“So what’s the deal with the sun?”

Marcus trailed behind Lilian as the pair strolled through the forest. There was no trail—they simply took the easiest path available through the sparse underbrush. Lilian seemed to know the general direction—though she occasionally stopped and looked around, seemingly searching for something.

Marcus didn’t ask what.

“We call it the blinding eye,” she replied without looking back. “Why it’s like that, I have no idea. And just wait ‘til you see the moon.”

A peaceful silence stretched—broken only by the soft rustle of their footfalls and the stirring of the leaves. To Marcus’s eye, Lilian seemed perfectly relaxed—he reasoned that the forest must not be a particularly dangerous place—when there were no giant spiders around, at least.

“So what really brings you here?”

Marcus frowned at her question. “I already told you. I’m here to save everyone.” He paused. He could tell she didn’t believe him. “Why are you here?” he asked, while brushing away a thin branch.

She shook her head. “I was born here. A lot of us were.”

Marcus nodded. It made sense—it’s not like exile would make people stop having kids. Another reason to complete his quest in the Wratihlands—even if you assumed that all of the exiles deserved their sentence, their children certainly didn’t.

Actually…

“You know, it doesn’t seem so bad here,” he mused. “It’s a beautiful place.”

Lilian snorted. “You haven’t even been here for half a day. You don’t know anything.”

Fair enough.

She continued after a brief silence. “Did you get a Mark from the nightstalker?”

Marcus almost stumbled over a leaf-covered log. Regaining his balance, he answered her in the affirmative.

Lilian glanced back excitedly. “What is it? If you don’t mind me asking…”

Marcus shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t looked at it yet.”

Lilian stopped and turned around completely. She put her hands on her hips and squinted. “What do you mean you haven’t looked at it? You got a mark and you just… what, you just decided that you would go traipsing off into the forest again without even so much as looking at it? Tarken was right, you really are insane.”

Marcus ran a hand through his shaggy dark brown hair. “I just got lost in the moment, I guess.”

In truth, he had seen and used so many different marks in his lifetime that acquiring a new one just didn’t phase him. If memory served correctly, the brief glance he had taken showed him that it was only a rare grade.

Marcus opened his deck interface and navigated to his only inactive mark.

Tangle Weaver [Rare]

Level 1

Create and manipulate strong and sticky threads.

While he wasn’t particularly impressed, Marcus was pleased. Fire and lightning were flashy, but his favorite marks were always more utility based in nature. He enjoyed finding creative solutions to problems—in his mind, a good fight was a puzzle.

Equipping and activating the mark with a thought, Marcus aimed his outstretched hand at the nearest tree. A thread half as wide as his pinky shot forth, one end anchoring to the bark while the other coiled into his grasp.

He repeated the mark description to Lilian, and she nodded happily. The only thing he left out was the newly added fourth line.

Counter: 3 / 3

Now that he had equipped the mark, he had three more deaths until it leveled down.Of course, since it was only level one, there was no penalty—yet. The counter was also personal—it wouldn’t affect the mark if anyone else equipped it.

Marcus dismissed the thread, letting it evaporate into empty air, and the pair continued forward.

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“Tarken said you recently became marked. If you don’t mind me asking, what does yours do?”

Lilian stiffened slightly, then forcibly relaxed. “It makes me stronger, tougher, and faster,” she explained in a flat voice, “and enhances my senses.”

Marcus narrowed his eyes. It was instantly obvious that she was sensitive about the subject—that she was withholding something—but he wouldn’t press her. It was her decision what she would share.

“That sounds useful. So, the sword is purely mundane, right? No enchantments, no curse, no fated prophecy or anything like that?”

Lilian laughed. “No, it’s just a piece of metal,” she replied. “But for us? Priceless. I still can’t believe Berret lost it. And I really can’t believe that Tarken didn’t beat his ass.”

Marcus cocked his head. A sword was that valuable here? Well, to be fair, the commune’s architecture was primarily based around dirt and sticks…

“Well, call him a coward, but I can’t blame a man for ditching his sword when his life is at stake. That’s more valuable than a piece of metal, after all.”

Lilian stopped and craned his head to face him. “Where you come from? Maybe. But not here.”

Marcus was about to reply to her when her attention snapped to a branch high above. Marcus followed her gaze—a brilliant bluish purple fruit the size of a curled fist hung from one of the higher branches.

“Shit. Can you use your threads to get up there?” She glanced in his direction. “If not, I can try to climb.”

Marcus shrugged and fired a thread up to the branch. Gripping it tightly, he leaned back while bracing his boots on the trunk. Slowly, he began ascending—hand over hand, he pulled himself up by the sticky rope.

Once he got to the first branch, he hauled himself up and let go of the thread. From there, he climbed using the branches. Finally, he made it to the top. The early afternoon sun kissed his face, and his fingers closed around the cool, plump flesh of the lumpy fruit. It separated from the branch with ease, and he tossed it down to Lilian.

“Thanks!” she called up, before taking a juicy bite and sauntering off.

“Hey! Wait!” Marcus’s cries fell on deaf ears. “Do I get any?”

Lilian craned her head back and flashed him a grin. “Nope!”

***

“You said that today is arrival day.”

Lilian nodded. “All the new arrivals come on the first of each month. It’s weird… not only do they come from different places in the overworld, which you would expect, they come from different times.”

Marcus tilted his head. The pair were walking back towards the encampment. They had found the sword—a thin, elegant rapier—at the entrance of a small, mossy cave. Lilian carried it in her left hand.

“Wait, what do you mean?” He asked.

Lilian took a moment to reply. “The new arrivals are always from a time in the overworld that’s later than the previous arrival day—but within each wave of arrivals, their time in the overworld varies by up to several years.” She paused. “Time also seems to work slower here. A year here is ten to a hundred years in the overworld—and yes, it varies.”

Marcus scratched his head. What she claimed was bizarre—but he had no reason to doubt her, and not much was known about the Wraithlands. After all, nobody who was exiled had ever returned.

And not even his respawn allowed him to travel back. With Lilian’s new information, Marcus felt that this quest would be a fun puzzle indeed.

“Stop.”

Marcus obeyed her command immediately. Lilian flicked her eyes back and forth, before tilting her head slightly. She wrinkled her nose.

“There are humans to our left. Three of them, I think.”

“Is that bad?”

What was wrong with humans? She didn’t strike him as an introvert.

“I don’t know why anybody should be there,” she replied cautiously. “Come on. Let’s go check it out.”

Marcus shrugged. “As you wish.”

Marcus continued trailing behind her as they crept forward—cautiously, now. Several minutes passed in near silence—their footfalls were quiet, as they made sure to place their feet carefully.

Lilian halted. Straining his ears, Marcus caught snatches of conversation drifting from between the trees ahead.

“—and we should be close to the camp by now. I fucking swear, if we don’t find those damned refugees this time…”

“Yeah yeah yeah. We know how you feel. Just keep moving, would ya?”

“I say we burn it all. They’ve been disrespecting Mister Salieri for too long.”

“Hey! We’re just scouting, remember? We’re not burning down anything. Besides, they have children, man.”

“Fuck the children. What, are you going soft all of a sudden? We’re marked man, we do what we want.”

“And have you forgotten that they have marked as well? Do you really want to risk—”

“Are you a fucking coward?”

Marcus had heard enough. Placing his spawn point, he threw a thread up to the lowest branch of the nearest tree and began to climb. Lilian was so intently focused on the conversation that she didn’t seem to notice.

He would aim to incapacitate, not kill. While the three men—he had heard three different voices—obviously meant trouble, he had learned over the centuries not to leap to conclusions. Sometimes the obvious wasn’t as clear cut as it seemed.

Using his threads to leap from tree to tree, Marcus made his way forward. Finally, he caught sight of his quarry below—there were three men indeed—one tall and lean, one short and stout, and one heavyset and broad. Marcus immediately named them Stringbean, Redbean, and Limabean. All three wore leather and chainmail armor.

“And if you two won’t man up, I’ll just do it myself,” Redbean continued. “I swear, every time it comes time to act, you two just—”

Marcus dropped down behind them.

“Hello there.”

The three men turned around in unison. Rebean pointed, and Stringbean gaped. Limabean spoke first.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Marcus bowed with a flourish.

“Marcus Vinecelli, professional hero and part time lover, at your service.”

He stood up and cocked his head. “Now, would you care to tell me what you meant by burning the village and killing the children?”