-Harding-

"I don't get it," Harding admitted to Sabina later that evening. "When I blew up my seed I needed surgery, drugs, and a day of bed rest." He paused to take a drink. He had been very thirsty since the Ranger station, likely from something they gave him. "And after all that, I'm still not recovered from it." He vaguely indicated his still red wounds. "But, I get stabbed with a spear and they just wipe it off and pour some potion on it. And with just that most of the pain stopped right then and I was walking fine in an hour," he continued. "I don't understand healing in this game."

Arnold leaned forward, "It's pretty simple really.”

Harding looked incredulously at him.

Nothing in this game is straight forward.

Arnold held up his hands to ward Harding's expression. "No, really. I read an article on it. You've got physical medicine like the clinic. Then alchemical medicine which it sounds like the Rangers used on you. And finally magical healing, but magical healing is all weird."

Harding sighed dramatically, "Of course it is."

Sabina giggled lightly, either at Harding's genuine frustration or his exaggerated antics.

"Well," Arnold started, "apparently they've yet to discover a direct heal spell. There is a big ongoing hunt for that. It would be a big deal with the guilds."

Being the only one with big heals would be a huge advantage.

"Then what is magic healing," asked Harding with a frown.

"Mostly, it's just different kinds of regeneration," Arnold answered with a shrug. "But there's shields and curse removals and that kind of thing that act effectively as healing."

"How does regeneration even work when there aren't hit points," interjected Ed.

"Who says there isn't," retorted Arnold.

"I can't see any."

"Doesn't mean they don't exist."

"All this to hide a single hp counter?"

"Eh, it could be that there are a whole bunch of little ones."

"So my pinky has its own hp pool?"

"Guys," interrupted Sabina. "It doesn't matter how it works, only that it does."

"It does matter though," insisted Arnold.

Ed nodded his agreement with Arnold.

Arnold attempted to explain, "There are different regens and they can't tell which one is better. There is too much variation in people and weapons and magic and…" Arnold waved his hand vaguely, "Stuff."

Ed supported him, "Any model would be garbage because there is too much noise in the data. Best you can do is try to determine the general quality of outcomes."

Arnold added to the complaints, "You can't even tell which weapon is better."

Harding shook his head in amusement.

Life being Life.

Harding went back to eating his evening meal, but Sabina continued her line of questioning. "How do they do dungeons without heals?"

"They use lots of consumables and mitigation magic, at least that's what gets talked about publicly." Arnold quietly confided, "I still think they're hiding something though."

Randal had sat quietly through the discussion and finally interjected, "No one's heard from Alina."

The reminder of her absence dampening the group's mood considerably. There were other classes and students, but the groups tended to stick to their own and players spent the majority of their time outside the temple. It effectively was free housing, food and a trainer in a starting zone. But Alina was one of them, no matter her social peculiarities, and as her absence lengthened their guilt at their initially cavalier response grew.

Brother Roberts entered the hall and walked over to the table. His approach helped to diminish the sudden souring turn of the group. "How are you feeling, Harding," he asked.

"Well enough. Any word on Alina," Harding inquired hopefully.

"Not directly, no. But the Rivergate rangers' station sent a runner. I am to return there and I think, perhaps, you might wish to accompany me," the monk stated, but with his eyebrows raised in question.

"Yeah, I can manage that," affirmed Harding, his interest subdued by the lack of good news.

Brother Richards stood there, leaning on his staff and making small talk with the students while Harding policed his dishes. It did not escape Harding’s notice that the monk had kept his staff in hand since returning. Harding reported to his teacher and the two walked out of the temple together in silence. After descending the hill, the monk broke their silence. "Arnold has requested combat training."

"I get that," replied Harding. The whole class had talked about the need since the attack. Everyone was feeling vulnerable.

"Unfortunately it is not a competency we can teach," lamented the monk. "I found him a position in a night class with the Militia."

"Good for him," offered Harding.

Does that mean Arnold is leaving?

Brother Richards continued on as they walked, "I was wondering if you wanted me to help you find something else too?"

Harding was slow to respond as he mulled it over, "Does that mean I'd have to leave the temple?"

The monk frowned slightly as he shrugged. The streets were as crowded as ever, the full prime hours in effect. It was beginning to be increasingly difficult to visually differentiate between players and NPCs as the young players ditched their starting clothes. Harding felt isolated and lonely in their midst. Between the others’ debates and news of Arnold, the group felt like it was already dissolving.

"You cut your own path. You cannot be of two locations, but you be of two minds," Brother Roberts reminded him. "To master a discipline you must first be a disciple. It will take much more effort than an introductory class to be truly competent in anything."

Harding nodded, "And that's what this class is isn't it, just an introduction?"

Brother Roberts laughed softly. "My dear pupil, this class is but a bard's tale of a foreign land. Not only have you not gone there, you're still sitting in the same reeking tavern listening to someone else's half-truths."

Harding tested him, "And how do I actually go there?"

"You dedicate yourself to it until you discover that you were always there," the monk answered with a smile. "The brotherhood isn't necessary, just extremely helpful. Their answers do not matter when you lack the questions. You have the ability but lack the readiness."

They had arrived at the station and Harding held the door open for Brother Roberts. The cramped front office was little more than a hallway junction and its front desk was manned by the same person as before.

"I am Brother Roberts. I was requested," the monk announced to the clerk.

"Have a seat and they will get to you when they can," droned the man without looking up from what he was reading.

The two looked around for seats and found none. The office was clearly not designed for visitors and they were reduced to repurposing delivery crates to avoid sitting on the floor. They sat there for some time, just listening to the chaos of soldiers and staff in the back rooms. There was quite a bit more activity in the station than last time.

Better Richards broke the silence, "Of course, there never is just two options."

"Hmm? Oh. You mean on the learning bit?"

"Mmm. Yes, on that too."

"So what's the other options?"

"Whatever you manage."

"That's rather vague."

"So is happiness."

Harding grunted, "That's kinda dismal, old man."

The monk smiled again and looked over the room for a moment. Without looking at Harding, he quipped, "The ignorant are ignorant of the blessings of their ignorance."

Harding huffed in half-hearted humor.

"You could try an apprenticeship," the monk suggested.

"With you?"

"Goodness, no. But a Wandering Monk? Maybe. That is a rare thing though and the number of those accepting an apprentice is rapidly dwindling."

“And I suck?”

Brother Roberts gave him a disappointed look, “It is not the quickness of success but the consistency of effort that determines the quality of outcome.”

The two continued to sit there and chat lightly about pleasant things between Harding’s occasionally probing for more help on his classwork. People who worked there came and went but no one engaged with them. "Some things don't change," muttered Harding.

"Hmm, what's that," asked the monk.

Harding just smiled tepidly in response.

A moment later, a young man came through the infirmary door and stepped near the front desk. He was stripped to the waist, but still wore brigandine from the waist down. "Walt, when those River Briar people show up, send them in to Captain Milton," he requested crisply.

"Sure," responded Walt the clerk, paying little attention to the man.

Harding had enough of this already. "We are already here. We are the River Briar people," he exclaimed.

Walt glared over the top of his desk.

The soldier, however, simply smiled and nodded a slight bow. "Follow me, please. I'm Sergeant Bresburg, Captain Milton's second. He's been waiting for you."

Bresburg was all business, but his idea of the captain waiting turned out to be the man being face down on an all too familiar operating table. Harding took in the scene and wondered if he simply misunderstood Bresburg's humor. Nurse Ada was suturing wounds on the Captain's bare back, her threadwork deft. Doctor Barbara was moving and probing his left arm as she tested its mechanical soundness. To the side of the room lay two more Rangers on tables rolled over to the walls, still recovering from their healing and requiring further supervision. Next to those two sat a blonde female soldier, still in her full armor sans her helmet, gloves and weapons.

"Please, come around so I can see you fine folk," the Captain requested, voice warm and amused.

Harding followed Brother Roberts around the table, careful not to slip in the blood splashed on the floor. Pieces of cloth sodden with blood lay amidst discarded armor where they hadn't been cleaned away yet.

"Honestly Henry, you're a mess. You should have been healed first," complained the doctor.

"Not in front of the guests, dear," admonished the Captain in a humored tone. Despite his injuries and state, he was clearly enjoying teasing her.

They probably have him on something.

Captain Milton rolled his head to the side and stared up at them. Though grimacing slightly on occasion when Doctor Barbara would press, he otherwise addressed them neutrally, "As you know, the River Briar Caves were stuffed full of Rubahwogs. We cleared that out. However, are you familiar with the ruins behind them," he asked.

"No Sir, I've never seen ruins in the area of the caves," answered Brother Roberts.

"The ruins are buried under and are only occasionally connected to the caves by tunnels. Anathacy I beli-”, the captain began before ending in a hiss.

"Anothaci ruins that close," asked a surprised Brother Roberts.

"What are Anna Thayzee," asked Harding, butchering the strange word even worse than the captain.

The armored blonde in the stool spoke up, "A precursor civilization. They mysteriously disappeared long before the current record and all that stuff."

"Isobel is correct," the captain confirmed, wincing as Doctor Barbara inserted a syringe deep into his arm. "That's a place of power. If you've got an infestation this bad, there's some entity that's moved in and is using the place to summon unnatural horrors. If the entity isn’t destroyed all the creatures will keep coming back."

Harding asked, "What's a place of power?"

"A pop's a dungeon, basically," clarified Isobel. “Well, mostly I guess. More like a place a dungeon could be?”

"You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means," countered Captain Milton.

The captain inhaled sharply as Doctor Barbara began a series of intramuscular injections in his forearm. She shushed him as she worked, defeating his unspoken commentary.

They must go through this often.

After a moment, he continued, "That's where things got weird. The furry bastards built a magically locked gate. We killed them all but it didn't unlock, so I’m not sure what it was tied to."

"That's how it usually works," Isobel told Harding, "the standard ‘kill the boss to unlock the gate’ style mechanics."

"Was bloody work in those caves. A third of my force was fighting wounded and we were already down a man by the time we hit that gate," the captain recalled, voice hard. "If they had enough juice to put up a magically fortified gate, then there is much worse stuff beyond it. I've been to the bottom of that ruins before too, we had a long way yet to go. We just didn't have enough..."

Doctor Barbara rested a comforting hand on the captain's head. His eyes closed momentarily at her comfort.

Bresburg spoke up, calling attention to himself, "The infestation is a clear threat to the city. We thank you for your quick notice, it surely has saved lives."

"What about Alina," asked Harding, though he knew the answer wouldn't be good.

"No sign," admitted Bresburg. "Even if they ate her there would have been bones. She was probably dragged through the gate."

"You're going back for her, right," implored Harding .

"We won't stop," came the captain's solemn reply, eyes still closed.

Bresburg added, "We needed to get reinforcements, healing, and supplies."

"And grenades," grumbled the captain.

Bresburg conceded, "And we need to figure out some way through that gate."

"More grenades," suggested the captain.

"What will it take to defeat the gate," asked Brother Richards, more towards Bresburg than the explosively infatuated captain.

Bresburg theorized, "A highly skilled wizard would work. We sent a request to the Guard for Edwin Hammer.”

The captain scoffed noisily.

“Queen’s Own ain’t gonna give us a goldie,” sneered Isobel with disdain.

“But the infestation is a threat to the city,” Bresburg insisted.

“Queen’s Own,” Isobel repeated insistently, but with a softer edge.

"A skilled spiritualist should be able to defeat the lock directly, but it's no place for a scholar down there," admitted Bresburg.

"There is currently a Convergence. Several skilled Brothers have already arrived. I could inquire since it was one of our students that was taken," offered Brother Roberts. "Perhaps Brother Rent?"

"As in Toly Rent," asked a suddenly interested captain. "Since when is he in town?"

"This afternoon."

“A War Monk would do it.”

“It is not a sure thing he would be willing.”

"I have a whole other squad due back any minute. If you could get Rent to join us, we could be back out there in… say two hours tops," he speculated.

Doctor Barbara chimed, “Four.”

"Is there any way I could be of service in the meantime," asked Brother Roberts.

"No," replied the captain.

"Yes," retorted Isobel.

"Scout, now is not the time," admonished her wounded leader.

"But, Sir," she pushed with a more respectful tone, "We have no clue what's through those gates. Why leave seeds unused?"

"Have you trained with them? You don't bring something into battle you don't know well."

"Hampton and I don't need training for a passive and Rosen could use the extra boost for his Flameblast."

Captain Milton sighed. "Isobel, you know very well that a change in your physical abilities will throw off your fighting. However, you're not wrong about how effective Rosen and his fires are against those furry bastards."

Isobel turned to Brother Richards, "Brother, would it be possible to do some seed seating and seals.”

"Damn do they smell when they burn though," the captain muttered.

Isobel’s face opened, pleading, "I'm sure I can get standard costs covered by the… Bresburg, what would be the time on the funding?"

"It's all that fur, you see," mumbled the captain.

"Two weeks minimum, unfortunately. Main office is backed up with the influx of refugees," recited Bresburg, as crisp and hard as his armor.

“...they just burn and burn and burn…”

Isobel held her breath while Doctor Barbara stroked the now sleeping captain's hair.

Harding watched her putting a syringe back on her tray. "Did you just…"

"The missing girl, Alina, was my student and under my watch. I'll get both squads taken care of as my part in her rescue," Brother Roberts solemnly stated.

Meanwhile the doctor gave Harding a hard-eyed look, "If my husband is going out again so soon, he needs a little sleep."

The monk turned to Harding and gave him instructions, "Run back to the temple and ask Brother Rent if he would aid the rescue."

"Yeah, sure, on it," said Harding, already heading for the door. Once he was in the street he used the cart lane to have room to run. Dodging through the slow traffic was frowned on, dangerous, but not strictly enforced. It allowed most of the mess to be avoided, both the tangle of foot traffic and the mounds of animal waste. Buying good boots definitely had been a great piece of advice from Bart.

Harding ran all the way back to the temple, except the hill. There was no way he could have run that hill. Just through the gate he encountered a Brother sweeping the path. Bent over huffing, he gasped, "Excuse me, Brother. Brother Roberts sent me for Brother Rent. How do I find…"

"If he's still in, he's in the Moon garden. He is always in the Moon garden. No one else can use the Moon garden when Brother Rent is-," complained the Brother.

"Thanks," interjected Harding, before running off. The cranky monk was still ranting when Harding entered the temple, running down the halls at a questionably safe speed and heedless of the mess he had tracked. His spear wound hurt, but not enough to stop him.

Bursting through the entryway of the Moon garden, Harding slid to a stop on its fine pebble path. In front of him stood a great hart. Its head was lowered into a flower bed, antlers rocking as it took several bites of Brother Rodney's beloved flowers. Absently, it raised its head and gazed about as it chewed. Seeing Harding, it looked him over slowly and then asked with a full mouth, "What?"

Even as off balance as he was by a talking stag, in the back of Harding’s mind was the horror of the damage being done to the flowers. It kept chewing them as it watched him.

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"Uhm, I'm looking for Brother Rent," Harding informed the antlered beast.

"Why," it inquired between concerted efforts to grind the tough stems in its teeth.

"Brother Roberts sent me to find him. A student was taken by monsters and they need help rescuing her. It's really most urgent I find him," implored Harding.

"Bob's a good guy," was its answer. Rolling its antlers back and forth as fur on its neck rose, it reared up onto its hind legs and melted into a somewhat short man. He was balding with the remaining black hair cropped tight. Dressed as he was in the cerulean robes of Okkor, Harding would have passed him without notice as any other monk. The man started walking towards him, "Ok, let's go."

Harding just stared. The monk passed him, turned and looked back, "Are you coming," he prodded.

Harding jumped with a start, and ran to catch up. Brother Rent led him to the monk's cell, which looked just like Harding's, to grab his pack. It took no time as he was already packed, the room empty of any other traces of him. Just as they entered the hall to leave they ran into an angry Brother Rodney storming towards them. His face and bald head were already an angry red. "Excellent meal there Rod, thanks," exclaimed Rent.

"Shove it," Rodney yelled back at him.

"Choke on a spear," replied Rent.

"I hope you get your head mounted on a wall."

"Half the temple heard yours being mounted last night…"

Harding went ahead, not wanting to be associated with whatever that was. He heard the sniping continue as he ran out the door. A minute later, Rent casually strolled out of the compound grinning. "Where are we going, son," asked a much happier Rent.

"Rivergate ranger station, Sir," said Harding as he eyed the strange monk.

They descended the hill in silence until Harding couldn't take it anymore. "Sir, why did you eat Brother Rodney's flowers," Harding asked, unsure if he actually wanted the answer.

Rent laughed. "Because he can't cook."

Harding shook his head. "I don't get it."

"That bald knob serves crap food, but you won't find a better garden in the city outside the palace itself. He loves his gardens and he endures his kitchen," clarified Rent as if it were obvious.

Harding confessed, "I still don't get why you would ruin the gardens."

"Not that bright are you," chortled Rent. "The only way he's going to save his precious gardens is if he starts making food the brothers would enjoy, food that he could make at any time if he wasn't trying to avoid his duties." Rent paused as they overtook a slow walking group. "I'm incentivizing more effort towards his weakness in function by punishing his indulgences of interest."

"Seems mean though," Harding observed, "like, why not just talk to him?"

"You've met the man right? Go tell him his lawn is better eating than his cooking, see where that gets you," Rent laughed.

They walked on.

Harding had no idea what to make of this guy, other than he seemed like a weird jerk. He decided to try a less charged topic, "What's a War Monk?"

Rent scowled, "It's what one idiot calls another idiot who, despite being about as close to a divine servant as a human can get, instead goes and beats a third idiot with a stick."

"That's a lot of idiots," concluded Harding.

"Not as many as are coming to the temples for the Convergence," Rent sourly asserted.

Harding gave up on the man, he was as grouchy as he was contrarian. As the Ranger station came into view, Rent remarked, "Being a spiritualist is great, but stay around here and you'll end up a stunted specialist pet to some real power. Okkor doesn't do static, son. He moves." Rent made a serpentining motion with both hands. Harding rolled his eyes in response and almost tripped. With Rent chuckling at him, they turned to go up the steps. Harding held the door open for Brother Rent.

"What’s a goldie," he probed, one last try at information.

"More idiots," Rent answered, then added, "Liked you better when you used 'Sir' a lot."

Rent swept past.

"State your business," drawled a disinterested Walt the clerk. Ignoring him, Rent went through a door labeled, "Staff Only".

"Sir, you can’t just- Sir," exclaimed Walt, still seated but his face mortified at the impropriety.

"Good luck," quipped Harding and followed quickly after Rent.

Rent navigated the place with purpose and without pause. Harding ended up in a large room full of armor wearing mannequins and a wall of weapons loaded onto pegs. In the middle of the room was a table with a map built into it. Rangers sat on benches, loading bags from piled supplies. A few sat in scattered chairs, chatting quietly while shoveling down the remains of a hasty meal. Brother Roberts stood with Captain Milton and Bresburg. It hadn’t been more than a half-hour but the captain was up and looking alert.

What the hell did she give him?

"Bob," yelled Rent, over the conversations of the room, effectively ending them all. Heedless of all eyes being on him, Rent barked, "What's this I hear about you losing a student?"

Brother Roberts just smiled, friendly and familiar. "Hello Brother, good to see you too. Captain Milton, this is Brother Rent. Toly, this is the Commander of this station, Captain Milton."

"Captain."

"Hero."

"Bah. Wasn't anything like that…"

Harding watched the men take measure of each other in silence. After a moment, Rent seemed satisfied. "Captain, I was told you could use an extra."

"I could use a squad of extras and the budget to go with them," confided the captain as he absently rubbed his previously injured arm. "What I need is a specialist who can handle himself because this damned entity apparently likes magical lock puzzles."

"I can manage that, I'm in," agreed Rent.

"So am I," volunteered Harding.

Brother Roberts objected, "Absolutely not!"

"Excellent," agreed Rent.

Captain Milton asked, "Can you even fight?"

Isobel just rolled her eyes.

”I'm not afraid," Harding lied.

"That's awfully brave of you. You've got a good heart, but if you can't fight then you'll just endanger my men. I owe it to them to not allow that," Captain Milton gently explained.

"You'd be fine," Rent deadpanned at Harding. "But this is the Captain's mission. Sorry, kid."

Harding glowered at Rent.

"We will be ready to go soon, Brother Rent. Are you in need of anything," inquired Bresburg, though his attention was on watching the Rangers who were finishing repacking their bags.

"Thank you, no," stated the monk confidently and gave a slight shrug of his pack to emphasize. As they started to file out of the room, he turned to Harding. Arching his eyes wide he whispered secretly to Harding, "I forgot my staff, let me use yours." Harding gave up the staff without comment. It wasn't his anyway. Rent gave him a single coin in payment and winked. Harding watched them file out and shook his head in disbelief.

After the Rangers and Rent had left, Brother Roberts turned to him, "You must alter your course if you wish that path."

Harding nodded despite being unsure what that path was. They stood for a moment in silence, listening to the fading noise of the exiting troops. Harding looked around again at the room full of the implements of war and survival. Without looking at the monk, Harding wondered aloud, "Would I have died if I went with them?"

Brother Roberts chuckled, "With your guts split open like an over-boiled sausage."

"Thanks…"

"You'll get there eventually. The world is a dangerous place beyond these tall walls and dedicated men."

"Yeah. I understand that, I just-," Harding sighed in frustration. "I feel responsible for Alina and I'm helpless. I'm here to live life and all I do is lay around and fail."

"Alina is my responsibility," corrected the monk. "And your future is yours. That future is not now though, so let's go back to the temple."

"Can I stay here and wait," requested Harding.

"It'll be some time, maybe well into tomorrow, before they're back. I'm returning to the temple but you may do as you wish," the monk informed him. "Just remember to be careful after dark. When the light dims the world changes."

Harding thought about Bluejay and shuddered. "I know, but I want to wait for them. Thank you, Brother Roberts."

The monk smiled and excused himself back to the temple. Harding looked over the arms and armor on display once more. Cleaned and oiled, they sat poised readily for violence. Sturdy and well built, they evidenced no flare or frill. Function was their artistry.

These men are utilitarian.

Harding walked out of the Ranger station and up to the gate, hoping to watch the expedition as they disappeared into the evening shadows. They were already gone. The guards were watching him idly as they processed regular gate traffic, though the monster infestation and time of night had greatly reduced the flow. Harding headed over to a couple of guards, unsure of who was in charge.

"It's it ok if I hang out here until they come back," he asked them.

"Sure. As long as you don't clog traffic, we don't care," answered an overly tall, sandy haired guard.

The hours would pass slowly and Harding decided to use the time. He found a shop and bought the largest wineskin he could find. Filling it with quality water proved more difficult and expensive, but he managed after asking the guards for suggestions.

Afterwards, he set about practicing his spirit control. He lacked a voidseed or any other method of measurement. Instead, he sat near the gate and flexed that subtle body. Without means to determine success, he gave everything to affecting his intent.

At first the guards would eye him as he sat there. They were wary by nature and the gateyard was for movement and not meditation. To them that which remained still was foreign and they were men trained to observe the out of place; professionally paranoid. Over the hours though he became accepted as being there. When he would get up to stretch or piss, the guards would playfully act surprised he was still alive. They would make jokes to each other about walking barrels, yard hauntings or the excitement of finally getting a company mascot.

When stretching, beyond his anxious wishes for Alina's return, his thoughts turned to his future. He didn't want to be a non-combatant by way of incompetence. Which left Harding only two general paths, whatever Brother Roberts might think. He could either switch to a combat education or elect a hybrid education such as an apprenticeship with a wandering monk.

It's getting late.

Harding kept practicing. He knew he was close and that he didn't need the voidseed to flex his spirit, though he would have preferred having one. There was a feel to it, a sensation of otherness. He could feel the friction of the movement in boundaries of the two selves, the duality of their separation. They opened with a swinging yawn, like scissors. Something was off though, some little thing catching and restraining him. He was sure he had successes amidst the repeated failures, but he still lacked the keenness to reliably differentiate. All there was between him and success was that irritating snag that tenaciously tripped him up.

I'll have to call in sick tomorrow, but I’m not giving up…

He kept at it sure of the nearness of success. Frustration and hope battled within as he sat in a stack of hay against the wall. He made sure to keep getting up and giving himself breaks, for both his circulation and his sanity.

Deep into the night a guard called out, "Lights approaching.”

Harding nearly jumped. None of the guards seemed to react. After dark there had been little foot traffic, just the occasional straggler. The dangers of the dark combined with the current infestation having all but shut down the gate. It was a few minutes before another guard confirmed, “It’s the Rangers.”

Everyone launched into action, donning their helmets and positioning to the sally port. They looked equally ready to fight as they were to greet. Harding was thinking about it as two guards opened the port door suddenly. Having slowly drifted close to the armed men, Harding could see the bodies and injured Rangers beyond along with a horse drawn cart from which hung two lanterns.

"Ho the gate," called a weary Capitan Milton as he leaned against Sergeant Bresburg. Captain Milton was missing an arm, a tourniquet wrenched around the stump, and he moved with a severe limp.

Harding looked for Alina, but didn't see her. However, the Rangers were still sliding off the cart that he didn't think they had left with. Rent stood out in his colored robes despite them being splashed in blood and worse. Captain Milton nodded to the cart and said, "Could I talk a few of your lads into helping with the bodies, I could really use a hand."

Harding watched him reach into the cart and withdraw his own severed arm.

The Rivergate rangers limped up the walkway in the lamplight. They leaned on each other to prevent the other from falling when needed, just as they had in the field. The entire guardhouse had turned out to see them home, many having even come down the ramp to assist with the cart. Captain Milton, severed arm in hand and the whole side of him ripped raw and exposed, was nearly carried in by Bresburg. Bresburg himself looked healthy enough save for some massive creases in what little remained of his armor.

Those must be some powerful alchemies they’re on…

Isobel's head and nearly half of her face was covered under a bloody wrap and she limped heavily on that same side. The man she was using to walk against was tall, broad and a little husky. Harding thought it might be Rosen as he was covered in burns.

Harding hadn't known the other Rangers, but of the nine that went out only five walked back in. It seemed a point of pride among them to cross that threshold upright. The guards would not touch them until they were through. The last Ranger came across on crutches with his entire leg immobilized. Rent stood behind him, just in case he needed help, but gave no assistance. The wounded man made it on his own.

Rent returned to the cart and watched over the unloading and care of the covered bodies. Harding watched the man he thought of as angry and immature stand sentinel over the dead as their bodies were respectfully collected. With solemn faces the normally jovial guards brought the bodies in on litters. Three bodies were laid out next to each other outside the Ranger station. Each covered body left on their own litter for the Rangers to attend. A young Ranger, one of the injured ones from Milton's first attempt, came out of the station and stood the watch.

Brother Rent spoke quietly with some guardsmen before walking up the ramp alone. Behind him, the guardsmen were unloading the packs and other equipment. Seeing Harding waiting, Rent approached and muttered, "Some nasty business, that was." Rent waved Harding towards the Ranger station and kept walking. Harding looked at the gateway, but there was no one else coming. Just guards unloading equipment from the cart.

Where'd they even get that cart?

He jogged to catch up and asked, "What about Alina?"

Rent nodded, "We found what's left of her."

"Oh. Good," Harding muttered, unsure what else he could say.

How do you respond to something like that?

"Come now, we administer to the wounded before mourning the dead," the monk told him.

Together they walked into the Ranger station and past Walt into the infirmary. Their arrival coincided with Doctor Barbara striding down the hall in the long gait professional hurry. They entered together.

Captain Milton held up his severed arm. "Look what I found, can I keep it," he asked in attempted humor though he sounded very tired.

"Someone be a dear and take that arm from the child before he breaks something else, again," requested the doctor, moving past him.

"Isobel is a priority I think," suggested Milton. "She's lost an eye and possibly has brain trauma."

"Henry Milton. I don't tell you how to do your job, don't you tell me how to do mine," the doctor snapped. Her voice was emotional but she was already attending Isobel.

Milton just shrugged the harsh response off and smiled at the monk, "Rent! You're an absolute monster. Not a shape shifting joke, I swear." He inhaled slowly, struggling against exhaustion, but with sincerity added, "Without you I would have lost more in there than I did. Thank you."

"Not true," Rent deprecated. "Other than those pesky locks, I was just another body. That fire mage you have got saved us all more than once and that berserker is the real deal. All your men were great," deflected the monk, before adding, "Hampton was the true hero today."

The room was quiet for a moment, except the sounds of the doctor and her staff using a variety of metal tools, alchemical and magical devices both, to affect recovery of the patients. Captain Milton gave a long drawn out sigh. "Bresburg, take care of the Brother's cut. I want all this done before the City descends on us."

"Yes, Sir," reliable Bresburg verbally saluted. "Six came back and under City rules as a private specialist-combatant that means you're owed an eighth of the gains," the sergeant informed Rent.

"We don't need to do that now," protested Rent as he watched the bandages come off Isobel's head.

Bresburg shook his head. "Captain's orders and the protocol is that everything gets checked in immediately. If we don't get this done before city officials show up, they'll try to take everything they can for redistribution. Do us a favor and help me avoid even more paperwork trying to get our cut back from them?"

Rent acquiesced, "If it benefits your men."

"Good. Thank you. Let's replace your broken staff with that magic one we got off that chimeric caster. Is that acceptable," asked Bresburg.

Rent put his hands out in refusal, "I can't accept that, I lose everything. I'll just forget it at some tavern."

"We don't stock staves as equipment," Bresburg admitted, rubbing the back of his head. Bresburg's hair was a wild testament to the inescapable reality of helmet hair. "If you don't take it the city will and it will probably end up in some closet at the Wizard's college."

Rent glanced at Harding and piqued, "Why aren't you carrying a weapon, don't you know it's not safe outside the temple?" Harding's objection was cut off by Rent, "Come to think of it, inside isn't safe either if you're hungry."

Harding sighed, "Sir, you were using my staff."

"That pathetic twig was yours," he exclaimed in shock. "Sergeant, can I pass it to the boy here? He's homeless and destitute.”

Harding blinked, "Sir, I live at the temple."

They both ignored him.

"Do what you want with it. Regulations won't let us sell stuff for the fallen's families, but private parties can sell their share for profit. It’s why the City scavenging aggrieves us all so much, we know that stuff ends up on the market."

Bresburg looked over at the big man holding Isobel’s head still while the doctor was cleaning the wound around her missing eye. He turned back to Rent, “We picked up seven godseeds. While technically not an eighth, let us send one with you too. Rangers can only earn one per tour. Either you take one or the City claims it.”

"I’m pretty sure I saw a duplicate duplicate pulled from that swamp troll. If that isn’t blocking one of yours from a set, then I am obviously inclined towards a gift of Okkor," replied the monk.

Bresburg looked over at Captain Milton who nodded assent while the trunk of his severed arm was smeared with a thick coat of a pungent grease-like substance along the exposed inside. The whole room quickly was engulfed in the smell. The big man murmured softly, "Any troll is a mean thing, but who crafts a weapon and armor for one?"

"Seen it before. Nothing else we saw in there was a river monster though, perhaps it was living in the ruins before the infestation," speculated Rent.

"It's dead now, however it got there. Samuel, fish out that duplicate seed for the fine Brother here," instructed the Captain. Harding noticed that Bresburg had drifted over to the packs and was now rummaging through bundles of materials.

"Yes sir, as soon as I can," he said, still holding the passed out Isobel's head as the doctor inserted what looked a lot like a miniature chicken egg into the empty eye socket. Doctor Barbara meticulously set it, then focused for a moment. Harding sensed the smallest hint of spirit movement in the air. She then reached over and grabbed some gauze. "Lift up her head a little," she told Samuel. When he did, she placed a thin, wooden tray over the eye and then wrapped Isobel's head with the gauze to hold it all in place.

Once Samuel was excused by the doctor, he walked over to one of their packs. He reached in, rummaged around and pulled out a vividly blue godseed. It looked like Harding’s practice voidseed, but there was a thin copper band around it and inside the glass swirled a dense cloud of bright blue gas. It emitted light making the whole sphere give off the faintest haze of blue light. Samuel handed the godseed to Bresburg who then returned to them with the staff and seed.

"For you, Sir," he said as he presented the items to Brother Rent.

"Thank you," Rent returned as he took the items. "You've a good future Bresburg. I'm no seer but I've been around enough to know a well run crew. Those are the kind that make something of themselves."

Rent addressed the room, "I wish you an uneventful recovery, one and all.''

"You and your squire there are welcome anytime," Captain Milton informed them as his wife pressed his severed arm to the stump, holding it as the grease on one interacted with the grease on the other with a faint cloud of steam. "Ah, I think I'm going to pass out, good night folks. Bresburg, take the helm," woozed Milton.

"Don't you dare move until I'm done," warned Doctor Barbara.

Rent laughed. "Goodnight," he offered again and shepherded Harding out of the station.

Standing outside, in the lamplight, Harding inspected the staff. It was solid and smooth, sealed with some kind of charcoal colored finish that was neither slick nor tacky. Each end was shod in round iron caps that had crisp edges and subtle flanges. Despite looking like raw iron, there was no sign of oxidation in the caps. To Harding it looked well made, but in no way obviously magical. "Brother Rent, thank you. I didn't want to interrupt inside, but I really appreciate you looking out for Alina."

"No problem. You've been a good page so far. Question is, have you decided," he asked.

"Decided what," Harding responded absently as he turned the staff over.

"You're debating what you are going to do in the future," explained Rent.

Harding shifted his weight from one foot to the other and stared off at the gatehouse. "It's that obvious," he asked.

Rent chuckled, "Oh yeah." He put a hand on Harding's shoulder and turned him up the street towards the temple. "You've spent more time here than you have at the temple in the last day. It's pretty obvious. Then again, perhaps I recognize it because I went through this struggle too."

Is that the sunrise starting to lighten the sky?

They started walking up the street together at a slow pace as Rent counseled, "My advice, don't rush the decision. Everyone's out there right now, trying to be the next big thing. They're defining themselves while they're still ignorant of the possibilities."

Harding nodded to himself. He wanted to fight, he would need to fight, but he'd seen stuff today that made him question what was right for him. Gathering more experience wouldn't hurt, but neither would investigating his options. One thing was tugging at his mind though.

"Brother Rent, thank you for the staff. I really appreciate it. They called it 'magic', what does that mean," he asked.

“That it’s magic.”

“But does it do something?”

“It magically acts as a staff.”

Harding rolled his eyes.

“What does that mean though?”

“Wrong question. The right question is how to use it.”

“Yeah, fine, that.”

Damn I’m tired…

Rent started over, “Bob taught you how to key, correct?"

"What do you mean key," asked a confused Harding.

"Oh boy, you definitely should spend more time at the temple.”

Harding glared.

The monk warned, “There's thousands of swordsmen out there. Some of them have been training all their lives, they're fully seeded and have the body of an ogre. You aren't going to compete with them at their game.”

If you're not the best, all over again.

Rent continued, “If you’re not on a good team, you’ll be crushed. So what are you going to bring to a good team that they need? Leaving the temple ignorant and unskilled won't help you any, just get you killed while being surrounded by fools."

They'd reached the start of the hill up to the temple and Rent stopped and faced Harding. "Take the staff in your hand. Reach out with your spirit body and explore it. As with your body, do not assume the staff’s physical surface is immutable.”

Harding tried to reach inside it but accomplished nothing. As he did so, Rent guided him, “Think of it like a voidseed. You’re not trying to penetrate it. Instead merge with it and feel it as though it is part of you. Just flow wit-… yes, there, you’ve got it.”

Harding could see nothing different.

“The interior borders should feel… squishy,” Rent added. “Solid, yet hollow. A thin sleeve of resistance wrapped around a racing core. It should be easier to flood the middle than to penetrate the edges."

Harding looked at the monk in confusion. "I did it, but I don't understand what that does or how that makes the staff magical."

“You’re on the right track, but asking the wrong questions again. Magic items don’t do magic, they’re optimized for magic. They’re inanimate objects and therefore cannot have their own magic.” He paused, lips pursed. “Well, except when they do, but that’s a whole other thing.”

Harding rolled his eyes and tried again. He hadn’t ever tried to have his spirit interact with a mundane item and lacked comparison, but the staff felt aggressively responsive. As he tried Rent chuckled while watching him and added, “They essentially took a select type of wood and cored it hollow, then filled it with some spirit-affinity material. Some kind of soft metal most likely, so it doesn’t break when flexed. The really nice ones have braided cores. Extra durable. The caps do improve it as a weapon, but they are just there to cover up the ends. It's the core that allows it to affect the spirit realm.”

“Spirit realm? So they’re good against ghosts,” Harding asked absently as he moved the staff back and forth while trying to feel how his spirit awareness shifted with it. He winced, realizing he had repeated Arnold‘s day one question.

“No. Well, yes actually, but no,” Rent sighed. “Have you done any studying? Next class, ask Roberts what Spirit means, just don't tell him I said to ask."

Harding smirked at the obvious trap.

Rent continued his instruction, seemingly enjoying the change of pace. "Engulf the staff again and retract it, like you’re pulling the staff inside of you. Will it to be insubstantial. Make its physical manifestation simply part of your spirit body. "

Harding tried a few times, feeling like an idiot as he unconsciously wiggled the staff with his effort. It slipped a few times from his hands even, but there were few people on the early morning street to watch his failure.

And then it just disappeared.

"What, woah, where'd it go," asked Harding excitedly.

"Where were you pulling it," was Rents response.

"Inside me," Harding replied hesitantly. "Wait, no way, I put a giant staff inside me?"

Rent choked. "None of my business what you do with it…"

Harding's facial response made Rent laugh harder. "Ok, concentrate on the staff appearing in your hand."

Harding focused, but nothing happened. He tried again and again, becoming panicked at the lack of success. "What if it's stuck in me," he worried.

Rent laughed harder.

"Your problem isn't technique, it's belief," he diagnosed.

Frustrated, Harding retorted, "What's religion got to do with it?”

"Despite the fact you're using divinely gifted magic in manipulating your spirit body's manifestation to write over the laws of the physical world? Oh, absolutely nothing,” he chortled. “You just fundamentally misunderstand faith. That seems to be your major hurdle, you think you know things and that limitation prevents you from exercising actual will. Don't act like you want it to happen, assume absolutely that it already has."

Harding tried a few more times, then looked at Rent with frustration. "It's fine,” Rent assured him, “You'll get it eventually. You've got limited storage but it won't hurt anything to be in there for a while. The ability to store and retract something from the spirit body is fundamental Spiritualism. Nothing major, mind you, just technically it's a form of spirit manipulation. You'll see it a lot with powerful shapeshifters. They store all kinds of nasty surprises inside their spirit gates. How do you think an animal-form shifter keeps his gear?"

Harding glared. "So I swallowed this staff into my spirit and can't get it out as an object lesson about a side-ability some people find useful?"

"Yep," Rent grinned, the tip of his tongue in his teeth. "Don't worry, it'll shake out… eventually."

Rent waved them forward and started walking again. Harding followed trying to produce the staff as they went. When they arrived at the gates into the temple, Harding finally asked the question he dreaded the most, "Alina is dead. Is she gone forever?"

Is the game that hardcore? Bart? Alina? Surely I would have heard if that were true.

"She is dead, yes, but death is just a phase of existence."