both had their helmets, plumed with red feathers, resting on their laps. Their expressions weren’t cheerful like the rest. They had stony gazes, boring into each other’s eyes as if locked in mortal combat. They both picked up their helmets and put them on. Errik finished the last of his ale and set the empty tankard aside. Not on a table. He just threw it on the floor. His opponent did the same.

They arm wrestled. That was why he could hear Errik trumpeting his dominance earlier. The crashing metal sound was the arm of whoever he’d beaten, as he slammed it to the table. Seemed only right that the Sergeant of 42nd garrison would be their champion arm wrestler. This was Dan’s opening. Errik overpowered his opponent with seemingly little effort, stood up and cheered, fists pumping the air. Then his chest. What a show. Dan rolled his eyes.

Dan saw Bart step out from the swarm of people at the bar. He was awkwardly carrying a tray of drinks. Six amber beers, and two tall and thin glasses of whiskey. Dan saw his black eye and swollen lip. Just like before in the trade square, they pretended not to know each other. They didn’t make eye contact.

Dan idly felt the shape of the coin in his father’s pouch. He considered the thin round edge, pressing his fingers on it through the aged leather.

“Oi! Tin man! With the fancy feathers! You!” Dan shouted. He’d walked into that empty space of the tavern where only guardsmen were welcome. He was in their territory. He was already getting warning looks from people on the other side, who anonymously felt afraid on Dan’s behalf. They couldn’t hear the challenge he called. They definitely saw it, as Dan stepped towards Errik with a smug grin and extended his finger right at his face.

There was about three inches between the tip of Dan’s finger and Errik’s nose.

“I’m talkin’ to you, tin man. I challenge you to an arm wrestle. All my coins say I win,” Dan said. He was surprised at the volume of his own voice, considering the little effort he used to form the words in comparison with the powerful noise of a full house.

He realised that he could hear his own voice because there was silence. Every single person in Old Horn Tavern had stopped what they were doing and were staring at Dan. The band was quiet and their instruments hung limply by their sides, apart from the flutist who still held it to his lips but seemed to be impersonating a statue. The circle of revellers paused mid step, arms still linked, hesitantly looking among each other with a silent consensus to sprint out of the room at a moment’s notice. Dan’s finger still wavered in front of Errik’s face. He worried that he’d open his mouth and chew it off.

“I know you, boy. I remember you,” Errik said with an uncharacteristic calm. Dan expected him to, as usual, throw a chair or punch the wall or try cut someone’s head off. Instead he was still. He was incredibly still. His face was fixed in a contortion of controlled fury that seemed painful for him to restrain. His sour, fishlike lips were drawn into a predator’s grimace, the butter yellow of his teeth a contrast to the paleness of his skin.

“Do you accept?” Dan’s finger still hovered in an accusatory point.

“I hope you value that finger. I’m going to crush the bones of your hand into powder.”

Errik rose from his seat and dragged the table with one hand to the centre of the tavern floor. If the table was an arrow and the tavern floor a target, it was resting over the bullseye. Patrons pushed into each other, cramming up against the walls, just to give him a wide enough berth. Dan stood in place, following him with his eyes. Errik stood on the fireplace side of the table, both hands gripping the edge. He leaned forward over the table and waited, his steely grey eyes fixed with absolute intensity. Dan brought over two stools. Both of them sat, never once looking away. Dan dropped a bag of coins in front of him. So did Errik, who didn’t bother to check if the challenger could actually match the whole contents of his coin purse. The money didn’t matter.

It definitely mattered to Dan.

“Do you know who you face, fool?” Errik said, teeth almost gnashing together. Just like when they’d first met Dan felt the hot flecks of his spit on his face. He cringed, wiping it away with his sleeve.

“Sergeant Errik of the Coronè Armed Forces. After tonight, they’ll suffix you a new title. Think of it,” Dan said. His heart pounded. He held his hands in front and slowly drew them apart, as if he was forming the words of his next sentence in visible letters in the empty space, and showing it to the people around him like a banner.

“Sergeant Erik the Pansy. Has a nice ring to it.”

Someone in the background coughed. Someone else dropped a glass. Others carefully opened the saloon doors and walked out, wary of attracting attention to themselves and Errik’s wrath along with it.

“We’ll see, boy,” Errik spat again and raised his hand to an arm wrestling position on the table. Dan felt a second wave of fresh spit on his cheek. He wiped it away again with the sleeve of his right arm and kept the limb raised. He brought his elbow down to wrest on the table and met grips with Errik. Dan had never seen Errik’s build beneath the layers of his metal armour, yet his grip felt firm. They stared each other down, not breaking eye contact but seeing each other’s weapons with their peripheral vision. Dan saw the long sword hanging in Errik’s scabbard. Errik saw the knife on Dan’s left forearm.

“Barkeep! Count!” Errik roared. His breath smelled horrible. Dan could hear Errik’s breathing fasten and his grip became firmer. He was preparing himself. Somehow, despite the gravity and intensity of the situation, Dan felt relaxed. He remembered one of Old Ross’s many vague proverbs that never really applied when he recited them. The sailor who blows horns of his worth is worthless himself.

“Five, four, three…” Dan looked at Purvis. Purvis looked pensive yet but didn’t share the blank stare of the crowd around him. Dan could hear the footsteps of the entire guard walking to and standing at his back. Surprisingly, they didn’t taunt or cheer or do anything at all. They just watched.

“Two, one…” Dan saw Purvis’s eyes look to something through the saloon doors. No one else saw the track of his gaze. Dan followed it, and looked to his left and out the door. He saw a man in a black leather vest, and someone shorter. Carrying what looked like a staff. Billowing green robes. He was just as bald as Dan. The figures were motionless. Dan knew they could see inside and the duel of strength about to take place.

“Go!” Purvis shouted.

Errik twisted at the hips and barked a fighter’s roar, throwing his bodyweight into an explosive, one hundred percent effort in attempt to surprise Dan and cause him to slacken his arm, losing the wrestling match before he’d put any of his own strength into it. Dan could feel it telegraphed in Errik’s grip before it happened. He thought of his breathing, thought of iron in his arms, and crushed his fingers around Errik’s. He held fast, arm unmoving from its position.

Dan had grown strong throughout his thousands of hours of labour. He had workers hands that gripped some kind of tool every day for more than ten years. The only thing Errik’s hands had gripped recently had been the handle of an ale tankard, or his own sword when he idly drew it to intimidate people who didn’t deserve it. He was out of shape in comparison.

Errik continued to shout, even standing from his seat and rotating his body more, trying everything that he could to budge Dan’s arm. Dan’s face was red and veins bulged from his muscular biceps and forearms, even from his shaved head and his neck, with all the tension of his effort. Both men looked like they were about to explode with the exertion.

Bart stood behind Errik and had the audacity to gently press down on Errik’s shoulders, reminding him without insult that standing up was cheating. Errik sat. Unthinking in his push to beat Dan, Errik didn’t even consider who was doing it. His eyes were closed and he didn’t see it. The rest of the guards knew. Bart still didn’t look at Dan. Dan was infuriated at the sight of Bart’s injuries.

Eventually, Dan felt a weakening in his opponent’s strength, and replied with a twist of his own torso. He pictured the hammer he’d used during the afternoon’s work and superimposed the image onto his own arm. He pictured himself hammering at Errik’s hand, pummelling down, and Dan’s arm moved over the top. He was winning. He was going to win. He knew it.

The silence from Dan’s initial challenge still remained. No one had dared speak a single word yet, out of fear for the other guards standing around. The only sounds were the grunts and deep breaths of the men locked in a ritual of strength, ancient as they come, to prove who is highest in the pecking order.

Dan saw the rear of Errik’s hand hovering only inches from the table top. It was over. Dan leaned in and took his opportunity. The Chief Inspector would be watching from somewhere, but surely he wouldn’t hear. The issue of provocation would be nullified.

“Gonna use your coins…” Dan’s push had sapped enough of his breath that he could only get out a few syllables on the exhale. He’d pass out if he strung together a full sentence. His voice was strained and quiet enough that no one else but Dan or Errik would hear.

“To buy soap…”

Errik’s expression registered the acceptance of incoming defeat. He had a look of despair, like his head was resting in the open jaws of a shark about to bite down. When he heard Dan mention soap, Errik’s mouth fell agape in confusion, as if he was trying to say “What?” but couldn’t form the sound.

“Give your mother a wash before we screw,” Dan finished, using the last of his breath to pin Errik’s hand on the timber. No one cheered. The silence remained. The next few moments were blurry and Dan couldn’t recall what happened. No one else would’ve forgot seeing the Sergeant punch Dan square in the jaw and knock him sprawling off his stool, rolling onto his back. Dan vaguely remembered a tight feeling on his neck and repeated thuds, followed by a bouncing sensation each time.

Dan’s adrenalin kicked in to overdrive and gave him clarity. He realised the tightness was Errik’s hand around his throat, and the bouncing was his head being punched into the hardwood floor. He tasted a coppery fluid in his mouth. No one dared step in. He looked up at Errik through a black tunnel that was slowly closing as his carotid artery was pressed closed, preventing blood from getting to his brain.

Bart was watching, unconsciously wringing at his hands, knowing that he was simply powerless to intervene. Purvis wasn’t even looking at the sickening mess tangle of metal on flesh. He couldn’t stomach the sound of Dan’s head bounce over and over again as he suffered the flogging of his life. The only sound anyone heard was a hollow whump, whump, whump.

Somewhere in the haze, Dan felt the familiar… thing, as best he could describe it, inside of him. Like a rising ocean tide lapping up the sand, pulsing and receding, the ebb of each flow gradually getting bigger than the one before it, the power increasing only to diminish as Errik’s blows landed, then come back momentarily with more volume and weight. Dan wasn’t conscious any more. He was, in fact, out cold. But he could still, somehow, feel that buzzing. It was deeper this time, reverberating from his very bones and filtering it into the air around him. Errik had stopped throwing punches because his hand had gotten too sore.

It somehow made him wake. He was only partly aware but it was enough to see. He felt a pressure on his chest, the weight of Errik straddling him as he paused in the rain of punches to adjust himself for better leverage. Dan saw the metal framing Errik’s face. The metal framing his entire body. His head, his torso, his arms.

Dan pictured brittle things. Paper, dried leaves ,a piece of fresh bread. Things that he’d known he could use his own hands to utterly crush, the muscles in his hand and arm an extension of his desire to collapse whatever it was beneath them. He pictured each of them in turn, their weak structure, and how easy it was to make them fold and bend.

He pictured the metal of Errik’s armour made out of those soft things. His helmet as paper. His chest plate as dried leaves. His shoulder plates and arm guards as slices of bread. Without knowing how, Dan somehow gathered the essence of the ‘thing’ inside of him and sent it all to the coin in his father’s pouch on his hip. Dan felt a shocking rush, like pure electricity exiting his body, and his free right hand. His brain showed him a tin can resting vulnerably on his palm. He balled his fist around the can with all his remaining strength, until his knurled golf ball sized knuckles turned white. Dan could literally feel the coin in the pouch, like it was a phantom limb. He could feel the energy rushing through it, and out to constrict itself and pull in upon Errik's armour. There was a sound of crumpling metal.

Errik went stiff as a board. Dan turned his fist and squeezed tighter. Errik’s body bent at a horribly impossible backwards angle, and he fell to the floor. His snarls had been replaced by gasps. Dan laid still, all his effort going into crushing that tin can so small and thin until it was non-existent. He twisted it again and there was a cracking noise, slightly muffled and wet. Bone. People had started to scream and shout. Female voices pleaded, “Stop! Stop it! Stop it!” Someone picked Dan up and dragged him away, he didn’t know who. He thought he’d heard Bart talking.

“What the Hell did you do?”

He got a glimpse at Sergeant Errik. There was blood oozing from the corner of his mouth and his eyes were closed. Dan blacked out.

[Etheryn]

Kerrigan flung open the saloon doors to the Old Horn Tavern. The Chief Inspector, carrying a simple looking staff of irregular, knotted wood, more like the root of an ancient oak than a man-made thing, hobbled along about twenty metres behind. Despite the intense violence of the scene they’d both just witnessed and the urgency with which Kerrigan rushed to stop it, the Chief Inspector moved at the same pace he always did, with an awkward shuffle and hop every time his weight shifted to the left leg like he had a long term injury. Or maybe he was just old.

Kerrigan saw Sergeant Errik, prostrate on his back with two other guards helping claw away pieces of his armour that’d been collapsed as if sent to the bottom of a deep, deep ocean and brought back up. Rulgh fumbled with leather straps, his thick sausage fingers too big and too shaky to operate the simple buckles and clasps. Errik was breathing with a rattling wheeze. His ribs were broken. Elkington was trying to get Errik’s helmet off but it wouldn’t move. It’d be sucked tight to the contours of his head. The shape of it suggested to Kerrigan that it was almost certain to have fractured or crushed his skull.

As a whole, the damage was something that he’d never seen inflicted upon someone else by traditional human weaponry. Everything but the helm had been removed and Kerrigan saw sickly, deep purple and blue bruising at points all over Errik’s body. His eyes rolled open and the whites were almost entirely red from the bursting of capillaries.

Kerrigan tried to quickly replay the events in his head to figure out what happened. All he’d seen was Dan win an arm wrestle, Errik throw a punch, tackle Dan and keep punching him. Then he just suddenly straightened up, went stiff, and fell over. No one touched him. It just… happened. People were crying, shocked at the base depravity and primal violence they'd seen. Most of them didn’t understand what happened to Errik, and were repeatedly asking no one in particular for an explanation. They needed to give their confusion a voice. It didn't matter if they got an answer. There were a few older men in the crowd who’d witnessed it and had sombre expressions. There was something they knew. A few of them whispered among each other. They'd seen unexplainable things before.

There was still a layer of silence, broken only by sobs and hushed talk of what happens next. Bart stood next to Dan, who was a limp pile in the corner, face bloodied and swelling already.

“What happened?” Kerrigan asked Rulgh lamely.

“Him. Man, he did something. He did… I don’t even know,” Rulgh said.

“Stay the Hell away from him. He’s copped enough of a hiding,” Kerrigan warned coldly. Rulgh’s snub nose, beading with sweat run down from his forehead, was quivering like a Chihuahua’s. There’d be no misplaced aggression from any of Errik’s men. They were all petrified of Dan doing the same to them. Some of them were looking down at their armour, deciding on if they should take it off before getting crushed as well.

Kerrigan walked over to Bart and helped lift Dan onto a chair. Purvis brought water and cloth to wipe away the blood. Bart sent a civilian who actually offered his assistance, apparently some kind of nurse, to bring ice and medical supplies to stitch wounds. It would’ve made more sense for Bart to fetch the items and leave the medic to remain, but he somehow felt directly responsible for Errik’s attack on Dan, and he refused to walk away. Dan had regained some consciousness and was blowing bubbles for his own amusement in the clotted blood about his lips and mouth. Bart was amazed he didn’t lose any teeth.

The people who’d remained during the incident were looking back and forward between each of the three groups; Bart, Kerrigan and Dan in the corner by the staircase landing, Errik and his guards in the middle of the tavern floor, and the Chief Inspector still standing quietly, leaning on his staff, by the saloon doors. Anyone who wanted to leave would have to walk over or through him. He was rubbing at his chin, musing with himself about what to do next. He rubbed his hand over his bald head, a gesture to suggest he’d decided, and took a few steps forward.

“Silence!”

The voice that boomed from his mouth literally shook the walls. Glasses rattled and things fell from shelves and tables to clatter and break on the ground. It was deafening and powerful, and Kerrigan thought it couldn’t possibly belong to the same, strange little man he’d met in the marble house. It did.

Despite the thunderous volume, no one outside the building would’ve heard a thing. People walked past, in fact, completely oblivious to anything occurring inside.

Kerrigan knew, deep down, that the Chief Inspector was not a regular human being. It was obvious from the time he’d met him and all the fantastic and strange things about his home. It was like the study of a wizard’s tower.

The Chief Inspector rumbled, his voice no longer amplified but still a roar on its own, “Know this! All who stand before me! I am a tool of the Assembly, sent to protect the interests and rights of its own people, against crimes perpetuated by the Assembly’s servants. Namely, these armoured men before you. I am enabled! By the things I have seen here tonight! By writ of law, I command every man and woman in this room to speak truthfully!”

The Chief Inspector reached his free hand into his robe, and pulled out what could only be described as a phantom quill. It was made of ghostly white smoke somehow solidified into a tangible form. Motes of whatever thing made it real floated down, upwards and sideways, puffed along by an invisible breeze. He released his hold on the quill and it hovered in place. He produced a thick, impossibly old tome with a frayed spine and dusty black leather covers. He held it open in his free hand, balancing it by the spine on his open palm to give the pages free movement. The tip of the quill came to rest gently upon the top left corner of the first page.

“All of you not involved in the conflict among these men” – the Chief Inspector waved his hand absently in the direction of the guards and Dan – “will tell me all of what you saw tonight. You will speak at once. Your testimony will not contaminate the testimony of another. You will hear naught but your own voice and mine.”

The Chief Inspector lifted and drove the base of his staff into the timber. There was a small pop in the air, and it every person in the room could hear nothing but their own words from that point onwards. One by one, they slowly started talking, eyes wide with confusion at the strange sensation of seeing others speak with no sound. It looked like a room full of landed fish gasping for air as they silently moved their mouths.

The Chief Inspector was preventing any accidental suggestion or cross referencing from confusing the people, and causing them to recall something they didn’t perceive with their own five senses.

The phantom quill machined every word of every person in the room onto the pages of the Chief Inspector’s book. It moved faster than a human eye could possibly see, a smoky blur, and the pages of the book flipped over ten at a second as the quill filled them up. The tome was easily over a thousand pages and half of it was filled in under a minute. A few stragglers finished their story and everyone stood still. The Chief Inspector put the tome away and pulled out a second. The quill remained floating in the air. The leather books looked very heavy yet he held them with no effort, despite his small frame. What was stranger was where he put them. The physics didn’t work. There was no bulge in his outline from their size. It was like they simply disappeared into a hidden storage compartment.

“Again, all will tell me truthfully. You who are not involved in this conflict. Tell me what you know of these men. Tell me of their good, and tell me of their evil. Tell me of all their deeds.”

The strange procession of silent speech resumed. This time it went for much longer. Each person had many stories about the guards, it seemed. The Chief Inspector’s book was filled before the completion of their testimonies, and he produced another, getting through half of it before everyone finished. He cracked his staff upon the floor and everyone had their ‘earmuffs’ removed. They were deathly silent, knowing better that the robed man’s awesome power than to speak or act outside his command. Some people couldn’t control themselves and were in quiet tears, and others absolutely bawling.

Kerrigan and Bart looked at each other with shared incomprehension. Their assumption of the Chief Inspector was something leagues below the mystical display they witnessed. They knew of ‘practitioners,’ men of power in Assembly, who had been lent a portion of the abilities of spirits, even gods. They’d never seen them before. Without moving a finger, the Chief Inspector recorded verbatim hundreds of thousands of words spoken simultaneously without rest, and cast an eerie sound blanket over the entire building.

Dan was coughing. His throat hurt severely. He rasped, “Did it work?” Kerrigan raised a finger to his lips and suggested he be very, very quiet.

“What you saw of the bald man" - he pointed his staff to Dan - "was a rightful act of self-defence. The assault upon him was not only unjustified and unreasonable, but it very nearly ended his life. His response to his attacker was proportionate and justified. He will bear no punishment for this,” the Chief Inspector explained. He looked about the room, individually making eye contact with every person at least once during his monologue.

“Alas, my words are wasted. You will not remember this night unless you are summoned to speak of it,” the Chief Inspector repeated. He raised his staff this time, not pointing it as a weapon but more so a gesture to indicate the finality of his warning.

“Nod, and you understand. Then you will leave.”

Everyone nodded. Once everyone had done so there was a loud noise, a rising sizzle like frying bacon. The sound peaked and quietened until fading to silence. The Chief Inspector had burned away their memories of the night. No one would know what could fill that blank in their recollection of their life. It would most likely be the memory of a drinks and good company with a fist fight in between. They walked out aimlessly, not speaking a word to each other. Dan heard them resume conversations completely irrelevant to the night’s events, as if it never happened.

“All the armoured men here today will stand before me,” the Chief Inspector directed, again waving his staff, this time in a more accusatory, pointed manner. Its tip faced each of the guardsmen individually, summoning them to rank and file. They swayed in place, heads full of drink, yet sober in comparison to their previous state. Their violent attitude had been supressed and replaced with fear. The staff remained fixed upon Sergeant Errik.

“Stand him before me,” the Chief Inspector said.

“S-s-sir…” Rulgh whimpered.

“STAND HIM BEFORE ME!” his voice amplified again, a thousand fold. Again, like his first call for silence, the walls shook.

Rulgh and another guard lifted up the limp, battered body of Sergeant Errik from beneath his arms and attempted to stand him. He collapsed into a heap, and they drew him up again, this time holding him there without leaving him to support himself on his own legs. Errik was conscious, barely. Or at least his eyes were open and he looked like it.

Dan was unable to move. He looked on it all, the formality of the soldiers in formation, trembling with fear. He felt wracked with pain and sapped of all strength, a withered husk. He felt like closing his eyes and sleeping. He had to see it, though. The ruse was about to come to completion. The Chief Inspector was going to actually do something. He had no idea what.

Bart and Kerrigan were standing in the line too. Dan was confused. They’d never beaten anyone for no reason. They weren’t even close to comparable to the savages in their company.

“All of you are judged. The written accounts I have obtained are truthful. I know of what you do, and things you have caused. I need not name the extents. In your hearts, you know them too,” the Chief Inspector bellowed again. The volume before had been incredible, but it was simply an amplification of regular speech. The tones and inflections had still been calm. This time, there were signs of anger. Disappointment. One of the guards, much younger than the rest, had his face covered with both hands. He was sobbing like a child.

“I know of what you have faced. I know your minds, your spirits, your humanity are all so very broken. You have slain dozens of those who were kinsmen in years passed. The issue remains that you have terrorised these people. You have forced your own people to submit to your horrible angers. For that, you will lay down your station. You will present yourself to the Master General. He will know of your wrongs from the accounts I have written. He will dispense with you from there,” the Chief Inspector said. His amplified voice was gone. Right now, he spoke with the high pitched, oddly accented voice that Kerrigan heard upon first meeting them.

In that same strange voice, he warned “Do not think of disobeying my words. My power is vast. My anger is terrible. You will be utterly destroyed.”

Dan was stunned. The Chief Inspector had done what Bart and Kerrigan spent so long planning. The trick worked apart from the ‘no bloodshed’ clause. A ‘judgement,’ some final decree made possible through what could only be described as an ancient power, that could only exist as if fuelled by the breaching of the Assembly’s laws and statues, had been passed. It removed these broken men and stopped them from harming their victims.

Bart and Kerrigan were a part of it. They both stood among Erik, Rulgh, all of them. If Dan could speak, he would’ve shouted “They never hurt anyone!”

Both were standing straight in acceptance. They knew. They must have been a part of it at some point. They must have done something wrong.

Dan would speak to them later.

“Your lives are not forfeit. You may yet repent your crimes. Leave this place at once. You will remember the judgement I have laid down, yet you will not remember the man and robes standing before you now. You will remember the man you failed to help, while your Sergeant flay him to an inch of his life. You will be summoned to answer the truths I now know,” the Chief Inspector finished.

Like a teacher ending class for the day, he sent them home. The former-guardsmen unstrapped their armours and dropped them like heavy schoolbags and idled out into the street. Some didn't seem phased. They were blank. Strange, considering the implications of what just happened. Some were still sobbing. Rulgh and Elkington carried former-Sergeant Errik out by his arms. The man was unconscious again.

Bart and Kerrigan didn’t look back at Dan for even a moment. They left him, bruised and broken in the corner. Even the civilian medic was gone, and Dan felt utterly alone. As Bart walked past the Chief Inspector, there was a brief murmur and exchange, a meeting of their hands. The Chief Inspector slid an envelope up his long sleeve. There was another sizzling sound as the Chief Inspector modified the memories of the disgraced men as they walked in shame to the streets.

Between blinks of his eyelids the Old Horn Tavern was suddenly very empty. Dan looked around, confused. He thought he'd fallen asleep, but it just didn't seem quite 'right.' Purvis was gone. They were all gone. The amplified voice which the Chief Inspector used to humble everyone in his sight had shaken the shelves bar, shattered glasses, rattled doors from the hinges. Dan remembered it. Yet what he was seeing didn’t line up. The place was clean. The chairs were tucked beneath the tables. There was no broken glass, no spilled tankards. There was no blood on the floor. He couldn’t be certain, but there should be plenty of it staining the timber. The fireplace crackled away. It was hauntingly empty and sterile in comparison to the scene from minutes ago.

The Chief Inspector hobbled over to him, and sat cross legged. Dan assumed it was cross legged, but he couldn’t see his legs through the mass of robes. Dan was starting to become convinced that he was under the influence of some illusion, some gross trick. His aching body and face was real but he wasn’t sure of what else.

“It’s called magic.”

Moments ago, the Chief Inspector was an awe inspiring figure of power. Now he seemed like nothing more than a strange old man, jovial, slightly senile, but playful. There was something friendly about him. Dan didn’t know what to think. He closed his eyes.

Magic. I’m going mental. Sure of it. Errik punched my brain loose.

“Your brain is perfectly fine.”

Dan hadn’t spoke. He’d thought the words, the Chief Inspector heard them, and he’d replied.

He can hear my thoughts. I know I'm going mental.

"You're not going mental."

Dan felt something warm. He opened his eyes again, blinking away the double vision. The Chief Inspector was casually holding a ball of real, hot, burning, bright fire as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He was lobbing it up and catching it as it fell back to earth, like a child at play.

[Etheryn]

His eyes followed the tail of the Chief Inspector’s toy fireball as he juggled it with one hand. Embers, sparks, bits of something like ash fell to the timber floor and vanished. The only thing it was missing was smoke. Apart from that it had every characteristic of fire; heat, warmth, light. Shimmering waves rose off it, causing the image of things Dan saw through it to wobble. It seemed real enough to Dan that when the Chief Inspector offered it to him, he reeled back, instinctively afraid of being burned.

“It won’t hurt you,” the Chief Inspector said.

“Magic…” Dan repeated, almost unable to truly fathom it. Yet at the same time he recognised the concept in the things he’d done in the past. Around Old Ross. Still, the concept of willingly wrapping his hand around a ball of flame was frightening.

“Sure is. You’ve got it in you. Go on, touch it. It won’t hurt you,” the Chief Inspector repeated.

Dan opened his hand, arms feeling like jelly. He could only hold it out for a moment before his muscles out and collapsed with a thump on the floor. He tried propping himself up on his elbows, turning his head to face the Chief Inspector. His head spun, and his vision came in and out of focus. He’d never felt so weakened and helpless. The Chief Inspector shook his head, holding the ball of flame still. He sighed, and clicked his fingers. The flame extinguished itself and was gone.

“You won’t let me touch it?”

“You already are. Look.”

Dan slowly turned his eyes down to the hand he’d let flop down. There it was. Fire, sitting on his hand. It wasn’t burning him. There was gentle warmth, a soft pressure, and that distinct smell of sulphur again. It crackled a little bit, as if there was timber fuelling it. He was amazed, so much so that he just didn’t speak. He lifted his other hand over his body, and gripped it, lifting it up before his eyes. He examined it.

He didn’t even know how he was ‘holding’ fire like it was a physical object. Fire was just heat and light to him. This felt like the force when two magnets repel each other. It wasn’t defined by a physical structure, but the ‘presence’ of whatever it was pressed against his fingers, allowing him to press back and ‘hold’ it. The sensation was completely alien. He looked, trying to find the centre of it to see what was there, but his eyes just couldn’t focus.

“Magic. Unreal,” Dan whispered, like the fire was something he could scare away by speaking too loud.

“Why is it unreal? What about all the times you’ve done something you couldn’t explain? What about the things you did tonight? What do you think that was?” the Chief Inspector questioned, looking at Dan with a smile, stroking his chin and neat grey goatee.

“I don’t know… I haven’t thought of a word for it yet,” Dan said.

“The thing you feel is similar to what makes the flame in your hand. Similar, not the same. It’s all magic but that” – the Chief Inspector clicked his fingers and the ball of fire extinguished, reappearing in his own hands – “is mine. Yours is different. You can’t conjure the elements from nothing,” he answered. The fireball went out to be replaced by a sphere of smoke, seemingly liquid and solid at the same time, made from the same substance has his phantom quill. It spun on his fingertip like a basketball, whispers and tendrils of smoke rotating outwards in a spiral like the arms of a galaxy.

“How?” Dan asked.

“Did someone give you something when you came of age?”

Dan thought back to his eighteenth birthday. He thought about Old Ross watching him literally vomit up what was supposed to be a birthday gift, like seeing it was the completion of a duty. Like he’d finally passed on a package, one so heavy that it caused him to ache with the burden. Then he disappeared once finally rid of it. Then Dan’s mother passed, finally giving up as well. It clicked. Somehow, in some very abstract and still uncertain way, Dan knew. That same strange presence that he felt around Old Ross came into him when he drank his father’s whiskey. Like it’d been instilled in the drink and despite him throwing it up, that was all that was needed to make it part of him.

Before Dan could tell the story, the Chief Inspector said, “Yep. That would’ve been it.”

“Do you have to invade my head like that?” Dan growled, frustrated that someone else was able to see the shames in his memory that no one else should.

“Yes. I need you to understand something. That’s the purpose of our little chat,” the Chief Inspector maintained.

He stood straight, clicked his fingers a third time and the ball of smoke evaporated into nothing. He leaned down to Dan’s swollen eyelids and said, “You must accept your magic. It’s a gift that isn’t yours to waste. Do something with it. Learn. Seek someone out to guide you,” he advised, with a subtle hint of warning.

“What happens if I don’t?” Dan challenged.

“You haven’t picked a side in the war. Someone will do it for you, because you have magic. They’ll use you, control you, consume you. Make you do things you don’t want to do. Just like the Assembly does with me,” the Chief Inspector said, ending with a sigh and breaking of eye contact. He looked at Dan’s feet.

“I’m not going to remember any of this, right? I’m not going to remember what you can do. You’ll replace the memory with something else, or I’ll fill in the gaps,” Dan assumed.

“Afraid you’re right. I’ve got to wipe your thoughts clean and maintain my own secrecy, my effectiveness for the future. Can’t surprise anyone if everyone knows what I can do," the Chief Inspector said.

"Don't you have a choice?" Dan puzzled.

"I am bound to the Assembly and what is written in their books. Their laws and rules are my chains. Would you want to be so utterly helpless, your entire life controlled by the will of another?” the Chief Inspector said.

“No,” Dan conceded, wondering why the Chief Inspector was bothering to explain if he’d wipe Dan’s memory anyway.

“Then do as I say. You will remember me as a different man entirely. You’ll only remember some pieces of this conversation, and I hope they’re the right ones. Haven’t quite figured the spell out yet,” the Chief Inspector finished.

“Oh, and check your pockets. Front left. There’s something in there you’ve been chasing,” he added.

Dan reached into his pockets.

“Not yet. When you wake up,” and the Chief Inspector tapped the base of his staff on the ground.

Dan considered his neatly ordered surroundings in comparison to the events of the night, the mess of the spilled ales and blood, the broken glasses and shelves rattled bare. This room was the same one in structure but not in contents. He’d thought earlier that the scene surrounding him wasn’t quite ‘right,’ like it was false, an exceptionally detailed colour drawing on the inside of his eyelids while he slept in the mess of the real Old Horn Tavern. A dream with far too much detail and clarity to be constructed from his own mind.

“It is indeed.”

He blinked hard, shaking a second round of double vision and nausea, and looked to the Chief Inspector who was mouthing words and twirling his index finger in a complicated pattern in the air. His fingertip was glowing.

Dan felt a fatiguing weight flow over him. His eyelids weighed ten times what they should and his body screamed at him for rest. He fell asleep or the dream ended. It couldn’t be known which. He forgot many things as soon as he closed his eyes.

[Etheryn]

There was a sense of movement, jolting and bouncing, a rushing of wind. Lots of shouting. Dan’s vision swam in murky, tired blackness. He’d fallen asleep at some point he couldn’t remember. He heard the rushing of blood in his ears and became aware of the uncomfortable angle of his back. He was laying on something hard, poking right into the small of his back, his neck and head supported by lumpy, scratching shapes. He smelled timber, grease and metal. Sulphur. Definitely sulphur. He felft himself laying boxes and crates, and another sharp jounce sent him rolling to onto his stomach. Dan's head smacked heavily against something cold and metallic. His vision faded along with the sounds, yet he still felt the movement. That faded too, only to be intermittently broken and bring him back by a gravelly voice.

“… ye bastard, move…”

The voice was familiar, yet distant like shouts from across a canyon. The darkness took him in again.

“… gonna get us killed…”

The voice woke him shortly. A moment later more blackness.

“… cut yer flamin’ guts out… make pies…”

He came to. His first conscious thought was that he was missing something. The white noise of moving air grew louder. He tried to figure out what it was, rattling around the junk in his brain, and came up empty. It was like when writing the shopping list he left something out and was standing in the aisles struggling for a hint. He remembered that he’d been at the Old Horn Tavern at some point and suffered a pounding to the face at the hands of Sergeant Errik. Bart and Kerrigan were there too.

“Wake UP!”

Who was shouting at him? Why was everything moving so fast? He was supposed to be lying in the corner next to the bottom of the stairs at the tavern. He remembered squeezing something with an urge to entirely break it. He remembered the white of his knuckles as he put everything into making something the size of a marble. A tin can, maybe?

Dan felt a force move his head. It was similar to when Sergeant Errik was knocking him senseless, but lateral motions this time, instead of the to and fro of the punches and his head rebounding against hard timber. It made his head rotate to the left then back to the right. It somehow lacked the jarring, concussive force from before, but he could feel his cheeks stinking. That voice kept shouting at him, and suddenly became loud as a gunshot as his hearing decided to function properly.

“Something told me you’d get me killed, boy-o!” Alfonse complained, and gave Dan one last mighty slap about the head. He woke like the risen dead, all groggy and red-eyed with spitting clots of blood from his mouth. In the moment he recovered a functional consciousness, his brain snapped into gear and took stock of the situation he was in. Adrenalin pumped through him now.

Squat, cramped together buildings and streetlamps rushed before his eyes in a blur. They were merely shapes and shadows. It was night. He was standing in a cart full of sharp, rattling steel, some of it wrapped in protective cloth, some loose. Swords, axes, some crates of black powder, spears and shields. It was Alfonse's trade cart, his portable business. Alfonse had picked him up from somewhere, and was taking him somewhere else. Fast.

Everything bounced, swayed and shook as cart’s wheels navigated cobble stones streets full of potholes. Two black horses were harnessed in, pulling them on, beating a fast rhythm with their hooves and pushing hard. Clouds of breath pulsed forcefully from their nostrils with the effort, like the spout of a steam train at full speed. Alfonse kept his eyes ahead, holding the reins with one hand and whipping them up and down, holding some kind of timber looking cylinder with bits of metal protruding with the other free hand.

“Get yer bloody head down!”

Alfonse was pointing the timber cylinder at something. Dan ducked and got a closer look at it and saw a metal tube laid into it. Alfonse pulled his finger on some kind of lever beneath the wooden part of the cylinder, and there was a powerful crack, spray of smoke and smell of sulphur. He’d fired a flintlock pistol similar in design to the weapons carried by the Relvest emissary’s bodyguards days ago in the dusty trade square. There was a ‘ssshp-ting’ sound as the projectile struck a metal surface. Someone choked out a shout.

Dan looked where Alfonse pointed his pistol and saw for a few moments, in the brief illumination of a street lamp, a man he recognised as a nameless member of Sergeant Errik’s crew. He was dark clothing, full trousers and long sleeves, unfamiliar to the uniform of Coronè Armed Forces, riding on horseback. He wasn’t alone. There were three others with him, all seemingly much smaller out of their usual plate mail getups. They were in pursuit. Two men held round shields in one arms and all of them had weapons, tomahawks and swords, raised high in a battle charge. The men with round shields wobbled awkwardly on their steeds, presumably holding the reins in that same hand and unable to maintain real control.

Dan saw through one of the shields; there was a hole in it. In the fleeting light as they passed another streetlight, the owner looked at the hole in his shield, and then new hole in his guts. Blood spilled forth and he sagged from the saddle, falling to the cobbled street and rolling limply with all of his forward momentum.

“Ha! What a shot!” Alfonse cheered, whipping the black horses ahead with fury. He couldn’t go fast enough.

Dan remembered something. He remembered a person, some vague and powerful figure, telling the guards they weren’t guards any more. They’d been stripped of their station in the C.A.F. They’d been caught out somehow. They were angry. The person who terminated their jobs said his power came from the things he saw Sergeant Errik do. He’d been seen flogging a citizen without cause. Dan, who responded with some unseen force that crushed Errik’s armour and severely wounded him. That’s why they were chasing in a frenzy. They were out for bloody revenge.

“Do somethin’ boy-o! They’re gonna catch us! Me bloody horses are failin’!” Alfonse urged, and despite his quick belting of the reins, the cart was starting to slow. Dan saw buildings he recognised from his first steps into Radasanth days ago. They were heading for city limits. Dan didn’t know what to do.

There was something he knew he should remember, something that could help him. The confusion and speed of everything around him made it just out of reach, like a carrot dangled in front of a draught horse. His mind ran circles.

“Just throw stuff! Anything!”

Dan picked up a vicious, jagged spear from the cart floor. The tip looked like it would be better used for sawing down trees. Carved with decorative runes, immaculately crafted and apparently very expensive, Alfonse looked over his shoulder and cringed. “Not that one!” Dan dropped it -- ”You said anything!” -- and Alfonse cringed again, pained at the idea of Dan simply dropping his most precious stock, as if the life and death pursuit wasn't even happening.

“You can’t sell it if you’re dead, Alfonse!”

Alfonse kept his eyes ahead and said nothing, preparing a line to negotiate a chicane bend in the road. He palmed over the flintlock pistol as an alternative weapon, waving it towards a crate full with jars of oil, grease, pistol shot, and black powder. He wanted Dan to load it and start shooting. Their pursuers had gained ground and were no more than ten metres away.

They were close enough now for Dan to see desperate bloodlust in their eyes. He remembered someone talking about how broken they were, how long they’d spent killing. It seemed to be all they knew now. They flogged their horses with the broadsides of their swords and tomahawks, uncaring if they drew blood. Dan fumbled the jar of bullets in attempt to reload Alfonse’s pistol and spilled them on the cart floor. It was too dark to pick them up as they rolled around, there was too much clutter in the way, and that was it. The jar was empty now and the pistol was useless so he dropped it. He picked up a ttomahawk, just like the ones wielded by the mounted maniacs in tow, and lamely hurled it with with no real aim. His limbs were weakened and it lacked force. It landed handle first against one of the former-guardsmen’s round shields, and he batted it away, laughing wildly, mad with his desire to carve Dan to pieces.

He was lost for ideas. His mind kept coming back to that person who he couldn’t even picture any more, the one who’d judged these broken men. There was something important he was supposed to remember. There was a buzzing, familiar sensation welling up in his belly like he’d been underwater for too long and just broke the surface to take his first breath. At first he thought it was fear, but it started to feel comfortable, started to fill him and flow around him, through him, down to his very fingertips. He remembered Old Ross, and the aura about him now was the same as back then.

He knew.

Dan’s hands moved faster than they ever had, with control and purpose. He reached into the crate of shooting supplies and took out three glass jars with screw on metal lids, holding them up in the brief wash of streetlight to confirm the contents. Exactly what he needed. It became dark again with at least thirty metres to the next street light and his next chance to see properly. The three attackers closed in, gaining ground all the while as Alfonse’s horses continued to tire out.

They passed the next streetlight. Dan could see again and took the opportunity to snatch up the empty shot jar he’d fumbled when trying to reload Alfonse’s pistol. He had all he needed. Cradling the empty jar carefully, he poured in thick globs of oil, scoops of grease with his fingers, and plenty of black powder. Leaving enough empty space to shake it all together he screwed on a lid then shook up the contents into greasy, jelly, grainy and flammable paste.

Alfonse shouted over his shoulder, seeing what Dan was doing, “What the Hell are ye doin’!”

Using magic.

Dan shoved his hand into one of his overall pockets and withdrew a small cloth ball tied of with string and stuffed with blasting powder. He’d asked for it from Alfonse while helping him set up for business under the guise of using it to start a camp fire in the future. Despite the reason, it belonged to Dan now. It was his and his alone. He subconsciously knew it was a crucial part of how his magic worked. His father’s whiskey was a gift. The pouch it came in was a gift. They belonged to him. The coin held in his father’s pouch also belonged to Dan, when he made a between the metal of the coin to the metal of Errik’s armour, channelling his magic through that link and crushing Errik's armour around him. Whatever he had in his father's pouch, to use as a focus to release his magic on the world around him, had to belong only to him and no one else.

He drew open the leather pouch on his hip, discarded a gnarled and twisted piece of metal from inside it – Was that my coin? --, and stuffed in the cloth ball of blasting powder. He tightened the drawstring up and sealed it all in there. With a soft, underhand lob he tossed the jar at Sergeant Errik’s men.

The rider in the middle who’d deflected Dan’s tomahawk reached out. He’d discarded his shield, and used his free hand to skilfully catch the jar full of black goop. He was riding without holding the reins now. Impressed with his own dexterity and wanting to put on a show before he took Dan's head, he gripped the jar and held it out to taunt Dan.

The nameless rider screamed, almost sounding like a lion, “I'll stop anything you throw at me! Bring it on! You! Are! Dead!”

Dan gathered in the potential around and inside of him, and with an effort of will focused it into a tiny ball, an incredibly dense pinprick, and channelled it through his body and through his left hand that rested upon his father’s pouch. Dan thought of how it looks when a soap bubble pops, and multiplied the energy of it a hundred times. There was a whooshing sense of release.

Dan saw it happening in slow motion in front of him. He’d make a link between the gift from Alfonse, the black powder in his pouch, and the jar held defiantly in the meaty grip of his pursuer. The jar shattered and sprayed thick, sticky chunks of grease and oil and black powder all over his body and all over the bodies of his fellow riders either side of him. They slowed down for a moment in surprise and it put another ten metres space between them and Dan. It didn't last, and with renewed beating of their horses the pursuers closed the gap up again, faces black with the dripping goo, looking like war paint on tribal warriors about to kill.

Alfonse steered the cart over a side walk, and suddenly they were out of the city limits, tumbling down a dirt road with green countryside surrounding them. The only light now was from the starry sky above.

Dan thought of fire.

The goo ignited and melted to their flesh causing them to claw at their skin as it peeled like soft wax. Their screams curdled and they fell from their horses, trying to roll the flames out in the dirt. They couldn’t. The oil and grease was like fuel on its own, and it was too hot and too spread out over their bodies and stuck to their clothes to suffocate it properly. They burned and then the fabric of their clothes ignited. Dan could see one of the men standing and with what would be his last, dying breaths, shouting profanities and trying to chase after them, literally a man a-flame. No part of him was spared the scorching, licking fury of Dan’s flames.

Dan couldn’t tear his eyes away. He saw the horses stop and stand about in confusion. His eyes fixed on the fading light and shapes of the three burning men as Alfonse drove their cart onwards, over a cresting hill, and out of sight of the city.

[Etheryn]

The fire. The image burned itself into his brain, a stain like red wine on white carpet. The memory of primal screams as the throats of his victims filled with flame, their flesh boiling beneath the superheated mixture of sticky oil and grease. Dan couldn't help picture the chopped timber fuelling the camp fire in front of him as a pile of roasting, severed limbs, and the occasional pop and sizzle of moisture evaporating from the timber as the sound of eyeballs cooking in their sockets. He was morbid and absolutely silent for more than an hour.

“Are ye going to talk?” Alfonse asked.

A minute of silence passed.

“They were going to kill us,” Dan finally spoke.

“They were. You saw 'em,” Alfonse agreed. He started fiddling with a rucksack, pulling out bits of tinder, some bread, a small knife.

“You killed one of them. You shot him in the stomach,” Dan said listlessly. The usual strength in his voice was gone. He sounded ill. He sat still, eyes fixed on the crackling flames.

“Aye. Better me than him.”

“I killed three of them. I set them on fire. I've never killed anyone before. It's wrong,” Dan reassured himself. His voice was trembling. It didn't match his powerful build, his shaved head, his features that made him look threatening on a bad day.

Alfonse sighed, and stood up from the soggy ground. He walked a loop around the warming fire and added some more pieces of wood to it, wet with drew from the cold night, and it popped and sizzled as it caught flame. Dan thought of eyeballs again.

They sat in a small clearing of dirt and gravel surrounded by spruces, thick bushes and underbrush. The night was cold in contrast to the baking heat of the previous day, and the foliage provided only a small buffer from a chilling southerly wind. They'd been sitting in front of a camp fire for an hour now, backs to the wheels of Alfonse's trade cart, his horses enjoying their respite and eating from an open sack of grain and oats. They were completely out of sight from any other travelers.

“I know yer upset boy-o, but ye gotta know it was necessary. Ye saw them. They came for ye with axe and sword and hearts full o' fury. Had they caught us, we'd both be a pile of gore in the street,” Alfonse said.

Dan was quiet. Alfonse didn't push the point. He'd known it from the first day that the boy wasn't a killer. Someone who'd thrown punches at those who tested him, sure, but not someone who could look into the eyes of a dying man then sleep without nightmares. Alfonse had seen his share of combat. He'd seen his friends fall and die. He'd killed, accepted it, and moved on. He lived with it, yet he remembered how it felt when he was first touched by that ugly taint. He sympathised with Dan and knew all he could do to help was get him where he needed to go. Dealing with it was up to him.

“Why are you helping me?”

“Aye, boy-o. Yer still much a stranger to me. If I'd known when I come to collect my blade, that I'd find yer bloodied almost-corpse in a corner getting treated by Purvis, I would've just waited 'till the morning,”

“What happened?”

“You tell me. Purvis said Sergeant Errik beat yer face in 'cause ye beat him first, in an arm wrestle. Some CAF bigwig came along, saw it, and disciplined all the goons. I stood with him for a time, tryin' to figure out what to do with ye. You were out cold and no matter what you wouldn't wake up. Twitchin' like ye were havin' pleasant dreams,” Alfonse explained.

Dan vaguely remembered that much. He remembered the arm wrestle, remembered the beating, remembered a CAF official giving a verbal spray to the guards and sending them home. He'd tried to think of it while he was on the back of Alfonse's cart, fleeing through the city for dear life, but he couldn't recover the memory fully. Things were missing. He couldn't remember the CAF official at all, what he looked like, or why he'd come. He couldn't remember when it was he fell asleep.

He did remember something like a dream about the Old Horn Tavern where it was very empty and hospital grade clean.

Why can't I remember? Must be concussion.

“So, there we were, about to take ye back up to bed. Four o' Errik's men turned up. Said they were gonna make even. Over me dead body, said I! Ha! 'Twas a glorious little stand off. Purvis moved his fat arse like a crackin' whip, he did, picked ye up and slung ye in me cart while I rolled around with Errik's cronies,” Alfonse regaled. When the story came to fighting, his eyes twinkled and passion came to his voice.

“Stalled 'em all, I did, and took off in the cart to get ye out of there. They gave chase on horse back. Kept slappin' yer sleepy head silly, tryin' to wake ye up and get ye to help. Took a while. Must've slapped you at least a dozen times. Then... you know the rest,” Alfonse finished. He was holding unrolling a cured ham from its sack, tore off a piece and slapped it in Dan's open hand.

“Gotta eat, boy. Ye'll need the strength. I'll take ye to the next town over and there we say goodbyes,” Alfonse explained.

“Why would you go up against four men to save a stranger?”

“You would call someone like Rulgh, like Errik, a man? I wouldn't. They were men once but they became beasts, boy-o. Broken by the war, left with nothin' but lust to fight and dominate. The worst kinds of beasts. The one's with a position in power,” Alfonse disagreed.

They were terrible people. Dan went quiet again, busy chewing the meat, ignoring the ache of his swollen jaw and bloody lip. He didn't realise how incredibly hungry he was until he tasted food.

“Ye shouldn't feel bad. Ye should feel proud, boy-o. Ye burned some men who needed burnin'. 'Specially Rulgh. Glad ye scorched him. Remember when he spat on ye in the trade post?” Alfonse scoffed through the mouthfuls of ham, trying anything he could to snap Dan out of his depressive state.

Dan knew Rulgh's face. He didn't notice that distinct snub nose during the pursuit, but he remembered one of them having Rulgh's long armed, short legged shape about him. It was too dark to pick out those kinds of specific details. Dan's brain generated its own memory in the absence of a real one, a close up portrait, moving pictures of Rulgh's face, his pig's nose literally melting off his face. His face next, oozing down like candle wax leaving only a skull behind. The skull kept screaming without lips. The darkness in his mind just would not go away. Dan couldn't shake the thought.

Alfonse thought he'd help Dan with, and literally shake it out of him instead of figuratively. He was leaned over in front of Dan, expression blank with the waking dream of Rulgh. His leather gloved hands, braced with those dangerous arm bracers loaded with secret steel, were gripped tightly about Dan's shoulders. He shook him hard, trying to rattle the silliness from his head.

“Listen, boy-o! Ye got no time to sit an' mope! Other people are gonna wanna kill ye, too!”

Dan snapped out of it. “Why?”

“Yer the brother of Aaron James. I believe ye when ye say you don't know him nowadays, but other people won't care. Especially the Assembly, the Empire, the CAF. They'll take ye in and torture ye 'till ye give up information that ye just don't have. Then they'll kill ye. Might even turn ye into a bargain chip to get him to come out of hiding,” Alfonse explained, staring straight into Daniel's eyes, conviction in his voice, trying to get him to understand the danger he faced now.

“How the Hell do you know that?”

“I looked in yer pockets. There's a whole lot written about him on some paper ye got stuffed in there. I remember ye flashin' yer identification script at me. Two and two makes four,” Alfonse explained.

“Why were you looking in my pockets?”

“Thought you might have stolen something, dishonoured a bet and not paid yer coins, whatever. Something. Couldn't figure out another reason why Errik's goons would come back for yer blood,” Alfonse excused.

“There should be some coin ye won from Errik. Purvis gave it to me. Stuffed it in yer pockets too. Perhaps ye can use some of it to pay for me blade, eh? We'll figure out a price later,” he added.

Pockets. Front left pocket. A fleeting flash of a memory came back to him. Someone, that figure he couldn't quite make out, told him to look in his pockets for something. Something Dan was chasing after. His hand shot into his front left pocket and he felt the winnings from his test of strength against Errik jangling about a black silk purse. He dumped it upon the wet ground, uninterested -- "If ye don't want it, I'll take it from yer hands!" -- and dived back into his pockets to draw out an official looking document embossed with bold print. It looked a lot like an old 'spaghetti western' bounty.


WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE:
AARON JAMES

LIEUTENANT OF THE REBEL UPRISING
2000 COIN REWARD

Bart and Kerrigan honoured their promise. They'd retrieved the intelligence dossier on his brother, the most reliable way to help Dan track him down and warn him if he didn't already know of the imminent manhunt. He flicked through a short few pages, looking at maps, descriptions, associates, lists of accused crimes, and so on. Bart and Kerrigan held up their end of the deal. He remembered them standing with the rest of Errik's guards while a judgment was laid upon them. He remembered the clinking of armour dropping to the timber floor, and the men shambling away. Still, there was a blank space where memories of that man in power should be. It frustrated Dan horribly.

Bart and Kerrigan were in my room with me. We were planning something. Errik was going to sign something not knowing what it was. Get some guy down to the Old Horn from the Assembly or the C.A.F or something. I was supposed to rile up Errik and his goons, make them do something wrong. Whoever this guy was, the one that Bart and Kerrigan said could get rid of people from the military... must have been the same guy. The same one I'm supposed to remember, but I can't. Why? Why were Bart and Kerrigan judged as well? What did they do wrong? It was their own plan.

Dan ruffled his hands inside his pocket again and searched. He felt another envelope and pulled it out. It wasn't sealed, the lip open for anyone to put things in or take out. There was a scrunched up bit of parchment as if someone stuffed it in a hurry. Dan smoothed it out on his lap, and squinted to make sense of the scrawled print.


At the time of writing this note nothing has happened yet. The Chief Inspector hasn't been summoned. I'm sitting in the guardhouse armoury putting together some documents. Kerrigan isn't with me but he knows I'm writing this. I'll speak on his behalf.

If the plan works, I'll pass this to the Chief Inspector and he'll pass it on to you. That means if you're reading it everything worked. The Chief Inspector was summoned and has done whatever it is he does. Hopefully, whatever the decision, Errik and his men will no longer be able to use their position to abuse and frighten people. Thank you for your help. You took a big risk, a selfless one.

I'm expecting Kerrigan and I to get punished as well. We're going to be honest with him about our tricks, our deceit, the things we've done to get his help. If he's as powerful as we think he is he'll probably see through it. It'll be safer for us to come clean with him instead of digging a deeper hole.

The Chief Inspector will find out everything about the men of 42nd garrison. Every bad deed ever done. Kerrigan and I won't be left out.

When they first took up post after the Rangers wiped out our friends, we joined in with their villainy, their sloth, their arrogance. We're not proud. We were too scared, too sheepish, too weak to stand up to them and stop it. If we didn't join in they flogged us too. The people will talk.

Pathetic, right? We're both grown men with no backbone. We followed along, and it makes both of us sick to the pits of our stomachs every single day, and will for the rest of our lives.

This is why we came up with the plan. That's why we didn't turn you in to the second we found out who you were. We couldn't go another day without doing something to make up for our wrongs. We know the scales will never balance out. No more people suffering because of the Empire's will. Not you, not anyone. We can't be a part of it.

Also, we weren't fully honest with you about the intelligence package on your brother. It isn't secret information. It's been passed out in mass print to the public. There's a bounty, and you'll see it. Everything else is true. But if we told you about that, why would you wanted to help us? We had nothing else to offer.

Perhaps you would've done it because you've got more of a spine than us. To do something without reward. You seem like one of the good guys. Sorry to trick you like that.

You need to be careful. Don't tell people who you are. They'll make a connection and find out. Someone will sell you out to the Empire and they'll take you in. You don't want that to happen. If you still haven't decided to pick which side of the fence you're going to stand you better do it soon, before someone does it for you.

Also, we got you something to help. You should find another identification script in this envelope . First name on it is 'Arrundir.' You'll need it for cover. If you can get to Nelligin, the next town east from Radasanth, we've got you a room for the night and safe passage south in a stagecoach. There are a few places along the way where you'll be able to stop and rest if you flash your new identification papers. Well, safe as it can be through contested areas. Be careful and keep your head down if you're going to avoid the fighting.

Good luck. If we meet you again after reading this letter maybe things will be different.

Bart and Kerrigan

Dan read the letter two, three, four times. His headache returned at the effort of concentration. It was a lot to absorb through the fog in his head. Still, the note gave him some structure and order to the chain of events. The Chief Inspector was the man he couldn't remember. He had no idea what he looked like, sounded like, or what exactly it was which 'summoned' him. At least he could put a label on that blank space of his memory.

Some kind of sham paperwork, an order for the guards plan to tail someone undercover? The Chief Inspector was supposed to make sure it's done fairly.

Dan's pounding head just couldn't really put the pieces together. Perhaps later. It didn't matter, now. There was something more important in front of him. He had to make his way to Aaron, wherever he was, and tip him off. He examined the maps, locations, associates, and figured once he had some time to do it he'd hash out a plan. An itinerary.

His forgotten discussions with the Chief Inspector, whether it was a dream of things he subconsciously knew and his brain had fabricated the conversation, or it was a dream the Chief Inspector purposefully planted in Dan's head, or even if truly happened in the real world and Dan just was just too concussed to remember, had settled some things firmly into his subconscious. They floated to the surface now things were quiet.

It's time for me to pick sides. I have magic. It shouldn't be wasted. I can do good with it. I can make it up to Aaron. I can help him. I can keep being one of the good guys.

The ideas were like a bright torch on the dark, winding path he'd set himself upon. It was what he needed to see clearly. There would be more questions on the path, but it was only by walking it he could find answers.

“Get yer swollen head to sleep, boy. We're far enough outta Radasanth to be left alone but there's still a day's ride to Nelligin. I won't be rid o' ye soon enough,” Alfonse ordered.

Alfonse told more stories of the fight with Errik's men, bragged of his unbeatable skill and his great strength, flashing his hands about and wielding blades made of imagination just like the spirited elf on Dan's ocean voyage to Radasanth. He'd been talking to no one. As soon as Alfonse suggested it, Dan went back to sleep.

[Etheryn]

Had a lot of fun writing this! Dunno how the spoils thing works, but I'd be thinking gold and money from winning the arm wrestle, whatever the judge thinks is appropriate. Take some it away as payment to Alfonse for the knife, made of steel, average quality, again whatever is the right amount. Constructive criticism please! This is the first piece of creating writing I've done at all since I left Althanas years and years ago... would have to be getting on 4-5 years now? :D

[Lord Anglekos]

Story - 10
From start to finish, as you wrote this you obviously had the breadth of the entire thread in mind, and everything flowed so well together I could easily see this being the start of a novel. With a few short sentences, you introduced not only the setting of the thread with descriptive ease but the protagonist of your plot as well - a man that, although he has no real large faults at this time, still concerns himself with his moral standing and self-awareness. Something that stands out from the very beginning and progresses all the way through until the very end. The rising action was particularly good, and hooked me from the very instant Sergeant Errik slammed the door on poor Dan to the slamming of his hand to the table. From there on, well, as they say, history is history. I have nothing really to say about the conclusion; the score speak for itself, doesn't it? In short, I cannot wait to see what stories you write about Dan, Alfonse, and Aaron next. Excellent job, mate.

Strategy - 9
We label Strategy as the use of the character's skills, personality, resources and abilities to construct a thread. With that said, everything made complete sense; if not at first, then by the end of the thread, I really saw how everything came together. Not once did I have to (re) read your character sheet to understand anything about your character (even though I approved him, ha) in order to comprehend anything being done or his history; there was one moment, in the very beginning, when I was confused as to just who he was looking for, but by the second post that was quickly remedied.

Setting - 9
While you didn't have truly grand, eloquent explosions of description concerning Radasanth's setting, the way you constantly interacted with the setting and threw in little bits here and there gave you this high score. From the heat in the air to the omnipressing crowds of Radasanth's streets, I really got the feel of how Dan interacted with the setting around him instead of it just being a place-holder in the background. For that extra point, I advise for next time you should try putting the little extra into your descriptions; really push them and bring Althanas to life before the reader's eye. Otherwise, great job.

Continuity - 8
Continuity reflects, basically, the "when" of the thread; not only in the character's timeline, but that of Althanas' as well. Technically, it's supposed to reflect the growth of the character as well along with that of the setting, and how logical it is, but I personally feel that is well-reflected in other categories. That being said, you did an good job of setting up both the when of your character and the story's place in Althanas' lore. While I wasn't exactly sure just when in the overall lore of things this took place, I got the general sense - in the Civil War, that - along with your character's first steps into that lore. It was quite interesting to see how the two melded, especially in the case of this still-faceless Aaron.

Interaction - 10
Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. Every exchange between Dan and Alfonse, the subtle aggression of Bart and Kerrigan, the bold rudeness of the CAF forces... I loved every minute of it. All I have to say is keep on doing what you're doing.

Character - 8
Yet another wonderful category. You really made your characters come alive with personality and physical vibrancy; personality that really shone through with every post. This score would have been higher if you took note of your characters' physical attributes more often as well. For example, it wasn't until the end of the thread that I really got a sense of just how strong Dan was. You mentioned his bald head often, but I really missed that sense of size and power that you mentioned in both the arm-wrestling contest and the final post.

Creativity - 8
One word; foreshadowing. It was everywhere in this thread, and it was generally only after the event happened that I could truly appreciate it; making it all that more appealing to read. Along with foreshadowing, I caught several other glimpses of advanced literary techniques, but where your creativity really shown through was in Dan's usage of his abilities, in both the fight with the Sergeant and with the former CAF forces in the last post. Both of which really showed how resourceful Dan could be. If you can really push that resourcefulness throughout the entire thread instead of just the ending, it could really push your score to those final, important points.

Mechanics - 5
You obviously have a firm grasp of the English language; however, several spelling and mechanical mistakes, like putting "had nailed been nailed" in the first post and spelling errors in both the second and third posts, cost this from being higher. Make sure to proof read all of your posts, no matter how long they are.

Clarity - 9
There was a couple points where I was quirking my brow physically in confusion at some of the references Brad and Kerrigan made in accordance to the Empire, but otherwise this was just fine. Keep up the good work.

Wildcard - 9
In conclusion, this was a wonderful return to Althanas, Etheryn. I can't wait to see what other crazy concoctions you conjure up.

Final Score: 85/100
Etheryn gains 1000 EXP, 300 GP (Including the money gained from winning the arm wrestle and subtracted from for the knife), and the steel knife of average-quality.

[Yari Rafanas]

EXP and GP added!