I try to comfort Alanea as slyly as I can in the hopes of letting her know I understand, and accept what’s about to happen, “Alanea, I do indeed trust that you trust me. I hope that whatever actions I take while guarding you home tonight leave us friends on the morrow. I will see you safely home. I won’t accept failure in that regard. It’s very sweet of you to worry about such a, koff, hypothetical, koff, event. Chin up Alanea dearling.”

I use an affectation I’ve heard passed between certain people in the Hidden Heart, dearling, in order to try to drive home that I really understand it has something to do with what’s going on around here. I suppose the word is a simple portmanteau of deer and darling. I know she knows I’m not from the Hidden at the Heart of the Wilds, so hopefully she understands that it’s a local affectation I’m using in the moment in order to deliver my hint.

Alanea nods and wears a forlorn smile. She clasps my right hand as we begin our walk, and she mutters a thankful affirmation, “I, well, well yes of course we’ll still be friends on the morrow. Well, I know that bodyguards might have to do some nasty violent things sometimes. Well, I mean, I already know you can break limbs in an instant. Err, well, so, so it’s not like I’m hesitant to be your friend with, well, all that power in your handsome, eek, I mean uh, something else. Well, I meant some other word. Not that you’re not handsome, or are, or, um, ack.”

She withdraws her hand to facepalm as she blushes madly. I fight the humor as I attempt to wear a neutral expression, despite the smile attempting to play across my face. That’s honestly about as bad as me with Fawn’s At Sunsets, the cat tribe matron who happens to be an inveterate flirt. Phew, I’m sweating and blushing just thinking about her. I gulp and avoid eye contact with Alanea momentarily. It has been a while since anyone has seen Cherubic Reggie, at first I thought she might be stringing me along for some sort of luring me into a dangerous web kind of a deal, due to her name being a commonly mixed letter off of Aranea. Now I honestly believe she actually does find my cherubic form handsome, and is all the more upset at being about to betray me.

I ramble as we walk, “So, back home, I never truly dealt with it, but we shared stories you see. Well, it, I’ll describe what it is with one of those stories. So there’s this urchin, right? Street urchin, some child of the street who knows no life beyond stealing and hiding in dark alleys and abandoned buildings. He makes a few friends with other urchins, nothing unusual there, right? They make a game of who can brag about the best food they got since the last time they saw one another. Mostly harmless, and they deserve to live, life is harsh for them, but they make do.”

Alanea seemed wary at first, but becomes enraptured, captivated by my tale. I’m a bit surprised, since I’m doing a horrible amateur hack job of it. Still, I continue, “We’ll call the urchin, the protagonist of this story Billie. Let’s call his best friend Matt, the other street kid he has known the longest. They’d share a hideout occasionally, and genuinely enjoy each other’s company. Of course, it’s not exactly safe for street kids to congregate together in such a city as this, easier to draw the attention of whistle-blowers noticing multiple dirty children sneaking in the same direction.”

I continue glancing around, pretending to work up the suspense of where I’m going with the story. I count six presences so far that continue to accidentally bump into the edges of my danger wraps’ senses on occasion. We’re definitely being tailed, and even led, as two of them are to our fore. I pretend to clasp my heart to indicate the upcoming heartbreak.

I further narrate, “The days were always harsher in winter. Winter meant every man woman and child for themselves. Winter meant cold, snow and ice biting at your feet through tattered shoes if you even had any shoes at all. Winter meant food stores were locked tighter. Winter meant no fresh food stalls in the marketplace at all. Winter meant hungry times for children of the street. Lean times. Tough times. Billie had made it through nearly a dozen winters, perhaps eight or so since he’d lost his family as barely more than a sproutling. Matt had similarly made it through about six winters by now. Surviving any winters was a challenge for sure, but it drove the unlikelihood of their friendship home all the more so that each could appreciate it.”

I gulp back saliva and try not to grin as Alanea grips my hand tightly in anxious excitement. Nearing the end, I orate, “They were truly lucky to bump into each other again and again over the years. Billie and Matt were almost infamous as dirty streaks and sneaks about town, stealing food on a lark. As if they were doing it for pleasure. People can be so caught up in their own problems sometimes. Of course they may have taken some joy in their little game of who made the more daring escape, or who got the better food most recently, but they took no joy in the act of taking from others. They only did what they needed to survive. So many urchins if they ever got sick or injured at all would simply die with no one to feed them, or care for them. It’s truly a difficult existence. Every one of them would give up the life if they could, if they were offered up even so much as a warm cot and enough gruel every night. The mills didn’t even necessarily offer that. Children snatched off the streets were put to work in the mills, and discarded when they were too weak to continue working. Utterly dreadful. One always had to evade the authorities to avoid such a fate.”

Alanea looks tearful as she begins to understand where the story is heading. I nod as I continue, “One dreadful winter eve, Matt was caught by a constable. Now, there was the tiniest bit of coin rewarded for anyone who fed a child to the mills, figuratively speaking. Though not far off from literally speaking. The Thaddeus bunch that owned the mills profited from the free labor well enough that they could afford to offer a few copper per child that was handed over. Now, this constable was suffering lean times of his own. Winter is harsh, and people can be so caught up in their own problems sometimes. He decides to tell Matt an enticing lie. ‘If you can get me some other urchin, one as strong and healthy as you, I’ll let you go, more, I’ll feed you and let you rest near my fireplace.’ The offer was too good to be true, but, as has been said. Winter is harsh, and people can be so caught up in their own problems sometimes.”

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

I can tell I’m being led to a rather perfect series of ambush spots. I won’t know which one springs the trap. It’s fine. I glance at Alanea and she gulps. As I’m nearing the moral of the story, I may as well finish before trouble arrives, “Aye, just so. Matt, knowing no other urchin capable of surviving even a single winter save one, decides to sell out Billie. It is with a heavy sigh that I regret we near the end of our tale, an unhappy end. One with only a shining sliver of hope. Matt knew Billie for a very long time, at least in the lifespan of urchins. Matt knew where Billie was likely to be, a series of nests as the urchins liked to call them. Sneaky little hideyholes somewhere out of the cold, at least a little ways. Matt led this Constable Turner to them one by one in the dark of night. This is of course when Billie was sure to be either weary, or asleep, or both, and thus unable to evade capture. Nearing the last possible spot to check, Constable Turner made sure Matt was shackled to him, ensuring him it was for his own safety. At this point, Matt realized his error. There was no food and fireplace waiting for Matt from Constable Turner, no, only a trip to the mills.”

I draw a deep sigh. I almost half believe even my pursuers are enraptured, captivated by my story, waiting for it to end before jumping me. I allow myself a silent chuckle at the thought. I conclude, “Constable Turner dove in to the final hideyhole, and sure enough, Billie was there as he laid weary within. Constable Turner had him shackled in no time flat, and though disoriented, Billie could see that the constable had another prisoner, his old friend Matt. Billie offered a smile at Matt who cried and attempted to beg forgiveness, but Constable Turner muffled and gagged him in order to keep down the noise and not lose, or have to share, his prizes to some other constable. Billie uttered four words. ‘It’s okay, I understand.’ Billie marched quietly along with the constable and Matt, knowing that the both of them would surely die of the harsh conditions in the mill before winter's end. That is of course where our sad tale ends. On one final spark, one glimmer of hope and love. Billie’s forgiveness of Matt even in their most dire hour. Hopefully you can understand the sentiment of this story Alanea dearling.”

Alanea’s eyes flash wide. I’m unsure if she realized until now that I knew exactly what was happening. Projectiles, from too many directions at once, some will hit Alanea if I don’t do something. Grr! I intercept one with my left hip as I draw my dagger, two on my shield, one on my back, and I attempt to deflect two with my dagger. The bad news is, they’re not traditional missiles. They’re some sort of viscous globs of fast-hardening matter that are each a massive load of weight. Somehow they become more dense, and heavier as they expand. It won’t be long before I’m either completely covered, or unable to move, or crushed. Possibly all three.

My hip seizes up, worse, the glob at my hip is covering the double-ended sheathe which locks my staff away, and it has locked my left wing and the bulk of my tail to my left hip. The ones I’d attempted to deflect with my dagger trap my hand gripping my dagger tightly, and they prevent me from being able to equip my crossbow, or do anything useful with that hand. Some of their spatter hit my right scapula and wing, and that spatter is expanding rapidly now too, locking up my right wing. The globs on my shield swell and puff over the shield, reaching my forearm just barely enough that I can’t drop my now incredibly-heavy shield, as well as locking my wrist and several fingers in place.

Alanea gulps as tears stream down her cheeks. She calls out, “Well, well, there you go then! I, I did it! Well, I brought you Lullaby, an artifact! I want out! I, I very well don’t want to be a part of this! Please, well, please just leave me and Flint alone!” Her gaze turned towards me shows that she wears a mortified expression, one begging forgiveness. I flash her a smile and an ever so slight nod.

Unsurprisingly to me, but startling Alanea, Flint’s voice calls out, “Alanea, you know they, we, cannot allow that. You, we, belong to them now if we wish the safety of our students. I’m sorry, -dearling-.” He nearly spits the word, having obviously heard our conversation, but he does it not out of vitriol for Alanea. He cares for her. No, he does it to draw my attention to his face. There’s something in his eyes, a look. A similar plea for forgiveness. They’re both being extorted, and they both truly care for the wellbeing of their students.

I have f&*(ing had it with people extorting the innocent on this world! As I’m being approached by five figures, I pick Alanea up and hurl her at Flint, startling the both of them. That took a massive amount of my reserve physical energy. It was difficult, but worth it. My gaze contains a vicious order to Flint. He picks up on it and flees as Alanea arrives in his arms. I allow the sneaks to edge closer as I glance about to make certain that Flint and Alanea aren’t being followed. Let’s see just how powerful we can make this.

Heh. Subtle spell metamagic, you should be able to do it even when bound, right Reggie? That’s what Jarrah said. The wicked sneer that adorns my face causes my assailants to quiver ever so slightly. I hang my head low with my eyes closed, still wearing my malicious grin. This. This is going to be brutal, but I have to be decisive. They took my options away from me. I can barely move with how heavily I’m weighted down. Just a bit closer. I’m sorry if you’re all leaving any family behind. I’m sorry for whatever made you choose this path. I’m sorry that you’re about to die by my hand, and I understand that your lifes’ stories led you to this point. The rune finishes, and my forgiveness, my sympathy, my empathy, my sadness flood the rune. Despite the raw fury rising up within me, I struggle to maintain as calm an air as I can, and fail. Wrath, my greatest sin. I empower the rune with everything I have, and freeze my attackers solid just as they’re entering arms reach. It only takes a spin with a now heavily-weighted shield. I shatter five people, five bodies, five stories, five lives in an instant.

I vomit blood from the spelliform’s cost, and from loosing up the sick in my stomach at the brutality of the act I’ve just committed. I weep for five people that I never so much as saw the faces of before taking their lives. I weep, knowing that Flint and Alanea may not yet be safe, as these are likely not the ringleaders behind this mess. I weep for my beloved inner circle, the grief they may have over me, knowing that I may still yet die while passed out, if a wiser assailant or ringleader held back. The weighted, hardened foam has reached a density that I can no longer resist. I sink to the ground completely, helpless to even leave my own puddle of blood and sick. I continue to vomit and cry as my consciousness is stolen from me.