In the High Duchy of Waynesford, the good folk held an attitude of cautious optimism. It had been nearly a week and a half since the last apocalypse, Götterdämmerung, ascension, or other potentially world-ending event. It was downright tranquil. Perhaps they could at last move out of the cellars and churches and get back into the fields or otherwise return to work.
A sign painted in robin-egg-blue letters, gilted about the edges, hung in front of a clean-looking store with appealing displays of all manner of unusual gewgaws and knickknacks, many of which were glowing, hovering, or emitting a barely-heard droning. The forementioned sign read "Earl Koenig's Beast-hunting & Convenience." A smaller sign underneath added helpfully, "Now Under New Management!" It should be noted that Earl was the name of the previous owner, and not in fact any form of title.
Within, a prodigiously-moustached knight chatted happily with the proprieter about his splendid new giant peafowl mount, which was in fact tethered out front, flaring its tail periodically in a way that confounded nearby traffic.
Concluding his business, the affable man left with a packful of new supplies, vaulted onto his mount, and rode off cheerfully as pedestrians, riders, and carts all desperately maneuvered to avoid his charge. For the most part, they succeeded.
The New Management placed each coin meticulously within a safebox while turning to give a nearby clerk direction for various recent acquisitions from his departed customer. A moment later, the front door slammed open. Bells jangled loudly, and the well-dressed store brute and clerk both startled. A very irate boy with well-tanned skin and armor perhaps made from some kind of red ceramic strode in, clearly with a headful of steam.
The manager smoothly faced him, taking on a demeanor of courteous interest while revealing a patch over his left eye. He liked this patch a lot. Its color scheme was a precise match for the store sign. It also had its intended effect on a particularly difficult customer. For a change, Surret was speechless.
---
Secluded in a private room, the pair spoke tersely over cups of spiced and heated apple juice.
"What did you do to Munin?!" the youth demanded.
"I made a Deal with him, per your instruction," Faustian replied. "Nothing else.
"What were your terms?" the young hero continued. "He won't show when I call him."
"I'm afraid there's little I can say to give you satisfaction," the merchant apologized. "In your situation, I wouldn't trust anything a bargainer told me."
Surret glared at the one-eyed spirit. Finally, he growled out, "Three trades, and I'll be on my way."
The spirit leaned forward. "I will tell you truly of my last dealings with your spirit guide, if you will plead forgiveness from my employees, whom you startled with your brusque entrance."
The youth said, "Before we go any further, I want it to be clear that I do not agree to any terms with you until I say 'Accepted.' Not including just now."
Faustian nodded. "Very well."
"Fine. I will say I'm sorry. Accepted."
The bargainer replied, "I made the following Deals with the one you call Munin, after which he happily flew off with my satchel."
"Per my restitution to you, I exchanged my satchel for the coin. I then made the bird's usual exchange," he pointed to his eyepatch, "Lastly, we agreed to mutual avoidance. He then flew away, quite happy with the arrangement."
Surret thought it over, then said, "I'd like to bargain for a Wisdom."
Faustian replied, "I'm afraid I will only offer it as my final Deal."
The young hero glared, shook his head, then said "Fine! Fine, okay." He stared off to the side, thinking for a moment.
The spirit interjected, "I can arrange a gift from you to your daughter. There would be some stipulations, though."
Surret immediately glowered at the bargainer with obvious suspicion. "Out with it."
Faustian took a deep breath, then said, "I or those I'm directing will need an exception from you to interact with her. No harm will come to her. You cannot sign the gift or place writing of any sort upon it. I will take care of the wrapping. In trade for this, tell me why you call her Chrissi."
The boy boggled at this, then finally said, "Okay, those terms are accepted. It's short for Christmas Girl. She was born December 22nd."
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Faustian stared off for several seconds, then finally shook his head.
"It was close enough," Surret carped.
"Very well," the spirit replied, "I offer you one Wisdom for a price I know you're willing to pay." His one-eyed stare caused the boy to look away.
Surret thought several minutes about this, rubbed at his eye, then quietly said, "Those terms are accepted."
The bargainer stood up, holding a small coinpurse in one hand. He then said, "Please render payment with the shiny pink copper coin you offered the myna bird. I'll reserve one Wisdom for you, delivered upon payment."
---
Three spirits met in a place that was not. Together, they discussed their given task.
Trade Three Strikes (brandishing a spear): We are to provide a party and presents. The cake is arranged. I have the present.
Longevity of Dolor: The girl would feast with her friends? Let us hit her until she tells us -
Vision of Want: There is no need, Longevity. I know those she'd Want at her gathering. Also, we are promised to see her home without injury.
Longevity of Dolor: Hit her lightly, maybe?
---
Samantha Ray Jackson, or Sammi-chan as she liked being called, was an unusual young woman. Her grades were good, of course. Her attire was almost always impeccable, usually schoolgirl formal, complete with a small tie. Her hair was a large part of her uniqueness - a natural afro, inherited from her father, as were her lips and nose. Her skin, however, was light cream, from her mom. The other teens generally left her alone, or were friendly enough. But if she was being honest with herself, Sammi-chan had to admit she constantly felt like an outsider. Naturally, she threw herself into manga with abandon.
She was also a little bit spoiled by her dad, who would surprise her with things like new issues of her favorite books, new clothes, or sometimes odd cosplay items. This last category is the reason why she wasn't surprised in the slightest by the authentic-looking katana waiting by her bedroom door.
The surprise started when she picked it up. Not only did it have a unexpected amount of weight to it; it spoke to her in archaic Japanese ("Sutoraiki dake o hiku!"). Her mind reeling, she nearly dropped it as her bedroom walls fell away, a bigger surprise reveal of a completely different world. Looking nearby, she spotted two other girls that she knew. Jen was there, looking every bit as stunned as she felt. Aimee, on the other hand, was possessed by her usual nonchalance.
Both girls had weapons. Jen had an enormous, battered Scottish claymore. Aimee had a gnarled black wand that looked like something right out of a fable.
Jen wore oversized grey Nike sweats. The large girl worked out constantly to try to keep her weight and figure under control. It seemed like a hopeless battle, made worse by chronic eczema. Her sword was not just drawn; there was no sheath in sight. She seemed angry, but was handling it well enough.
Aimee looked at her wand in distaste, finally slipping it partly into her purse. "I'm not that kind of girl," she sternly told it.
"What kind is that?" Sammi asked.
"This thing talks. It said I was a chanter of the dead. Just because I put on some makeup and like things noir."
"Wait, yours talks too? Also, necromancer ... never mind." Sammi stopped seeing Aimee's face sliding toward a frown.
"Mine said I'd get to hurt things," Jen quietly said, looking vaguely horrified.
Suddenly, several fires shot up over the top of a nearby rise. At the same instant, their classmate, Dor, arrived on a blast of wind, wearing scuffed and dirty clothes, a somewhat terrified expression, and holding a lacquered red spear with a bronze tip polished until it seemed golden.
---
"Do you happen to know anything at all about this?" Aimee asked, looking as if she was put out by a bad prank.
Dor's face turned red. "I kinda wished for a birthday party, and something decided to grant it. Sorry?" she grimaced.
Aimee rolled her eyes as Sammi's face immediately animated with glee. "Ohmygawd! Happy Birthday, Dor!"
Dor looked her way and smled, "Hey, thanks! Look, just keep moving ahead and we'll figure it out. I've done this a few times."
Her 'party' immediately stopped and stared at her.
Dor shrugged, "Looks like a dungeon realm of some sort. We get through it and we get home, probably with some sort of reward."
The young women walked cautiously down a path through a thick bog. Within a few minutes, they were at the rise with fires on top. Nearby, a small, twisted man with grub-like skin picked his nose as he ate a handful of something muddy.
"Oh, adventuresses!" he screeched, cackling at them. "Head on in! In this place, things work out the wrong way. For instance," he glared at them with anticipatory malice, "The cake eats you!"
The girls looked from one to another, confused.
The pale man glared at them for nearly a minute, before finally driving his fist into his forehead in annoyance. He then stomped around and kicked a lever into place, causing large white letters on the rise to spring into visibility.
They read,
BD-16: Tomb O Cakes
"The cake will eat you," the grubby caretaker followed up spitefully.
The large O in the sign encircled a tunnel leading into the rise, just tall enough to walk through. After several minutes, Dor and her party hesitantly entered.
Moments later, they emerged to howls of schadenfreude from the twisted man.
"There was nothing in there but a sign and a bunch of cake blocking the passage," Dor said as she looked at the malevolent imp. "'Sorry about the cake-in, please use the service entrance.' You know anything about that?"
"Not a thing," the wizened man said, dripping with sarcasm.
Jen looked at her sword, suddenly. "It says I should chop him up, but just a little."
The man snarled and lunged, his form shifting to reveal a pair of housefly-like wings, and a filthy vestigal tail. Dor batted him down with her spear before pinning him to the ground with the tip digging into his chest.
Their enemy sneered, breathing hard in a bug-like rasp. Finally he retched and spat something on the ground before vanishing in a cloud of greasy, sulfurous vapor.
The others didn't seem too eager to do anything, so Dor finally stooped down and picked through the gob with a leatherman she pulled from a pocket.
It was a note scrawled on a candy wrapper:
Those who'd use the servant's way
Seek the sigil serpents say.
"Just great," Dor said, "A dungeon realm with riddles."