Unfortunately, the mosher picked precisely that moment to careen into Reks. And this was a bad one—high speed, lowered shoulder, and directly into the artist’s back.

  Reks went flying. He bounced off a big woman’s rear and flopped to the dirt.

  “Oh, F that!” complained Stang, holding a hand toward his prospective artist, lying smeared in the mud.

  The big woman turned around to slap Reks, but paused upon finding him lying in the dirt. Then, she shrugged, evidently satisfied with this outcome.

  The artist climbed woozily to his feet, shaking his head blearily and clutching his left wrist. “WTF,” he grumbled, scanning his surroundings with scrunched-up eyes. “That was my drawing wrist, you jelly donut!” he yelled at the mosher.

  The oversized manchild made no reply, but he did come veering in Reks’ general direction a moment later.

  This time, Reks neatly avoided the onrush, then thrust his open palm into the nape of the mosher’s neck, sending him stumbling away.

  Unfortunately, he only stumbled two steps, then turned and glared directly at the artist.

  “Man. Takes mad cojonads to do that at 115 pounds,” Stang marveled, staring at Reks. “Here, just a sec.” He ambled toward the artist.

  “What the F, Bro?” shouted the mosher. “You attacked me? This turd in a turtleneck attacked me! We’re all having fun here, and you attacked me?”

  Reks made some reply, but it was drowned out by the mosher, who now was howling, “I’m bigger than you! I’m bigger than you!” He was stepping menacingly toward the artist, who had backed away a few steps and raised his remaining good hand.

  “You dish it out, Little Man. Can you take it? Huh? Huh?” Curling his lips and grinning, the mosher faced Reks for a moment. Then, he charged.

  Gritting his teeth, Reks made as though to dodge.

  This didn’t prove necessary. As the mosher rushed forward, Stang swung out his giant forearm, clotheslining the big-but-not-giant mosher. His head and neck halted in place, while his ample gut and spindly legs continued onward.

  A second later, the mosher was lying on his back and clutching at his throat, wheezing out choking noises.

  Proto approached, glancing with wide eyes between the downed man and the guard.

  “Don’t worry about him,” Stang absently assured Proto, waving toward the mosher. “Collapsed windpipe. Usually resolves itself in ten, twenty seconds.” He turned to Reks. “Hey man, how’s that wrist doing?”

  “Still hurts,” grimaced Reks. “But it might just be the carpal tunnels. Never mix Guitar Hero, an eight-hour raid, and speed-sketching, I’ll tell you what.”

  “Well, I have a job for you, if you’re up for it,” said Stang. “Art job.”

  “What? Shit, I have ibuprofen. Go on.” Reks glanced excitedly at Proto.

  “I should say first, it’s a bloody business,” the guard noted. “Competition’s cutthroat. Blood’s what sells. ‘Blade and blood, pain and bane.’ That’s our motto. I came up with it. You still feel up for this?”

  “Oh, you’ve found the right guy,” Reks reassured him. “You have no idea how right a guy you’ve found.”

  “My man,” marveled Stang.

  Meanwhile, on the floor, the mosher had started heaving breaths in and hacking coughs out.

  “Ah, yep, there’s the coughing. Should start spitting right about . . . now.” Stang snapped his fingers.

  On cue, the mosher started hocking out bloody loogies.

  The guard nodded with a craftsman’s satisfaction. “Anyway, here’s what I need done.”

  As Stang explained his brother’s online shirt-selling business to Reks, Proto couldn’t help but recall that the dream version of Reks—the barbarian warrior—had looked a bit like Stang. He’d mostly had the artist’s face, but with the bigger man’s body.

  “That sounds straightforward enough. Basically, just draw what I already draw, but for pay,” Reks observed, eliciting an admiring fistbump from the huge guard.

  “But . . . you mind texting me the job description? And your name?” the artist asked. “Not that I forget these things usually. But I’m sort of seeing double right now. And forgetting band names. And I have a feeling I won’t remember any of you tomorrow.”

  “Happens to us all,” the guard commiserated with a knowing nod. “They say you should stop headbanging for a week, but.” He shrugged.

  “Meh,” Reks shrugged back.

  “Meh,” concurred Stang. “Well, this is good. I knew it at first sight, my man. I said to myself, ‘This is an artist. This is my artist.’”

  “Is it that obvious?” frowned Reks, glancing over at Helen.

  The blonde GSI nodded twice in wincing sympathy. “Humanities. Disappointed hopes.” She pointed back-and-forth between her eyes and his.

  “Well, not anymore,” declared Reks, then tilted back his horned head and bellowed, “I am the least disappointed guy here!”

  He calmly turned to Proto. “I owe you, man. You know I was about to drop out of art school? Pursue some reliable, productive, socially acceptable career? Join the evil corporate empire? Not a chance now, thanks to you!”

  Proto laughed uncomfortably. He knew all too well where Reks’ art career would stand a couple years from now. “Be sure to save some of that money, huh?”

  “Yep, thanks Mom!” Reks gibed. “Just gonna buy myself a good dinner. And a greatsword. I’ve always wanted a greatsword.”

  “Hey, she has a greatsword. Believe it or not,” called Aston, thumbing toward Shirley. They were returning now that the mosher was gone.

  “Aston!” Shirley leaned in and muttered, “Remember our talk about turning over a new leaf!”

  “Of course!” Aston cheerfully replied. He looked like a man at the end of his rope. “You wouldn’t believe it”—he leaned in close and spoke conspiratorially to Proto, Black, Helen, Himari, Reks, Stang, and everyone else in the vicinity—“but this girl was a real hit at cosplay conventions, her and that greatsword.”

  “Aston!” she protested, reddening and eying the others. She forced a smile and smoothed her hair. “We’ve, ah, known each other a long time, you see.”

  “Sure have,” nodded Aston. “By the way, did you still want those VIP passes for tomorrow’s convention?”

  “Aston!” she objected, scanning the onlookers with wide eyes.

  “That’s awesome,” Stang said to her. “I have a glaive. Can you bring weapons to the convention?”

  “ . . . sure, if it’s not metal,” Shirley muttered blushingly.

  “Aw.” The guard snapped his fingers.

  “They don’t even bother checking me!” noted Himari. “Find a girl my size and have her bring it in.”

  “You know, you’re right.” The huge guard regarded the little GSI with wonder. “I don’t check their bags! I’ve gotta watch out for that.”

  “Yep yep! By the way, Fellow Intern. Miss Cosplay Sensation!” Himari faced Shirley. “How did I not know this about you?!”

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  “I might’ve failed to talk about it,” mumbled Shirley, still pink of cheek.

  “Welp, time to fix that!” declared the black-haired GSI.

  Proto’s head was whirling. He felt like all the events around him had two meanings—an obvious one and a subtle one—and he had to keep track of both, while everyone else could just observe the obvious.

  Is this where someone gives me a VIP pass? Is this how I get Red to go to the cosplay convention early, using a VIP pass, so Ausrine has to get a ride with Mannus instead?

  That, alas, wasn’t what happened. No one gave Proto a VIP pass. Instead, everyone just asked questions about Shirley’s costumes, until she finally opened Instagram and started scrolling through. The others oohed and ahhed, and she flushed happily.

  Shirley was actually pretty nice, now that she wasn’t acting embarrassed to share the world with those around her. Now, her only embarrassment was at revealing each costume, while smiling red-faced up at Aston from time to time.

  Meanwhile, random concertgoers were slapping Stang’s back and thanking him for the work he’d made of the mosher. Some paid him tips—mostly in dollars, but also a few pounds and one bra.

  Stang tsked absently, observing the mosher, who was lying on his belly and shaking his head woozily. “Not enough of us to deal with these things. Gotta get more bodies on site.”

  “Well, we’ve sure got a body here,” muttered Himari. “Sheesh!”

  “Which one?” asked Helen. “The man lying prostrate? Or the one whose shirt is covered in bloody men lying prostrate?”

  “Pick one!” replied Himari.

  “Or both, maybe?” suggested the blonde GSI. “After all, why not? Why shouldn’t I?” she finished in an old-Bilbo-Baggins voice.

  “Helen, that’s just creepy,” noted Himari.

  “So, Guildmate, I have good news and bad news,” Reks said to Aston. “The good news is, I can afford rent this month, without babysitting my landlord’s children. The bad news is, I’ll be busy with art for a few weeks, so I won’t be raiding, except on my days off. Thursraid through Sunraid, in other words.”

  “You break my heart, Reks,” replied the man in seersucker shorts. “But I’m glad for you.”

  “Wait, that means no Monraid, Tuesraid and Wednesraid?” Shirley faced Aston excitedly. “You should take those days off from work too. We should do things, since I’m leaving on Thursday.”

  “Sure. Where should we go?” asked Aston.

  “Oh, we don’t need to go anywhere. But you’ll enjoy it, I promise,” she assured him. “Just promise me you won’t wear a ripped T-shirt or tracksuit.”

  “That can be arranged,” nodded the man in a Prince of Wales button-up.

  Proto sighed, and Black patted him on the back.

  “In fact,” mused Shirley, “why don’t we go get a start right now?”

  Aston blinked. “Um. You want to leave early?”

  “Nope, I don’t think that’s necessary!” she replied lackadaisically. “We’ll figure something out.” Seizing his hand, she led a happy Aston away, soon disappearing into a nook behind the concession stands.

  Helen sighed to Himari. “I feel like a playwright. All I do is dream of happy endings and watch other people get them!”

  “A playwright? Or an underpaid masseuse?” asked the black-haired GSI.

  “You’re not helping, Himari!” cried Helen.

  “Hey, can I buy you a drink?” offered Stang.

  Helen blinked twice.

  Then, she batted her lashes twice. “For . . . me?”

  Himari leaned toward Proto and whispered, “It’s cause she’s tall! They get all the breaks, huh?”

  “Sure, for you,” confirmed Stang. He pointed at Helen’s tanktop, showing Hamlet holding Yorick’s skull. “I like your shirt, by the way. It’s so real. Stark.”

  “Oh, that must be why he’s staring at her shirt!” Himari whispered to Proto, rolling her eyes. “Cough, 5318008, cough!”

  “I agree.” Reks was admiring the shirt too. He took a sketchpad from his pocket and started scribbling a picture.

  “Well.” Helen batted her lashes every which way, as Stang looked at her. “Your shirt’s very nice too. All those . . . bodies!”

  “Actually, I helped design it.” The guard patted his T-shirt proudly. “You like it?”

  “It’s . . . incarnadine! I mean divine,” declared the blonde GSI. “Is that a scene from Macbeth?’

  Stang’s face lit up. “That’s the king-killing one, right?”

  Proto knew that face. He’d worn it whenever Dahlia referenced a book and, by some freak chance, he’d read it.

  Helen beamed, leaning down to Himari. “A scholar, and he’s taller than me!” she murmured eagerly.

  “You see? This is what you miss with online dating!” whispered Himari.

  “It was a phase we had to go through!” replied Helen. “A journey we had to make, before arriving at our destination—home again!”

  “Home in the arms of . . . who? Do you even know his name?” asked Himari.

  “No,” shrugged Helen. “But it’s a big home! Also, it’s whom.”

  “So, uh. You want that drink?” asked Stang, as the two GSIs whisper-whispered.

  “Yes!” Helen stood up straight. “How about mezcal? Do they have mezcal? If not, red wine is fine. Cheap is fine, I’ll take quality or quantity. Here as in all things.” She smiled sweetly.

  “I don’t think they have those,” noted the guard. “We did wine once. It didn’t end well.”

  “Well, why don’t you try something better? It’s called Death Lake.” Glen had wandered up, his large whisky flask in one hand and a giant circle of sugary dough in the other. He was speaking in his presenter voice. “Or have an elephant ear! Head-to-tail dining is all the rage, isn’t it? It’s only responsible. If we’re using the tusks, why not the rest?”

  “Careful, he’ll charge you for that,” said Black.

  “Man, are you really drinking that right in front of me?” frowned the huge guard, eying a nearby NO OUTSIDE DRINKS ALLOWED sign.

  “No worries, I brought enough for us all,” assured Glen, holding the flask out.

  Helen leaned forward and sniffed, then recoiled. “Are you trying to kill me?” She turned to Himari. “He tried to kill me! ‘Our poisoned chalice to our own lips,’ indeed!”

  “It is called Death Lake,” shrugged Glen, taking a swig. “But I’m still standing. Somewhat.”

  “Heavens, I’m a lass in her early twenties. Not Falstaff!” cried Helen.

  “I’m afraid we’re mid-twenties now, Helen,” sighed Himari sadly.

  “Whatever!” waved the blonde GSI. “Just get me something sweet and smooth that I’ll regret tomorrow!”

  “That, I can do,” said Stang.

  “A Don Juan of drinks, if you will,” Helen went on. “If I can’t have fine taste, and I must be insipid, I’ll be happily insipid! Here as in all things.”

  “As long as it’s not Don Quixote,” muttered Himari. “Stupid Dimitri.”

  “I have a question.” Helen entwined her arm around Stang’s huge bicep. “How much can you . . . bench?” She turned to Himari. “Is that how you ask it? I’m not sure what benching is.”

  Himari shrugged helplessly.

  “I don’t know,” answered Stang. “The gym doesn’t have enough weights.”

  “Ooh!” Helen beamed at him, then at Himari. “Ooh!” She faced Stang again and patted his huge bicep. “Tell me more about this.”

  Himari stood on her tippy-toes and leaned toward Helen. “What about marrying into money!” she whispered.

  Helen waved nonchalantly. “Why do today what I can do tomorrow? And miss what I can do today!”

  “That saying is about whats, not whos, Helen!” protested Himari.

  “Oh, what the what, Himari,” dismissed Helen, then turned to Stang. “So, that drink! Do they have Dirty Shirleys here?”

  “I’ll say,” muttered Black, eying that nook behind the concession stands.

  “Eh, they can make anything dirty here,” answered Stang.

  “Ooh!” Helen looked excitedly at Himari, then back at the guard. “Shall we?” They strolled away together.

  Himari sighed wistfully, watching her go. “Oh, Helen. I’ll be here for you tomorrow. We’ll eat cupcakes and watch Love Actually.”

  Proto had kept studiously quiet while Helen was around, since he’d be visiting her dream in the future. She hadn’t remembered him clearly the first time, and he didn’t want to change that.

  As for Reks, Proto likewise had been concerned that the artist would remember him. But it seemed like Reks’ head trauma was going to solve that problem. He also was busy doodling what looked like Helen in scale mail with a greatsword.

  Himari, in contrast, was not someone whose dream Proto would be visiting. It was easy to forget that she hadn’t really been present in Helen’s dream. Same with Stang and Shirley, who had been characters in Fyrir’s dream, but not really there.

  In short, everyone whose dream Proto would be visiting was either gone or concussed. This meant that, finally, he could talk again!

  “If all your dates are this exciting,” mused Black, “I’ve been missing out these last eight years.” Studied nonchalance was on her face, and she was watching the mellow indie band, but her lips were curved up.

  Proto felt a little giddy. “It takes two,” he managed.

  Black eyed him sidelong. Life shone in her hazel gaze. She opened her mouth to speak, but didn’t get the chance.

  “Welp!” Himari lamented. “My fellow intern is off canoodling with Mister Insurance VP. My best friend is off to play 5318008 Things I Like About You with some big strong body. And me? I’m all alone!”

  She faced the world. “You hear that, world? You’ve got me all alone now! Here I am, little Himari, all by my lonesome, at this great big concert! Helpless! Vulnerable! Mildly buzzed! Nothing I could do if some big strong body were to sweep me off my feet!”

  “Good luck finding one,” consoled Black, wrapping an arm around Proto.

  Proto frowned. “Did you have to phrase it that way?”

  “Good luck? Alas, as a math major, I know there’s no good luck,” Himari replied to Black. “On the other hand, I also know even the most improbable events will occur, if given enough chances to do so.” She faced the crowd again. “Here I am, ready and willing! Multi-talented! Mid-twenties!”

  Then, she turned back to Black. “Plenty of fish in the sea. Plenty of bodies to go around!”

  Unlike at Somnus’ Palace, mused Proto wistfully, recalling that final choice he’d have to make on his Evaluation Day.

  “Don’t worry, I’m sure somebody nice will body forth soon enough,” he assured Himari.

  “Hmph! I sure hope so!” Himari retorted. “Helen’s leaving with a big strong body, Mercune’s leaving for Dubai, Shirley’s leaving with a body and then leaving for Dubai—and here I am, stuck right here with no body! Or at best half a body.” She waved at herself. “Loli-body!”

  “I’ll miss them though,” she rambled on. “Mercune is so fun. So quick! Though there’s nothing she loves more than when someone’s quicker than her! Which I’m not, unfortunately, except when we’re doing advanced math.”

  Himari jabbered on, but Proto didn’t hear it. His mind was full of echoes of what she’d just said: “There’s nothing she loves more than when someone’s quicker than her.”

  Was this new fact important for his visit to Mercune’s dream? Was this what all of today’s preposterous events had been driving toward?

  It sure didn’t seem like much. It reminded him of when he’d spent days in Zelda wandering the world, braving death and monstrous peril, only to be rewarded with a few milk bottles.

  But that’s how things tend to go, when you’re chasing where your heart leads, rather than striving for some definite goal. You go to lots of random places. You end up somewhere equally random. And it’s only later that you understand why it’s exactly where you needed to be—that the elusive Something you’d been seeking was always there, waiting for you.

  Something? Or Someone? A pair of red-and-purple wings fluttered in Proto’s recollection.