"You know how the sun dips during the end of the day and then rises again the next day?" The man sitting opposite Masutap asked. Although he'd posed a question he continued as if he'd done no such thing. "Well if Gods exist, Meena and all that, then are the Gods responsible for creating such a divine system of being?" He took a sip of the ale in his mug. "I do not believe the Gods who are worshipped within the realm are capable of such a feat." His brown eyes rose to meet hers. "I believe, if the Goddess Meena did create the world, then her champion must be someone holding the very ability to distort reality as they see fit."

He chuckled as if having heard a joke told by the wind. "I'm not talking about a champion who rushes into combat with a sword and inhuman strength and agility with an army charging behind him." The corner of his lips curled, the pause following his next words was heavy. "No. I'm talking about a God's Champion who can level mountains with the wave of an arm, who can command the sea to dry up, who can reach into Tabrimas and bring a soul back into its lifeless body." Masutap found herself leaning forward, enamored by the way the stranger spoke. There was something about him she couldn't quite put her finger on. She couldn't follow the strands of order that made up the better part of everything, she couldn't follow the strings and unravel them to reveal what lay at the stranger's heart, what ruled his mind, what drove him, fueled his every motive. Neither did she sense the strands of chaos that rivaled those of order.

The stranger was— in all sense— one whose mind, whose very being, was masked to completion, taking every hint of life from him and hiding it behind this veil that seemed void of emotion. If it wasn't for the way he talked, and the half smile he sparingly rewarded her with, if it wasn't for the crinkles that stood out at the edge of his eyes when he showed some hint of zeal at the end of making a point, Masutap would have thought him dead. An animated corpse striving to mimic life.

The ale in the mug in hand didn't ripple within her grip. Masutap hadn't raised it to her lips neither did she intend to. The waitress who'd delivered the mug had done well to mask her thoughts, but a slip of intention, availing itself as she stood at the tavern counter, that manifested itself as a thought that screamed with her need for Masutap to drink from the mug, made Masutap aware of the fact that ale wasn't the only thing in her mug. There was poison too.

Somehow Dahli had known where Masutap would be, and worked elaborately to set a trap. Does she not know that the very Goddess she draws power from is the same one whose power courses through my veins? Whatever trap Dahli had laid for her wouldn't succeed, nothing could hinder Masutap's resolve. Kemi must die.

The man sitting before her was probably part of Dahli's ensemble. So too the men in rich robes riddled around the room. Masutap suspected the tavern keep even though he'd made a point not to even glance in Masutap's direction, something about him screamed Royal Black Guard, something in his posture and the way he carried himself. They may be Royal Black Guards all around her, new ones or ones she had never met during her time with them. It doesn't matter though, they are all dead! The fools! Today they shall know that it isn't only their precious Queen who holds power. But in the mean time she would play along, find out the knot in the strand of Dahli's plan laid so as to catch her, only when seeing the full string of Dahli's plan would she be able to spot the knot and act in a manner that would not only hinder Dahli's ploy, but also ensure Kemi met his end as was Masutap's main objective.

Masutap smiled at the man before her. "I believe that a champion who could level mountains with a word would be capable of doing more than remain a champion." She leaned over the circular table, willing her appearance to be one of coy menace, anything to unnerve the man before her, make him stumble and cut him down with his fall. "Such a champion would be in league with the Gods themselves, and what then would the cost of his subservience be if he rivaled the one who gave him power? Gods exist to be worshipped, and elevating a mortal to the same status as them negates their need for worship. And a God can't allow such a thing to happen." She studied him, nothing in his posture changed. His shoulders weren't stiff but fluid, allowing the movement of the mug to his lips for a sip to appear graceful. He met her eyes as he lowered his mug and Masutap saw something, a hint of life that oozed irrefutable understanding. Masutap found herself intrigued.

"True, what you speak is true." He said. "Masutap." He added her name as if he needed her to know that he knew that she was aware of the game that was being played.

"You know my name." Masutap said, unwilling to quit the pleasure of the ruse they indulged in.

"Yes." He answered her. "Do you wish to learn mine?"

Masutap shrugged. "What pleasure would learning a dead man's name bring me?"

He chuckled. "My name is Dulab, I'm retired from this game of swords and death. But the Queen made me an offer I couldn't refuse, hence why I am here."

"No amount of gold is worth your life, Dulab."

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"Oh no, she didn't give me gold."

Masutap cocked a brow, curious. "What did she offer you?"

"A chance to learn how the champion of the Goddess Meena works."

"You do not know me beyond what I look like."

Dulab sighed and leaned back in his chair, the creak of the left foot of the chair showed how uneven his weight was. Allowing Masutap to gleam that he was positioning himself for an attack. "You're right, I do not know you beyond your physical features," he paused, eyeing the mug in Masutap's hand. "I know your history, which might make one believe that they know someone but it truly doesn't. You're Masutap, daughter of a Palace chamber maiden who was once in service to the late King Vayin Vigon. An innocent woman whose only mistake was to be before the King when desire for flesh ruled his heart. A woman who was raped by the King and bore you out of the act. Your birth led to the hunt for both you and your mother by Vayin Vigon, whose aim was to quell a wandering bloodline. But somehow you survived, somehow you came back and managed to infiltrate the Royal Black Guard, rise in rank and gain the favor of the King and the trust of the Black Guard. A position you used to kill Desan and..." He stopped, lifting his eyes to meet hers. "Like I said, it doesn't matter, history doesn't define a person, only the present does that, unless you're dead."

"Well, I find that your history will define you by the time you finish the ale in that mug." Masutap said, rage built up within her at the mention of her mother. Dulab chuckled and raised the mug to his lips once more, not an ounce of fear, not a smudge of worry. Every part of him echoed serenity. As if he was merely having a drink with an old friend.

"Are you going to kill me?" Dulab asked while lowering the mug. "It must bring you great pleasure to hold the choice of life or death over someone."

"I do what I must to accomplish what I want."

"And you want to kill me?" Dulab asked.

"You're in my way and are Dahli's puppet. I crush all that is hers, I crush all who are in my way. You've qualified on both levels."

Dulab nodded as if his death made perfect sense. "I had a daughter," Dulab said. It was so unexpected that a gap in Masutap's trail of thought availed itself and then Dulab lowered the walls that hid his emotions from her. Masutap gasped, she closed her eyes, tried to shake her head. Pain, scorching pain. Unquenchable, depthless agony. "Her name was Cynthamine." His words were suddenly pregnant with sorrow, and through the intensity of the emotion, like a high wave that engulfed her, she was able to see the face of Cynthamine and the love her father held for her. "I came home one day and found her dead, hacked with a broad sword. An old score a rival of mine settled the only way my profession and his would allow." Masutap saw it then, the blood and gore. The cleaved head of the child, dark brain matter matted with dark strands of hair. The pain Dulab felt deafened all else and she experienced every ounce of it with him.

"Stop." Masutap begged as tears welled in her eyes. "Please, stop." She felt as if Cynthamine was her own child, she saw her hands as she tried to scoop up pieces of the dead daughter who made up every reason for her existence. And her hands came back stained red with the blood of her child.

"You take pleasure in death, Masutap." Dulab said. "But I have seen the other side of that coin, and it's not something that elicits pleasure, but the very opposite of it." Dulab raised his mug to Masutap, with a shaky hand she raised her own mug, thoughts of Cynthamine was all that ruled her mind. And the sorrow. Gods! How does he live? Why doesn't he take his own life? This... This is madness! One cannot exist in such a tortured state. Yet here he was, breathing, existing before her, with such an insurmountable weight of grief tethered to him. "If I am to meet my death by the time this cup is empty, then may my last toast be to my daughter, may her laugh greet me as I enter Tabrimas." And Masutap touched her mug to Dulab's, Cynthamine's lilting laugh as Dulab remembered it echoed within her mind. Dulab raised his mug to his lips and drained it free of ale with several quick gulps. Masutap took her mug to her own lips, Cynthamine all that occupied her thoughts, and took three gulps of the poisoned ale before she realized what she'd done and dropped her mug.

Hump rat's curse. She immediately knew what the poison was as its effects became apparent. Her muscles locked, breath becoming shallow as her lungs lost their ability to draw in breath regardless of how hard she pushed. The lids of her eyes became heavy, threatening to droop over her eyes and incarcerate her in darkness. She peered over at Dulab, through half lidded eyes, her limbs stiff on the table, fingers unable to unclench from their clawed pose.

Cynthamine, Dulab's daughter, the sorrow that had laced his words, the grief and the memory of her lilting laugh. All of it had been fabricated, every ounce of Dulab's tale was false. There was no Cynthamine, she saw it now as she looked at him, a ruse so elaborate had been played that rendered suspicion regarding its authenticity obsolete. Dulab was without a doubt the most adebt at the Form of Empathy. And as she sat there, staring at the nonchalant look on his face, that slowly retreated with the slow curl of the edge of his lips. Masutap felt something she hadn't felt since she became the Champion of the Goddess of Order, she felt fear. And when a pale young man with a stubble of blonde hair upon his head, jaw and chin. Dressed in the black leather of the Royal Black Guard with piercing blue eyes that observed her as one would a specimen they were unwilling to touch, entered the tavern and made his way towards her, Masutap felt dread.

Orgeeg dragged a chair to sit opposite Masutap and beside Dulab. Behind them everyone within the upper floor tavern stood up, flat swords and thin blades emerged from within robes that were shortly discarded to show the black leather armor beneath. Eyes were fixed on Masutap, grey, blue and brown. The Black Guard had come for her, the Black Guard had come to claim the cost of betraying duty and her inability to move spelt her doom.

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