A Wyrm on A String

"What in the world are you wearing?"

Those were the first words the guildmaster asked her upon seeing her new disguise. She'd met up with him at one of the stables near the edge of the city, preparing to head out.

"It's a mask."

"…Obviously. But why are you wearing it?"

Pamira winced, but luckily had prepared well for this question.

"…I thought it looked cool…" she muttered quietly, as though she were suddenly embarrassed.

Better to look lame than guilty.

The guildmaster sighed. "Very well," he waved her off. Turning, he motioned for her to follow. "The others should be almost done packing the carriage by now. Do you have any other luggage?"

"Just this," she motioned to the bag she was carrying.

"Good," he nodded sharply. Then he paused. "…And for the record," he coughed into his hand awkwardly. "The mask does make you look… 'cool.'"

Feeling vaguely mortified, Palmira just nodded silently.

She hadn't wanted to tell the rest of them the real reason she was wearing the mask. Not just because she worried they'd think bad of her—if anything, they might be impressed—but because she feared being forced to stay behind.

In the end, telling Lorenzo had been a compromise, if only because it meant there was someone else in their party to cover why she'd suddenly decided to wear a mask.

She resisted the urge to poke at it, the mask an unfamiliar weight on her head. It was a 'cheap' Paluneri Mask Lorenzo had gotten her, with the only stipulation being that she didn't ask how he'd gotten it. (She assumed he stole it. She approved, one should always steal from those asshole Paluneri.) It was, like all of their masks, made of solid glass, molded in such a way that it only gave the vaguest impression of the face beneath. The glass itself was colored a dark red, with metal detailing drawing a simple pattern overtop.

Outside of Palunera the masks were normally only worn during Carnivale, which was what she was banking on. Anyone who saw the Firozzi mage wearing a Paluneri mask hopefully wouldn't realize she was originally from Iscrimo.

She'd looked at her reflection before she left the guild, and combined with her staff and mace, it made her look more like some kind of dark wizard than the fire mage she really was.

Morte had approved, unfortunately.

Soon enough they reached where the rest of the adventurers were waiting, the five others standing around a large carriage in the shape of a pumpkin that Chiarra was hooking up to her crystal horses.

"This is all of us," the guildmaster told her. "You know everyone here, right?"

"Uh, I don't think I've talked with the elf before…?"

"Right, right," the guildmaster waved over the last guild member, an elf who looked to be anywhere between 30 or 300 years old. "I suppose you've never had reason to talk. This is Johanna, a relatively recent addition to our guild. She was a landsknecht Ósma hired on some five years ago."

"Guten Tag!" The elf smiled at her. She appeared a beautiful 'young' woman, with skin as colorless as snow and pale hair which fell down her shoulders like sleet. Icy eyes peered down at her with surprising warmth. Her three-quarter armor hid the rest of her body, a combination of frosted steel and blue leather. "It's a pleasure to formally meet the girl who's been giving the fraud such a headache."

Palmira blinked. "Uh…"

"Ignore her," the guildmaster waved her off, causing the elf to give him a mock-pout. "She just doesn't like Teresa. Don't ask why, because I'm banning all personal problems until we get back to the guild. Am I understood?"

"That feels like a bad idea," Morte pointed out.

'Disagreement. If personal issues create problems, they should be efficiently disregarded,' Malocchio refuted.

"…So long as it doesn't affect me, I don't care," Palmira compromised.

Johanna smiled at her, but the guildmaster just nodded distractedly. Looking closer, he seemed a bit frazzled.

"Chiarra, are you done yet?" he called out to his half-sister. The girl made a rude gesture. "Excellent! Everyone, be prepared to leave by the next bell!"

Palmira just nodded, grip tightening around Morte's staff. She was already prepared—or, well, no, that was a lie. But she was never going to be mentally prepared, so that was a moot point.

Because after so many years, she was finally returning home.

--

They made decent progress on their way north.

The carriage was mostly for their supplies. They were preparing to spent weeks in Iscrimo, negotiating with local lords and merchants, so they needed enough supplies (and bribes) to last.

At the front of their little caravan were Chiarra and Dante, guiding the crystal horsed along the road. They were talking to quietly to hear anything, beyond the occasional swear.

Some distance behind the carriage, Anima walked with Palmira, the former teaching the latter a new dance.

"Remember, footwork first, then hips, then hands!"

Palmira frowned, trying to copy the movements the water mage was making. She took a step forward, kicking up fire beneath her feet and letting it flow up her body, curling around her waist and abdomen, before flicking it out beneath her arm like a snapping dragon.

"Like this?" she asked, frowning despite herself. That had felt right, but…

"Close!" Anima smiled, showing her where she went wrong. She repeated the dance, spinning an orb of water instead of tendrils of flame. It seemed at first the same thing Palmira had done, but at the end instead of letting the water fully leave her hand, she flicked her fingers up, yanking it back at the last moment. With that she flowed into a new dance, wielding the same single droplet of water as efficiently as any blade.

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"Do it like that," Anima told her. "If you pull back at the last moment, you change your attacks from a single action to a full dance. Remember, when it comes to movement flow is the most important thing to consider."

"I see…" Palmira muttered, looking down at her own hands. "So instead of creating a new flame for every attack, I should hold the same one as long as I can?"

"It's more efficient, sure," Morte hummed doubtfully. "However, I'd say that for your current skill level it's not something to focus on. Rather, you should pay more attention to the dance itself. Footwork is important for a warrior!"

Palmira nodded, and the two continued their training.

The distraction helped her ignore Teresa and Johanna behind her, who were… well…

"Oh me oh my!" the elven Landsknecht smirked down at the woman beside her, a hand raised to her mouth in mock offence. "Is that the same armor your father wore? How pathetic, that such a holy warrior can't afford her own protection. Have the Knights of Lycree really fallen so far?"

"This armor was blessed by Saint Ferdinand in the Holy City itself!" Teresa sneered back. "It was forged in the blood of the infidels and bestowed the divine protection of the Goddess upon three generations of my family! How do you compare to that, miss not-even-wearing-full-plate!"

"Please," Johanna rolled her eyes. "This is the height of fashion up north. Unlike that… antique you're wearing."

"Ah yes, because fashion is the most important thing you should look for in your armor."

"Of course it is~ Why wouldn't you want to look your best while slaughtering your enemies?"

"Personally, I prefer survival over style."

"Oh, do you not have faith in the Goddess' protection?"

"The Goddess protects us from evil, not our own stupidity!"

"Really? Then how are you still alive?"

"You little—!"

Right behind the two squabbling holy warriors on his bear Bella, Lorenzo sighed.

They were going to be doing this the whole way up, weren't they?

--

They stopped for the night in Fornata, a major city straddling the borders of Firozzi and Iscrimo influence.

They didn't stay longer than they had to, the guildmaster wanting them to move as quickly as possible. Apparently they were making good time, but that unfortunately wouldn't last forever.

Palmira paused her conversation with Anima as the carriage suddenly stopped. Stepping around it, she frowned. "Why are we stopping?"

"Monsters," Chiarra grinned, pointing off into the distance. "And here I was getting bored!"

"Chiarra, please," her brother sighed.

Palmira shook her head, turning to look at where they were pointing.

Some distance ahead of them were tall, wiggling… things, spewing fire and smoke into the sky. There were maybe half a dozen of them in total, though it was hard to count with how much they were moving

Anima raised an eyebrow, squinting at them. "What in the world are those?"

"Fire wyrms," Palmira told her, frowning. "They're like worms, but massive and on fire. I'm surprised they're here, though. Normally they only surface following the spring eruptions."

"Wyrms, huh?" Chiarra hummed. "I thought those were some kind of dragon?"

"Never let a dragon hear you say that. They see the Wyrms as food—it would be like saying humans and chickens are the same thing just because they're both mammals."

"Sure," Chiarra shrugged uncaringly, showcasing her remarkable lack of self-preservation. The guildmaster on the other hand turned to give Palmira a confused look, mouthing 'mammals?' to himself. "But how dangerous are they?"

Unnoticed by the two of them, Johanna stepped up beside them, unhooking her halberd.

"Alone? Not very. In a gathering this big? I think it'd be best to go around. They're either fighting over territory or mating right now, and I don't want to get in the way of either. It's best to just ignore them."

Johanna raised it high, aiming it at the distant Wyrms.

"Gah, why are you so boring? We're adventurers! We fight monsters! I say we charge straight in and slaughter them."

"Palmira's right, Chiarra," the guildmaster shook his head. "We're on a timetable. And, more importantly, we won't be getting paid if we do kill them. Let's leave it for someone else to—"

A sudden cold snap caused all of them to stop talking, causing them all to turn to Johanna, who's halberd was now practically drowning in frozen energy. Then she took a step back, flexed her arm, and threw.

The halberd sailed through the sky at near supersonic speed, before slamming into the center of the Wyrm pack like a god of winter.

The resulting blast of frost left the surrounding area a frozen wasteland and left the Wyrms as macabre ice sculptures, like frozen fingers reaching hopelessly into the sky.

Palmira shivered, frigid winds buffeting them from even as far away as they were.

"…Impressive," the guildmaster said dryly, causing Johanna to send smug smirk at Teresa. "That said, how exactly do you plan on getting that back?"

Johanna was much less smug after that.