Chapter 38 – An Arsonist and a Necromancer Finally Get Paid

Dawn slowly broke upon Firozzi, soft sunlight bathing the city’s ancient streets in rays of gold as humans and dwarves and all manner of person rose to greet the day. Ambrosi guards relieved the tired night watch, nodding good morning to the merchants setting up their stalls. The smells of freshly baked bread mixed with the frying of hams and chicken as bakers and butchers prepared for the morning rush, their first customers the Capparelli laborers on their way to work on one of the Famiglia’s many new projects. Not far behind them, Gennarelli clerks and artisans grumbled as they unlocked their doors and opened their shops, the wealthiest among them indulging in luxuries of coffee and fresh fruits and all manner of morning spice.

Despite the early hour the city was more alive than it had been in weeks. The Autumn Harvest was finally over and with the mild winter of the south fast approaching people were flooding into the city from all across the countryside. Noble aristocrats, farmers and their nymphs, and even the monks and nuns of the surrounding monasteries all poured into the city, booking out inns and hostels and dusty attics as the city’s population nearly doubled in preparation for the coming feasts and festivities of late Autumn.

As the city awoke, some of the earliest risers were treated to a strange sight. A young girl half on fire ran through the streets of Firozzi, for a single moment disturbing the rote routines of those who witnessed her passing. Covered head to toe in heavy armor and with a necromancer’s staff strapped to her back, sparks flew from her feet with every step she took, flames launching her forward far faster than any normal human could possibly match. Some worried where such a strange person might be running to so early, until they saw the insignia of her guild painted on her back and realized it was just an adventurer acting odd, as they all did. The mystery solved, they returned to their business and put the girl out of their minds.

Palmira di Firozzi, for her part, wasn’t cognizant of the stares following her through the streets. Mostly because she was trying not to pass out from exhaustion as she finally completed her last lap through the city.

It had been several weeks since her party had returned from the city of Iscrimo. Though their arrival couldn’t exactly be called ‘triumphant’ the promise of more work in the north had been cause for celebration from the rest of her guild. The funk that had gripped them following the loss of their patrons in the Ambrosi and Cadorna Famiglias had finally been shaken off, and her fellow adventurers had since thrown themselves back into their training with gusto.

Unfortunately, that training also included her.

Palmira skidded to a stop, sparks flying as she scorched the ground beneath her feet. Gasping for breath, she tore off the helmet and tossed it to the ground with a groan. Though she was a fire mage—and therefore at no risk of overheating—the burn of her muscles and the musty air of the helmet were more than enough to make her eager to tear the oversized plate mail off and go back to bed.

“Ah, so you’ve finally returned,” a soft voice chittered beside her, her current teacher making herself known. “And here I worried you’d collapsed on the side of some road.”

Palmira could barely hear her, continuing to heave great lungfulls of air, smoke pouring from her lips with every breath. She was so tired she could barely think, but once she’d gathered herself enough she turned to look at the other woman.

Asu Rana stared at her with a critical eye, lounging as she was on a hammock of pure sunlight. As a Kwari—one of the many insect-people of the far south—her undivided attention was always a bit unnerving. Her bright blue compound eyes were incapable of blinking, and combined with the muted red and green silks she draped herself with she looked equal parts inhuman and untouchable.

Though such an image was dispersed the moment she opened her mouth.

“You’ve gotten faster, yar’uwa,” she encouraged her softly, mandibles twisting into an uncanny smile. “But speed is not the goal, pacing is. Your last lap was as long as the past three combined.”

Palmira winced, even as she finally let herself fall to the smoldering dirt. “I’m sorry, Signora Rana. I got impatient and thought I was close enough to the end that I could finish early. That… was a mistake.”

“I told you this would happen!” A voice from the staff on her back suddenly chimed in. “But did you listen? No~”

Palmira scowled, reaching behind her to unclip the staff. The skull which was attached to the top of her catalyst almost seemed to grin in smug delight at her suffering.

“Shut up Morte,” she scowled, sending him a glare with no heat. “You’re complaining didn’t make things any easier, you know!”

“Well then, maybe next time you’ll listen when I tell you to slow down!”

Asu Rana simply, sighed, standing and dismissing her hammock with the flick of a finger. “Well, I suppose you’ve learned your lesson. Whether it sticks or not remains to be seen.” The moth woman shrugged a shoulder elegantly, gesturing at her to follow. “Come, let us make our way back to the guildhall. With how long you’ve been training I imagine you must be starving, and I’m certain between the two of us we can bully Bettina into making something more filling than bread and cheese. Ugh, how you yan arewa manage to stomach aged cow’s milk is beyond me.”

Palmira tuned out her complaints with what was becoming routine. Instead she focused on forcing herself to her feet, groaning in discomfort. “So can I finally take this damn armor off?” she didn’t beg, if only because that implied a level of effort she simply couldn’t muster at this point. “Just because I don’t sweat doesn’t mean it doesn’t reek in here.”

“Wait until we get back to the guild, yar’uwa,” Asu Rana scolded her gently, though amusement danced in her compound eyes. “Unless you think you can carry all of it by hand?”

“I could melt it into scrap,” she grumbled, dragging herself behind the elder woman. “Then I’d never have to wear this stupid armor again.”

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“Aw, but you loved it when they first gave it to you,” Morte teased her, laughing as he always did at her misfortune. “Why, I could have sworn you cried when Charles presented it. The old knight looked half a second away from running for the hills when he saw that!”

“I did not! And that was before I realized that it was just one of his old sets of training armor anyway!” Palmira snapped back, ears burning. “It’s way too big and smells like old man in here! If I never have to wear it again it’ll be too soon!”

That wasn’t the half of it. The armor had been given to her to help build up her stamina while she trained, but it was obviously designed for a man half a foot taller than her and was far heavier than it needed to be beside. She’d been told it was so heavy because it was for training, not battle, and that it was the best they could do on their current budget.

It also wasn’t fireproof, and the melted gauntlets she’d long since thrown out were just one more reason to never wear it in a real fight.

But this was training, and suffering today meant a chance for survival later. Or so she was told.

Luckily, Morte’s refusal to accept she was right distracted her long enough for them to arrive back at the guildhall.

An old villa came into view, squeezed between two apartment blocks. Grand marble columns defined its pale-yellow façade, weathered yet well cared for, hiding vaulted windows behind their bulk. It looked as it had when she’d first arrived, except for one small difference—the symbol currently emblazed on the door. Once the upside-down tree of the Cadorna Famiglia, it was now a red dragon’s head biting a wreath, the symbol of their new Firozzi Famiglia.

She remembered the big debate they’d had over their new Famiglia crest a few weeks ago. There had been a lot back and forth—not helped by the fact that most of the remaining members were drunk, foreign, or some combination of the two—with ideas ranging from the overly elaborate to the bland and boring to the blatantly offensive.

In the end, they’d settled on the red dragon to represent the dragon Vesuvius, the wreath for the prosperity of the Volan Empire, and a white background to represent new beginnings. It was a compromise that satisfied nobody but also didn’t have anyone threatening to leave the guild over it, so all in all they considered it a successful rebranding.

Combined with a recent refurbishment and some fancy advertising, the Rosa Dominae Guildhall now looked almost like a proper adventurer’s guild rather than an old noble’s passion project.

Once inside, Palmira pushed past a chittering Rana. Forcing her tired legs just a bit further, she ran to the armory, glad to finally be able to peel off her armor. After she rushed to the guild’s bathhouse—which was little more than a small room in the back of the building—to finally wipe the smell of smoke and rust from her skin, leaving Morte outside to scare off anyone who tried to join.

Damn public bathhouses and damn Chiara for making them weird.

Anyways, finally clean and in a (new!) set of clothes, Palmira left to start the rest of her day. Scarfing down a quick breakfast—she still couldn’t afford the more expensive options but Bettina had taken to sneaking her small fruits so it was all good—she made her way up to Ósma’s office.

“Ah, Palmira!” the old orc smiled tiredly at her, the amount of paperwork on his desk having tripled since she was last here. The pile nearly reached his chin at this point, and considering she was only half his height that was a worrying sign. “Here for your lessons?”

“Ah, yeah,” she nodded, eying the small mountain of parchment before her. “Unless you’re too busy…?”

Ósma let out a rough laugh that was only somewhat hysterical. “I have been too damn busy for the past month! But, as I’ve learned recently, there comes a point where you’re so behind on work that you simply can’t be arsed to rush anymore.”

“…I see,” Palmira nodded slowly, not really understanding but glad it wasn’t her responsibility regardless. “The guildmaster’s been working you hard then?”

“He’s been working everyone hard. Even himself, if the amount of other neutral guilds he’s been visiting these last few weeks have been any indication.” The old orc shrugged his weary shoulders with a sigh. “Still, with work opening up in the north we’re slowly but surely making our way back into the green. Even though we lost some adventurers back when we first split from the Ambrosi, the ones who’ve stayed are working twice as hard, present company included. Give us another month or two and by Spring things will have hopefully settled down enough that we can all take a break.”

“Spring!?” Palmira exclaimed, aghast. “But that’s so far away!”

Ósma laughed at that, a small weight seemingly lifted as he did. “Ah, I forget how young you are sometimes! Trust me, Palmira, when you get to be my age ‘a few months’ has a tendency to feel like ‘a few days.’”

Waving off any further concerns he offered her the chair next to him, a familiar lexicon already resting upon it. Her face soured slightly at the sight of it—weeks of memorizing Famiglia names would make anyone come to hate the thing—but that just made Ósma laugh harder.

Sighing, she opened the book to where she’d last left off—the Vinori Famiglia, who despite what you’d think made beer, not wine—and settled in for the long haul.

Ósma taught her as he worked, filling out paperwork and answering questions as she had them. It wasn’t particularly fast, as he was more focused on the papers in front of him than her, but that was fine. She wasn’t in a rush either.

By the time noon rolled around she’d almost finished with the ‘V’s, an accomplishment easily overshadowed by the thought of doing literally anything else. She stood from her chair, stretching with a groan. Blinking the phantom letters from her eyes, she was about to run down to the common area to meet up with Lorenzo and Chiara when Ósma put a hand on her shoulder, gently stopping her.

“Before you leave, I have something for you,” he smiled at her. “It’s nothing bad, I assure you, merely something long overdue.”

Palmira blinked, confused and impatient but willing to wait. The old orc reached into one of his oversized desk’s oversized drawers and pulled out a small satchel. Her breath then caught in her throat as he opened it slightly, leaning down to show her its contents.

Within a bag the size of her fist was dozens of copper grossi, more wealth than she’d ever owned in her life.

Then Ósma placed it in her hands, meeting her wide eyes with a gruff smile. “I told you earlier that we’ve been slowly making our way back in the green. Well, we’ve finally reached the point where we can start paying our adventurers for their work again. So, congratulations on your first paycheck.”

Palmira slowly pulled the bag close to her chest, almost crying when he simply let her take it. “Are… are you sure…?” she asked, even as her grip tightened around the bag.

“Of course. If it weren’t for you arrogant little Dante would currently be rotting in some prison in Iscrimo right now, and none of us would even be here!” he chuckled at the look on her face. “Trust me, even if you aren’t our most profitable adventurer, you’re the one who deserves to get paid the most. …Oh, and keep this a secret from the others, would you? We don’t want them thinking we’re playing favorites, after all. I mean, we are, but they don’t need to know that.”

Palmira wet her suddenly very dry lips, barely holding back tears. Quickly she hid the satchel beneath the folds of her tunic, swallowing heavily. “Thank you, Ósma.”

He gave her a look that was somehow both proud and sad. “Don’t thank me yet. This isn’t a reward, it’s a bribe—because the only reward for good work is more work, and we’ve still got a damn lot of work to do to get this guild functional again.”

Palmira nodded, determination solidifying in her heart. This guild—her Firozzi Famiglia—had done more for her in the few months she’d been there than anyone else had since she was a child. And she wasn’t going to disappoint them.

She left with one more thank you, needing to remind herself under her breath not to go brag to her friends about finally getting paid. Ósma watched her go, a nostalgia he tried to suppress rising in his breast.

“Heh,” he scoffed, already aware that the rest of the guild would know by the end of the day. “Kids.”