Harding went back to the House Garnet camp, finding his tent among the identical others with minimal difficulty. While it was populated with other house staff, Rent had not returned yet. The tent held nothing for him but uneased thoughts on his encounter with Sam. He exited and strolled past the Garnet tents. A minor chat with Holtz, let him know Garnets were still doing their nobility thing. He also suspected Holtz wasn't being forthcoming about the reasons for his increased guard duty. Harding wandered their camp for a bit, not wanting to be a pest he avoided instigating conversation. It bothered him. He didn't want to be dependent on others. Yet, every time he went off on his own, things seemed to collapse into madness. And yet still, that uneasy need for others was easier to feed than fend off.

He set out in search of the Divine Eights' camp.

It wasn't challenging to find. As participating sponsors of CombO, the Big Three had their choice of location in the campgrounds. Which meant that the prime location for them was near the arena and not the market. The Eights' camp was set up in straight rows with a two tent gap every ten tents. There seemed to be no rank or organization that Harding could decipher as to whose tent each was though. Harding was starting to think these camps weren't random and instead he just didn't understand the scheme.

Harding immediately looked for Randal and Alexci. Alexci’s popularity proved helpful, Harding quickly found someone who knew where she was. Unsurprisingly, she was at the arena. He could only assume Randal was with her. He asked about Howie, discovering that he was in town selling products at the guild booth. While there were smiles and waves from known members, and even a brief chat with Albert the bodyguard, Harding was left without anyone to share the adventure with.

While Harding considered whether he should find the temple first or head to Gregor’s booth, he felt a presence hover in his spirit. He looked to his left, then down beside him. Crouched next to him was Runild and she was investigating his boots of all things.

"Uhm?"

"How are the socks?"

"Oh, they've been great. A little warm on the ranch, but great otherwise."

"Ranch? I thought you were traveling."

"I just go where Rent goes, and apparently being a traveling monk means trying to go home again."

"Interesting."

"I guess."

"Would you like another pair?"

"Yes please."

Runild produced from her slung bag a pair of yellow, knit socks. Embroidered in them, along the top, was a white duck wearing a green bowler and necktie.

"What's with ducks and hats?"

Runild eyed him suspiciously. "Who told you?"

"Uh, told me what?"

"Exactly,” she agreed. “I'm going into town and you are coming with me, I need an assistant."

Runild walked off, not bothering to check if he followed. Harding watched her for a moment, entranced. It wasn't a seductive sway, it was more like something hypnotic that distracted him from the voice in the back of his mind screaming for him to run away.

Harding assumed her reference to town was synonymous with the expo, but quickly learned it was actually the ruins. Runild slid from one building to the next, knocking on things and touching walls. Anything still sturdy or buried was suspect. She even tasted a few things which Harding found both gross and engrossing.

"What are we looking for," he asked, shuffling a rusted out pan across the rotted floor with his foot.

"A throne."

Harding went dead still. Carefully he asked, "Why do we think we should look here?"

"Oh, there's definitely a throne here."

"How can you tell?"

"Scenic vista of ancient city ruins with an ominous castle,” she pointed for emphasis through the missing roof. “Proximity to the World Pillar, but no civilization about. Rumors of hauntings, and even one of the early site workers going missing."

Runild swept her hand, indicating the jagged ruins full of things that were once civilization, but now rotted to soil, as further proof. Harding couldn't argue.

“So… we know what thrones are now?”

She just grinned wide. She wasn't the cat that ate the canary, she was the monster that ate that cat.

Cait-sidhe had nothing on her.

"There is no way the demiurges didn't put one around here."

Demiurges?

"Why not the castle," Harding asked, in hope. Sam would leave him be with her around and these ruins were creepy. At first it had been nothing obvious, just your typical ruins. Standard fare. Then bits of lost life, the lack of nature reclaiming things, an occasional bone not yet scavenged. All nice attention to details. It was the more subtle things, the way the wind blew over but not through, that really got him. The lack of animal life. The fact his spirit senses felt like he was in a thick fog, constantly feeling strange movements nearby in it.

He was meant to want to leave.

"Too obvious," she said offhandedly, then paused. "Is it too obvious? It's too obvious right?"

"I don't know."

"Yes you do, open your senses and feel the flow of spirit here."

Harding knew she was right, and he hated it. "You're right. This place has me on edge.”

"Yeah," she agreed, as though she was aware but it didn't concern her. She stood still for a brief moment, lips slightly parted. Harding watched her breath in the totality of the place. "The spirit here is way too thick for some rocky soil and burned buildings. How's about you start being a good Spiritualist and find it for me?"

Harding rolled his eyes.

"This was a setup…"

"Think of it as a small, but growing, appreciation of your talents."

Harding snorted quietly. He hoped.

“So what's our working theory here? That thrones leak spirit? Or do they absorb it, like a drain? That there is going to be some cliche trap door or sewer vent that leads us to a hidden dungeon?"

Runild amused, "They wouldn't have."

Harding climbed up onto a rock pile that managed to be taller than the remaining floor of the nearest building. From there he was able to pull himself up onto the remnants of a wall. The choice was questionable. Pieces of cut stone slid off, mortar breaking free in concerning quantities.

Once stabilized on top of his latest bad decision, he took a spirit breath and then blew outward, both with energy and body, pushing spirit away from him. Like the portal circles, when he thought about it. Then he kept still and felt for variation in the way it all settled back in.

He repeated it a couple more times to be sure, then pointed west by northwest. "It fills faster from that way."

The two walked through the ghost town and every hundred feet or so they'd stop for Harding to probe again. With several corrections they'd found the source of positive spirit pressure that was filling town.

"You're kidding me,” muttered Runild.

Harding’s face dropped, "The butcher's shop."

Runild paced around the small building. She ran her fingers along the walls, leaving streaks in the char. Inside, she got on her knees and felt the floor for secrets. Harding just watched her stroke the bloodstained wood, somehow resistant to the ancient burning. He had no knowledge, expertise, or even concept of what to look for or how to find it. But, he didn't like sitting there.

Runild kept searching.

Harding shifted about, half-heartedly poking at things. He paced around the building, happier to be out of the building than in it. Strangely, the place was mostly intact. There were holes in some of the walls and the roof had collapsed in one corner, but that was still much better condition than the rest of the town.

It was too obvious, he argued to himself. The butcher's shop in a butchered town. His unease was dissatisfaction with that, not concern for his safety. Harding took a seat on the countertop, after testing it to make sure it was sturdy. It was dim in the shop, other than the glow of Runild’s alchemical light wand. The weather was comfy enough even with the slight chill of the coming evening in the foothills. Harding watched the shadows in the street through the front of the building.

The sun would go down eventually.

Eventually she would have to stop. And so far she hadn't got on him for not looking. This close in, the whole place felt like a spring of energy. Everything was washed out.

He didn't have to wait long.

"Take a look at this and tell me your opinion," requested Runild. Harding’s drifting awareness surfaced and he sought her visually. She was crouched in a thick walled walk in closet, having excavated some burned debris.

"Looks like a closet," said Harding, suppressing a smile.

"No. Come here and use your spirit vision on this point," Runild instructed, finger jabbed on the floor in the back of the closest.

Harding hopped down, entered the closet with her and examined near her finger-target with his spirit.

"It's, there's metal beneath and… it's conductive. Charged and flowing," said Harding.

"Yeah and follow it without keying it…"

Hating let his senses flow along it, through the wood and around the metal until he felt the complex resistance of mechanisms. He would guess they were hinges. "I'm standing on a trap door."

Runild expounded, "In a butcher's dry room, above a dungeon."

"We don't know it's a dungeon down there…"

"What else could it be putting off spirit?"

"A d site?"

"Ok, maybe, but something with power is down there."

Harding nodded, he couldn't argue that as much as it already gave him anxiety. What kind of holy site that would be under a burned out butcher’s shop was not something he was keen on discovering. It might fit Kasagos, which would be intriguing, but not all things were of the prism. The nightmares under Black Barrow had given testament to that.

Black Barrow? Black Burrow? Black Burrough? There hadn't been signs.

The shadows had darkened as the sun had begun to settle behind the trees.

"Let's go," suggested Harding.

"I want to know," demanded Runild.

"Then what? Say it's a dungeon, are we going to clear it with the two of us?"

"No."

"And if it's a throne, can you claim it?"

"No."

"So let it be. We can come back when you have the people. It hasn't been found yet, it can wait awhile."

"There's never been this many people here, and we just left a trail through the dust and ash."

"True. Nothing we can do about that, is there?"

"Not really, though we could walk all over town and disrupt everything."

"In the dark?"

"Could be fun?"

"No."

"Fine, let's go back. We can figure out some kind of group."

As they passed through the markets, Harding found himself eyeing the food vendors again. When put to Runild, she agreed to find something on the way back to camp. They split to different vendors and rejoined at one of the random long tables. She sat across from him ingesting some weird fried tuber medley topped with apples and cheese. Runild wasn't much for conversation during their hasty meal as she seemed to take eating seriously. Harding sat at a table watching the crowd and eating a meat pie. Harding actually found himself contemplating his fork. There was an ongoing struggle between wanting another bite and having capacity to fit it inside of him when Runild swore.

"Shit."

"I'm gonna…"

She looked at him, uncomprehending. Blinked several times and scowled. “I mean I'm frustrated. People won't risk this until they're eliminated.”

Harding felt a little lethargic, but more so wasn’t fully invested into her need for urgency. Then again, he could think of no reason they'd include him if they had a full team available.

Maybe that's for the better.

Harding went back to staring at his loaded fork. This was Runild's deal and he didn't really care much either way. The thing he had learned was when you aren't in an organization, you aren't benefited from working with one unless you bring something they need. Also, just having a seed doesn't mean you won't end up chopped up and bleeding out in a couple seconds without training.

Runild wondered aloud, "Is that Garnet girl fighting?"

"Probably not, there's a whole family thing there. She'd have to sign up by tomorrow though, right?"

"Yeah."

Runild went suddenly still. Harding looked up to see three men standing at the end of their table. Behind the men was a collection of rough looking characters who looked extremely suspicious standing still in the constantly moving crowd. A secondary set of roughs.

"She said you keep odd company, but Runild the Serpent? No wonder she's interested."

"What do you want here Grub," Runild asked in a threatening rasp.

Grub tossed a small envelope of waxed paper on the table. It landed too heavy to just paper. "Bluejay sends greetings and a reminder."

"Why," Runild asked, genuinely confused.

Grub seemed equally confused, then cracked a smile. "Not for you, for the monk."

Runild stared down Grub, the tension between them making Harding believe they would end it with violence. She stiffly commanded, "It's delivered then, leave."

"I've got no issue with that," Grub casually replied, but he didn't look away from Runild. He backed up a few steps, turned, and left with his henchmen. Others converged with Grub from the crowd, proving Harding right about it being a whole gang. He'd missed a few in his quick scan.

Runild sat there, looking down at her plate with a blank expression. Her default bearing was inscrutable, which somehow made her current blank affect all the more expressive. Harding felt like she was there in physical presence only and dared not to speak. He was certainly no longer hungry. He set down his fork with care.

After a bit she relaxed slightly and looked up at him, a complex mask of indecipherable worry and inexplicable anger. She demanded quietly, "What are you doing with the Society?"

"The what,” asked Harding in his standard eloquence.

"The Society of Gentlemen. The Noble Society of Friends. Friends of Society. You'll never get a consistent name."

"I honestly don't know what that is, Runild."

Runild reached out her long and feminine hand and pushed the envelope towards him. She kept her pinkie on its corner and taped the wax seal with her index finger. The seal was a fairly circular glob of royal blue wax, pressed with a crude symbol of a bird. She paused for a breath and then explained, "She wouldn't send someone a marker unless they're involved."

"Bluejay?"

"Any of them."

"I don't know what her problem is, but she's always stalking me. Ever since I watched her murder someone."

Runild sniffed, mouth slightly open, before shaking her head ever so slightly. "Don't tell people what you saw. Ever. But, that doesn't seem enough for her to be this interested."

"Uhm, she cut me, licked the blood… then a group of samurai showed up and ran her off," he explained.

"She licked your blood?"

"Yeah, why?"

Runild covered her eyes with her hand, leaning into that elbow on the table. "Normally,” she explained with eyes still covered, “it wouldn't mean anything. But, with her it's different. And with the result being her continued interest in a no-name naught-monk?”

Harding nodded his understanding.

She spread her hands in exasperation, “Also, what the hell are you doing with the Deathless?"

"Who?"

"You're really clueless aren't you? The 'samurai', they're the Deathless. They're hardcore. Zealots. They've even got follower guilds that try to mimic them. How did you end up between-”

Runild stopped talking. She sat there with unfocused eyes, mouth open for several heartbeats. "Grab the envelope and your stuff, we are going somewhere safer," she decided.

"What's going-”

"Harding," she said with a strained smile, "Please, do as I say without delay."

Harding knew he was helpless.

He picked up the letter, slipping into his bag before dumping his garbage and stowing the tin. She led him through the crowd and back to the Eights' camp. They walked the rows of identical tents until they came to a tent indistinguishable from the rest. She led him in. The place was a ring of cots along the edges and a crude, circular table in the middle sounded by camp chairs. A couple alchemical lanterns hung, their blinds shut down to limit the light to a soft haze.

"Sit."

He did.

"Buckley," she said and nudged a mound of blankets on one of the cots. That mound then moved, before a young lady rose sleepily and rubbed her eyes. She was younger, maybe Jarred's age and ever so slightly chubby.

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"What," she whined in complaint.

Runild scoffed. "Go get Aleister. He'll be in the mess tent, watching the party from the edge like the sourpuss he is. Tell him that we have a threat and it needs an immediate reading. Bring him here."

The young woman swung her legs over her bed and stepped into low shoes. "Yes, Auntie."

Auntie?

She got up and gave Harding a blaming glare before leaving. Harding arched an eyebrow at Runild after the girl had left. Runild blew upwards out the corner of her mouth, sending an unruly strand of hair sideways. She eyed him with the same patience, "Just sit there and don't say anything."

Harding smirked but kept quiet. These overblown theatrics had all the flavor of family or guild drama. He needed no part of either. He slipped into passing his mind through his spirit.

Harding had no idea how much time had passed, but he was suddenly aware of people around him. Looking up he saw Runild, Aleister, and a guy he'd seen around the Eights’ events but hadn't really had occasion to meet. The guy was so average as to be easily forgettable. If anything, he stood out with the Eights because he wasn't exceptional looking in some way. Which actually made him a lot like Aleister.

"Harding," said Aleister, slow and calm, "Runild tells me you're experiencing some unwanted visitors."

Harding snorted.

"That's my life, you guys are the only ones I originally chose to associate with.” He paused and amended, “well you and the temple.” The group waited, so he continued, “Don't get me wrong, the Garnets are very good to me and my friends. But this society, the samurai guys, the faeries, the ghosts, the nightmares, the voices… I didn't initiate any of that."

They watched him.

Aleister eventually scratched his chin, wrinkling his nose in thought, before casually quipping to Runild, "I don't need a reading to know he's contaminated."

Runild blew air upward at the troublesome bangs again. “Let me do a reading so we know the guild’s exposure. This is what you have me for."

Aliester shook his head solemnly, his fingers extending slightly on his right hand as if he almost held it up to stop her. "You're with us because you're a valued member, Runild. I don't care about your past, or your involvement in other… things. You always keep that separate. Kid’s been involved with us, the guild will cover costs. Do a full read, but unless I need to do something else I trust you to handle it the rest."

Aleister and Runild held eye contact for a moment and then both nodded simultaneously. Harding’s anxiety had been on the rise since Grub showed up, but it seemed like everyone had lost their minds. Bluejay was annoying, the other stuff was weird, but it was just Life being Life. He was certain they were overreacting.

Aleister briefly met Harding’s eyes, then turned to the tent exit and said, "Goodnight, everyone," before leaving. Aleister had clearly washed his hands of it.

At least for now.

"Buckley, go get two members of the circle," Runild ordered. Buckley glared, sighed, and started putting her shoes back on again.

"Come, Harding, I'll need to taste your blood."

"What," he objected, but complied as she guided him to stand in the small open area between the tent flap and table.

She attempted to explain, "If that's what she did, then I need to. Though, admittedly, I'm far less of a hemomancer than her." She said it as if it was obvious logic.

Hemomancer? What is going on!

She leaned towards him slightly with a concerning smile, looking like comfort stretched thin over canines. "Preference," she asked as she pulled a dagger from seemingly nowhere.

"Wait a sec-”

Harding found out that the question of preference was only a distraction as the blade snicked his arm. "Owe," he objected as she grabbed the arm and squeezed just below the wound, blood flowing onto her finger. Then she wiped it up with the finger and licked the finger clean. Runild's face went slack, eyes rolled up.

Then she was fine.

"Weird," she said, clarifying nothing.

Harding triggered leech and let them eat the minor bleeding. Runild reacted to his cast and examined him intently, eyes squinting reflexively. He breathed the parasites back in, feeling a slight rush of spirit. "What," he complained at her silence. It felt to him like everything he did with her was being attacked.

"Didn't realize you were carrying a seed,” she muttered, “let alone a vampire.”

"Yeah, got it a few months ago…" Harding trailed off. Runild, of all people, hadn’t realized he was carrying.

Carrying?

Runild nodded, more blowing him off than conveying any interest in his story. She took the opening of his hesitation and said, "You're human.”

"Obviously, there isn't any other-," then Harding stopped. She still wasn't listening to him. And if there wasn't any other choice besides human, then what she said wouldn't make sense. Runild caused chaos, but she was not chaotic in thought. She always had a purpose.

"Your spirit is mixed into your anima to a ridiculous degree."

"My what?"

"Ssh. That's too be expected though, seeing what you've done,” she waved lazily at him, in a vertical line up his chest to his head. “And then you went with a vampire in your Heart of all things."

Harding opened his mouth and then gave up. He might as well just talk to himself, for all the good it did him.

What's wrong with leech in the heart, and why is she using Reductionist terms?

"Blood's all tainted though. Something’s in there, beneath all that. Some flavor that I don't know, must be rare."

"But she knows?"

"I told you, she's the most accomplished hemomancer I've ever heard of. When Buckley gets back, we will do a ritual and look."

"A ritual?"

Runild scowled softly. "You ask too many questions. Accept your confusion with grace," she reprimanded. After a pause, though, she relented. "You really think seeds are the only magic? That they only work one way? You, who practices non-seeded magic daily?"

"I guess not," Harding admitted, feeling more than a little shame. He'd been working with the idea that learning Spiritualism was learning a technique to apply to seeds later. He had seen it as a caster specialization. It was a completely separate discipline, but one that happened to work with some of the same forces. He had just blown off whether it was all of magic and focused on seeds because he'd never seen someone do anything he thought was important with anything else. He rubbed his face with his offhand, suddenly feeling exhausted.

Runild’s face softened a little and she partially raised her hands towards him. "Harding, you're a natural. You just don't know what it is you're gifted at. None of this stuff is really new, you've even seen a ritual before. An absurd one-handed display to be fair, but the same in principle.”

Buckley came in with two others and they spread around the circle with Runild and the quiet man that had come with Aleister.

“Use Kerrigan's Minor Fifth," she told them."

They had Harding sit in a chair one had dragged to where he had been standing. They all stood around him, left hand towards him and their right hand towards the person next to him. They hadn't started yet, but already Harding found it socially awkward. Runild began chanting in a language Harding didn't recognize, each of the others chanting singular words or phrases under her chant. Runild would then incorporate and renew her verse with them added in. Smoothly, she wove all of their cadences together.

Harding was aware of a power present almost from the beginning, but dismissed it as anxiety. It would not be banished so easily, growing to with each addition of a mage. Spirit resonated around him. Each phrase made his spirit body hum to that frequency until he felt like he was going to come so apart in the magic. By the fourth mage, his spirit body felt physically separated from his body but still connected effectively. His awareness floated slowly out of his body, then Runild changed the chant and built on the other four again and everything was gone. He was floating in blackness, stripped bare of all his selves until only the fundamental core of his awareness remained.

*SLEEP."

All was nothingness.

Harding woke up choking sometime later. He laid on the ground in Runild's tent in the soft bath of light of a few candles placed around his body. Strange scents hung in the air. Buckley handed him a small cup with water. She smiled warmly as he drank, amused, and opined, "Rough stuff, huh?"

"I don't remember anything."

"Huh? Oh, yeah, no. You wouldn't remember anything. You weren't in your body, that’s the whole point is to remove you."

"What’d you find?"

"Uh, that's Runild's to tell really. She's off talking to Aleister. Discussing just that, or something. Never know."

Harding handed the emptied cup back. He couldn't remember anything. He didn't think he had even been in the system, it was an absolute nothingness. “It didn't even boot me from Life though. Just missing time. Is that ok?”

"Yeah, I mean, the point was to remove you from inadvertently interfering with the rest of it. Like putting your patient out before surgery."

"So, you did surgery on me?"

"Eh. No. Kind of? That gets into how much she wants to tell you again, but you could think of it like psychic surgery."

"And, am I fixed?"

Buckley laughed. "Dude, if we could fix ourselves that easily we would all be monsters."

Something registered with Harding, fixing internal parts to become a godling. People at Ghasatavaro's death had a piece, but not the totality, of the requirements to become a godling. Was it really having a piece of something to become, or was it having repaired a piece to be fixed? Harding had a suspicion Runild knew way more, and if she did, Aleister probably did too. Yet they had acted clueless. He needed to have a real talk with Runild, but she was elusive in all things.

And she wasn't there.

He got, slowly, and stretched. His body felt foreign; new. His mind, though, was still the same. "Do I stay here or…"

Buckley shrugged and climbed back onto her cot. "She didn't say, just said it was over and then walked out."

Without really anything else pressing, Harding sat and mediated. It seemed wise to reset himself and he was getting close to solving this body energy question. The whole thing seemed to function as if there was an energy layer cooked with the physical flesh.

How deep is Life in my brain?

When leech was used, it injected parasites, or some active formation that appeared to his senses like parasites, of spirit into the body. They did not exist in the spirit body, they existed in the flesh. Yet there were not actual lumps under the tissue, so they had to exist as incorporeal while being directly affecting the corpus. To Harding, that meant that there was a coordinating energy body to the physical body. The only other option he saw was that the physical body could host spirit body aspects.

The key with most of this stuff seemed to be at the edges. Harding exhaled leech. They swarmed out and he just let them disperse throughout him. He then found them, selected a single parasite and put spirit pressure on it. As it swelled, he slid his spirit along the edge of the parasite looking for its connection to the physical body. Finding that connection could be the gate to understanding how to truly control that body.

"Good, you're up," Runild said, interrupting his introspection.

"Wha, ah, yeah… so what's the deal?"

"You're entirely human. That's expected. You're extremely spirit heavy, but that's obvious. Your Fate has got nearly the whole pantheon in on it, which is weird. Okkor in the majority, but almost all of it is death-aspected. Your giant spirit is almost entirely putrefaction. That's what she tasted, probably why she's obsessed. You must taste like her master.”

Harding blanched. He had nothing to grasp there, no framework to even begin to digest what she had said. He was pretty sure putrefaction was a bad thing.

He frowned as all he could put into words came out sounding dumb, “I thought she was a crime thug.”

Runild laughed at him and tossed the sealed envelope at him, "Go ahead and open it.”

Harding peeled it open, the wax popping free retaining some pliability. Inside was a medallion. Or a coin. He wasn't sure of the difference. He dumped the contents out and examined it. It was a metal disc with stamped relief on each side. Perhaps it was silver, but he was no metallurgist. "What's this?"

"A marker."

"Yeah, but, why…"

"It claims you as theirs, but is also a kind of pass."

Harding dropped it back in the envelope, "That's a no."

"I understand that. And trust me, when I say they're hard to untangle from,” she began. “But understand that while sending a marker unasked for is uncouth, so is she. Think about what message you are sending by discarding her token of favor. I'm not saying your instinct is wrong, but you better understand what you're communicating."

"Ok. I'll think about it."

"Do you know any of the Deathless?"

"Not by name."

"Too bad. Could use some fighters."

Runild had switched topics on him. Realizing that was all he was getting, Harding followed, “How many do you think we need?"

"Ideally? A dozen or so. That's probably overkill, but we are trying to not risk death."

"And how many Eights could you get?"

"I doubt more than four."

“So I have to find four or more?”

Runild smiled, “See, you’ve come around.”

Harding smirked half-heartedly, his mind still more on what had happened than getting together a team for a domain. Rubbing his face, he sighed and looked towards the tent flap.

“Get the kids to come,” Runild suggested, “then others will follow.”

Harding knew that if anyone would be eager to go, it would be Jarred. The young noble had an insatiable excitement to accomplish. Whether this was even a good idea hung in the background of his mind, but he was distracted. Too much to think about. He needed some action.

“Ok. No promises.”

Harding got up and left and went back to the nobles section. What he passed, passed in a blur. Not only would he have to deal with Bluejay’s group, but entire assumptions he’d worked under for the past months were wrong. Or, potentially wrong. He certainly had witnessed and experienced things showing he was limited.

He found himself in the House Garnet section. He looked back at the entrance, trying to remember going through, then gave up and shook his head. He entered the Garnet’s tent antechamber. The duke was there with men he didn’t know, but off to the side was Jarred. Jarred was standing with a lanky young man that Harding put as about five years older than Jarred. The guy wore armor casually, emblazoned with the Garnet’s eastern sun emblem. He was clearly a House blade. The two stopped talking as Harding came near, watching him approach.

“Hey Harding, wondered where you'd gone,” Jarred greeted him before making the introduction. “This is Thomas Styles, one of the house guards. His dad is one too, Will Styles? He was a part of the raid, so maybe you met him then.”

“Nice to meet you, Thomas,” Harding greeted.

“Call me Tommy,” the blade requested with an easy smile.

“Sure,” Harding promised. A pause left a void which Jarred easily filled it.

“What have you been up to while I’ve been stuck in here,” Jarred inquired.

“Wandering around a bit, exploring the place. And eating.”

“Anything good?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about…”

Harding eyed the tent chamber for privacy. Jarred, forever without such luxury, just shrugged.

“I was asked by Runild if you’re interested in doing a local domain,” Harding started, his voice a little lower in volume unconsciously.

“Here? At the camp,” asked Jarred.

“Yeah. So keep it quiet. It was hidden. If people find out it’ll get swarmed.”

“Oh, yeah, keep it secret.”

Jarred looked to Tommy who nodded in agreement. Harding honestly did not know if the blades would keep that from the duke over Jarred’s wishes. That world was a confusing mix of loyalties. Harding eyed Tommy’s saber.

“Actually, we probably need a few more,” Harding started, unsure of Tommy's capability. It really was a challenge for him to recruit people when he did not know availability or capability of the blades.

Jarred put a hand on Tommy’s armored shoulder and pushed it lightly, “You up for a domain crawl?” Several people nearby glanced over.

Harding had already lost control.

“You can go then,” he asked Jarred.

“Sure. Though I need permission.”

“Oh.”

“And Tommy?”

“Where Jarred goes, I go.”

Harding blinked.

Have I been replaced?

Jarred enthused, “Tommy is the start of my own guard force.”

The idea of the children having their own guard forces seemed obvious at some point. The adults had their own, the children with semi-permanent handlers. The expo was certainly busy and crowded, a time for heightened security. Which lent an opportunity. Harding, face open, asked, “What about Jasika, does she have a guard now too?”

Jarred beamed, “No. I am finally being treated like the heir.”

Harding hid most of his scowl, but voiced, “Too bad, we could use more. Do you think she’d go?”

“If I go,” predicted Jarred. “Could you imagine her letting the two of us adventure without her?”

It was such a strange statement to Harding. The way the three of them had changed over the past few months, they had come together as a core group in his mind. The Garnets’ had effectively been his surrogate family in Life, even if he wasn't one of them.

Harding covered the rest of the details with Jarred, which were admittedly sparse. That they didn't think the domain had overfilled yet and that they'd start sometime in the early morning. Jarred was skeptical others could join as most had assignments. Harding tried to engage socially, but he couldn't shake the disturbance in his mind from being put to sleep in game. Uncomfortable, he begged off quickly and went back to his tent to cycle.

There he found Rent, back from the traveling temple, sitting on his cot reading a book with a sterile cover. He gave Harding a glance but continued reading. It was several minutes later before Harding finally voiced, “Do you know what rituals are?”

Rent pulled the marking ribbon to his current page and closed the book. “Yes. They're fairly simple in theory, harder to execute. It is when a group uses unsubsidized seed powers woven together to create a larger effect. Why?”

“The Eights did one on me.”

“I'm surprised they can, but more surprised they would perform one on you.”

“It was some kind of Fate reading?”

“Mmm. That could be complex enough. What is your question?”

Harding paused. He wasn't sure what his question was, he just felt pressure in his thoughts. Or, maybe, it was the absence of pressure. It wasn't immediately important to distinguish. “Seeds,” he carefully started, “aren't the only magic?”

“Why would they be?”

“Because it's all anyone wants.”

“That's not true.”

“Ok. It's the vast majority of what they want. It's what they use to fight, what they place value in, what they hunt for.”

Rent smiled in a familiar way to Harding, full of smug self-satisfaction signaling a pithy retort. “They seek them because they're the physical manifestations of power. Items of magic and magical items, but immediacy is not exclusion.”

Harding snorted, “Says a monk without a staff.”

Rent smiled softly at his acolyte.

“I don't suppose you can teach me rituals?”

“I can't. Besides, you would need others.”

Harding almost told him he was wrong, that they could be done solo, but caught himself questioning what he really knew. Instead, he changed topics.

“What about domains?”

“What is your question?”

Harding looked around and lowered his voice further.

“We’re going to do one tomorrow, can you come?”

Rent grew a smile, “It will be good to see you finally adventure out.”

Harding became defensive, “What do you mean finally? You’re the one who decides what we do!”

Realizing his volume, Harding confirmed that some in the tent had looked over to the commotion. He decided he didn’t care. Rent though waved him down loosely with a hand, “You choose your own path. I am not criticizing you, merely pointing out that you do not push beyond what I give.”

“Except, now I have.”

“You have.”

Harding felt partially placated, though it was really Runild who was pushing this. He pushed those thoughts aside. Filling in Rent on the plans, he made for bed and logged.

-Joshua-

Joshua hesitated to return to Life, instead tasting residual fear from the memory of being put to sleep. Ruminating on it while absently straightening his apartment, he found himself in his bedroom again. An elongated stare later, he climbed into his forgotten bed. The sensations of it were now foreign to him. Driven more than enticed, he laid there in the dark and tried to sleep.

Three hours later, he had woken four times. All he could remember was nothing, sleep to darkness to waking to troubled efforts to sleep once more. He gave up, went back to the living room and surrendered to the fade.

-Loader-

The nocturnal sounds of the loader were composed of the oscillating chirp of cicadas and meandering breeze through the shushing grass. The full moon hung brilliant, blazing against the populated night sky. Nothing disturbed the peace. His staff rested against the tree. The tree stood large against the undulating space, aglow in its lunar lumination. All was as it always was, welcoming with familiarity and peace. He eyed the spot against the tree, where Kioski had once sat waiting for him. Perhaps sitting there would offer a dreamless respite.

He almost stayed.

-Harding-

The morning was nondescript. Waking, dressing, breakfast. For the adventure ahead, the day started drab. Harding and Rent waited nearly an hour for the Garnet’s, mostly due to Jarred sleeping in. Harding spent the time meditating and running through his spirit exercises. Rent stayed around, but seemed more content to let Harding work through things himself. When Jarred finally appeared, Jasika and Tommy were at his side. Having received their last minute cautions and permissions, the trio were ready to depart.

Harding led the group to the Eights camp and Runid’s tent. He was unsure if he was expected to knock or somehow announce himself, but impatience led him to just open the tent. Inside sat a collection of Eights, waiting for them. Runild, as herself as ever, sent Buckley off with a charge to get the others and meet at the domain.

Without concern, she turned to the Garnet group and smiled languidly, “Shall we then?”

Runild was moving before they could answer. Tommy was unaccustomed to Runild, but the rest knew her and followed along. None of the other Eights followed. They chatted along the way, but in a distracted sort avoiding discussion of their endeavour. Not until they made it into the ruins did any dare to speak of their goal.

“This place is worse than I thought,” Jarred offered, kicking at a lump of burned wood outside the butchers.

Runild shaded her eyes against the morning sun and scanned the hillside.

“It creeps me out,” admitted Harding.

Rent agreed, “Foul.”

“Inside,” urged Runild.

Jarred grumbled. Tommy laughed. They all went in though. Once in, Runild explained, “We were too obvious, standing around out there.” Harding wasn't sure what kind of explanation that was, or to whom they would be obvious too. They were in the middle of a dead city. Runild was Runild though, a package deal. He hopped onto the butcher counter and sat there. Time passed idly, with Jarred and Tommy quietly chatting, but in short order the rest of the troop marched in.

Buckley led in a stout and stocky full-bearded fellow that Harding recognized from Black Barrow, his shield still slung over his back and his one-handed bec de corbin hung on his belt. Life had no dwarven race, but he was the closest Harding had seen. Behind him was Reggie, the Eights’ repair caster that did most of the emergency healing. Reggie was well known to Harding, but only because Reggie was so prominent in the raid. Harding barely noticed them though, as the great mass of Howie filled the door behind Reggie.

“Howie,” he exclaimed.

Jarred grinned.

Jasika smiled.

“Hey, guys. Lady Jasika.”

Jasika gave a small nod of proper acceptance.

“I didn't expect you,” Harding admitted. “I thought you were wrapped up in the sales booth.”

“Nah, others can do it.”

Buckley giggled and poked him.

“Not because you're short a seed?”

Tommy chuckled, pointing out, “I wouldn't call him short.”

“This is Tommy.”

“He's my new blade,” bragged Jarred.

Tommy looked even prouder.

Rent shuffled over the trap door and poked it with his copied staff. Harding looked back to Runild and saw that she was more interested in going forward than introductions. Buckley stepped in, the youngest being the adult, “I think everyone knows each other, except Tommy?” The young man, all smiles and energy absently rubbed his forearm. Jarred gave Tommy a little nudge.

“Oh, I'm a velocity striker,” he offered. Jarred grinned broadly, proud of the older Tommy.

Rent wrapped the trap door firmly, “Shall we get down to business?”

Harding groaned internally at the pun.