Are we there yet? Fino groaned and launched his feet back, or he would have if there was any room in this traveling molten pot. The wagon chested no wine nor bread, it merely housed the unbearable heat of ending winter, roaming flies and crickets, and the reeking bodily odours of the carter and his horses.

The stagecoach was barely big enough for Fino to fit. Even the worst criminals in the Ironmount Institution have more space and light in their cells. If not for his slender body, he’d have been crushed within the wooden cave. Giants like Six could never hope to lay his hands on Fino if he was to hide away within this wagon.

“Carter! When will we be there?” Fino shouted at the coachman.

“Simmer down, city boy. We’ll get there when we get there.” The insolent carter gnarled his teeth as he whipped and riled his horses, swerving the wagon as if it was flowing down a rampaging stream.

Even though Fino was far older than him and most other ecliants, he did not bear features allotted for his age, due to the numerous Cycles of Reconstruct and ReSamra surgeries he had undergone to preserve his youth and vigour. The carter, on the other hand, had loose and tanned skin teeming with wrinkles. Men of his stations could never afford to undergo any ReSamra surgeries to earn a more youthful shell, let alone Cycles of Reconstruct.

“This is hardly the first time ya’ been carted to the City of Colours, nor would it be the last. I reckoned ya’ had seared every inch of the way there into that dome of yours already, but ya’ can’t even manage that,” he said while chewing on a dandelion as if it were a toothpick.

Roll your tongue however far you want. It won’t be long ‘till you trip on it, Fino muttered beneath his weak breath. The sun scorched his ashen skin, fried his temple, and dried his gorge. Under the harsh spell of the sun, his vision blurred until all he could see was the visage of the detestable scoundrel who failed to drape his carriage and offered water to his patron. With the haze binding his dome, Fino was half a mind to unsheathe his dagger and quench his thirst with the blood that’d flow from its edge, but the blood of men was not worthy to be shed on Maria.

“Settle down. Didn’t mean to piss on ya’ parade,” the carter threw his head back, nearly dropping his straw hat, yet as if it was nailed to his temple, it never seemed to fly away even from the harshest gust.

You’re doing an awful job at it then, Fino scoffed as he sheathed Maria behind his hind. “Just answer the damn question then.”

The carter glared back as the words left Fino’s mouth, and for an instant the sunlight shone over his head and hat, revealing a visage that only a mother could love and a beast would fear. His beard was scruffy and dyed white as snow, and his orbs crimsoned to the shade of ruby. A winter hare he resembled, yet the scar stretching from his eye to chin felt more as if he was a wolf coated beneath the fleece of a rabbit. “A week or two, maybe more. Pray to Ark that the rain stays clear from the sky, and bandits from the roads.” He scratched his maimed chin.

That long? Will I even make it in time? Ark be damned, Fino cursed.

Fino has lost count of how long he has been sentenced to be wagoned throughout the Iron Trail. The road that connected every corner of Xearth to the crowned city, as long as those corners were hoarded with bountiful arks and chained humans for the Lords and Ladies of the Centum Order to lay their greasy paws over. Though he had trailed this battered road countless times afore, this was amongst the few times he did so with his mind cleared of stupor and hands emptied of a wine bottle or a smoke pipe.

“So buckle up, city boy. The roads are plenty, and the arks ya’ waged me sure weren’t,” the impudent carter jeered, as he wheeled his carriage towards a hamlet eyeing from down the Iron Trail. Fino’s eyes could barely even mark the silhouette of the village, yet the sunken elder had dotted it long before its shadow grew larger than that of an ant. “We oughta’ rest for the night. Keep saddlin’ early in the morn.” He proposed yet he did not even bother to wait for Fino’s say in the matter.

Sure, do whatever you want, Fino sighed as his entire body jolted up and down inside the convoy manned by a deafened crook and his wilding steeds.

Fino gazed over the window, praying blissful gust would grace his melting face. The road carved and crowded with stones etched its slender body between lushed grasslands, haunting forests, and forlorn hamlets. Caravans steered by ecliant merchants occupied the trail alongside Fino’s wagon, while slaved humans tended to the roadside fields and chained steelborns chased away meterases from hounding the stone road.

The silhouette grew larger as the caravan steered closer. Soon the foggy shadow lightened and revealed a hamlet, and the hamlet dispersed to smaller sheds, and the sheds shielded its roofs over naught but dirty and drunken sops. A hovel such as this would be outlandish for one to rest their Lord, but fortunately for the brazen coachman, Fino was no mere Lord. Well, a few bottles wouldn’t hurt, I suppose…

*

The inn loomed its shadow over the stagecoach, albeit barely. In his long years roaming this land, not an inn has seemed so pitiful. Fino has seen bars far bigger and fancier in the darkest parts of Screwpile.

“Not fine and fancy enough for ya’ lordship?” the cartman goaded, as he hitched his carriage near the backside, praying that no drunken thieves would test their luck.

“If there’s a cup for me to drink and a bucket to piss, it oughta’ do it,” Fino’s legs had turned to jelly, and merely stepping out of the carriage was an arduous labour that almost bound his face to kiss the dirt.

“You’re disgusting.” The coachman jumped off the wagon. His legs were spry and solid and free from quivers.

You’re one to talk, Fino cursed.

Fino pushed open the door to the inn. He felt as if he had to be careful with his strength, lest he wished to tear the decrepit door from its hinges.

As the door launched its back to the wall, nearly denting itself, it awoke the souls within the inn. Fino glared at the drunken and foul crowd. Humans were moping and starving in their own empty corners. Steelborns were munching on stale bread and guzzling murky water off platters fitted for mutts. Ecliants were feasting on spoiled meat and downing foul wine, slavering their spoils over their plump belly.

For all their disparities, they all looked miserable in the eyes of Fino, and their wretched eyes soon chose Fino as their marks for misery.

Here they come, Fino sighed. No matter the tales and rumours spat upon him, Fino was still vested in the mantle of an Ace and an Archetype as well. Notoriety spread among the imprudent mass was expected… yet they never came. Few humans held onto their quivering fleece and sweating eyes, but most seemed to have retreated their gaze back to their miserable drinks.

“Not the royal welcome ya’ were expecting, city boy?” An irritating voice grated Fino’s ears from behind. He needed not to tilt his head to figure out whose it was.

“As a matter of fact, I much prefer this kind of welcome,” Fino claimed, though the cartman didn’t seem to swallow his truth.

“Well, enjoy your stay then, ya’ lordship. Pray to Ark that the hearts of men do not blacken in your presence.” The coachman patted Fino’s shoulder and smiled. However, it wasn’t particularly convincing as he wasted no breath before fleeing from the inn himself.

“That’s probably the kindest thing you’ve said to me. Though regrettably, you’ve given me far too much credit,” Fino yawned as he stared around the inn once more before falling into the fray. My name could never ink one’s heart…

*

Hours have sunken since Fino was entrapped in this haunted hamlet, and night has descended over his roof, though that bore little importance to a man whose whole being was drowned in ale and wine. The carter stood outside, perhaps lulling and whistling away beneath the moonlight, while Fino gorged down goblets, flasks, and bottles, yet his belly never seemed to flood.

This tastes like shit, Fino hiccupped, yet he could not stop drinking the poisoned elixirs.

“Everything would taste like shit if you descended here from Sentry,” it was no coachman yet the tenor was infuriating all the same.

A raw-boned sop perfumed with manure and soaped in grime invited himself and his two cronies over to Fino’s table and rested their unwelcomed rears opposite Fino. “It’s not every day us humble folks could be basked in the foul stenches of men dowered in arks.” The stickman had eyes of purple and his lackeys of red, colours of which only ecliants and steelborns could be born with. Yet considering their gall to intrude upon a Lord’s leisure – no halfsteel would have the mettle to commit such audacious acts.

“And today is not that day either, gents,” Fino downed his pint, as he gazed out the window. If nothing else could be badged to this secluded corner of Xearth, at least it was blessed with the graceful light of the moon.

“Then to what pleasure have our small neck of the woods been blessed with the company of an Ace? Though slight pity it had to be the worst one to set his arse on our benches and mouth on our goblets,” the trespasser sniggered alongside his gofers.

Wait? You’re still here? Fino was awfully shaken, upon just being freed from the moon’s enchantment. “I feel terribly sorry for your hamlet if shabby bars and stale ales are all you have to be proud of,” Fino took hold of the wine flask and poured until his goblet was filled to the brim.

“Well, I’m sorry if things aren’t up to your lordship’s liking. Our land hasn’t been doing really well since the shitstorm that ya’ people wreaked upon our heads.” The heftier lad on the lead's left laughed brightly, but his words were anything but bright.

The bulgy man spoke of the Hoary Woe, a long moment in time that drained Xearth of its colours and arks. He spoke as if Fino was a fan of it. Countless inns and brothels that he favoured collapsed throughout that decade.

“I don’t remember ever being a part of that. Hell, I hardly even remember anything from back then,” Fino laughed. With inns barred and bars tattered, Fino was cooped in his chamber day by day, having only delivered meads and meats to regale his morns and nights.

“Of course ya’ wouldn’t. You kings play your stupid games in your fancy towers and we folks reap the costs. Funny how that works, right? I’m no Prophet so I won’t speak for Ark, but I doubt even he’d be brimmed with joy as you cast our land to the flame.” The dwarf on the right jeered, having to stand in his seat to meet the others’ gazes.

Again, why are you after me? Fino felt affronted by the half-man, another drink ought to alleviate it. “Then what does Ark proposed we oughta’ do then?” Fino asked, wiping his lips from leaking trails of wine.

“Well, some charity as a start wouldn’t hurt.” The gangly beggar stretched out his arm and unsealed his palm, and his cronies followed suit.

“I don’t know,” Fino shrugged his shoulders and grinded his teeth. “Even Ark himself hasn’t been gifted a single coin from me.”

“C’mon, hopeless as ya’ may, surely your daddies sittin’ up high have kept ya’ full and hefty with arks right, Lord Five?” the master amongst the bunch mocked Fino, and the servants laughed and clapped. “It wouldn’t hurt to give some back to the people, now would it?”

“What could you give me back then?” Fino queried disinterestedly, now that his cup was empty.

“How ‘bout a drink? On me,” the skinny man rosed his hand. “Waitress, this table. Now,” he did not care to offer a glance towards the waitress – and neither did she.

“Bitch, did you not hear him?” the runt of the litter yelled, though it was less threatening, and more endearing when he did it.

The waitress, as if her ears had fallen from her head, stood still and waited tables emptied of drinkers.

Here it comes, Fino yawned as he fiddled with the unfilled chalice, bored out of his mind now that his throat was parched once more.

As Fino foresaw, the emaciated brute snatched the goblet from Fino’s fingers. With the little strength stored in his scraggly bones and shrunken arms, he hurled the goblet across the inn, captivating the gazes of drunken onlookers as if it were a comet before plummeting onto the aloof waitress.

The meteor landed on her dome, leaving a crater seeping red. It awoke the woman from her daydream, as well as the baby saddled on her back. The deadened inn was then graced with the hoarse screeches and cries of a little beast awoken from its slumber, and it didn’t seem as if its mother’s words and embraces could quell its anger. With the baby hugged tightly in her arms, the waitress hurriedly made her way to Fino’s table.

“I’m really sorry, sir. What could I help you with?” the blue-eyed waitress bowed profusely as if she was afront the Prophet himself.

“Keep ya’ ears dry next time. Give my friend here a bottle of–”

However, her babe did not show the same servile courtesy. Before the gangly fellow could finish his order, the beast’s tears drowned out his words.

“There, there, Arnie. Don’t you cry,” she began to sing to her baby, as he was softly dangled back and forth between her embraces. Even nearby rugged wanderers and muddled drunks turned to awed infants when the graceful lyrics from their childhood ditty graced their olden heads. “May you have sweet dreams of stars…” she chaunted her melodious tale about night stars and the great sky beyond where even Ark does not claim.

May Sweet Dreams of Stars? I haven’t heard that for quite a while… Fino murmured soberly. He stared at the mother caressing her babe, yet the view felt blank in his sight. For how soothful the cradlesong was, a bitter and sombre taste was left on Fino’s ears and tongue, and unfortunately, he could not drown it away with wine.

“Throw the baby away. It’s grating my ears,” though the lullaby outwardly did not appear to soothe men who did not have a mother to lull them into slumber.

“I’m really sorry, sir–”

Once the hymn ceased, the bawling recommenced, and Fino doubted that any lullabies on Xearth would be able to put the tiny beast to rest any longer.

“To the love of Ark. Just gag that twit up with ya’ teats or something. Else ya’ want me to shove a bottl’ down its throat.” The purple-eyed bully cursed.

His shoddy effort at intimidation once more fell on deaf ears. Concerned with her son, the waitress did not even appear to heed his threat. Even Fino had to agree that a babe’s wrath was far more worrying.

“This insolent bitch.”

Don’t, Fino mumbled, moving himself forward and no longer leaning back restfully.

Yet before Fino could shield his possession, the scrawny sop snatched the flask from Fino’s grasp as well and flung it at the child.

The metal flask never landed on its intended target, instead, the woman received the blow once more and fell to her knees. Her dazed head wobbled back and forth, as further reddened mizzle poured down from it, yet Fino could not tell whether it was blood or claret.

The entire bar fell to silence at the sight of a nursing mother falling to her knees, yet none would intervene. Not the steelborn innkeeper who worked her to the bones. Not the ecliant patrons who delighted in her servitude. Not the human vagrants who dined with her food and received her fleeting kindness. Not Fino who promised himself to never trust table wenches anymore.

“Did ya’ not hear me the first time ‘round? I told ya’ to chuck the brat away, lest ya’ want me to do it for ya’,” in a drunken stupor, the deviant shouted, though Fino doubted he had had any drinks.

Though her eye could barely open over her swollen lid, and her bruised face dowsed in red, the waitress yet safely tucked the babe in her embrace, ensuring not even a hint of dirt nor a drop of blood would taint his fair skin.

“Ya’ steelborns are plights as it is, yet ya’ still want to bake and pump out more of ya’. Ark is weeping from his skythrone no doubt,” the gaunt miscreant barked, yet no steelborns bothered to refute.

Just apologize, you fool, Fino murmured beneath his breath, as he stared at a sight he never wanted to see once more.

“There, there, Arnie. Mommy’s here. Don’t you cry,” the mother cradled her child between her arms, and roofed her body over him, shielding him from descending curses and spits.

No matter what he tried, the lanky cretin’s threats all failed to land, yet surrendering was not an option he’d take. Peeved off his mind as his purple orbs dyed red alongside his face, the brute stole another wine bottle from the table behind him, and once more marked it at the fallen damsel. “Ark almighty… How many times do I need to teach ya’ this less–”

“Alright, enough.” Fino yawned aloud. Why did I do that? Fino panicked from within, yet there was no time for him to regret his action, as to his worst dismay, all the attention had been diverted towards him. “All of this yammering is souring my drink,” Fino snatched the pilfered bottle from the tosser’s grip and chugged it wholly in one gulp. The wine did not taste half-bad, far tastier than any of the flasks that were served to Fino.

“You wound me. I’m doing all of this ya’, Lord Five.” The ruffian glared at Fino and his underlings obeyed with their own wretched orbs as well, as if they had lost all interest in the waitress.

Now I’m a Lord to you? Fino scoffed before reaching into the coin pouch hung to his waist. He took out three silver arks and chucked them at the pack, one for each of the vultures. “Then do me another favour and leave me alone.”

The little runt and the stout hog spared no time grovelling to the dirt and bickering amongst themselves for the coin that shined the brightest.

Yet, the head of the trio did not seem to follow them as how they followed him. “That’s mighty generous of ya’,” his purple eyes twitched sporadically, while he struggled to keep his slanted smile. “But why plead us to flee so early? The night is still young and ya’ road is long ahead.” His simple query felt more like an interrogation from a Sentinel, though he did not exactly port the dignity nor the brawn of one.

“I long for longer nights in Dreamcity, not in this hovel,” Fino held the bottle by its neck and peeped into the hole as if it was a monocular, hoping to discover any last droplet of the liquid gold.

“A shame,” the scoundrel whispered as if he was the victim. “Then perhaps ya’ could keep us company instead.” His depraved lust returned to the floored waitress. “If ya’ be nice, perhaps my anger would be quelled,” he lashed onto her wrist and yanked it, yet his feeble might foiled to drag her wholly towards him.

“Please, sir. I couldn’t…” the waitress pleaded as she desperately tried to tear his grip from her arm, yet now it was her words that fell on deaf ears.

“After all ya’ done to me, I say ya’ owe me as much,” for a split moment, as if Ark himself housed the frail lad’s vessel, he managed to heave the waitress briefly off the ground and tumbled into his sordid clinch.

His body began to lavish over the waitress. His fingers slithered under her torn dress. His mouth breathed heavily onto her bruised neck. His forearm pinned her chest to his, disregarding the baby clung between her arms. Yet despite her torment, the mother shielded her babe beneath herself, whispering into his ears of sweet lullaby and blindfolding his eyes from the haunting glimpse.

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“C’mon, loosen up. Let me cop a feel and ya’ may even cop some arks. Ark knows you tavern wenches need ‘em,” the gangly beast laughed at his own joke.

Vulgar, loud, raw, loath, harrowing. Fino found little words to portray the common sight, yet he knew for certain, that those were the words he had chosen.

Reaching into his sachet once more, Fino withdrew another silver ark and ensured that the lecher would receive it this time, as it firmly landed onto his face. “I said enough. If ya’ take the tender away, then who would serve my cup?” Fino said, though his cup was no longer there to be seen.

The bony lout caressed his hollowed cheek as his gofers looked upon him with dreaded eyes and gaped mouth, despite no mark nor scratch had come from Fino’s meagre sling. “That wasn’t terribly nice of ya’,” he released the mother and her child from his restraint, and they fell to the dirt once more. “I thought ya’ no longer want our company?” he smirked, though it seemed to crumble soon.

“I don’t,” Fino yawned once more.

“Then ya’ should have kept ya’ tongue tied and hands clasped,” the brute threatened Fino, as he launched up from his seat alongside his minions.

Yet Fino found it tough to be frightened by the threats slurred from the three bumbling wags’ tongues. Once roared over by a lion akin to Six, barks from pups like them emitted little fear.

“C’mon then. We’ll leave ya’ and the wench alone, but ya’ know it wouldn’t be that easy,” one by one, the three fled Fino’s table, and stood by to await Fino’s turn.

As always. My and my loud mouth. Always leads me to unwanted roads, Fino knew the moment his ilk stepped foot into this village, sat in their inn, greeted by their men, and spared their waitress – that his blood toll was overdue.

“Lead the way then,” Fino sighed, trying to gulp down the last drops of wine clung to the bottom of the bottle. Yet there were no droplets left, and no matter how much he bemoaned, he could not hope to change that but to resign to his fate.

*

The moonlight was rather pretty when cleared of clouds – or so he would think if his lids weren’t swollen until they covered his eyes entirely. The wuthering breeze felt rather soft to the touch as if they were embracing him – or so he would assume if his skins weren’t torn from their garments and numbed to even the harshest of nightly gales. The rustling of leaves befalling from their trees regaled Fino’s ears amidst the gentle night – or so he would hope if his ears weren’t blistered and raided by grating curses from spiteful men.

Fino was thoroughly thrashed behind the inn, where no eyes of men lay awake at night. It’d seem it was the norm lately for his back to be rested upon beds of mud, while his mouth filled with blades of grass and clumps of dirt.

The cads whose faces Fino could no longer recognize under the night veil – and also the swollen marble bubbling over his face like a tomato. They were grinning from ear to ear, at least that Fino was sure of – the moonlight ensured to light those brightly to his golden eyes.

“Ya’ sure got guts to pull off that shit in our parts of the land.” The chief of the litter barked.

With their feet trampled over Fino’s crumpled body and their prideful heads loomed over his battered face, they threw the arks that were kindly bestowed to them by Fino onto his head, albeit they were strangely misshapen and wet. They may be pups, but they were still three pups with claws, fangs, and a pack of their own – and Fino was less than a pup.

Blood, grime, and perhaps a tooth or two clogged Fino’s throat and pierced his tongue. Merely spitting and coughing drained what little strength was housed left in him.

“Listen here, Lord Five.” The scraggy cad knelt to Fino’s level, and as if he was treating a slave, he yanked Fino’s hair upward – leaving his head dangling at the brute's mercy. “Arks are great, sure. But ya’ could not just toss ‘em down from ya’ tower to the dirt, and think that we’d slobber all over ‘em like mutts.” With a satisfied smug, he released Fino’s hair bun. However, Fino’s neck failed to catch his skull, and it landed and buried once more in grunge.

The mettle to affront a Lord of the Centum Order, let alone assault one, would be unthinkable to the common folks – but Fino had never been one to be celebrated for his title of Lord.

“Ya’ men in fancy garbs have done naught but rained shit over us small folks. Yet ya’ still have the gall to play the hero when ya’ spot a damsel in distress? And a steelborn bitch at that? Have there no shame left in the Order?” he grinned from ear to ear, revealing his decayed and blackened teeth.

“You talk too much. It’s grinding my ears…” Fino panted. “Perhaps you should gag yourself with your boys’ teats or something,” Fino laughed to himself, but even the slightest simper felt as if his chest was crumpling inward.

“And ya’ talk too much yet do far too little, Lord Five. Xearth be damned to have ya’ as a forebearer,” the purple-eyed ecliant parted his offense to one of the Archetype no less. “Safe travels, Lord Five. Pray ya’ never visit our shithole again,” he waved his hand as he leisurely tottered away from Fino’s sight, with his cronies pursuing his tail.

The pup and his litter fled, leaving Fino crumbled and submerged in mud, wine, spit, and urine. With clumps of dirt to pillow his dome, Fino once more stared at the moonlight. He cared naught for his injuries. He cared naught that his honour had been tarnished by mere ruffians. He cared naught that he could do nothing to rectify this ordeal. Peace and quiet at last, he cared that he did what he sought.

“Are you harmed, My Lord?”

A familiar voice rang softly into his ears as if each word were lullabies of their own. Fino struggled to lift his neck up and meet the caller, yet he soon wished he had just feigned slumber.

The waitress, no longer burdened by crooks and the incessant crying of her son, approached and stooped to Fino’s humble bed. Her babe was still saddled on her back but the hour of dusk has claimed him for slumber.

“Do I look unharmed?” Fino coughed out blood and splattered onto the dress of the waitress.

As if the carrier for her babe was her private satchel, the green mother took out a roll of dirty cloth and a jug of murky water. “I’m so sorry, My Lord. If it wasn’t for me…” Not wishing to awake her son, the waitress whimpered and began to neatly cut the cloth into smaller pieces.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” with his palm, Fino hid his bruised face from the wench.

“My apologies.” Though she apologized, Fino could still see her soft smile through the dim gaps between his fingers.

Just leave already… Fino shut his eyes, praying that if he could not see her then she and the babe would disappear. Yet instead of still repose for his ears and tender wind to massage his skin, a burning yet freezing sensation seared onto his maimed arm.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Fino flung his arm away and rose his body up from the brink of collapse.

“Please, allow me to–” The swing from his arm pushed the waitress onto her arse, yet it was not enough to deter her reckless treatment. She tied her darkened hair into a tail and carefully crawled back towards Fino, armed with another soaked rag in hand.

“I do not need help from you.” Fino inched away from the heedless nurse.

Fino’s desperate escape attempt merely made the wench skulk faster. “But, My Lord. Your wounds are–”

“It seems like he was right. You people could never seem to stay obedient and listen to orders,” Fino jeered the daft and handsy waitress.

However, it seemed that her ears still hadn’t returned to her head. “Stop being so stubborn, My Lord.” The blue-eyed mother grappled Fino, wreaking further pain onto his drained body.

Speak for yourself, Fino cursed.

Throughout the commotion, Fino caught a glimpse of the baby still saddled onto his mother’s back, sound asleep and snoring as if this rumpus was no more than mere petty bickering.

“Has everyone in this hellhole lost their marbles?” With what little strength Fino had left in his hands, he pressed them onto the waitress’ shoulders, but they were not enough to toss even such a slender lady off of him.

“I could say the same of you, My Lord. Just let me tend to your wounds,” she pushed herself further closer to Fino. She did not seem to even mind Fino’s attempts to fling her off of him. Her eyes were following the wounds littered throughout his body, while her hands sought to apply sodden cloths over them.

Where was this tenacity back then? Fino thought to himself. Women of her kind have always baffled his mind – he dared not to understand what lay inside their dome.

The ruckus seemed to never end – as if they were no more than a pair of bickering couple.

No matter how hard Fino tried to push her away, his body would not let him. No matter how hard the waitress tried to tend to Fino, his body would not let her. Her skin lay atop his was fair and silky, nothing alike the harlots and slaves he could buy from Dreamcity. Her scent was that of one untainted by boozes and sweats, yet she was no stranger to either. Her eyes shined colour of the brightest sapphires, they glimmered back when they met Fino’s own golden orbs. All that she had – Fino desired.

Enough… The waitress whose name Fino did not even know, yet he knew all else.

No matter how soft her touch was, Fino’s hide creased at the slightest graze. No matter how redolent her scent was, Fino’s fingers could not help but plug his nose before they were charmed. No matter how alluring her eyes were, Fino’s own eyes could not help but rather find refuge in the dark of nights. All that she had – Fino could not stand.

With vigour he thought he had long lost since the Iron War, he shoved the waitress off as if she was a corpse lying atop him. “Don’t touch me with your filthy hands,” Fino yelled at the dusted and battered wench, though her eyes no longer shone at his, but back to her babe whom she shielded from the jostle. “Begone and never leave your keep again. That’s an order.” Fino ordered, though he knew they never heed his command.

At last, the wench listened to reason and stopped dead at her track, merely inches away from Fino’s touch. Her pupils whitened and her face paled, yet they were not that of a woman who was irate or fearful. They were those of the type of women that Fino loathed the sight of.

A faint shriek broke the standstill. It was so feeble, Fino could hardly even hear it yet he could not stand it lingering in his ears. The shriek soon turned to a cry, yet Fino could not tell where the din was coming from. It was as if the planet itself was weeping.

“There, there, Arnie. Mommy’s here. Don’t you cry,” the mother cradled her child between her bruised arms, and roofed her tattered body over him, shielding him from the ills of the planet.

Fino’s eyes could barely keep themselves awake any longer, and his mind felt like it was pounded between stones, yet he could not fall – not until the mother left, and the babe slept.

“I’m sorry, My Lord.” The waitress apologised, yet her voice and gaze held no remorse – not as if Fino was longing for it.

The mother hugged her baby tightly, coated him away from the harsh gale under her warm embrace, and whispered sweet lullabies into his ears – yet none were enough for him to doze once more.

Once more, she approached Fino and carefully laid down the tumbled flask of water and torn clothes next to Fino. “May Ark grant your heart repose.” The waitress bid her prayer under the shroud of night, when even Ark would slumber.

With her son straddled to her back, the mother walked far away, until the fog of night eventually claimed her sight away from Fino’s eyes.

This time... Peace and quiet at last, Fino sighed a breath of relief. His body tumbled back to the soil, and his head rested on a mount of dirt. He felt as if a boulder was lifted off his weary corpse – yet that boulder may have then rolled down a hill until it found rest on his dome instead.

“The City of Colours isn’t exactly for ones who yearn for silence,” another familiar voice intruded his peace, though this time it was not nearly as pleasant as the hums from a dainty lady – in fact, it was the furthest away from one.

Me and my big mouth, Fino groaned, his mind no doubt was being tormented far more than his body was.

“Didn’t know ya’ had a soft spot for tender babes and abandoned moms,” the old-timer who was assigned by Nine to be Fino’s cartman, unveiled himself from the shadow of the inn’s walls and basked under the moonlight – whereby Fino had to unwillingly gander at his smug grin.

“Hardly. I couldn't care less about such galling pests,” Fino rose himself up and leaned his back onto a wooden post. He’d rather be caught dead than flail around on the dirt like a dead fish affront the carter.

“At least try to match ya’ words and acts,” the red-eyed geezer yawned. “A man like ya’ is scarcely strangers to unwanted bastards and discarded broads after all,” he goaded as he held onto his straw hat from fluttering away with the wind. “Is this a trip of reunion perhaps?–”

“Enough.” Fino glared at the loudmouthed boor.

“My apologies.” The conceited oaf stuttered, for once since Fino had met him. “But whatever ya’ spout, ya’ still took quite a bad beating for them, ya’ lordship,” he walked towards Fino, yet he stopped half a step away from Fino – unsure whether out of enmity or the putrid waft reeking from Fino’s stained garments.

“Then you obviously haven’t been on the receiving end of my brother’s fists,” Fino laughed, though it itched his nose at the slightest move of his jaws. “This is nothing.” He laughed further, and it wasn’t long before he sneezed out clotted blood.

“Nothing or not, I couldn’t have ya’ falling on me here. Not until I get my due arks,” the carter picked up a piece of cloth left to ferment in the soil and hurled it at Fino.

“It’s always arks with you people isn’t it?” Fino caught the rag and wiped his nose.

“Ya’ know it. Why else would I be here? Dazing my eyes on this sorry sight,” the old coot lamented as if he was the one bruised and bludgeoned.

“Then do stop subjecting your eyes on this pile of heaping mess and leave,” Fino hurled the red-soaked cloth back to the eyesore of a man.

The carter caught the reddened scarph. “Ya’ don’t gotta' tell me twice, after all, this nightly walk sure has taken a toll on these old bones. Oughta’ retreat for the night then,” he yawned once more, as he stretched his back and rubbed his arms.

The moon reached its zenith and glimmered its grace over the old man’s body for a moment, illuminating secrets that Fino could not have seen afore. His knuckles were shredded and blistered as if they were grated against tree barks, while his fists were daubed in dry blood – though it did not appear to seep from his own flesh.

“Did you…” Fino mumbled, staring wordlessly at the carter’s bloody hands.

“Think of it as a client special. As far as I’m concerned, ya’ are my most stable spring of arks. I’m not ‘bout to let ya’ kick the bucket before I retire,” with the sodden cloth caught from Fino, he tore it in two and wrapped one to each fist.

“As if I’d die from just that. Ark didn’t carve us Archetypes that frail,” Fino claimed jestingly – unsure whether it was a claim or a jest.

“Ya’ not overly convincing with ya’ trousers dowsed in shite and piss.” The geezer pointed and leered his red orbs down at Fino.

“Beat it, old man.” Fino garbled, shaking his hand at the boor as if he was a wayward mutt.

“Desmi.”

What? Fino’s thoughts came to a halt. The night kept bringing him unwanted surprises one after the other.

“I have a name. Ya’ oughta’ use it.” The carter demanded as if he had any right to force that upon Fino.

“Then you ought to stop calling me city boy as well,” Fino demanded as if he had any strength left to force that upon the carter.

“The steerer holds the rein, not the passenger.”

“And the noble lord holds the arks, not the uncouth carter.”

The geezer smiled at the riposte, though it wasn’t the same arrogant grin that he always ported. “Retreat for the night, Lord Fino.” Desmi turned his back away before suggesting, as if it wasn’t the sole thing Fino would do if it wasn’t for his intrusion.

“Alright, see you tomorrow–”

“One more thing,” Desmi veered his head back once more, just as he was about to retreat from the moonlight and out of Fino’s sight.

What now? Fino grunted.

“That fancy knife of yours,” he pointed towards Fino’s back satchel, where his dagger rested. “Treat it as it is, and not as a glorified ornament. Lest ya’ wanna’ dull its glim and scrap its splendour.” Desmi advised.

Fino reached behind his rear and unveiled Maria. His fingers trembled at the mere touch of the leather-wrapped hilt. Though it has been centuries since the dagger was forged, its shine and sharpness still persist. The black blade would have cloaked away into the night if not for the sapphire gem embroidered at its core. Maria was a sister blade to the other legendary weapons crafted to be wielded by the Archetypes. Its siblings were accoladed with plentiful renowned exploits, yet Maria had never even felt the tender lullaby as its blade slashed through the regaling gale, nor the misty touch of blood showering over its gem.

“A dagger like this is already dulled if wielded by me. No reason for me to further punish it.” Fino held a wistful smile, before sheathing Maria away to the dark once more.

“If ya’ wish to part from it so much, I don’t mind stripping it from ya’ hands.” The greedy and tactless geezer stretched his arm and opened his palm, and it was not to lend Fino a hand.

“Nice try. If I can’t wield it, then a crude bum who carts horses for a living sure can’t either,” Fino shut any delusional thoughts Desmi may have.

“You’re one to talk,” the carter sneered. “Guess the blade won’t be feeling the warmth of a master anytime soon.” Desmi sighed, outwardly disappointed.

“Who knows? I don’t mind hocking it off to willing lords for a suitable reward.” Fino jested. “A plot of land maybe?” Fino laughed to himself, with his mouth curved into a wide arc.

“Delusions. They cloud ya’ judgment.”

“The most beautiful and graceful of women then?” Fino’s laughter dwindled, with his mouth flustered – struggling to stay up.

“Not even the vilest tramps would pawn their daughters off to ya’.”

“How about barrels of wine?” Fino’s laughter faded, with his smile vanished alongside.

“Half of ‘em oughta’ be sweetened ‘till it sends ya’ to an early grave.”

The soil Fino rested upon was not enough, he was half a mind to dig a ditch to bury himself in – lest that save him from the embarrassment of not knowing what he wants in life.

The carter didn’t seem to wallow in his victory at displeasing Fino, and instead merely scratched the scar that spanned across his face. “Alright, my bad. Unlike my boss, I’ve never been one to make fine jokes. Sure, you’d probably be able to get something ya’ like one of these days,” he apologized, though it felt less of sincere regret and more backhanded. “What do ya’ want though?” Desmi asked.

What do I want? Many vain ideas and incredible thoughts budded in Fino’s mind. He has lived for over two centuries, yet his dreams numbered few and between. Perhaps, there was a time when his heart was filled with desire and ambition, but it has all but vanished alongside that which warmed his heart. For a transient moment, Fino glimpsed down at the bandages and water left behind by the mother and her child – if only they could mend his reveries as well. I want…

“I want to go to Dreamcity. That’s what I want.” Fino answered with his head slumped low, facing the muck and insects.

Desmi’s glare felt as if it was painted in contempt, though it could be just his fearsome scar. “Lick ya’ wounds and don’t be late tomorrow morn, city boy.” He sighed as he spun aback, his tone was not as snarky as usual.

“Whatever, old ma–”

“One last thing,” just as he was about to leave the grace of the moonshine and be engulfed under the shade of the roof, Desmi turned around once more – to Fino’s dismay.

How many last things are there left? Fino groaned at the unending charade.

“It wouldn’t hurt to thank the lass, ya’ know? She no doubt got an earful just for bringing ya’ those slops,” he pointed at the cloths and flask by Fino’s feet.

“I didn’t ask for courtesy lessons from you,” Fino spat at the nosey coachman and landed on the toe cap of his boot.

“I wouldn’t have to if ya’ wasn’t so dull in the head, ya’ lordship.” The disgruntled geezer dragged his boot athwart the dirt until the spittle faded. “Just don’t do something ya’ gonna’ regret.” Desmi lastly left his parting words and tipped his straw hat before strutting away, humming to the rhythm of All Centum Road with each marching step.

There’s nothing to regret anymore, Fino stared aimlessly at the sole of his boots. No longer would he need to muster enough strength to not slumber away on the spot, coated in mud and mounted by ants. His back tumbled down to the dirt as the moon and stars shone directly over his body – their blinding lights descended upon his dozing eyes. Even now you would not let me rest? Fino whinged, though even the might of Ark himself would not be able to keep him awake for long. As his lids writhed to keep themselves open, glimmers of the silver arks left behind by the cads reflected upon his eyes, yet they did not sheen nearly as bright as a pile of bleeding cloths and a copper flask. Though his mind felt as if it was grinded between cogs and his muscles felt as though they would melt from his bones at the slightest nudge – with his last sliver of might, Fino tossed away the silver arks in his path and hugged the bundle of red cloths and water flagon, as if he was a baby and they were blankets for him to embrace into the twilight journey with him. May you have sweet dreams of stars… Was this what you wanted…

*

The morn had come, and the sun had risen. Drowsy travelers and merchants saddled their steeds and primed their wagons to set hooves and wheels onto the Iron Trail once more.

Fino was barely able to even catch a wink of sleep without the buzzing of moths and hooting of owls disturbing his rest. He had been awake for hours, refuging under the shade of the carriage until its carter arrived. His joints still ached and sored as if they hadn’t been stretched for days. His blistered lips had coalesced, while his lids held huge purple swells as if they were dulled horns.

His stomach grumbled wildly. He had not had any breakfast yet, though he’d rather starve for one morn than set foot inside the inn again. Fino tapped his foot wildly to the beat of the chirping birds and his growling stomach. How long is this geezer going to take?

As Fino waited and yawned in boredom, he sighted a pair of silver-eyed ecliants walking into the inn. With the scorching sun shining over his brown hide and burning his wounds, he had to squint tightly to notice that they were adorning light blue vests, with a green three-pointed star sigil pinned to their chest.

What are the watchers doing here? Fino wondered as he hid himself behind the carriage. His feet moved all on their own, though he had done nothing of worth to be apprehended.

“They finally got those troublemakers?” a nearby merchant said as he hauled his wares onto his wagon.

“I’m surprised it took them this long. The Blues never came when those scalawags messed around before. What gives?” another neighbouring merchant mentioned, as he stared at the watchers escorting crooks outside with shackles locked around their wrists.

Fino peered through the crevices of the carriage, whereby he saw the three brutes from last night, bruised all over, limping across the pathway as if they were walking corpses. The imp had shortened further as if his head was caved in. The swine had fattened further, with his entire body swollen as if he were a plump tomato. The lanky cad had slimmed further as if his ribcage had been crushed and dusted from within.

“I kinda’ feel bad for the runts,” the first merchant winced at the grisly sight.

“If they were the ones to be battered, then why are they arrested?” the second merchant inquired.

“Not a story easy to digest so early in the morn. But I heard they–”

“Ya’ ready to go?” Desmi appeared and shook Fino out of his peeping habit.

“It took you long enough,” Fino coughed, trying to mask his startle.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” the carter apologized, yet once more, it felt nothing like one. “It’s pretty rare to see the Blues in these shoddy parts of Xearth, don’t ya’ think? For no good reason no doubt,” he pondered. “Aren’t ya’ a lucky lad? Mayhap Ark has a heart after all.” Desmi goaded Fino, as he slapped him on the back.

Fino did not move. Even after the three brutes had disappeared from sight, and no doubt were on their way to the Ironmount Institute – Fino felt not an ounce of care. His wounds still burned and his small pride still shattered – though he cared not for them either. He knew not what he was waiting nor longing for, but he did not move from the spot he dug his heels in – merely staring aimlessly at the inn, as his eyes morphed hollow while his heartbeat raced.

A sharp snap of the fingers woke Fino from his stupor. “They hit ya’ head even harder than I thought,” Desmi kept snapping his fingers before Fino’s eyes as if he were a child.

“I’m fine.” Fino shook the tactless geezer’s hand away from his face.

“If ya’ good, then let us make way. Do ya’ still have something ya’ waiting for?” Desmi probed crudely.

Fino twirled his gaze away from the inn, now emptied of any worth, and climbed up the wagon steps. “What else would there be to wait for?” he uttered, his orbs still hollowed of their usual golden splendour, and his hand found itself holding tightly onto the silver ring on his left ring finger.

Desmi merely smirked and rolled his eyes, as he too hopped onto the carriage and took hold of the reins. The tanned carter adorned the sunhat over his silver head, and whipped the two horses’ rears until they began to gallop.

As the wagon once more set its wheels onto the Iron Trail, Fino gandered through his window, seeing the decrepit inn becoming smaller and smaller with each shaking trundle. He kept staring and staring, until the inn and its hovel were no more than a wisp blinded under the morning sun. Fino closed the recently fitted curtain over his window and rested his sore back onto his seat – prickly cushioned by the dagger strapped to his hind. He gently shut his eyes until the curtained sun claimed him for slumber, this time undisturbed by meddling cads, crawling bugs, stalwart mothers, and tearful babes – yet something felt missing. The nothingness that would never return pricked Fino’s temple and grinded his ears.

Should I have… Fino muttered faint secrets to the morning breeze as his golden eyes dimmed, though he knew his fleeting penitence was worthless to bygone listeners – for the sun has woken, yet the children still slumber.