Rhode Mortimer Irving took one look at that menacing piece of cutlery, and nearly ran, then and there. He bolted upright, and then to his feet and cracked a tile under the weight of his heel.

Btiobhan and the barber retreated half-way out of the room, and the mutton-chopped goblin leaned towards the other. “Is Ser Irving unwell?”

“I am… not sure,” the elf drawled uncertainly.

The only thing that stopped Rhode from bowling through them and out of the door was a question: “this is going to make me stronger though? Faster too?”

The acolyte in yellow and the surgeon in Viper’s colors exchanged a look. “Yes,” the goblin promised to both of them. “You might need to advance it, but yes.”

“I’m really slow. I feel slow,” Rhode said.

“I hear you,” Btiobhan placated, raising his hands, “we can make that happen. I’ll tell the schoolies, and they’ll chart everything out. Faster? That’s a good choice, that’s what I’ll ask them.”

Rhode looked down at his hands and curled two great fists. He raised them both up until they blotted out his view of both goblin and elf. Then, he let them fall back to the divan and eased himself back down. “Okay.”

Tinny metal clacks indicated the unpacking of equipment onto the rolling trolley. The two men worked quietly, noticeably only speaking once or twice as the barber had become confused and asked Btiobhan who he was, and why he was there. Goodma□ Bt□ob□■n reassured him patiently, each time.

“Nobody calls you Ser,” Rhode noted aloud without warning.

“Why would they call me Ser,” laughed the barber.

“Oh,” the elf perked up. “You mean me? No, hah. They don’t.”

“They don’t call you Lord, either,” Rhode pushed.

“Lord? Gods no. No titles,” Btiobhan stood. He wore a weak smile and patted Rhode’s shoulder. “Though my family was probably halfway to earning one: money does that. But no, now I’m just nothing. I don’t even get the Goode so much anymore.”

The man from earth winced. “I don’t know any of the rules. Who’s in charge, and who isn’t. What I’m supposed to call people. I’m not good at this. Everything's so rigid. Where I come from, we don’t talk to each other that way anymore.”

The elf let out a long, sharp breath. He tied a thin cheesecloth over his head to hold back his hair. “I’ve heard that kind of talk before, big guy. Try to get it out of your system, quick if you can.”

Rhode lolled his head to the side to scrutinize the young man. “You know, I was sure you guys had some kind of weird elf supremacy thing going on.”

Stiffly, the Viper barber glared at the Hornupant acolyte, and the young man shrugged apologetically. “We do,” he admitted. “We do,” he laughed uncomfortably.

Then the young man moved closer to Rhode. He rolled back both of his sleeves, one after the other, and tugged aside his high collar. There was a thin, dull metal ring around each of his wrists and neck. It was black iron, unbroken and smooth. They did not look comfortable. Underneath each piece, his skin was faintly raw.

“Yep,” Btiobhan looked away. Shame clouded his face. “It might not always fair how we do things here in Sacred, but sometimes the rules really do apply to everyone.”

He brought his wrists together, and the metal clinked.

Rhode frowned at the barber, wondering if he was being toyed with, but the physician/hairdresser was staring into space. He closed his eyes and laid back. “You’re not even a priest, either?”

“Oh, we are. Of course we are. But how much do you know about His Holiness, the divine Hornupant?”

Rhode knew very little, except the unflattering things that Eloft had told him. “Healing for fancy people,” he slurred.

“Right, right. We provide high quality, luxury services for affordable prices. That’s sort of what we’re known for –” he spun about and pointed at the barber. “Do you have a gown for the Hero? Something for him to change into?”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

The answer was apparently no.

“I’ll go get something, then. Do you think I should fetch up Goodwife Xun?”

“Who are you?” the barber replied.

“Alright. Well, I’ve got to run out, and we’re still missing a lot of people. But anyway, the reason we’re able to do that, is that the other half of our church is basically a prison. If you get in trouble, but you have useful skills… you get a chance to earn High Hornupant some money. Everybody wins.” The young man had moved to the door, and paused with a grip on its handle. “Even me, maybe. Depending on how you turn out, big guy. I’ll be right back.”

Two sharp knocks rapped on the door shortly after, but the arrival turned out to be a stranger. “Hey,” Rhode waved. His arm knocked over the cart, and it’s contents spilled onto the floor.

Two goblins scrambled to recover an arsenal of knives, clamps and augurs. The new man wore simple, loose white clothing, and while otherwise skinny, protruded with an impressive pot-belly. “Ser,” the goblin addressed him reverently.

“See?” Rhode grumbled. “I’m Ser, now. When am I Ser, and when am I not?”

In his impaired state, he had only just managed to collect the names of the two goblins when a bickering crowd arrived all together.

Bhiobhan was wheeling another cart, stacked high with white sheets and linens. The maid who followed him was wearing a sedate frock, trimmed in Malachite colors. She had a coat rack leaning over her shoulder, and as the glass bottles which hung from its prongs swung and jangled, she watched them with absolute terror.

The alchemist Krevinkya followed behind them, shouting at a soldier who struggled with the heavy chest which hung beneath his legs. Veins bulged up the sides of his face, and his bowed legs shuffled as he carried his burden the last few feet.

She thanked the man by slapping the back side of his skull, and then banished him from the room with a hiss. Krevinkya was dressed as if she were headed to the ballroom (for dancing, not for unholy sacrilege), and her face was painted stark white with toxic lead cream.

“I liked that one. But what’s this one doing here?” she barked. Her finger stabbed towards the pot-bellied goblin.

“Alchemist, that’s the butcher,” Bhiobhan shouted over sheets. He threw a stack of them at the barber, and then lunged to save the maid’s dangerously toppling burden.

Krevinkya clapped once with approval. “Oh, good,” she chirped. Gracelessly, she hitched her skirt aside and began to rummage through her heavy strong-box.

Rhode reached out and his fingers wrapped around Bhiobhan’s neck. Everything stopped as he slowly pulled the teetering elf close.

“Ah, right,” the young man choked, “he’s not here to do any cutting, big guy! He’s just showing us which way the grain of your meat is going. Meat levels! Advisory only!”

Rhode slowly released his grip on the acolyte.

“Goodwife Xun,” the elf gasped, “can you get everyone? Barber Noffet, get Rhode changed, please. Excuse me, I’m going to sit down.”

The room was escalating into chaos that Rhode could no longer follow. Bottles full of foul or glowing tinctures were rattling. A butcher was waving his hands eagerly over Rhode’s leg, babbling about the distribution of muscle to the barber as the second man lifted his tunic up over and off his head, then threw it at the maid.

“What is wrong with my homunculus?” scowled the alchemist.

“I’m not sure,” Btiobhan replied, rubbing at his throat. “I think it’s a bad synergy between level effects. You’ve seen how bad our [Anonymity] aura affects him.”

“And what exactly would cause that?” Krevinkya spat. After a long pause in which she only received a raised eyebrow in reply, her eyes grew wide. “Ah. Yes. Of course,” she deflected sweetly.

The alchemist flicked at the rack-hung glass bottles to knock the bubbles out of the clear solution and began assembling a rigging of narrow copper pipes which could draw from them. The barber and the butcher came to an amiable, and satisfying agreement on which scalpel to start with. The maid was draping cloth over the edge of an empty pool, and then her feet slid apart into a low stance –

“[Bleach Strike]!” the woman cried wildly as her palm slammed into the fabric. When she picked it up and shook it, a faint gray powder fell out of the sheet. It had turned starkly white.

The maid repeated the process several times, and as she did, locks of her hair became progressively less restrained. She put her weight into each blow, and Rhode placidly watched her (martial) form with an idiot smile as she worked.

“Get up!” shouted a voice. Rhode did as he was told. “Strip!” called out another. This one took him a second to comply.

A gasp echoed throughout the bath, as the towering homunculus scratched his own buttock and covered himself shyly.

“What are you staring at?” shrieked the alchemist. “You morons! Look at the size of the rest of him. You think I was going to make it proportional? He’d kill someone!”

Rhode was saved by the warm bucket of water that splashed into him.

“Secret of soap! Waters which cleanse! [Principle of Surfactance], stain slaying art: [Dissolve] and [Rinse]!” The bucket of sudsy water the maid had heaved onto him was so huge, she almost fell over.

"I'm sorry," the alchemist protested, "but how does this gob possibly take her job this seriously?"

Rhode? He stood there and dripped. But he did have to admit: he felt surprisingly clean.