Methuselah.
One of the oldest inhabited planes in the multiverse, with a history that rivaled that of the High Federation's – indeed, the Silver Eye and the World Tree had been friends, lovers, rivals, bitter enemies, sometimes all at once, for thousands upon thousands of years. A vast tree, larger than life and stretching downwards to eternity, its roots snarled into the fabric between planes, that place of storms and imagination and possibility. It was this which nourished it. Which allowed entire forests, continental offshoots of trees of a million makes, to root on its branches. Entire cities were built on Methuselah's branches, drooped off of overhangs, sailed from place to place on leaves the size of starships. Wars were fought, and contained, on the tree alone. Within its trunk lived colonies of dwarves and molemen and dark elves and other folk who, instead of deep underground, lived within the tree’s interior, carving holes and sap-bled tunnels. Lives were lived and ended on Methuselah, with the people never once seeing the multiverse, despite the World Tree's influence upon the rest of reality.
It was here that the Two Hundred Thousandth-and-Third Interplanar Auction of Triceradeus was being held. The Auction, named in honor of the legendary Triceradeus, guildmaster of the Acting Kings, changed hosts every year, traveling from plane to plane, collecting wonders and artifacts from the breadth of reality.
(Stolen and otherwise.)
It was also tradition for the auction to be held within a guildhall, for the Acting Kings were among the first guilds to be founded and given a guild charter, and Triceradeus had been one of the first signatories of the Law of InterGuild.
And who better to host this auspicious event than Blue Sky Waiting, one of the largest and most powerful guilds in the multiverse?
…
…
It was a fucking nightmare, in Haemosu's opinion.
Any good guild worth its salt had an empty guildhall. An empty guildhall meant one of two things: either there weren't any members in the guild, or the good majority of its makeup was out in the multiverse on work. In Blue Sky Waiting's case, it was the latter. The Interplanar Auction was coming up, and all that he had to his name for security was...
Six.
Six guildmembers.
Including himself, yes, and including the guildmaster, which would be enough to dissuade most of the smaller guilds from doing anything funny. But it was a skeleton crew, to oversee security and make sure no one snooped into the more... private areas, of Oracle's Aviary.
The warlock passed by the security automatons that patrolled the halls. Drebulon's work. At least there were more than six bodies, for this. If not for the Makooran, Haemosu would have protested more heavily to Aldr Fatebreaker.
The guildmaster's office was located just down the hall from the observatory. Its cherry doors swung open without Haemosu's need to knock. The sound of songbirds filled the room, for Aldr Fatebreaker's office was as much a garden as it was a study. The ground here was loam and grass and wild flowers. Shelf trees from the Flyleaf Forest lined the walls, or grew hither and thither, and held Aldr's books and tomes and random trophies from his many adventures. The very desk that the Fatebreaker was kneeling over grew out of the ground, roots rising up and forming a roughly flat surface topped with the endless paperwork of the average guildmaster.
“Sir,” Haemosu said, “It's almost ready.”
Two eyes swiveled up to look at Haemosu. The third, the one on Aldr's forehead, continued staring down at what he was writing. He was wearing sky-colored robes today, and they reflected the afternoon outside, with its lazy traveling clouds and bright blue affect.
“Ah,” Aldr said, “Good.”
Another few awkward moments passed. Haemosu crossed his arms, leaned against one of the shelf trees. Even now, weeks before the auction, he was wearing armor, his sword at his side. Aldr Fatebreaker smiled.
“Everything alright, my boy?” he asked.
“Nervous, is all,” Haemosu said.
“If it makes you feel better, I am too,” Aldr Fatebreaker said.
“That doesn’t exactly put me at ease,” Haemosu said.
“I suppose it doesn’t,” Aldr Fatebreaker said.
He sat up straight.
“It's been almost a hundred years since we've hosted the Auction,” he said, “And I was much more prepared back then. Not that I don't doubt your abilities, my friend.”
“But you had more people.”
“We technically have more guards here, this go-around,” Aldr said, “Back then, there were thirty guildmates protecting Oracle’s Aviary.”
“Thirty,” Haemosu said, “Versus six.”
He let the statement hang in the air. Aldr did, too, letting Haemosu ruminate and collect his thoughts. The warlock pushed his black hair, scored through with cyan, out of his face.
“I just think,” he said, “That there’s a lot that can go wrong here, sir.”
“Of course,” Aldr said.
“I think you’re underestimating the guilds that are going to be involved here. I saw the rosters. Pantheon’s here. The Amber Foundation’s bringing in some of their heavy hitters. Hell, even Ultan…”
“Let me deal with him,” Aldr said, his voice dark.
“There’s a chance that this will be disastrous,” Haemosu pressed, “It’ll be chaos.”
At this, Aldr smiled wanly.
“Isn’t that what all guilds are?” he said, “Controlled chaos.”
***
“Eight members, Myron,” Wakeling said, “Are you sure?”
“I am,” Becenti said, “It's required.”
The two guildmembers sat in Wakeling's study. The sky above reflected the outside world, and distant Darkheld staring back at them with its fires and ruined cities, for the eln meia were busy expanding and conquering the entirety of the Landmass. Rumors were beginning to flutter in that they were eyeing the inner portion of Moadma, and they were starting to set Scuttleway on edge.
“Ichabod,” Wakeling read out from his proposal, “Urash, Archenround... Good lord, link up with Petra on Methuselah, to use her influence on the Auction?”
She looked up at him.
“For Commodore Shelley?” she said.
“One of his officers is going to be attending on his behalf,” Becenti said, “That's what Petra, Gouffant, and Orion are for.”
“Myron,” Wakeling said, “We're already stretched thin as it is. We've got three other jobs lined up that we could use Urash alone on.”
“I know it's a big ask,” Becenti said, “But Urash is one of our best magicians.”
“He and Petra hate each other.”
“He and Petra,” Becenti said, “Are both professionals.”
The two held in silence. Wakeling studied Becenti's face for a long time. It had been two months since he had returned from Ganá:yeht. The others had recovered well enough. Joe had just returned from a job in the north, in Mantis Shrimp. Nasir and Iandi were somewhere out in the Silver Eye. Even Aldreia was out, working with Professor Morandus on an archaelogical dig in the Eona-Umani Paradigm.
But not Becenti. He had been sequestered to Castle Belenus. Recovering. Hardly speaking to anyone else. Taking his meals in his room, only coming out to assign jobs, or to scold Lazuli.
Wakeling sighed.
“What's going on with this Shelley fellow, Myron?” she said, “This is the fourth job we've taken from him.”
“He is a repeat client,” Becenti said, “A good thing.”
“He is also an Commodore of the High Federation,” Wakeling said, “He's got other resources to do the… sorts of things he's asking us to do.”
“It's security for the Auction,” Becenti said, “Nothing more.”
“This looks more like a chimera,” Wakeling said, “A few people to play guild politics. A few to muscle in. A few to pull off a heist.”
She tilted her head forward.
“You're expecting this to blow up in your face, aren't you?”
Becenti grimaced. A dark sort of anger rippled in his eyes.
“Yes,” he admitted.
“You know,” Wakeling said, and the paper moved as though it were in her hand, as she shook it, “There's a reason why we usually don't play security for the Auction. It's dangerous business.”
“I'm aware.”
“What's there, that you're not telling me?” Wakeling said, “What is Commodore Shelley so concerned about?”
“He's asked for it to be made confidential,” Becenti said.
“I'm not asking him,” Wakeling said, “I'm asking you.”
Becenti blinked.
“Don't think I don't know that you're in private communication with him,” Wakeling said, “That job you sent Joe on, to that undiscovered plane. It was for something related to the recent... rumors, of the Sons of Darwin returning. Is this one of those, too? Were the others?”
The metahuman looked away. His mouth creased into a thin frown. Wakeling shook her head.
“Myron,” she said, “I... I understand, that you've been having a rough few months. Trust me, I do. But this-”
She presented the paper.
“I don't like this,” she said, “You're using the guild as a... a blunt tool. To do what the Federation won't. You're putting your guildmates' lives on the line.”
“He pays well,” Becenti said.
“Oh, he pays very well,” Wakeling said, “More than a Commodore's salary. Shelley's putting his life savings into this endeavor. It's only for the money, and the payout, that I'm allowing you to assign so many people to this.”
She leaned in, tilted her head down level to Becenti’s field of view.
“But if I feel that the guild is putting too much at risk by taking these sorts of contracts, I'm putting Shelley on the blacklist.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Are we clear?”
Becenti's face had gone flat. When he spoke, it was terse.
“Crystal, guildmaster.”
(How she hated when people called her like that.)
“Good,” Wakeling said, “Now. Go assign your people. I'll get in contact with Petra. You're dismissed.”
***
Gaiusaia was a planet in the Milky Way, a distant world that was far from Prime. In stark constrast to the Silver Eye, the Milky Way was a relatively empty galaxy, home to a few lonely High Federation outposts, perhaps a few lifeforms that merited some measure of intelligence. But the Federation was already stretched thin with governing its own worlds and the planes of the multiverse, and as such had few resources to spare to colonizing and exploring Prime's host.
A perfect place for the remaining Sons of Darwin to set up home. Gaiusaia was a swampworld, with red rain that made the mist glow scarlet. Humid and harsh, the denizens of the planet, Darwinist scientists who had chosen to flee than be absorbed into the Federation's research branches, lived within bulbous domes on the planet's surface. They were not the glass-like fish bowls like some other terraformed colonies that Manny had seen. These were clustered things, growths upon metal growths, ugly and strange on an ugly and strange landscape.
To Manny, it was home.
He sat on a table in Doctor Matergabia's lab, which she kept unlit, the only source of light being the neon vials and alembics she kept around for her own experiments. But Manny did not need light to see. He had gotten new eyes installed recently, Dusktiger's eyes, and he saw without need for mechanicall aid. Matergabia had been dabbling more in organic tech as of late, and Manny found he quite enjoyed his new vision.
She was at her desk, looking over a series of readouts coming from the needle implanted in Manny's arm. A few more were positioned on his shoulders. He stared at her as she worked, keying in a few parameters for her experiment. A woman from the Soviet Union. She had worked with the superhero Red Iron long ago, before the war, but had turned and joined the Darwinists when the Manticore's forces loomed over Prime.
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She never said why.
She pushed back a gray curl out of her eyes, adjusted her glasses, and spoke.
“Alright, Manny,” she said, “Lift your arm up by ninety degrees.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
He lifted his arm.
“Now, flex.”
Manny did so. A solid bulge of muscle pushed out beneath his skin. Half of it was from his workout regimen. Half of it was from the furthered experiments that Doctor Matergabia had been doing upon him as of late. Jericho always made fun of him for it.
“Hard work hardly works, right?” his friend laughed, “Maybe I should get me a good doctor, implant me with all sorts of gooey business.”
Manny had rolled his eyes.
“Alright,” Doctor Matergabia's voice snapped him back to attention, “I think this is good. You're holding together.”
She looked at him with sharp, gray eyes.
“How do you feel?”
“Fine,” Manny said, “No pain.”
“We'll see how your newfound strength goes with your next job,” Doctor Matergabia siad, “You'll need it.”
Manny nodded. An auction, on far-off Methuselah. He'd never been.
“What is the plane like?” he asked.
Doctor Matergabia snorted.
“It's a giant tree,” she said, “Nothing else.”
Manny blinked. Felt his heart rate quicken at the thought of it.
“And... people live on it?”
“Yes, Manny,” Doctor Matergabia said.
“...What kind of tree is it?”
At this, Doctor Matergabia rolled her eyes.
“Does it matter?” she said, “You're going there.”
“I-I know,” Manny said, “But...”
He wasn't sure how to put it. This feeling. The idea of going to some far-off place, to see the multiverse.
“I'm curious,” he said.
Doctor Matergabia stopped writing in her observations. She turned, again, to face Manny, studying his face.
“You're not supposed to be 'curious,'” she said, “Been reading more of those adventure books, haven't you?”
Manny shrugged.
Doctor Matergabia sighed. Rubbed her eyes. It was late, and Manny was due to ship off in the morning.
“It's a cutting of the first tree in the multiverse,” she said, “Or, so the locals say.”
Manny sat up straighter at that. His eyes widened.
“I... see,” he said, and he tried to hide the excitement in his voice.
“Now, what the locals say, and what science says, don't always align,” Doctor Matergabia said, “They talk up the tree quite a bit. How it's one of the oldest beings existence. How in some parts it's a pine, others an oak, further more juniper. How...”
She looked over. Noted, again, that Manny was leaning to listen.
Noted how he hung on every word.
She snorted. Could not hide her smile.
“It is said,” she said, “That its sap, one of the rarest substances in the multiverse, were used to entrap the Manticore.”
At this, Manny wilted. A reminder of his mission.
“The Auction there,” he said, “I'm to retrieve the item there.”
“Of course,” Doctor Matergabia said.
“...Can I stay a bit longer after?” Manny said, “I want to see the trees.”
The Doctor shook her head.
“No, Manny,” she said, “You'll have to be quick. We're expecting it to get hot there. Get in, get out.”
And her sharp features relaxed, just slightly.
“Perhaps,” she said, “I can find some old books about the place. I'm sure there are some in the library.”
Manny perked up at this.
“I would like that,” he said, and he broke into a wide grin.
“Good,” Doctor Matergabia said, and she was relieved by how quick he was to agree to her compromise. Perhaps it was because he was going to Methuselah itself...
“Now,” she said, “Lift your arm again. There's a few micro-adjustments I need to make. It won't take long.”
Manny did so.
A few minor tweaks, here and there.
And he was ready.
***
In truth, Ichabod was not relishing having to leave Castle Belenus.
He was thinking about the coming job as he and Oris Vicenorn had their picnic in Pelkerson's Park. He watched as a few teenagers, two humans and a goblin, were hanging out by the fountain, the goblin walking along the fountain's edge, one of the humans every so often running her hand across the water's surface.
Vicenorn did not need to eat. A Braindoll, his body was artificial, though it took the form of a large man with a mechanical arm from Kelstonda, which could flip into a variety of implements he used for his engineering work. He instead jacked a small tube into his shoulder, filled with a bright green liquid, that slowly churned downwards to provide nutrients to his brain, the only thing that he needed to keep going.
Still, he missed eating. Eating, and his red beard. They had spent the last six months buying synthetic skin for his new frame after the old one had been destroyed on Neos during a raid on the Tower of Eden, guildhall of Pantheon. His old body had been able to eat. Had been able to digest, do all of those things that made Vicenorn 'human.'
(Or, at least, what he thought humanity to be.)
So he didn't look at the plug as it churned away. He rubbed a beardless face, cherubic and smooth, and winced.
Ichabod only sipped at his thermos of coffee. He didn't like eating around Vicenorn. But he leaned against the large man's arm, nonetheless, the two of them enjoying some measure of peace. The sounds of the city went away, just a bit, when they were here. Pelkerson's Park was a famous meeting place for those who needed a break from the urban bustle of Scuttleway. A slice of nature in a district of chaos.
“How long?” Vicenorn asked.
“I don't know,” Ichabod said, “A few weeks.”
He sipped at his coffee.
“Taking quite the team, too,” he continued, “Urash, Archenround, Vespa. Meeting Petra there, too.”
“Petra?” Vicenorn said, “Petra Balishen?”
“The very same,” Ichabod replied, “Urash is livid.”
“Anyone else?”
“Orion, Gouffant, and Dama Runebreaker are going, too,” Ichabod said, “Becenti's sending them to act as security for the client.”
“And the rest of you aren't?”
Ichabod was quiet at that.
Vicenorn sighed. He knew the answer to that question. The Auction was never peaceful. There was a reason why it was powerful guilds like Blue Sky Waiting that hosted the events.
“I should go with you,” Vicenorn said.
“What?” Ichabod said, “No, no, don't you even think on it.”
He wagged a mechanical finger.
“This is going to get dangerous.”
“Which is precisely why-”
“You shouldn't be there,” Ichabod interrupted. Vicenorn looked taken aback. One disadvantage to going beardless was that Ichabod could more easily see the emotion on his face. The hurt. Ichabod grimaced, standing up and pacing on the grass. He took off his sunglasses and looked at Vicenorn with glass eyes.
“I need you here,” he said, “Where I know you'll be safe.”
“And I need to be there,” Vicenorn said, “So I know... so I know I can keep you safe.”
“I still remember Neos,” Ichabod said, “And there'll be more dangerous people than that damned fox. Becenti's sending some of our best for this.”
Vicenorn was quiet.
“We just spent all of our money to get you that new frame,” Ichabod said, “Hair's going to be a bit expensive, but we're... we're getting there. I don't want to have to start from scratch again.”
“Alright, Ichabod,” Vicenorn said, “You don't have to say anything else. I understand.”
Worlds in those words. Ichabod was not sure whether to be relieved or hurt. He felt a knot of emotion in his stomach, all the same.
“I have to meet with Vespa,” Ichabod said, “I need to go over some security business with her. Meet for dinner?”
“Yeah,” Vicenorn said, “Of course.”
They kissed goodbye, and Ichabod went off.
…
…
Vicenorn stayed in the park for a long time, thinking.
Thinking, and worrying.
***
No one knew what plane Vespa came from. Some distant one. Nameless, or at least unpronouncable in her native tonuge of buzzing and chittering. For Vespa was a hive of hornets. Hundreds of them at at time, she was among the more unsettling members of the guild. Ichabod had to suppress an urge to flee as he approached her. She was at the top of the lighthouse, with Rosemary. Rosemary's sceptre was positioned at its usual spot on a hole in the railing, collecting sunlight. Vespa was spread out around her, hornets resting on the elf's shoulders and nestled in her hair, on the rails, a couple fluttering lazily about. The queen of the hive was on Rosemary's shoulder. Ichabod had once thought that the queen was Vespa's 'core,' yet every few years a new one was birthed, the old one was eaten, and Vespa remained the same.
He tried not to think about that.
Rosemary noted the mechanical man stepping out onto the lighthouse's pier. She broke into a wide smile.
“Why, Ichabod!” she said, “Finally trying to get a tan?”
“Why, Rosemary!” Ichabod said, “You should join me. Take off that cloak of yours, eh?”
Not much of an insult on the outside, but Rosemary went red at his words. She almost never took off the cloak in public, to better cover herself, to cover twin scars on her back, just below her shoulder blades. Even when she wore her blouses or armor, she wore it.
She turned away, quite put off, indeed. Ichabod sneered, gesturing around.
“Vespa,” he said, “I have need of you.”
“Of course,” the voice came from every hornet. A chorus of buzzes, churning together into melodies and song, resembling something vaguely human, “See you, Rosemary.”
“Uh, yeah,” Rosemary said, glum, “See you.”
The hornets congregated together into a massive flying pile of carapace and wings. Ichabod started his way back down the stairs. Spiraling down and down, the lighthouse had only one worker, who only manned the building at night, or during heavy storms. All other times, it was left to Rosemary and whoever she decided to bring up.
“You should say nice things,” Vespa's voice rang.
“I merely bit back,” Ichabod said, “That's all.”
“Perhaps I'll tell Vicenorn.”
“Don't you dare,” Ichabod said, “He and I have already talked about it.”
“Then you should say nice things,” Vespa repeated.
The swarm rippled in amusement. Ichabod shook his head.
“Look,” he said, “I wanted to go over the travel plan with you.”
“You're not stuffing me in a box again, are you?” Vespa asked.
“What?” Ichabod said, “No.”
“Good,” Vespa said, and she shivered in something between amusement, fear, and anger, “That would not be good.”
“We're going to be going on one of our client's ships,” Ichabod said, “A Fedtek vessel. They've already been briefed about the membership.”
“And they are alright with me?” Vespa asked.
“I suppose they'll have no choice but to be,” Ichabod said.
A pause.
“Why is Becenti sending me on this mission?” the swarm asked.
“Because you're perfect for what we have in mind,” Ichabod said.
“And that is?”
Ichabod sneered.
“You're our scout,” he said, “Our observation unit. No tech necessary. You'll get a good idea of what it is we'll need to grab. And if anyone gets in your way, swarm them. Mob them.”
Another pause. Vespa was thinking.
“We should do nice things,” she said.
“Were the world a better place,” Ichabod said, only half-mockingly, “Unfortunately, it's not.”
Hundreds of eyes stared at Ichabod. He sighed.
“If it makes you feel better,” he said, “Most of the violence should be coming from Archenround.”
***
Blades flashed in the practice room. Archenround and Orion were sparring, Mekke watching the proceedings. Orion's single longsword, swathed in fire, sometimes in stone, sometimes whipping up lines of water, clashed against Archenround's blessed Sign-Blades.
Orion grunted as Archenround put him on the defensive. He skipped back, dancer-like, as the beaten up old street signs, stamped into axe-like swords, swung at him. Archenround's lower body was that of a serpent's, twisting and coiling, and he was one who paid attention to his opponent's footwork.
Hard to do, when your opponent had no feet.
And yet his blade flashed. Took on the aspects of wind, and he found himself whirling faster as he regained control of their little duel. He parried one shot, then another, and then with a titanic thrust forced her back. His sword encrusted with earth, becoming heavier, and he spun, slamming it like a hammer. Archenround brought her Sign-Blades together to block the blow. Three swords sounded like a gong. The demon grimaced, as Orion hit the ground, kicking out a foot and cracking it against her side. She went down.
Far too easily.
“Alright, enough!” Mekke called out, “Enough!”
Orion breathed heavily as he dispelled the earth from his blade, which fell to the floor as dirt, before dissolving completely. He held out a hand out to Archenround, who took it. The demon was looking away, anger written on her face.
Not at him.
At herself.
“It's that side again,” Mekke said, “You're opening yourself up too much.”
I am aware, Archenround signed to her, and her fingers were jittering and frustrated.
“Your offense is getting better, at least,” Orion said, “You almost had me.”
It used to be more, Archenround signed, I used to be more.
Ever since Mordenaro.
“And you'll get back up to that point,” Mekke said, “You know that.”
Archenround glared hard at the wall. She picked up her Sign-Blades off of the ground. Recovered after her battle with Mordenaro, they still felt uneven in her hands. She felt uneven. She kept tipping to the side, as though her body had lost the ability to right itself. It was exhausting.
And yet, she was Archenround. She would make do. She had to make do.
She slithered back to her starting place. Turned to Orion, and raised her swords.
Orion smiled, and fire bloomed from his blade.
And the two clashed again.
***
Urash Belgone heard word that Petra Balishen was going to be joining them, and immediately went down to the Horrid Welt. Dama Runebreaker and Gouffant joined him, watching him drain mug after mug of heavy drink.
“That damnable hag,” he said to his mug of ale, “Why Becenti chose her, of all people...”
He drained his mug.
“It won't be so bad,” Dama Runebreaker said, across from him at the table, “Most likely you'll be in the thick of things, and she'll be smoothing things over.”
“Oh huh!” Urash spat, “Of course, she's the one who talks. And sucks up to the bigwigs. And swallows, too.”
Dama Runebreaker scrunched up her face at his insults. Urash slammed his mug on the table.
“More!” he called out.
The rest of the tavern was already at its fever pitch. Cobalt Joe was dancing in the boxing ring with one of the local favorites, an orc the size of a barge. The crowd was roaring and jeering, laughing as Joe slipped past one of the orc's jabs, returning it with a punch of his own. Music was playing, and the two boxers split off in time to the heavy drums that thundered in everyone's ribcages.
Urash rolled his eyes. Took out his spellrod, muttered a spell, one of the gems set in the metal bar growing dark.
“MORE!” he roared, and this time his voice was ten times as loud, echoing with magic. The entire crowd, save for the two boxers, recoiled. The music stopped playing.
One of the servers, rolling her eyes, walked over and poured him out a new drink. Urash took it, tenderly nursing it in a single hand, glaring at it like it had killed his mother. The music started up again, and the crowd let out a loud whoop as the orc crossed Joe up, downing him.
Dama Runebreaker watched the metahuman crawl to the ropes, the referee calling out a countdown. Watched as he climbed up to his feet, shaking his head. Nodded and counted out the ref's fingers. Then, slamming his gloved fists together, he was back in the ring.
“Yuh, it makes sense,” Gouffant the rat said. He was chewing on a large piece of meat, his loud smacking being the only thing able to make it over the din of the Welt, “Of all the Far Travelers, she'd be the one going to an auction. You don't see Nash or Trinimorius going to one of those.”
“I don't care if it 'makes sense,'” Urash muttered, “I care that I have to see that contemptible witch again.”
“Maybe don't call her a witch,” Dama Runebreaker said, “Maybe you should watch your tongue.”
She was glaring at him, fed up with his antics. Urash rolled his eyes, drained his last mug, before slamming it on the table.
“Enough of this,” he said, “You two are poor company.”
He stomped off, swaying not a bit from so much strong drink. Dama Runebreaker looked to Gouffant. His ears flickered, his version of a shrug.
“Exes, am I right?” he said, “At least you and Aldreia get along fine enough.”
“Hmm, true,” Dama Runebreaker said.
The two watched the spar continue. Watched as Joe got a few good hits in, before leaping back from the orc’s reach.
“Do you think it'll be a good auction?” Gouffant asked.
“With the Fatebreaker in charge?” Dama Runebreaker said, “That old man? Not a chance in hell.”