Marie sat at the base of the hill and took a long draught from the bottle of wine. Her eyes closed in mute appreciation. It wasn’t the best she’d had - not by a long shot - but compared to iodized water and weak, scallion and wild garlic soup, it was heavenly.

  The man that seemed to be in charge of the defence of this group of people - a hunting expedition from a town a few days away - sat opposite her. It was from him that the wine had come, and he’d apologised for the quality before she’d even taken it. After everyone had cleaned themselves up, he’d introduced himself as Sirrochon Brightfeather, and a [Verseblade] - the leader of Sirrochon’s Spellswords.

  Now he was looking at her, expectantly.

  “Erm. I am Marie. I am from France. Really, I studied to be an archaeologist…but I suppose I should say I am a [Scout]...and a [Ruins Delver].”

  She felt her cheeks flush as she admitted it. Bad enough she’d been branded a [Treasure Hunter] before - it was only a mercy that it had instantly evolved to something less…indigne.

  “Fascinating.” His blonde, wavy hair rippled in a breeze Marie hadn’t noticed till now. “I don’t believe I’ve met a [Ruins Delver] before - you must tell me about it over drinks - but one can always appreciate a [Scout]. Is that what you were doing out here? Scouting? I must say - my team and I are fairly new to the area, but the allagi said there was only hunting out this way. Is it not dangerous to be here alone?”

  Marie looked behind him to where the broad-shouldered and rugged hunters were moving the huge carcass of the crocodilian snapjaw, overseen by one of the feline people who Sirrochon had introduced as Dappled Shadow. The smallest pair of the hunters were instead burying the bodies of their fallen. She turned back to the [Verseblade].

  “I am actually not sure where I am, Mister Brightfeather. I’m afraid I was lost, somehow, and found myself in an unpleasant place, further to the west of here. I’ve been searching for people for the past two weeks. I’m glad I finally found some - and that you proved to be more welcoming.” She held up the bottle of wine and handed it back with only the slightest reluctance. “I am also not entirely alone.”

  She was feeling the drink relax her, but still she caught a sudden tension in Sirrochon’s shoulders. There was a brief pause as he stowed the bottle.

  “Sirrochon, please, or Sirro. Mister Brightfeather is far too formal for one such as I.” He gave a winning smile. “I’m glad to hear you’re not wandering out here alone. Can I assume the others are as friendly as you are, Miss Marie.”

  “There’s only one, and he’s a delight, even if he lacks for conversation. He has saved my life more than once.”

  Raising her fingers to her lips, Marie gave a quick whistle. She’d worked out that Napoleon would respond to various commands, even though he had no real ears to hear them… or brain to process them. She tried not to think on that too much.

  The skeletal dog came bounding down the hill and slid to a stop beside her. Sirrochon jumped up, flinching, but recovered almost instantly from the look of distaste that flashed across his face. The rest of the group, having not been privy to the conversation, reacted a little more viscerally.

  The cat-woman, the hobbit-man and the three closest hunters drew their weapons with shouts of alarm and rushed over - the cat-lady interposing herself between Brightfeather and Marie. Fortunately, Sirrochon was already standing up to call them off as the rest of the hunting party drew in to see what the panic was about.

  “Peace, everyone. The undead is with our guest here. I believe it is harmless.”

  Marie rose and lifted an eyebrow. “Is something the matter? I was startled by Napoleon when we first met but is it… unusual… here?”

  Sirrochon was waving the hunters back to work, though a couple stayed. The cat-woman and hobbit remained, hands on weapons, though they took a step back.

  “It is a tad unusual, yes. The undead are more often sent back to their graves in pieces when found. Necromancy is not illegal, but it’s rather… necromancers are… well, let’s just say there are stories. I’m sure it will be fine though.” He turned to his companions with a wry smile. “It’s only a dog. It’s not like it’s a ghoul or a wight.” He turned back to Marie. “I didn’t realise you were a spellcaster.”

  “I - ah - I’m not.” She knew the words but to have someone use them as part of a casual conversation was odd to say the least. “I don’t know any… magic. I met Napoleon in the city I was speaking of. There were a lot of undead there - most of them tried to kill me before I escaped. Napoleon came with me and I got a Skill - [Rudimentary Authority (Lesser Undead)].”

  Sirrochon relaxed back with a smile and the cat-woman took her hand off her weapon and grabbed the flask from Sirrochon’s hip as the hobbit spoke.

  “Well that’s a relief I’m sure. Nothing to worry about if you have rudimentary control over an undead hound. How many more skellies you got chasing after you? We all gonna be slaughtered in our sleep?”

  Taking his flask back from the cat-woman and cuffing the hobbit on the back of the head, Sirrochon stepped in.

  “Apologies for my short friend here.” He ignored the raised finger from the smaller man. “The world can be a scary place when most of its inhabitants are big enough to eat you.”

  Any grumbling was cut off as the man pushed the flask on to the hobbit who accepted it with a wrinkled nose and downed what was left of it.

  “He didn’t seem to be afraid to me.” Marie said, trying to diffuse the tension. “He ran right up to the snapjaw - I’ve never seen anyone so fearless!”

  Flattery worked, and the hobbit handed back the now-empty flask and gave a courtly bow in her direction, though she couldn’t tell if he was mocking her.

  “A hazard I get paid for. All part of the job. Just make sure I don’t get a pile of bones and teeth sniffing at my crotch during the night. Or during the day.”

  Even with everything that had happened, it still wasn’t quite dusk, but Sirrochon called out and the handful of the hunters that were stood round watching the exchange began to peel off to set up a camp and fire.

  “I’m sure Marie will keep her pet under control, Quartz.” He turned to Marie. “Where are my manners. Marie - this is Quartz, the Spellsword’s [Lureweaver], and Dappled Shadow, or ‘Dap’, our [Bladesinger]. Leaping Mist - the other tabaxi - is the one supervising the hunters; I’ll introduce you later, but he’s a [Cutterwaul Fighter]. Spellswords, this is Marie - a [Scout] and [Ruins Delver].”

  Quartz nodded and Dap inclined her head a fraction.

  Deciding to get it out of the way, Marie pushed ahead with a question that had been brewing since she’d seen the group attack.

  “Delighted to meet you, and I hope you won’t find this rude, but where I come from, there are only… people like you and me.” She gestured at Sirrochon. “You say Dap and… Leaping Mist are tabaxi? Is that part-cat part-person? And Quartz are you… a hobbit?”

  The short man answered before the others could jump in.

  “No idea what a hobbit is, Miss. Tabaxi are cat-folk alright. I’m half-halfling, half-dwarf. Just call me Quartz.”

  “Or a Quarterling.” Sirrochon said with a grin.

  “Ok. Quartz. And Dap and Leaping Mist-”

  “Leam.”

  “-Dap and Leam are tabaxi. What about the hunters? They s-”

  Her question was cut off as a young woman - probably around Marie’s own age - approached the group and interrupted, eliciting a sigh from the leader.

  “Sirrochon, my father wishes to know why you have given the order to camp and not to press on to the next site. He’s grateful he can now add the snapjaw to his trophy list but he’s insisting we head to where the giant gulls have been spotted, and he’s aware that a night-time hunt would be preferable.”

  The leader of the Spellswords turned to answer.

  “I am aware of your father’s wishes, Fila, but circumstances have changed. First of all we have a lady here who has been wandering lost for weeks and it would be remiss of us not to escort her back to safety. Secondly, there won’t be room for anything else on the carts when we load up the snapjaw’s remains; that's far more valuable as a trophy and to sell than any giant gull. And thirdly, I’m hungry. Feel free to inform him of the circumstances and remind him that we agreed that I was in charge of the hunt. We’ll be camping here tonight and heading back at first light.”

  The lady sighed.

  “Would you mind coming and telling him yourself, Sir?”

  The [Verseblade] frowned.

  “I agreed to take you on as a probationary member, Fila. Your father’s money buys you a trial - not a guaranteed position. You should be trying to impress me. I noticed you didn’t take part in the snapjaw fight.”

  Two red circles grew on the young woman’s cheeks.

  “That was not my decision, Sir. Father kept me back, but I did contribute - I cast {Fleeting Footwork} on Leaping Mist, and {Arcane Ward} on Dappled Shadow.”

  The tabaxi nodded at the group’s leader. “She did, Sirro. I felt it.”

  “Favouritism.” Quartz grunted.

  The young woman pushed on.

  “I’d tell him myself but he won’t listen. He’ll just send me back and you’ll be having an argument by proxy all night. It’d be quicker for all of us if you put it to rest now.”

  Glancing at his companions, Sirrochon gave a sigh.

  “Very well. I’ll be back soon. Dap, Quartz. Make sure our guest is served first and spread the word that the dog is… not a threat.”

  The man went with the young woman, leaving Marie with the tabaxi and the halfling-dwarf.

  “So. Is there any way I can help?”

  —

  Marie’s offer to assist had immediately been interpreted as a willingness to help with the dinner preparations - something none of the others had any experience in, it seemed. Dappled Shadow and Quartz had pushed her off in the direction of a group of hunters setting up a large cauldron and told her to take charge.

  So she did.

  Taking one look at the meagre ingredients on offer, she’d retrieved her own stash and sent the other hunters out for more. Fortunately, one of the hunters was also a [Carver], and once she’d confirmed it was edible, she set him to work butchering one of the echodeer carcasses.

  It required a bit of improvisation, and some quick estimates of how much a party of thirty five or so would eat, but before the sun set she’d begun work on the largest boeuf bourguignon she’d ever attempted..not that she’d cooked a lot back home.

  Fortunately, there were enough bottles of wine to go round, even if they weren’t ones she would have chosen if she’d gone to a supermarket, and the surrounding countryside provided the rest.

  The stew was simmering away within the hour and it was only as she stood back and gave instructions to let it be that one of the hunters approached her for something other than cooking guidance.

  “Excuse me, Miss. Some of us heard you talking to the boss earlier and we were wond’rin’ - did you say you were in a big city off to the west?”

  Marie wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand. Even in the relatively cool evening air outdoors, slaving over a giant cauldron of food was hot work.

  “That’s right. Sorry - I don’t know your name.”

  “It’s Algar, Miss. And did you say it was overrun by the dead?”

  “It was. I barely escaped alive.”

  The hunter shuddered and turned around to his friend and began to speak in a rapid patter in a language she couldn’t follow. But one word stuck out and as the hunter she could see went pale and began to whisper to the others, she tapped Algar on the shoulder.

  “Hey - what’s ‘Forcastera’?”

  Algar shuddered as he turned to reply.

  “‘Tis an evil place, Miss. No one ventures near it. Not even adventurers - not ones that want to live. If you came from there, you must be a great [Scout] and [Ruins Delver].”

  Marie didn’t respond to that, but she stared in confusion as one of the younger hunters came over with a handful of flowers, and Algar took one and tucked it into his shirt, then gestured to her as if asking permission. She hesitated, then nodded as she saw all the hunters starting to wear them.

  He picked out a purple-petalled specimen that might have been a tulip had it not been for the strange flare to the leaves and slotted it into the neckline of her t-shirt. Then he paused and took a pair of golden buttercups and added them too.

  “Don’t hurt to be extra careful. We’ll make a garland for the dog too.” He glanced down to where Napoleon was curled up next to the fire. “Don’t take them off until they wilt.”

  Feeling her eyebrows drawing together, Marie put the whole thing down to local superstition and left it there.

  Before the hunters could decorate her with any more floral accoutrements, Sirrochon appeared with the rest of his group and waved them away.

  “Get back to work and stop bothering Miss Marie. She’s got better things to do than indulge whatever nonsense this is. Go on. Off with you.”

  The hunters retreated back to the work of carving up the snapjaw carcass into manageable chunks, removing bits to be kept as trophies or that had value to sell. Sirrochon and his Spellswords brought stools out from somewhere, including one for Marie, as he introduced her to Leaping Mist, or ‘Leam’ as they called him.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  “Sorry you had to put up with them Marie - they’re brought up without manners for the most part. Much like some others I could name.” He looked at Quartz, who was sneaking over to the cauldron with a spoon. Dappled Shadow smacked him away from it and he glared at both the tabaxi and the man in charge. “I’m afraid you’ve also got Lord Entoll wanting to meet with you, but I managed to get him to agree to wait ‘till after dinner, which smells lovely by the way. I just wanted to make sure you had somewhere comfortable to sit and weren’t in need of anything. I observed earlier that you had a few injuries that were healing - we have a few supplies that could help with that, or even a healing potion if you think you require one, though it’s not the best-tasting.”

  Dap and Leaping Mist looked askance at him at this statement, but Marie missed the exchange as her head tilted to one side to regard him.

  “Healing potion? As in - you drink it and it heals your wounds?”

  That brought the attention of all four of the group back to her.

  “Well of course it does - what else would you expect from something called a healing potion?”

  Leaping Mist kicked out at the halfling dwarf who dodged the swinging leg and pulled a face.

  “Not all wounds,” Sirro said, frowning at Quartz, “but most cuts and bruises and burns and lacerations. Speeds up the healing no end.”

  “And you have these?”

  “A handful.” Dap interjected. “They’re expensive but no adventuring team wants to go without.”

  “Oh. In that case, please do not waste one on me. My injuries are healing on their own. Two weeks ago I would have taken your offer though.”

  “Was it that bad - the place you came from?”

  It took until the bourguignon was ready for her to tell of the city of the dead - Forcastera - and her path through the wilderness since then. Sirrochon was the perfect audience, giving her his undivided attention and gasping in all the right places. Dap and Leam seemed caught up in the tale despite the air of nonchalance they attempted to give off, and Quartz, for all he scoffed at parts he didn’t believe, nevertheless paid attention enough to interject with his disbelief.

  The only part she left out was when she’d found the treasure chest. Sirrochon and his Spellswords came across as pleasant, but she wasn’t stupid.

  Still, the [Verseblade] and his companions seemed impressed at her story.

  “Such an ordeal; it is a wonder you managed to survive. I’d not believe half of it if my [Outboast] wasn’t so silent, even given the allagi's superstitions. I don’t suppose you’d mind terribly if these dunderheads and I put some of it to song? We’re adventurers first but we all began our journey in [Bard]-like classes.”

  Marie was momentarily taken aback.

  “What? Well, no, I wouldn’t mind. If you wanted to…”

  Over the course of a leisurely dinner, Sirro gently teased out the details of her experiences, with the occasional interjection from the others. Quartz, for all his surliness, seemed to have the quickest wit, and provided the majority of the rhymes as Sirro came up with the lyrics of ‘The Song of the [Scout]’ and the two tabaxi began hashing out a rough tune, calling over the only allagi that wasn’t a hunter - a boy they’d hired as a [Musician] - to set it to music.

  Marie’s cheeks grew increasingly red, and not just from the heat of the cauldron as she spooned out the meat stew to the rest of the hunting party.

  The only respite she got from the attention of the songwriters was when they sat down and ate. Then there was silence apart from the slurping of gravy and the chewing of meat.

  Quartz - sat down by Napoleon who he appeared to have lost all fear of as he scratched its bony head - was the first to finish.

  “Ok. I say we let her stay.”

  “Seconded.”

  “Agreed.”

  Marie looked at the tabaxi and the halfling-dwarf.

  “Er, merci?”

  Sirrochon waved their comments away.

  “Ignore them. We’d not have left you here, and I want you to remember that we’ve committed ourselves to escorting you back to town when you go to meet Lord Entoll.”

  “Quoi?”

  “Lord Entoll? The man who’s funding this little hunting expedition? It’s all a vanity trip for him - he needs some new trophies to hang in his drawing room. Or maybe his bedroom so he can get hard.” Sirro paused as Leam snorted gravy out of his nose. “He hired the Spellswords to provide protection for him and his cronies whilst we bag some big game.”

  “And the hunters?”

  “They’re good for most things smaller than the snapjaw,” Quartz said, nodding over at the remains of the crocodilian beast, “and manual labour. We see to the rest.”

  “And train up his daughter.” Dappled Shadow said as she rolled her eyes at Leam.

  “Exactly. He’s pulling the strings, but standard practice is that adventurers call the shots in the field - a fact that I had to remind him of. He’s going to kick up a fuss when we return to Wayfarrow but I made the decision that we turn back in the morning.”

  “I’m sorry - I didn’t mean to cause any problems.”

  “Nothing to do with you, Miss Marie. There’s only so much we can take back with us, and not much is going to top a snapjaw as a prize. Nothing worth taking the time looking for at least. Worth a pretty penny when we get it to the guild to sell its meat and hide and the rest - even after old Entoll takes his trophy.”

  “Oh - ok then.”

  “Anyway, I made the decisions regarding the excursion, but Entoll is still a Lord, and he wants to speak with you. If he blames you for anything, you should tell him he can go swivel - but probably in politer terms. I can get away with a little - reputable Silver teams like the Spellswords have some leverage and it’s not like Wayfarrow is some great city - but if you’re a [Scout] on your own and want to settle in town for a while, well, he could probably make things unpleasant.”

  Marie must have shown some of the trepidation she was feeling on her face because he continued.

  “We’ll look out for you though, whilst we’re around.”

  He gestured over to the side and saw the young woman from earlier had returned - Lord Entoll’s daughter. How long she’d been standing there Marie didn’t know, but the woman didn’t appear to be bothered by anything she’d overheard.

  Indeed, as she led Marie off, the woman turned to her with a murmur.

  “I don’t disagree with them, you know. Father can be vindictive when he wants to be. He’s not a terrible man at heart, but he can be petty.” She held out a hand. “I’m Fila.”

  “Marie.” She shook the proffered hand.

  “He was quite taken with dinner by the way. He’s been complaining about ‘expedition rations’ ever since we left. I let him know you made it and he’s calmed down about the whole turning back idea a bit. I think you’ll be ok.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Happy to help. I’m really just trying to learn something of what it means to be an adventurer. Father doesn’t approve much but he doesn’t really refuse me anything.”

  Marie thought back to her own father. A tough but fair man. Never petty though. Not that she’d ever seen. Certainly not wealthy enough to afford to pay for a vanity expedition and private tuition for his daughter. Though she wouldn’t have asked for it….

  “Even so, I appreciate it.”

  Fila inclined her head and held back the flap of the tent they’d come to.

  The sun had set but there was light enough to see by from the stars and the campfire, particularly with her [Twilight Vision], even with the tent coloured black. It was a dozen feet tall and twenty wide, but as she went in she experienced a moment of vertigo and had to throw a hand out to Fila’s arm to stabilise herself as her [Gauge Distance] Skill and brain warred with each other momentarily.

  Inside, the tent was three times as large as it had appeared outside.

  Mon dieu. There’s a second floor in here!

  An impossible, luxurious dwelling space stretched out longer and wider than her house back in Dijon.

  As her sense of position returned, she found herself being escorted to a table in the middle, where three older men were enjoying what smelled like port as an allagi woman cleared up the remains of dinner.

  “Ah. At last. The mysterious woman who’s cut short our little trip.” The man she recognised from spearing the already-dying snapjaw patted a seat - a fully upholstered, green velvet seat. “Come and join us. I was tempted to leave you standing outside a while but that stew was simply divine and I am not an unreasonable man.”

  For a moment she hesitated, and eyed the slender, middle-aged man with dark, combed-back hair and a suit that probably cost more than poorer peoples’ houses. But there was port, and Sirro had warned her of offending him.

  So she sat.

  “Excellent. Tell me, are you a [Cook], or perhaps a [Chef]?”

  “No, Sir.” Marie replied as Fila poured her a glass of port and pulled up her own chair to the table.

  “Could have fooled me! What exactly are you doing wandering round these wildlands? My friends here,” he gestured to the two other men with him who raised the glasses, “and I are somewhat influential in these parts, and we weren’t aware of any reason for travellers to be in the region. I heard you claim to be a [Scout]. Not from the south I hope.”

  He peered at her with an oddly penetrating gaze, and out of the corner of her eye she saw Fila stiffen. She decided to play it safe.

  “No Sir. I’m afraid I’m from rather far away. Something happened - I got lost, and I found myself west of here. A particularly unpleasant place.”

  Lord Entoll turned to one of his companions. An even older man with greying hair and something of a paunch.

  “She’s telling the truth. And she has no items of consequence on her that I can detect.”

  One the lord’s eyebrows raised, but he turned back to her and continued what was either questions or an interrogation.

  “Bad area, from what I hear. Lots of undead. You a [Necromancer], girl?”

  “No Sir.”

  “Not an [Illusionist], or an [Enchanter], or something of that ilk?”

  “No Sir. A [Scout] and a [Ruins Delver].”

  “And the undead dog I heard tell of?”

  “A Skill, Sir.”

  Once again the lord turned to his older friend who shrugged and nodded.

  “Hmpf. Just as well. Can’t be having even more undesirables around here than we already do.”

  Despite the situation, she couldn’t help herself.

  “Undesirables, Sir?”

  “Yes. Undesirables. [Necromancers] summoning hordes of the undead-”

  “[Illusionists] causing mischief-”

  “[Enchanters] messing about with people’s minds-”

  “-on top of the droves of allagi we have to put up with.”

  He and his friends spoke in such synch that she could tell it was a regular litany of contempt in their social circle. She felt a heat coming to her cheeks as she watched the allagi woman clearing up their dinner, invisible to them for all the attention they gave her. Was it a social class thing? She gave a start as she realised they were all looking at her.

  “I see.”

  Another of the three men, about the same age as lord Entoll but with a tinge of red to his hair and beard, narrowed his eyes at her.

  “Not one of those allagi sympathisers are you?”

  She gave as non-committal an answer as she could.

  “I don’t have any experience with any of the types of people you mentioned, Sir. Where I come from there are only humans like myself.”

  That seemed to satisfy the man, and Lord Entoll cut back in.

  “I say, good for your lot, wherever you’re from. Would that we could manage that here.”

  Before Marie could cut in with an angry retort, he continued on a completely different tangent.

  “Tell me, did you meet my daughter Fila? She’s under contract with Sirrochon’s Spellswords, you know. On the path to making a name for herself. Quite the achievement for one so young, don’t you think.”

  “Daddy, please. I’m just on a trial run.”

  Lord Entoll ignored his daughter’s protest.

  “Quite a good fit if I do say so myself. Of course, they’ve got a few years on her, but she’ll soon be silver ranked and I’m sure within a few years they’ll be known as Fila’s Spellswords.

  “Oh wouldn’t that be something.” The older man said. “Quite a feather in your cap - maybe even call them ‘Entoll’s Spellswords. Wouldn’t have to put up with uppity [Bards] causing a fuss if you’ve got your very own… what’s your class again my dear?”

  The older man looked at Fila over the top of a pair of spectacles and Marie was reminded of the state of her own - left in their case in her camp after her earlier attempt at lockpicking.

  “[Arcane Songstress], Uncle Harvin.” Came the mumbled reply.

  “A fine class.” The red-headed lord leaned towards her and lifted his glass in a toast. “But how far have you progressed? Those Spellswords may be rated Silver but I’ll wager they’re not much advanced beyond level twenty, and they’re not kitted out much to my eyes; it’s the way they work together that got them the ranking I’ll bet. A strong enough hand could take control if they were a high Bronze.”

  Marie could almost see Fila suppressing the sigh.

  “I’m only level fifteen, Lord Folsley. Father bought me some equipment, but I still have a lot to learn.”

  “Nonsense darling.” Lord Entoll interrupted. “A couple more levels, like Bayrun says, and then we’ll see about your taking charge.”

  The agreement Fila gave wasn’t worth the breath it took, but it seemed only Marie could see that. What she couldn’t work out was if the nobles’ lack of awareness was due to too much port or too much privilege.

  Seeking to deflect attention from the poor girl, Marie spoke up.

  “Excuse me Sirs, but is it at level twenty that adventurers become ranked as Silver?”

  The fiery Lord Folsley looked over as if surprised she was still here.

  “What? Oh. Yes, usually. So long as they’re half-way competent and have the gear to back it up. I must say though, that does bear thinking about Entoll - worth checking if the guild has verified that Sirrochon’s competencies when we return: I wasn’t overly impressed by his handling of this whole thing.”

  “Yes, you might be onto something there, Bayrun. Let’s break open a bottle of the Cervingian and come up with some points to discuss with the guildmaster. Then - oh, Fila, take the girl back. We’re done with her.”

  And that was how she was dismissed, without even being looked at. If it hadn’t been for Sirrochon’s warni-

  “Excuse me, Sirs. Perhaps you’d like to actually address moi, and have la décence to use my name.”

  It wasn’t just their words; it was their tone.

  The room went silent, and three heads swung round to regard her with widening eyes.

  Five heads actually. Fila and the allagi serving woman both stared at her with open mouths.

  Lord Folsley blinked.

  “I’m sorry, w-”

  “I should hope so.” She steamed. “If I wanted to be spoken to in such a manner I’d have taught pigs to talk.”

  “Now see here.” Lord Entoll spluttered, spitting as his face turned red. “I’ll have you know I’m a fucking [Lord], and [Councillor] to boot. I-”

  “I don’t care if you’re the putain [King]. None of that gives you the right to speak to me like that.”

  Lord Folsley stood as his voice grew dangerously quiet, and Fila’s ‘Uncle Harvin’ sat in mute shock.

  “You mouthy bitch. How dare you.”

  “See - it’s not nice being talked down to, is it you arrogant connard.”

  “I don’t think you realise how much trouble you’re in now, girl. I’d get down on my knees and apologise if I were you.”

  “My. Name. Is. Marie.”

  “And mine is Tilsten Entoll, Lord of-”

  “Lord what? Lord of poking already-dying animals for a trophy kill. Let me quake in my boots.”

  “-Lord of Wayfarrow. I think you’ll see just what that means when we return. Send for Sirrochon and have her restrained.”

  “You just try it and you’ll see my Classes and Skills.”

  Before the situation could devolve further, Fila practically tackled Marie out of the tent, calling back to her father that she’d have the situation seen to, but not before Marie had palmed the rest of the bottle of port.

  “Forests of the Fallen. That was incredible. I’ve not seen anyone stand up to father like that. Not since Lord Rewall. And never someone who wasn’t a [Noble] of some sort. He’s fuming!”

  Marie was incandescent with rage herself.

  “What gives the jumped up, arrogant bastard the right? As if he is better than me because of his birth! Back in the revolution; we’d have had his head in the guillotine first.” Even in her fit of pique, something Fila said filtered through. “What happened to Lord Rewall?”

  The lord’s daughter shrugged as the gleaming white bundle of bones that was Napoleon came scampering out of the darkness as if he could sense his master’s distress.

  “No idea. He was never seen after.” She paused as Marie’s wrathful face fell slack. “Not that anything will happen to you! I mean - well. Maybe I’d better go back and make sure he doesn’t do anything rash. Just… get some rest and lie low for a while. I’ll find you in the morning and let you know.”

  Marie watched as she rushed back towards the tent where her father and his friends were still audibly upset at her outburst.

  Well, they should have thought of that before they decided to be so rude.

  She turned to stalk off back to the fire and complain to Sirrochon and his friends when she realised she had an audience; half a dozen of the allagi [Hunters] were standing almost in a semicircle around her. Five of them immediately bowed to her and left, but one stayed behind, and approached cautiously.

  “Miss Marie, I hope it is ok for me to talk to you.”

  Seeing his hesitancy, all the anger drained out of her. That wasn’t unusual - her mother had occasionally had cause to criticise her for having une mèche courte. She took a deep breath to calm herself and soothe her voice.

  “Of course. I am sorry - I do not know your name. What can I do for you?”

  “My name is Ulfran. I didn’ want to bother you - I just wanted to thank you for savin’ my life.”

  It was only then that Marie recognised the person she’d pulled out of the way of the snapjaw’s bite.

  “Oh - sorry about that. The intestines I mean. I didn’t have anything else to hand.”

  He bowed once more.

  “I owe you a debt that’ll be hard to repay. I got no complaint. I just brought you this, and one for your dog.”

  He held out two garlands of flowers, and Marie took them graciously. It seemed all the hunters were wearing them as some sort of ward against evil. She donned one and draped the other over Napoleon’s head. His skull cocked to the side, as if in confusion, but he seemed to understand not to scratch it.

  “I’m just glad I could help. Were there… many? That didn’t make it?”

  A cloud of sorrow passed over the allagi's face.

  “Four. Three to the snapjaw and one to the echodeer. We’re not as high-level as the Spellswords. Only a couple of us have hit level fifteen or more, and only in [Hunter] - not some fancy adventuring class. We’re all Bronze rated - and some of us not even that.”

  He said it with a faint flush to his cheeks. She didn’t want to say anything but it did seem to be quite a low level given that they must have grown up in this world. She’d made that in a few weeks.

  “Oh - are you all adventurers too?”

  “For what it’s worth, yes, though we try to stick together in numbers - for safety. We don’t get many big jobs. Mostly food-related.”

  “Can I ask - were the healing potions not able to help your fellow [Hunters]? Sirrochon said they could cure even bad wounds.”

  A despondent, wry smile crossed his face.

  “Who would waste a healing potion on an allagi?”

  “Sirrochon wouldn’t?”

  The man shook his head.

  “We only have what we bring with us, and potions are expensive. We have a few in the community - and many more salves and pastes - but we didn't think this expedition would be so brutal and we left most at home.” He sighed. “We will learn for next time, maybe. Anyway, I just wanted to give my thanks. The wreath will ward off the bad spirits that haunt Forcastera. You must wear them until the flowers wilt.”

  She realised the ones from earlier must have fallen out sometime when she was making dinner or meeting the ‘nobility’.

  He waited for her to signal her understanding, then made his goodbye. She touched a hand to one of the silk-soft leaves in the garland. Surely spirits weren’t able to get to her this far away. And even if they could, what good would flowers do? For a moment she remembered some of the things she’d seen in the city and shuddered. She’d keep it on - just in case.

  Regarding one of the campfires, she examined the figures sitting round it. Sirrochon and his three Spellsword friends. They’d broken out some drinks and - what, cigarettes? And she had half a bottle of port.

  But she thought to what Ulfran had said, and frowned, and instead set off up the slope of the hill to her tent, to drink and sleep alone.

  [Scout Level 16!]

  [Skill – Evasive Roll gained!]

  Hi all! Welcome to my book, Miscast Heroes.

  I'm uploading a few chapters to start with and then will upload one a day after.

  The full first book is available on Patreon - and I greatly appreciate anyone who chooses to support me there.

  Hope you enjoy it - please leave comments below!