A warm night breeze blew through the open windows of Gen’s Pub, carrying with it the sounds of raucous laughter and merriment. Oil lanterns lent the room a cozy orange glow that helped to hide the flushed faces of patrons. The clink of mugs intermittently penetrated the thick, boisterous atmosphere as dozens of Finders celebrated their return from Danet.

At the bar, a pair of wide-eyed men engaged a circle of Finders with their story, one using a resin torch to gesture as the other spoke.

“... all around us was blackness, thick and impenetrable as the borders of a nightmare. The shadows swallowed up the torchlight like water on desert sand. We could scarcely see two steps in front of us, yet we braved onwards, deeper into the belly of the beast. The pounding rain outside had long been suffocated by the inner confines of the pyramid, and all around us echoed nothing but silence.” The raconteur paused for a moment to sip his drink and allow the atmosphere of the story to settle upon the crowd. He noticed now some more heads peeking over shoulders at the outer ring of the original audience.

“As we rounded the final corner toward what we were sure was the inner sanctum, a powerful force suddenly tore the metal from our bodies, impaling himself completely with our own swords and knives! As we stood paralyzed in shock in the black, silent hallway, we looked ahead… and saw the eyes of Death himself. He slowly removed the blades from his immortal body, and announced to us, in a low, drawn out snarl, ‘Begone, fools! You cannot kill an excisor!’” The man leaned forward and hissed the last words at the crowd, who backed away in a sharp gasp.

The raconteur relaxed in his barstool again before continuing his story in a forlorn tone. “The demon chased us all the way to the exit of the pyramid, but dared not step into the light. We were saved by the light of Yasha herself.” He bent his head in prostration and held out his hands to the crowd. “And now I, a humble servant of Yasha and survivor of an excisor attack, humbly beg of thee to assist me with anything you can.”

One of the onlookers reached out and set a longsword upon the outstretched hands of the man before hurrying away into the depths of the pub. The man opened his eyes and turned to his partner in disbelief.

“Hey, Ted, ain’t that your sword?” His partner wondered aloud.

Deeper in the pub, a man with darks hanging from his neck and a newly replenished coin pouch at his waist walked triumphantly to the back room, trying - and failing - to hide a mischievous smile.

The back of Gen’s Pub held a private room often reserved by Finders that had been particularly successful that day, or by private individuals looking to hire Finders for a job. Word had gotten around that on this night, it was the latter.

Ioren approached the reinforced wooden door that separated the private room from the rest of Gen’s Pub. He had always found its strength comical, considering the roof of the entire establishment was nothing more than fabric. Ioren recognized the fat Finder that sat next to the door.

“Jeb, I’d like to see the kind nobleman about his job,” Ioren said to the man.

“I ain’t lettin’ you in, loner boy,'' Jeb replied. “You’se too good to travel with other Finders, but when’s a noble come you’se all the quicker to lick his boots.” Jeb spit at Ioren’s feet as he finished his sentence.

“I’ve my own reasons for traveling alone that don’t concern the likes of you. Now you can open the door, or we can make a scene for your boss." Ioren set his hand on the dagger at his side. "What’s it going to be, Jeb?”

Jeb sat and lit a tobacco roll with the flame from a nearby oil lamp. The two stared in tense silence as he took one, two puffs from the roll and blew the smoke into Ioren’s face.

“Go on, bloody jackass,” Jeb cursed as he opened the heavy door to the private room. Ioren eyed Jeb as he passed by into the back room.

The room was well-lit by a makeshift chandelier constructed from scrap metal that hung from a pole in the center of the room. On the left stood a group of six Finders silently waiting. To the right on a couch sat a handsome, tanned nobleman in full plate armor and a beautiful young woman with a gauntlet sword at her side. The man lounged comfortably, seeming to size up the Finders as he whispered his assessments to the young woman at his side. She sat up perfectly straight with arms crossed and hardly acknowledged his speaking at all.

After sizing up the newcomer from the corner of his eyes, the nobleman clapped his hands, causing all of the Finders to stand up straight at attention.

“This will do,” he said, seemingly disappointed. “I am headed to Riverstop Keep at the end of the Forked River. I intend to open a path across the Barrier River by any means necessary. Scout reports claim there is a footbridge across the Barrier River behind Riverstop Keep. My previous party cleared the town of Greys, so all that remains are the Greys within the castle. We may not even have to bother with them if an alternative route across the river is found. If you object to this plan, please leave now."

Nobody in the room moved. Ioren gazed over at the group of Finders. Four women and two men. They all seemed to be around Ioren’s age, give or take a few years in either direction. To his surprise, one man seemed to be from Iv.

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The nobleman raised his eyebrows and continued. "Very well. I guess introductions are in order. I am Ardenel Venit, heir to house Venit of Capira. This is my bodyguard, champion duelist Linoor Coriol." As he gestured to the woman she bowed her head slightly before returning to her former stiff position. Ioren heard a stifled gasp from one of the women to his left. This must be an important nobleman. "I will be your patron. This is expected to take one day. You will be paid twenty crowns. Bring your own supplies and rations. Looting rules are the usual: to each their own. If you fight over something, it becomes mine. We leave via boat along the Forked River three hours before dawn, so you have fifty-five hours to prepare."

"How many Vanguard will be accompanying us?" Ioren asked.

"One, if we are lucky."

"So few?" Ioren asked with genuine surprise. Ardenel squirmed in his seat uncomfortably until Linoor answered.

"Honorable Ardenel Venit is no longer in the good graces of the Vanguard," she answered. Ardenel's face flushed.

"I thought you scavs were capable? You rely on the Vanguard to do everything?" He blurted out.

"It's just a question. I meant no offense," Ioren responded, hoping to assuage the angry nobleman. Why is Alastair interested in such an idiot?

Ioren ended his questioning, even though the plan still seemed half-baked. It would be one thing to return empty-handed, but to get kicked out before he even began would likely be too brazen for the emissary to accept.

"Acquire yourself a position on Sir Venit's team and ingratiate yourself with him. Report to me regularly using this. We've reason to believe his father, the Duke of Capira, is conspiring against the crown," Alastair had told him, handing him a white sphere. It was soft in Ioren’s palm, as if it were filled with cotton.

"Why are you telling me this?" Ioren asked.

"Why not?" Alastair responded casually. "You're but a scavenger, scraping out an existence in a long-dead wasteland. You've nobody to sell this information anyways. Sorry, that was terribly blunt. You do understand though, yes?"

Ioren reached down to caress the coin pouch at his waist. A two-hundred crown advance, with another thousand awaiting his successful return. He could live in luxury for the rest of his life on that much money.

The other Finders began moving past him toward the doorway. They must have been dismissed while he was daydreaming. As he turned to leave, he caught the eye of the bodyguard, and could swear he caught a look of sadness. He was probably imagining it.

Ioren was the last to leave the room, so he closed the heavy door behind him. As he did, a thick hand grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed him hard toward an open door. The hand then shoved him to the dirty bricks of the alley behind Gen's Pub.

Crushed gravel embedded itself in Ioren’s palms as he caught his fall with his hands. He quickly spun to face his attacker. Jeb exited the door, followed by two other Finders.

"Not so tough now, is you'se? Teach you to threaten me," Jeb announced as he walked down the steps into the alley. He pulled a club from his belt and slapped it against his palm. The two behind him flourished small knives.

"We're in the Step, Jeb," Ioren attempted to appeal to the mens' piety. It was sinful to fight on hallowed ground.

"Now he's cares about Finder tradition. When it's convenient to him," Jeb responded, clearly undeterred. Ioren looked around, but they were alone in the alley. He frowned and removed his daggers from his belt.

"Last chance to leave it be," he warned the assailants. Their laughs were their only response before they moved forward at him.

Jeb swung his club with a wide sweep that Ioren easily dodged. He looked backward to find a pile of collapsed rubble just ten feet behind him. Not a lot of space…

The smaller of the two other men rushed forward with his knife, his teeth flashing a wicked smile as he thrust the blade forward. Ioren sidestepped the attack and slashed twice at the man's elbow tendons, causing him to drop the knife and reel backwards, crying out in pain. Crimson blood began to dribble down his arm, falling in drips from his fingertips to the dusty floor.

Jeb swung again with the club, closer this time, causing Ioren to once again leap backwards. His back foot touched an overturned brick, letting him know he was already backed up to the rubble pile.

The metallic smell of blood began to permeate the warm night air. Dust that their movements had kicked up was now stuck in Ioren’s teeth, causing a crunch every time he grit them.

The second of the other men rushed in front of Jeb and slashed wildly with his knife. He was obviously untrained, but a knife cuts no matter who holds it. A gash opened up in Ioren’s left forearm as he tried to dodge the random slashes. It was nearly impossible without room to back up. A second cut opened on the same arm, bloodying the man's blade.

Resolving himself with a deep breath, Ioren pushed the knife away with one hand, feeling it dig into his palm, and buried his dagger into the neck of the assailant. He heard the knife and one of his daggers fall in a clang against the bricks as the paling man backed up wildly, hands pressed against the wound in his neck.

Jeb shoved the dying man aside like a ragdoll before taking another swing at Ioren, this time connecting with his ribs with a loud crunch. The pain made his vision go white for a moment as his thoughts clouded. Ioren felt like his brain had been replaced by searing flames and chaotic desperation.

Nothing ran through Ioren’s mind but wild instinct. He leapt and slashed, taking a punch to the cheek that rattled his head. A spray of blood erupted from somewhere on Jeb. So much. It must have been his neck. Something sharp pierced Ioren’s side twice in quick succession, causing him to lose his breath instantly. He turned and slashed at the source of the pain and heard a cry.

Three bodies lay scattered in the alley as Ioren backed up incredulously against the brick wall. He could hardly gather a breath as he coughed pink foam from his mouth. His fingers were freezing against the dirty floor. When did I get on the floor?

He was tired from the fight. Exhausted more than ever before. A fuzzy blackness crept in on the edge of his vision as sleep became overpowering. As his eyes fluttered closed, Ioren felt his mother's ring melt into his finger.

"Momma?" someone asked.