Frostivus

Susan and Scuttle were two extreme ends of a very long pole. One spent their free time carousing taverns with heroic epics and scandalous love letters. The other cased said taverns with lock picks and cut glass. One was naive, but optimistic and hopeful, the other jaded though pragmatic. As far as personalities went, they were very different, their opinions and outlooks even moreso. But there was one thing both personas could find common ground on: they both unequivocally and wholeheartedly despised Morgana to the core. The two walked on the cobblestone road in terse silence. Susan walked ahead with a vigilant Morgana behind. She could sense the witch’s fingers trembling in anticipation to throw another spell at her, sparks of magic already flickering between them. ‘What?” The witch asked flatly from behind, out of the blue. Susan let out an indignant groan. “I didn’t say anything.” “You’re quiet. And I know you’re never quiet, you’re just thinking, and that means you’re going to eventually start talking and bother me, so let’s get this over with.” Gauntlet thrown. “Emily’s dead,” Susan blurted. “Yes.” “Emmet’s dead too.” “More irreversibly so.” “Serge’s still incompetent.” “Really?” Morgana asked, only half-sarcastically. “If he thinks I’m going to wait around for Emily to wake up and kill everyone in an accidental series of misfires, then the two really deserve each other.” The last statement came with unexpected vitriol, even for her. Susan knew that Morgana’s opinion of her leader had never been flattering, but never would she have thought it would be this extreme. True, two had died under his watch, but still . . . It was Scuttle that figured it out, and Susan who used it. “You’re afraid.” Morgana seemed to check herself, and even with her back to her the cool intensity of her glare was palpable. “Keep walking, bard.” It was like finding a mail-order shipload of kryptonite delivered on her doorstep, free of charge. “Does it sting, witch?” Susan taunted, “Knowing that your pesky magic isn’t enough to protect you from the reality of this world?” “I know the limits of my powers and they are tested everyday.” “Does it sting?” Susan repeated. Morgana didn’t deign to reply. _______________ “This isn’t Tytila.” “Observant as ever, bard.” They approached a clearing past the trees, where a young man was pacing nervously. Upon Morgana clearing her throat, he looked up with an expression of fright that quickly turned into relief. “Took you long enough. Who’s your friend?” Morgana gave a pointed look. “She’s the one who’s going to keep you safe from them.” He glanced her way. “She doesn’t look very tough.” Susan watched the exchange with the investment that she was somehow the centre of this conversation. “Who is them?” The man gave furtive glances across the shades of the trees, as if expecting the very shadows to swallow him whole. He bent down in a whisper, though to stop whom from listening, she really didn’t know. “That crazy pair we met when Laudine was confronting you. A man, and a lady, with a huge scar down her midriff. Almost like someone had tried to cleave her in two with an axe.” No. Way. Well . . . maybe it was someone else who had miraculously survived the Princess cutting them down the spine. One could be hopeful. “We haven’t seen our leader since she tried to parley with them. But I know they’re still around. And worse, we found a note telling us that they looked forward to returning her to us,” his face went pallid-white. “I’m not getting paid enough to be a Reliant.” “My cohort will take care of you. In return, you will honour your part of the bargain." “Wait a minute. A Reliant?” Susan interjected, “Just who are you anyway?” She could see the wheels turning in his head, his nostrils flaring, the very picture of a man who was astute enough to recognise death in the face and was choosing his next few words very carefully. It was rather unfair that the affliction of honesty gripped him. “I was under Subcommander Laudine, and part of the cohort that killed Emily.” Susan searched his face for any signs of a telltale joke and found none. She gave a curt nod of understanding. “We’ll protect you from Appellon and Arteria,” she said, and the eviscerating length of a shiv erupted in her palm.“Just leave it to me.” _________

“For Engel’s sake, Scuttle, stay still, please.” Scuttle became acutely aware of the fact that this was the third time this week that she had been knocked out cold after a forgotten night. The first thing that she needed to do was take stock of the situation. Pause and take a step back and think for a moment even though her head hurt like an opera lady singing flat, before she did something stupid and completelyfreakout. Where was she? A ragged blanket ensconced her pins-and-needles body, and sunlight seeped in from the windows. So it was morning. The raw sunlight burned at her irises. Pain was a regular thing to her now, always throbbing at the back of her mind. Well-trained eyes scanned the room, focusing slowly upon the items: the wooden wardrobes, the white-washed walls, a bookshelf, and on it volumes upon volumes of storybooks. Someone tiny had scrawled something onto its frame: SKUTTLE. This was her orphanage. She was . . . she was back in Wyke? That was . . . quick. The boat trip to Magonsaete alone took longer. A gentle touch caressed her downwards to lie back flat on her back, warm shivers creeping up her spine at the tactile memory of it. “Easy, Scuttle.” She glanced at the figure, dumbstruck. Engels above . . . “Javier,” she breathed. Nebulous orbs of pallid-white glowed at the tips of his staff as he swept them across her body. “I don’t know what you were fighting, but they certainly did a number on you. The horse was practically dragging you along by the time you arrived.” It hurt. Seeing him again, gazing back at him, him smiling back. It hurt. Something inside her wanted to leap. Another wanted to question. But it would have to wait. “Listen, the city is under attack. Deira’s planning a full-scale invasion. We need to get out of here.” “What are you talking about? The war’s over. We won.” “Javier, they burned Perte down and they’re on their way. We have to go. There’s no way we can defend while Prince Owen’s gone.” Javier blinked owlishly, “Prince? You must have hit your head hard. King Owen hasn’t gone anywhere.” It was Scuttle’s turn to be confused. “King? What are you talking about?” Javier pulled the curtains of the window back to reveal the streets of Wyke, “See for yourself.” She stood up, bed creaking. A parade. A statue of Prince Owen. Very much intact, not in flames or the marching presence of a thousand death-screaming foreign legionnaires. Princess Cassandra and Lady Adele waving to the passers-by atop their mount, hands intertwined. “But that . . . that shouldn’t be . . .” “Scuttle?” Javier pressed a hand to her forehead, “You’re a bit warm.” How did she get here so quickly. She racked her brain. Why couldn’t she remember? She stumbled backwards, confused. She had killed the entire mercenary group, learned of the invasion, and made her way on horseback to the nearest port. Now she was here. Wyke was fine. Javier must have taken the vial. Owen was king. The Pope was ok with Princess Cass and Adele. She took a heavy breath. Everything was so familiar and yet not. Everything was here and yet something was missing. Something everything something everything She felt a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Susan, you’re scaring me,” Javier said. She pressed her fingers to her temples as she begun to dive into her thoughts. This whole thing wasn’t right. Her brain was on fire, ideas and thoughts and clues and points sounding off in so many places. Orphanage, time, Javier, Jeeves, sorry-to-bring-you-the-news, my-condolences, his-names-Joeffrey, I’m-not-actually-married-to-him, you’re-becoming-more-like-father, thinking thinking thinking thinking remember Susan? “What’s the matter? Please, Susan, talk to me,” Javier just about pleaded. Her eyes combed the room. It was exactly as she had remembered the place, with the scorch marks and crayon scrawls right where she had left them. The leaky ceiling, the missing tiles, even the constantly dripping tap in the distance filling up their bath time bucket. SKUTTLE. Exactly as she had remembered. Some fifteen years ago. Nothing had changed. “Oh, you’re good. You’re really, really good.” Her fingers moved up to strangle Javier’s neck, and she pressed, pressed as hard as she could, until the old man’s veins popped, silencing out his gasps of surprise. His eyes bulged out in pain. “Not good enough though.” “Scuttle!” he croaked, “Scuttle . . . what . . . what are you doing?” “Fighting,” she answered slyly, weakly, “I’m no stranger to deception. How did you do it? Hallucinogens? Searching my mind for memories? I’m not falling for your tricks, you hear me!” She screamed, watching his eyes roll over, the blood in his veins turn a frigid icy blue, “I’m not falling for it!” “Scuttle . . . stop, you’re hurting —“ Javier’s voice rolled into crackling electricity. As did Javier himself. He flickered out of her vision like static, contorting out of shape, snapping all around her. The orphanage boomed and burned. She smiled dangerously, tightening her grip, “You can stop the charade. It’s not going to work anymore. It’s good, but you made a large mistake. Show yourself!” The floodgates of her mind opened to return all the missing memories of the past hour. A moment of carelessness. A split second of a magic spell. Remember. She was never in Wyke. She was still back on the road to Tytila’s port, trying to find transport to get back. When she had stumbled upon a camp that wasn’t marked on the mercenary’s map, and her last waking memory had been the all-encompassing light of a magical spell. Light coalesced. Cascades of colour flowed through air, colours of sounds and smells, and the figure formerly Javier went through a series of evolutions: Prince Owen, Serge, Malaphar, Princess Cassandra, until finally it settled into one true form. “What the . . .” Surprise overrode her anger. Scuttle immediately released her choke-hold and took a few steps back, trying to take it all in. “What the hell are you doing here?” She watched the person coughing on the ground in disbelief. The real ground, the wilderness of the road, with leaves and trees and dirt. It was Morgana.

Trouble in the Homeland, Part II of II Another day, another tussle. Susan lowered herself onto the log to sit and exhaled deeply, taking a much needed break. All around her, the group of enforcers, marshals and sellswords still laid moaning on the ground, nursing their grievances. It had been a challenging, but not unexpected twenty minutes. Scuttle would have had no chance. Susan, on the other hand, excelled in being outnumbered. When the last one dropped, the merc leader had surrendered to her terms without a hint of hesitation. There he was, last man standing, obligingly spreading out a map of Angelcynn. Her terms had been simple: mark out their mercenary movements, bases and camps, and he could go free. The less Susan could stumble upon them and have a repeat of this incident, the better. She studied the map carefully, noting the red crosses and dots, when a small blip on the charts caught her eye. “There. On the outskirts,” she pointed to an unmarked location, “That’s where the village of Perte should be.” The mere leader snorted, “Yea. Should.” She furrowed her brow, confused. “I remember. Prince Owen visited them. He removed their debt and the village built a statue out of straw and mud to commemorate his generosity. That was Scuttle’s . . . my first tale about them.” “We got a job offer to burn the place down from one of your own people. Hung Count Alleun on a tree when he didn’t want to cooperate with us.” “You did what.” He shrugged flippantly, “Maybe the Prince shouldn’t have been playing favourites with his vassals.” “Maybe you shouldn’t be going around killing innocent civilians,” she rose up with a tempered roar, brandishing her shiv. Whatever easily-strung cowardice she had seen in the man wasn’t so apparent now, for he simply sighed and said, “Lady, you got some nerve worrying about some mudhole home for twelve with all the chaos that’s happening in Wyke right now.” Her anger waned a bit, but she stubbornly clung to her shiv in her hand and shouted back, “What are you talking about?” “The invasion? Deira being right at Hull’s doorstep with a hundred siege towers and battering rams?” The imagery that came to her mind was nothing short of biblical. Hull’s walls had been masonry perfected, but even reinforced obsidian crumbled under enough pressure. Intercepted ambassadors. Smuggled weapons. An army moving in the blind spots of four different nations. This had been a plan years in the making. No more anger, just gripping concern now. “How soon before . . .” “This is Deira we’re talking about.” He spoke the truth she feared. Susan pinched the bridge of her nose, alarms ringing in her head. Good Hope, the orphanage. Her friends. They were all in danger. “How come we didn’t see this coming?” “With Wyke’s best warriors and most their gold halfway across the globe, it was pretty stupid, yea. Alright, I’ve answered all your questions. Now let me and my men go—“ A sickening gasp swallowed the end of his words, no more soundless than the quick, methodical motion Susan did to slip her shiv into his ribcage. A bit of a grunt as she shoved it deeper to create an exit wound. Twist. Shove. The man’s agonal breaths laboured on, slower and less frequent, as the red blossomed underneath him. By the time Susan took one of their horses by the reins and rode off, there was only the sound of the forest.

Trouble in the Homeland, Part I of II ______ Harsh light re-introduced Susan to the world of the waking. She squinted, giving her eyes the time it needed to readjust from the three-hour journey. The bag on her head may have had blinded her but she still had other senses for her surroundings. Like a metal hard floor. Angry foreign voices. Bitter almond scent. A chained vice around her arms and legs. Her vision sharpened. Dark red stains? Blood never stained on iron unless you had a lot of it. A metallic clang grated in between her ears, of which her addled mind decided was the very tormenting sound of someone grinding his sword against her cell bars. Her cell. She was in a cell. “Wakey wakey sunshine.” A burly man in armour stood looming over her, next to a campfire and pot roast. Sword in one hand, a bowl in the other. So that’s what the bitter almond scent was from. “Normally we don’t take prisoners, but ah, when some lot starts cuttin’ up all my good men and takes the use out of them, well, that can’t go unanswered, can it?” He tapped the bars with his sword, sending throbbing waves of pain back to her head in sharp focus. “No good sport falling unconscious on us like that mid-beating. But ah, now that you’re up and about, you’re going to tell us a little something-something now, aren't ya?” Susan's breaths were ragged. She stilled, hanging limply by her bindings like a doll. Her muscles burned with exhaustion, crying out for rest even while they twitched in place. “A little something-something?” “We found this in your backpack.” He casually tossed the bundle in. Pages flew, strewn across the floor. A poster of the Reliants recruitment. Pictures of Prince Owen. And a book, pages now torn from its spine. A full account of my journey in Magonsaete with the Prince of Wyke. “I’m impressed: you can read.” “The pictures helped,” he slopped up his bowl and swallowed it down audibly. “So now my boys and me are thinking: what’s a sheep doing so far from his flock? But ah, if you’re here, he can’t be far off.” Twang. Twang. Twang. Her head swam in agony. Susan winced as she watched his breath curl in front of her. Everytime she thought she had gotten used to it all, her pain threshold finds a new fiery weak spot. A reminder that she was still alive. And that was what Susan did. Survive. “Fine,” she acquiesced, “Upon landing in Magonsaete, we worked with a wizard known as Malaphar to retrieve a magical artifact and defeat two mercenary commanders. We took a break in Magon to rest and recuperate from one of our party’s wounds. At the time since my departure, their party consisted of Sir Baron Angus Kearney, Sir Baron Nelon, the Reliants mercenaries, Lady Adeltruis of House Herman, a monk, a mage and a diplomat. They’ve only just left Magon a couple of days ago. By now they should have reached the safety of Tytila’s walls.” Her captor’s smug smile bore rapiers. “Pretty loose lips for a loyal hound of Prince Owen, eh?” “I’m not exactly on the best terms with them right now.” “Well, if you’re thinkin’ this was going to let you go, pup, sorry, but you still gotta pay for offing my men,” he said, nonchalantly reaching for his soup bowl even as his sword swivelled freely in his hand. “Actually, you’re going to set me free, and you’re going to answer some of my questions. Notably on what’s going on in Wyke right now, and this whole operation of yours.” The man laughed, and took another sip from his bowl. “Why do you think we’re gonna do that, angel?” “Because before you ambushed me, I ground some nightcap powder into your food rations. Numb tongue?” Susan asked, “If I could start foraging for the antidote right now, you could probably still live with seconds to spare.”

Hey, We're Back in Magon Again! The wind breathed upon the church bell chimes. Susan watched in confusion. The doors and windows were all closed — how was there wind blowing indoors? The priestess looked up from her veil, smiled and gave Susan a pointed look, “When the wind breathes upon the chimes, it is a sign that someone, somewhere, has been reborn.” Susan rolled her eyes, “Of course. Engel gives life back and he always takes it away, right?” “The void is the domain of another god, child, not Engel’’s,” she replied without hesitation. She took another joss stick from Susan’s hands, carefully placing them upon the trays. “Thank you very much for helping me.” “It’s the last place in this town I can go into without being driven out,” Susan admitted wanly. After the debacle back in the bar, she had been defenestrated from nearly every establishment. Here she was now, helping an old lady with her prayer rituals. “Perhaps trying to spread all the bad rumours about Owen’s friends wasn’t such a fruitful idea?” For a second the two women stared at each other, and Susan found herself paralysed by the genuineness in her eyes. She had to drop her gaze to the ground. The priestess sounded disappointed in her. It meant she expected more. That was a new feeling. “I don’t know what the townspeople see in him or his group,” she whined. “He listens. Most youth never do. He is wise beyond his age.” “Ah, so you’ve met him too.” “Briefly.” There was a small hiss as she lit up the joss sticks, the smoky incense billowing up to the ceiling. “But I am an excellent judge of character.” “Sensitive,” Susan parroted, “That’s how I described the men whom I rejected. Sensitive. Now suddenly it’s a good thing here to have. Oh, poor Owen, that sensitive soul,” she shuddered, “The women in this town have a few nuts loose if they think that’s a redeemable quality.” “You know better, Scuttle. Sometimes imperfections are what makes a person beautiful.” She’d been reprimanded before, sure. She’d had people yell and spit and curse at her, and tell her she was nothing but a bitch. But never from someone whose opinion mattered. Never from someone who had her best interests at heart. There had been someone once. “And I believe, that concludes my morning altar duties,” the priestess declared, reaching for her cane. The joss sticks smouldered in their trays, in memory of long-departed saints. “You’re welcome to stay here however long you like.” Their gazes met again, “Though something tells me there’s already someplace else you need to be.” The old lady hobbled out the back door but Susan barely noticed it. It was just her now. Her and the incense and the wind and a maddeningly quiet hall. Her and the saints of a hundred years past and their ashes. Imperfections are what makes a person beautiful. “Then call me gorgeous.” She grabbed a spare joss stick, lit it, and placed it to join the veritable bouquet, inscribing a name onto its handle. The priestess will never know the origins of the saint Susan was commemorating nor its significance. After all, there had never been a saint in Engel’s service by the name of Javier. She made her way to the chapel doors. The wind breathed upon the church bell chimes.

Back in Magon “A merc leader?!” The entire tavern erupted into uproarious laughter. Bits of beer-sprinkled foam sprayed themselves onto the bard standing atop the table, who was too pleased with the punchline of her joke to normally retch. “Indeed! Serge, head of the Reliants! A man who could barely command respect from his underlings, let alone his colleagues. Ah, the questions it raises when life can still surprise you with such oddities,” she slandered with a much too beaming face, “What next? Shall he recruit a blind archer? Maybe a mage that specialises in a single one-day use spell? Susan revelled in the ensuing cackles. A patron choked on his food and spluttered to the floor; they laughed at that too. “Lounging in his armchair while sending his mercs to do the real fighting? Letting a woman protect him? One could almost mistake him for a Toulousian!” The bar was almost delirious now, awash with rosy-cheeked howls. “Susan! Susan! Susan!” The burst of euphoria was enough to throw the normally composed Susan's balance nearly off her table. They believed in the rainbow-haired lady the same way some would believe in Belial. Who knew the bard could start a cult? The drunken feeling to have the attention of everyone in the room, wrapped around her little finger, hanging on her every word. To shape and create worlds. It was invigorating. She could say Serge was a transvestite named Steve, and it would be so. Cassandra may be off-limits to the locals, somehow having ascended to a folklore hero, but she could drag everyone else down around her. And Serge the coward was the easiest target. By the time she was done with Serge, nobody in Angelcynn would ever respect him again. Susan lifted a mug for a mock toast, “To Serge! Worst ‘hero’ this side of Angelcynn!” “To Serge!” Many clinks. “What a riffraff!” “Piece of trash!” “Good riddance!” “He helped me once.” The patrons chortled, but slowly stopped out as inebriated minds tried to decipher the statement. “He helped me once. He painted my fence.” repeated the old man, and he hobbled up from his stool. He leered at Susan. Susan leered back. “And I don’t appreciate all this mud-slinging.” Susan scoffed at the feeble heckle, and proceeded to sweep her gaze across the crowd, drawing the energy of their support. “You mean Serge the fence-painter? Very esteemed, good sir. Oh, excuse me.” The old man shifted his weight onto his cane, getting closer to Susan, “Imagine if your worth was measured by how good you were at doing something you were hopeless at for the rest of your life. How would that make you feel?” “What are you talking about? That’s ridiculous, nobody judges you like that, old man.” It was amazing how quickly the atmosphere in the bar shifted, from this congenial electrifying buzz to this tense quiet that the shuffling of feet could be heard, everyone suddenly finding the bottoms of their mugs and the floor very interesting. As if they knew something she didn't. The old man replied, “I am the first son in a generation of blacksmiths. For as long as I have lived, I couldn’t lift a hammer because of me back.” The old man hunched over the table Susan stood at, “Yes, he is terrible at leading. And yet, every morning he wakes up, and he assumes the role. Everyday he is met with a new failure, everyday he continues on. And you know what? His mercenaries helped him paint that day. The very people you claim don’t respect him. The very people who would be dead or worse without him. He treats them well.” He narrowed his eyes, a fire smouldering in his eyes, “Wouldn’t you agree, Scuttle?” And just like that, the spell over the bar was broken. The crowd dispersed. Susan hid her telltale ticks across her suddenly stiff frame as best she could, but it was too obvious. Her veneer had cracked. “Enjoy your fence while it lasts, old man,” she growled from the very pits of her stomach. He met her gaze with an equally-intense frown. “You don’t scare me. You don’t have half the backbone Serge does.”

Susan jerked awake. Cold beads of sweat trickled down from her forehead. My name is Susan Thames. I'm . . . on the floor. Vision's hazy, noise coming from every direction. And my breath smells of rum. The magnified rotund face of the bartender bore down on her to take the place of the ceiling. "You okay, kid? Just gives me a thumbs up or down?" Susan raised a finger. It wasn't a thumb. The bartender snorted and disappeared from her world. The clip-clops of his boots thundered in her head. "Suit yourself, kid." Susan clambered back up onto her feet, brushing herself off. The events from last night slowly trickled back into her still-cloudy mind. She had planned to leave Magon for good, begin the hunt for the only person she knew had the vial -- Malaphar -- and yet some magnetism had pulled her back here. She knew why. Some parts of Scuttle still clung on with what little influence she had left over her mind. Give them a chance. “Oh I will," Susan muttered under her breath, "I’m coming for you, Emmet. Wherever you go, I’ll hunt you.” "Emmet?" The bartender looked up from polishing his mug and regarded her with the telltale nosy know-it-all expression all bartenders were professionally required to have, "You don't mean that rowdy group of outlanders that tore this place apart yonder back?" Susan slid herself onto one of the stools. "The man carries himself with a deceptively lax attitude, but his eyes betray him. Looks like he's plotting three different plans at once." Time to use more of the bard's skills. The bartender nodded, resting his hands onto the counter to go into full storyteller mode. "Well, scuttlebutt says he's definitely plotting something alright. He's a monk, you know. The proper baptism kind. He was planning to marry what's-her-face to what's-her-face." Susan swore inwardly. So the rumours of the Princess kissing Lady Adele was true then. That had been her trump card for blackmail, but now it seemed the power dynamic between Cassandra and her insecurities had reversed. "Don't you find it just disgusting?" Susan spat, "Deviants of Engel so brazenly mocking the concept of holy matrimony?" The bartender's lips formed a tight line. "My son came out last night." More inward swearing. So Princess Cassandra's fearless act of love had already made ripples. There goes yet another plan to turn the populace against her. This was moving too quickly. "My apologies," Susan tapped her finger twice on the table, "I'll have one of your beers." The bartender nodded, but then Susan leaned in closer before he could turn to reach the kegs, "And every nugget of information you have about that group from 'yonder back'." "You just missed them, kid. They left for Perroy." "I'm not asking for directions. I'm asking for stories." Secrets. Weaknesses. Anything. Hearing second-said tall tales again, just like back in Wyke. Oh, wouldn't Scuttle be thrilled. The bartender looked at her quizzically, suspiciously, "You some sort of creepy stalker?" "You could say that, yes." "How much do you wanna know?" Something blazed in Susan's eyes, fire but not quite. Something far more honed. "Everything."

That doesn't link me to anything, Shin. How am I supposed to give you Tazdingo meets the Queen this way.

Hi there, I'm Frostivus. I'm currently working on a 100-card, fully-voiced fanmade Hearthstone expansion themed around the fictional Warcraft Christmas holiday: Winterveil. Take a sneak peek here! So: we're looking for voice talent. At the moment I have 11 people who's signed up, but with 83 minions to voice, we could always use more, especially female voices. We're going to need people who can voice old grannies to husky Russian divas to booming dragons and tiny imps. Being familiar with Hearthstone helps a lot, but isn't necessary. For a taste of the cards and what to expect, check out the characters here: https://www.castingcall.club/projects/winterveil-wonderland-a-fully-voiced-fanmade-hearthstone-expansion This is completely non-profit and a labour of love! But you will receive full credit for your work on the website! Also, we could use someone artistically inclined to draw a beautiful logo for Winterveil Wonderland. Again, we will credit you. If you want to know more or want to join, hit up a PM with me!

“Claire, wait—“ Scuttle stopped dead in her tracks as the barons surrounded her. The scene unfolding before her was so bizarre — even for her — that she had to take a moment for it to fully sink in. Scuttle had hoped for heroes. She had hoped to find the pillar of strength that shrugged off ballista bolts for his subjects, to perhaps lean on his strength. To ward off the demon's return. She didn’t expect to find Baron Kearney tripping over himself in an incoherent babbling mess, sluggishly flailing his arms as if he was drowning in all the brew he had drunk. IT’s aLl anGus knoWs how tO Do. “This . . . this is what you have been doing?” she asked incredulously --desperately-- pinching her nose as the stench of alcohol wafted from his spitting slurs, “And you’ve been feeding this to Geoffrey too?” And Doug, with his bauble, and a wink of levity that was ruefully misplaced in this situation. DoUg doesn’t know what’s haPPening HalF tHe time. Her cracked lips split into a pained and painful smile. The chuckle, broken and hysterical, bubbled out of her. nO herOES Here “My name . . . my name is Scuttle Thames,” she reassured herself, the words falling quietly from her lips, then once more, “My name is Scuttle Thames.” Scuttle had to trick herself into believing in the delusion again. Heroes had to have their downtime, and how fitting that they would partake in merriment of this magnitude! Would she expect anything less from them? BoO The air seemed to grow thinner around her; she rasped for a breath. Scuttle folded her arms around her shoulders as if bidding them chained to her before they could act. “I’m sorry, Doug,” she said, shaking. She turned and ran. The streets were abandoned, further out still: the unforgiving scape of Magonsaete. Scuttle had been wrong. She couldn’t go back. Further out still: nothing but darkness to welcome her. The clouds swallowed up the night, snuffing out the last of the starlight. The sky was empty tonight. _____________________________ Scuttle Thames leaves the group.

Scuttle jumped skittishly, "Sh-sh-sh! Maybe you've having too good a time! Sir Baron, were you escorting her ho--ok, you're just as drunk." She wasn't ready for this. Scuttle had to make the transition easier. If she could make the truth more palatable, perhaps by exploiting her ability to twist the truth of tales by just a tad . . . They deserved the truth, didn't they? But Scuttle couldn't handle the truth. Even when they were more than likely to forget everything in that state of inebriation. It wasn't really lying. Just a severe omitting of facts! For pathos and political correctness and whathaveyou. "Look, I'm still piecing everything together about what happened today," she rubbed her swollen head with a convenient sample of method acting, "Everything's been hazy since the fortress and Malaphar. What are you talking about, killing you? Did I actually do that?" Her eyes widened in staged horror.

The only thing separating Scuttle from the rest of the party was a swivel door. Even from outside, the Farmer's Boot roared with a congenial ambience, with the clinking of mugs and the hearty chortle of patrons, easily masking the nervous pitter patter of Scuttle's loafers pacing up and down the dirt road. She went through the plan a seventh time in her head, then scoped around for all possible escape routes, then practised tumble-rolling to minimize any injury from being thrown out the door. How was she even meant to approach this? She had tried to kill at least two of them and threatened one more. How does anyone face such judgement? She sighed. Well . . . The trick of Scuttle was to first trick yourself. After all, wasn't that how Scuttle was created? 'Wow, it is Scuttle! We have missed you greatly and forgive you of all your errors! Your very presence warms this bar! Here, have this beer on the house!' 'Why, thank you' she preened, and the beer changed into vintage fine wine as she touched it, 'I can't help it when I'm this pure and easily repentant.' 'Indeed! Also you are also a goddess and have the beauty of an angel. Marry me so that I may lavish you with my undying love!' 'Oh,' she blushed delectably, 'If you insist!' 'Scuttle, I am the King of Wyke! Seeing you have instantly cured me of my fatal disease! I hereby pardon you of all crimes and make you Queen Bard-Chancellor Supreme of all of Dougistan. Your golden chariot of unicorns awaits you outside. Baron Doug will be your chauffeur.' 'Hey! How come I have to drive her? I rule Dougistan!' 'Oh, shush and be an obedient figment of my imagination, you.' Yes! That was exactly how it was going to go down! Scuttle saw no other conceivable way the next series of events would transpire. This was going to go great. She was just about to kick the swivel doors apart and march in when -- either through nerves, daydreams or just plain karma -- she failed to see the door coming towards her instead, and it planted a nice mahogany clap onto her forehead. Scuttle stumbled backwards, waiting for the stars to dissipate. "Ow! Okay, excuse me, but what did I ever do to you--" She caught herself as her vision readjusted to find Baron Angus staggering away, hoisting who must have been the last person she had wanted to meet abroad his shoulder like a potato sack. "Claire?" She chanced a look at the rosy flush in her cheeks and the foam by the side of her lips just as her head bobbed in and out of view past the man's shoulders, "Well . . . you look like you're having a good time." That wasn't quite what an attempted killer should say to her victim, but she'd learn it in due time.

Penitent eyes watched from the church windows until Sebastian’s silhouette melted into the night. Scuttle waited another five minutes. And then another five. Nothing else moved outside but the strange oscillating shapes of critter shadows. A strained chuckle escaped her lips. It worked. Feigning amnesia seemed so ridiculous and yet something so typical that Scuttle would do. She had never managed to pull one up over Javier. But Sebastian, no matter what he thought himself, was not Javier. For now, she was alone. Scuttle exhaled a breath she didn’t realise she had been holding, slumped onto the ground, and buried her face into her hands. “Go away, bad dream. Boo,” she muttered to the emptiness of the church. BOo Even awake, the nightmare plagued her. The scene stayed indelibly etched into her mind, branded like painful-hot iron across her vision. The grim rictuses of fear. The looks of abject betrayal and hatred directed at her from her friends, as Scuttle watched on, a prisoner trapped in her own body, but what did it matter? It was her. It was her hands that shot that arrow, her mouth that spoke those threats. Scuttle could never let Susan loose again. She knew what she had to do. ___________ The metallic tinkle of her makeshift lock pick was precisely rhythmic. Clink, clink, clink, a strange timbre to it that lent the otherwise deathly-silent night some noise. Sebastian had used the same two-chamber lock since she had known him. This would take a minute, tops. Clink, clink, clink. Her shaky hands were not helping. She didn’t know her destination; all she knew was that she had to run, far away. That was what she was good at, Scuttle had been running her whole life after all. She had ran when her mother died, she had ran when hearing Jeeves was leaving, she was running now, from the people she thought were her friends. Always letting Susan to pick up the pieces she left behind. Clink, clink, clink. Some knee-jerk self-defence — as long as Scuttle remained weak, Susan would find a way out to stop her from self-destruction. Susan would resurface, and next time they might not be so lucky. The padlock slipped open and fell onto the floor. Its thud echoed across the church. Its doors opened. Move. The bitter cold made tangible Scuttle’s breaths, and she tugged at her denims and tugged and tugged until her sleeves ripped slightly at the seams. The streets were abandoned, further out still: the unforgiving scape of Magonsaete. She couldn’t go back. And yet somehow, running into her certain death by wilderness felt like the easy way out. But then Susan always had been the path of least resistance for her, wasn’t it? To slip into a ruthless selfish mindset whenever her volatile kaleidoscope of emotions could no longer be contained. Susan wanted her to leave. She wanted to be where she was most comfortable, where problems could be solved regardless of collateral and people were disposable tools. When things got too personal, that was where Scuttle was pulled back into the reins. Maybe. . . what if . . . Scuttle stood by the church pavement as the night breeze blew, pondering the fork in her path. The Mage Killer had set aside his differences to save Claire. The Princess in turn tried to protect the Mage Killer. Every lie had to have a nugget of truth in them. After all, their acts of heroism had been enough to bring Scuttle back. Maybe Susan was weaker when Scuttle was around their shelter. Maybe she could believe in them again and borrow their strength. And maybe they could forgive her. If she were wrong, no telling what would happen. She was banking the fate of Wyke on a lot of maybes. She stared up at the night sky. An unfamiliar star blinked at her, red-hot and twinkling. The same one from her first night in Magonsaete. With one purposeful but hesitant stride, Scuttle stepped out into the night of Magon, following the sounds of distant liver-sacrificed merriment.

Scuttle regarded her older counterpart with raised quizzical eyebrows, then she sighed, shrugging her shoulders, "Alright, Sebastian, I'll play along." She plopped herself on the pew without much resistance, lazily rocking her legs to and fro. "Word to the wise: watch out for Prince Owen. Tensions are pretty high; poor sod looks like he's a poorly-chosen word away from falling apart. So . . . I guess I wait for you to come back?"

Arrows in her friends' shins? Scuttle chuckled and shook her head at the notion of it. "Okay, Sebastian, why don't you leave the fibbing to the professionals," she said, pointing a thumb to her chest with a sense of inflated pride, "I mean really, what are you even talking about? We've scouted the fortress and miles around and I'm pretty sure we didn't find a bar, let alone a whole village." She hopped to her feet -- untied somehow at some point -- "Come on," she beckoned, "I'm eager to see what the other teams got themselves into."

Scuttle rolled her eyes, “Oh come on. You left Good Hope the moment you could. Disappeared for Engel knows how long. Suddenly you show up taking Javier’s place with no one batting an eyelid. When we meet, there’s not even a ‘hello’ or ‘how have you been’. Now you have me tied up and locked in a church after years of not talking to each other and you’re still not going to spill anything?” She tapped her nose, “My stories gotta come from somewhere, Sebastian. You know I don’t just make them up. There’s research. Interviews. Okay, but mostly I just make them up.” “When I tell the story of Jeeves Junior, it has to be authentic.” Her hands pantomimed a slow-rolling headline in the skies to reveal a name only she could see. “Jeeves Junior, ninja butler. Serving justice and croutons." The last vestiges of Susan eroded away, like a stone polished smooth in the passing river currents. As long as the vial was gone, so would any reason for Susan’s control.

Alright. Let’s start with something simple. What’s your name? My name is Scuttle Thames. I’m a bard extraordinaire, with a big ear for folklore and an even bigger talent for spinning them. Yessiree, pizzazz is my middle name. I’ve made songs about bear barons and charming princesses that have immortalised them. I’ve trained under the tutelage of the legendary Javier himself, and learned how to read and write just as well as the literate classes. Then one day he left and never came back. yOu need mE. Scuttle awoke with a start, the drowsiness that suffused her gone in an instant. “ZOMBIES ARE EATING STEVE OH MY GOOOOOOOOOD oh hello Sebastian.” She took a stock of her world. Her tongue tasted mahogany and shoe-dirt, and one side of her cheeks felt numb down to her jaw. Frescoed light rays shone through the tinted windows. She was lying on the ground of a church, hands and legs tied stiff with rope. She sighed in cold resignation. “I really screwed the foal on this one, didn’t I?” Scuttle moved herself until her head found purchase against a pew, and rested her arms behind where a menorah burned incense. From the pillars, the judging glare of a granite saint statue cast itself silently upon her helpless mortal form. A tale is what you want, Sebastian? “This brings back memories, doesn't it? You, me, the church being evacuated again,” she pondered, moodily blowing a stray tress from her forehead, “Remember those Sunday school sermons we used to go to when we were little? Well, you went to them and I just took the bread from their communion. All that talk about life after death. A religion built upon the foundation of our fear of the cold, long dark. Pretty solid if you ask me. I mean after all, as long as people feared death, they will always need all of this.” Incense-smoke burned brighter. Sunset scythed through windows in spotlights. Bells chimed and pealed outside. The saint’s plate read: a memento mori. “But what happens when people stop fearing death?” There was a fire smouldering in Scuttle’s eyes, not fierce but full of candour and clinging hope, “An alternative cure to death that wasn’t through Engel’s divine grace? How did you think they would have reacted? Throughout the church’s history, we’ve seen charismatic leaders fracture the body into numerous sects. Some were officially recognised, others became heretics and apostates that were seen as enemies of the church. Not much is written about them, probably because the church decided they were best left forgotten. But I’ve sieved my way through religious texts and bibliographies, and they keep making reference to this . . . lost cult. A cult with no history, no name, and no leader. Any trace of it erased by deliberate but dextrous hands, with only breadcrumb trails scattered to the wind. Whispers of a rumour of a secret. Something that the church was afraid of, and wanted to hide. A cult that cheated death.” “We wiped them out, Sebastian. We helped Malaphar kill them all, and we gave him the secret to their power. The both of us. Whatever we didn’t know about them is now gone forever. Tears in the rain. You wanted a tale? You wanted to know more about the vial? There’s that then. The Tale of the Lost Cult.” There was a snap. Scuttle brought her hands forward to rest on her lap, casually massaging the scorch marks left behind from the candle-burnt rope, letting the bits of ash fall to the ground. She groaned, “Oh, finally! They were going numb. Your knots could tie elephant trunks together. No, I'm not going to try anything, Sebastian. I just needed blood back in my hands."

Susan felt her every reserve of stamina expended, but the battle was coming to a close, she felt it. She barely flinched as the knives flew past her, partly because they were a non-lethal technique familiar to her. Mostly because her speed and reflexes had long since decayed in her fatigue. “My story? Disgusting?” She threw her head back in a guffaw, “The Princess of Wyke resents her sheltered life, but refuses to face tragedy. Lady Adele would sacrifice the strength of her house for her own selfish pursuits. Prince Owen crumbles from mere words. Angus charges recklessly into battle without concern for his allies’ wellbeing, because that’s all he knows how to do. Serge is a paranoid, incompetent mess. Doug barely even realises what’s going on half the time.” “We’re all pitiful and disgusting, Sebastian. You may wear his clothes and use his moves, but that can’t hide that underneath all that, you’re still Good Hope’s shill. We’re all living lies. I just chose to stop hiding mine.” Susan grabbed her shiv from her belt, nothing but sheer will stringing her muscles to move in tandem. Two hundred yards. If she could bop a hat from an urchin’s head from two hundred yards, so fatigue and open wounds be damned, she could most definitely put one between Sebastian's eyes in the blink o this is not you. She might as well have been hit in the guts. She might as well been renamed her bow ‘guilt trip’ and whacked herself on the head with it. Because Scuttle suddenly had a voice she couldn’t ignore. It was a failsafe of sorts that Susan lost power whenever the situation got too personal for her to handle, and this time Scuttle knew what was happening, whereas Susan did not. My name is Scuttle. My name is Susan Thames. Now was not the time for self-doubt. She felt the two egos trying to stifle each other, wresting for control. Somewhere along the way, between an unexpected rescuer and a noble self-sacrifice and a voice of reason, Scuttle had taken over, the change so incomprehensible and quick Susan had barely noticed it. That must had been why she had hesitated to kill the princess when she had the chance; some minutiae of Scuttle still clung to her, like some slogging worm. “Not yet,” Susan muttered under her breath, “Not now.” You nEed me. I’ll bring Him bacK. And then what? Susan glanced at the staff the princess was wielding. It had seen much and served more, lovingly polished but at the same time stained with blood both fresh and old. Crests and etch marks carved into its woodwork reminded her of a time long ago by the hearth’s fire, when she had studied its nebulous tip working its way across her near-skeletal body to soothe the pain. It was the day Susan had deemed it safe enough for Scuttle to live. Scuttle took her shiv before she could think twice and smashed it into the wall, watching it burst into riven fragments. She looked up to meet their gazes, a haze lifting from her eyes. ". . . it's the hair, isn't it?" Several days’ worth of sleep debt slammed into her in a deluge that Susan had till now curtailed, and the bard dropped like a rock.

He’s a god, you fools. It will take more than one hit to kill him. ~Princess Mononoke ______________ A wall of solid sound turned the world white. For a perfectly lucid moment, it hit Susan with an exquisite new pain: nothing but wildfire and static, all else meaningless. Then the world came back sharp and painful but still ringing, and she realised she wasn't breathing and her lungs burned without her brain sorting what she saw and her ears were ringing and useless and for some reason the entire world tasted like chapped skin. Breathe, Susan. She took a breath. The cold burned. The world faded back into clarity. Breathe. Like a lens adjusting focus. She saw smoke rise from her eminence; ember fell from her sleeves to pelt the charred crater underneath her. To someone who had just been struck by lightning, Susan felt the change like the drizzle of a clear sky, a howl of a most disagreeable wind, or the scrape of thistle thorn on one’s knee: She brushed it off. She had bigger things to focus on. “The world will know. ALL OF ANGELCYNN WILL KNOW!” she yelled furiously, picking her gattling bow back up from the ground. This was her only chance to see if the vial worked. If the rest were to stand in her way, she would make sure they didn’t. Lightning. Wind. Staves. Princess spit. Susan would face them all and a hundred more. She only realised she was smiling when she felt the pain tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Thank you, Emmet, for volunteering.” Scuttle attacks Emmet with her Gattling Bow x3

“Out. Of. My. Way.” The words were quiet; hollowed out of any emotion or reason. She was meant to cower. She was meant to cry in a corner, to refuse to face the problem and hide again like the weak princess Susan knew she was. She was not meant to leap in front of him and block her shot in that sickeningly selfless way. One irrational move. One excuse for a stray shot. That was all she needed. Susan wasn’t as good at reading people as she thought. Either way, it was over. Emmet had the vial. Claire was awake. Susan had tried. Every bone in her hurt. Every muscle in her screamed for rest. She had been up for days - the lethargy hit her abruptly, at once. When. When did the Princess grow this courage? Susan had planned contingencies and covered every possibility and risked it all, only to be stopped by her. No. Susan would not accept this. Susan was the product of life’s efforts to kill Scuttle, Susan was what moved on when Scuttle gave up. She was her self-defence. The oyster epithet fit the two perfectly, except instead of a pearl there was maybe a rainbow-coloured balloon. And instead of a hard calcium shell there would be a hollow ivory prison, a husk. The walls that protected Scuttle’s fragile self was suffocating, but it did great against the frigid waters. Susan could take the pain and the anger and the loss because there was nothing left in her. Susan could stain her hands with blood because they had been red since she was four. Susan would shoot the Princess and the Mage Killer. She would pry the vial from his cold dead hands, travel back to Wyke and bring Javier back. It was over when Susan decided it was over. She swallowed the bile rising in her throat and let the heat in the centre of her chest cool coffin-like. “Don’t make me shoot you, Princess. That vial is too dangerous. You think I wouldn't?” She stared straight into Cassandra, into the windows of her soul, saw the frailty and every foible, every button she could press. If the Princess wasn’t as much a coward as she thought she was, Susan would tear her down to be. Hadn’t Cassandra known? She was her puppet all along, to string at her fancies. “I wouldn’t want to be the one to explain this to Adele,” she began with ill-concealed provocation, keeping her aim steady at whatever gap she could find at Emmet. “Who will be there to protect her once the people learn the truth about you two? Is that the world you want to leave behind for her? One where she had to suffer your mistakes?” Mad adrenaline surged through her veins, ricocheting until it reached as a high-pitched whine in her brain. Who? Who knew this secret and would so brazenly spread it? “Move.”

Susan let a hiss escape through her grit teeth as Emmet pocketed the vial, and for a moment the girl looked absolutely put out in bone-deep exhaustion, but it was gone as quick as it came. His action had come far too quickly and conveniently, almost as if rehearsed. Pocketing the vial before healing Claire? Susan could read him like an open book; she saw the subtext behind it all. He was after the same thing she was. With every passing moment the party’s true colours shone brighter and brighter. Cowards and cheaters. Strangling him wouldn't solve anything, Susan reminded herself. But stealing it from him would prove impossible too. Just a little bit of strangulation then. Not much. She considered her options. One victim. One witness. Two bystanders. Time limit? Before Claire woke up. First option: she could scapegoat Emmet. The Princess and the diplomat would believe her; they were an easy mark. The story practically wrote itself. Claire was wounded, Scuttle was wounded. But it would contradict her previous story, and Emmet would know for sure then that she was lying. Second option: she could sow the seeds of discord and persuade them that it was in their best interests to keep the vial on someone more trustworthy (read: naive). It was the safe option, and would place the pressure on Emmet instead of her. It could work, but then she had to steal it from someone else instead, which took time. Time she didn’t have. So that left the final option. The gambit. “That . . . th-thing is far too dangerous to keep!” Scuttle croaked, pointing tremulously at Emmet’s pockets as she willed tears to flow down her cheeks, “I had to stop her! Malaphar wanted it. Dettard wanted it. No one can handle it! Don’t you understand?!” she just about pleaded, “It got Claire, and it’ll get you too. It's not worth keeping!” She knew exactly how Emmet would react to this. She knew exactly how Cassandra would react to this. She could plan for them, coax them into her trap. The only wildcard here was Alain. There was no turning back from this. Susan drew her bow. “I’m not aiming to kill, Emmet. You know I’d never hurt you. But . . .” she took a sharp inhale of air and announced with neutral concision, “One hundred yards.” Scuttle began, and glanced pointedly at his pockets. “That’s the farthest I’ve hit a target with a bow. On a moving cart in obstructed vision, I bopped an urchin's cap off who had stolen my apple a hundred yards away. I didn't hurt him. I'm a bit rusty, but from this distance, I can hit only the vial without hurting you easy. Maybe scrape your pants leg a bit. But you try and move, Emmet, and I can’t guarantee that.” Her voice was resolute and stone-cold, “I’m sorry, but that vial must be destroyed.”

Blink, and Susan would have missed it: a rare capture of poignantly-blended color and intonation in how the dim, scattered lights rushing in from the library's tinted windows reflected off an oncoming projectile, a heartbeat before the staff smacked into her face. A lifetime's instinct of dodging broken beer bottles made her involuntarily swerve her head away just enough to avoid a full-blown collision, moving herself together with the momentum of the staff, but it hurt all the same. A constellation of stars pricked across her vision, and Susan was sent spinning back, dropping to one knee even as her hand reached for the shiv around her belt. She tasted the acrid tang of iron in her mouth, and realized that the fine mist blotting her peripherals was her own blood. She breathed in a gulp of it, retching and sneezing it out, clambering back onto her feet. She frowned, irises narrowing in recognition of her assailant. The Mage Killer coming to save her. Fascinating how the world worked sometimes. Susan had planned for this. A few witnesses from the village could be easily silenced. But a traveling member of Prince Owen's party required more finesse. Questions would be asked. It was going to take manipulation, deceit, and diversion -- all variants of acting that would require a thespian of high calibre. A thespian like . . . "Wait, stop, it's me!" Scuttle pleaded and held her hands up in a placating gesture. For the briefest of moments, there was no animal craze in her eyes or calmly-tempered rage, but the raw terror of a little girl caught in a big world. Her knees wobbled. "You're hitting the wrong person! Emmet, please, Claire was planning to run off with the vial herself!" She pointed to the mage (had she done that?). "She's been working with Dettard all along! I pieced it altogether. When I confronted her about it, she attacked me and tried to run! I had to stop her. You have to believe me! I would never try to hurt her!"

i used tO be an adVentUreR like You Pain defined Susan, in a way. It formed her world much like her other senses did. If she smelled a flower or looked at a sunset, it was the same sensation, only less intense: flowering fibres through her spine and into peripheral endings. Like sight, touch, hearing, taste. Pain was normal, a part of her. From that perspective, maybe pain wasn't so bad. From a more pertinent perspective though, it really was. Razor wind surged through Susan, lacerating her skin with a thousand shallow cuts. The initial hit started the pain, and her fall to the ground fanned it. She staggered back onto her feet and spit a wad of blood onto the ground, the only indication of the wind attack on her being a flash of annoyance. She sauntered over to Claire's limp body. Blood was oozing profusely from her leg wound, staining the dirt road. Blood didn't stain unless there was a lot of it. Susan could see the mage drifting in and out of consciousness already. "I need you awake for this." She raised her right foot and pressed the metal heel of her boot straight into Claire's gash, letting it sink deep into muscle and sinew. "You have something she needs. Where is it?" Susan grabbed her by the collar and pulled her in close, clutching her so tightly her knuckles went hot-white, until all of Claire's world was the fire in Susan's eyes blazing phosphorescently. She shook her violently, "The vial, Claire. WHERE IS IT?!"

Scuttle made her peace with Javier's death a long time ago. But long time ago, she didn't know she could still bring him back. She had wanted to believe in his legacy. In the phoenix ashes of his grave there had risen a generation of new heroes, people who could honour his sacrifice and protect his name. Big shoes to fill, and Scuttle knew that. Even when every voice of reason screamed in her head that they could never live up to her expectations, she tried her best to fool herself into thinking that they did. People believed what they wanted to believe. The Baron of Bears. The Girl on Fire. The Spectre. The Duchess of Dougistan. The Axe-Flinging Princess. She had roped everyone else into the delusion with her stories, which only gave it more weight. Big fish tales that grew into beliefs grew into truths with every company of fool she dragged down into the fantasy world of hers. It made life without Javier bearable. This was her way of coping with his death. They were Javier's last gift to her. And just like him, they would be virtuous and just. In that moment months of bottled sadness and rage uncorked itself. Never again will she believe in them. They were not Javier. we broke you we broke you There was only one way to bring her back, and that was to bring him back. Scuttle was nothing without Javier. Now they taunted her with this one chance. An elixir that had been with them all along. After that fallout in the fort and learning about the elixir of life, Susan had slipped from the group, and she had gone to look for Claire's bedroll. She ransacked it and found nothing. All clues pointed to her, talks about experiments and vials and the dead. The way she fidgeted around her pockets during the meeting meant only one thing: it was with her. She had poisoned the librarian with a mushroom extract that would leave her unconscious for a day. She had paid a boy to send a letter to the girl named Claire when they arrived. She had combed the library for every story about the Fountain of Life, dissecting witness reports and testimonies. The oldest source of it predated even Wyke's founding; motifs of it already existed within holy books of several religions that have never historically exchanged dialogue. There were stories of visits by dead relatives, empty graves. Then she had looked to find more about the details of those encounters. Were the resurrected people only from certain kinds of deaths? Did it work on cremated people as well? How long did they last for? She had pored through tome after tome tirelessly in the ruddy glow of the midnight oil, reading tales as farfetched and ludicrous as her own. Susan had heard enough lies not to fall for them again. This vial may not even come from the fountain. The fountain may even be a fake. Either way, she needed to test it and see it work with her own eyes. For that, she needed two things: the vial and a test subject. Susan pulled her gattling bow and quiver from underneath a loose plank. She pulled her string taut, arrowhead aimed for Claire, and fired.

“hello, cLaIre.” The sign on the library read ’closed’ on a weekday afternoon. The librarian had not yet returned from his break, tea now cold on the table after only a few sips. Human-shaped chalk drawings were drawn across the floor. Shelves had been emptied and overturned, half-opened books piled messily. There was not much room for anything else; something big ran across the gamut and took it all. It covered the whole floor, even the walls: pages hastily torn from books, connected to each other with red string and nailed to the surface to form a building-sized conspiratorial board. One end of the wall illuminated a church tapestry’s illustration of the Fountain of Life, now vandalised with mad scribblings. On the opposite side of the network was a litany of counter spells and anti-magic stratagems. And so much more. Anatomical diagrams of the heart. Cremation proceedings. Post-mortem transcripts. A list of all the deceased from unnatural causes in the year 812. where beware the quiet ones life for a price All of the scribbles and pictures converged into a single point. Somehow she had managed to procure a portrait of the mage. And then there was she. Idly lounging atop her veritable throne of crumpled paper in the centre of it all, heavy with sinister purpose, was a young girl with rainbow-coloured hair. The secret behind how she had managed to orchestrate this by herself could be easily deciphered by the purple bags underneath her eyes (which also gave a telltale tick) - sleep had escaped Susan for days. She glared right at Claire and straight through her, as if she had one foot in reality, another somewhere else. A memory? “I’ve been waiting for you.” Her lips parted piteously; a cluster of deceptively meek, submissive gestures that only the acting experience of a skilled bard could muster. “You look tense. It’s me, Scuttles!” Susan was on her feet in one graceful movement, taking steps towards Claire. She tinkered with the shiv in her hand, flaking the rust down onto the papers as she trod mud on them. “It’s funny. I don’t think I’ve ever talked to you since I met the group. You know what they say, beware the quiet ones,” she tittered at her own (joke?).