Evelyn, as a teenager, hated the walls and tall buildings of Letun. Sunlight, and open land, were the right of the enlightened races, and the Spawn of Ouroboros denied them. Praying while bathed in the glow of the Temple of Gaia's stained glass windows, or on the town walls overlooking the nearby fields, brought her the most contentment. She almost detected the divine presence, even then.

So, when her parents decided to homestead, her father a farmhand with fantasies of acreage and her mother desperate to decorate her own house, an ignorant Evelyn was overjoyed. New towns required a healer, and she possessed a meager grace of it.

Her family, with others, founded a nameless town, men and women who wished to live free of the yoke of nobility. Stewardship laws in the protected lands were strict, and homes were forfeit if caretakers could not confirm their utility. Despite the suffocating oppression, Priestess Evelyn still felt her parents, now cared for by Gaia herself, alongside her siblings, made the horrifically wrong choice. They farmed and ate well, for a short while, until the monsters demanded their bloody portion.

"We're approaching the town," Sister Lora said.

Priestess Evelyn's eyes fluttered open. The nightmare ended.

She glanced with sleep-blurry vision across the rocking carriage. Sister Lora, dressed as a nun in the traditional black habit, smiled back. A bundled up little girl, Laira, curled up underneath the sister's arm and dreamed.

The priestess permitted a small bout of jealously, then squashed it. It would feel wrong if she never allowed any emotion at all, but her discipline protected them til now. It would be needed again.

"She's sleeping much better after weaning off the dope." Sister Lora tucked the child's long hair out of her face. "Walter performed a miracle."

"Yes, he did."

Why did I hide him? That was foolish of me.

To avoid making a conversational misstep, Evelyn turned her attention out of the carriage window. She already knew the answer.

The bright starkness of the distant snow pained her eyes, yet the priestess refused to flinch. Closer snow tried, and failed, to hide the dirty road underneath its surface, stomped away by the marching of soldiers and rambling mercantile horsecarts. She smelled the cold mud, the horse's sweat, varnish, and the dusty fabric.

Her nose was sensitive due to a quirk of her senses, colorful shapes formed alongside scents. This sensory amalgam, like many things in the priestess's life, was a sanctified curse. In the periphery of her vision, colorful shapes formed alongside scents. 'Synesthesia' was the scholarly word for her condition. All potential oracles possessed this precursory trait, allowing them to perceive hidden truths.

It included the reasoning for her banishment to Camp Wolf.

Well, this is the expected outcome. I will never again confuse the order of might and right. If I am not careful with my words, I might soon be condemned.

"When we get to Letun, take Laira and stealthfully seek out Lady Elin and Sir Walter, and house with them. Get them to protect you and Laira, I'm sure they will. Use their fondness of her to twist their arms if you have to. Be wary. This is an exceedingly dangerous time."

Sister Lora searched Priestess Evelyn's eyes, before giving a somber nod. "And you?"

The priestess squinted, staring at the ruined snowfall, "I have my own battle."

The carriage stopped. When Priestess Evelyn opened the door to dismount, she found an Odinic templar waiting to take her hand. "Sir Eugene, I presume?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She wobbled as he nearly lost his grip, brought on by a sudden bout of nervousness, and used a second hand on her waist to guide her to the ground.

"My apologies, ma'am."

"Think nothing of it."

Odinic templars, warriors of Odin, were the counterparts of Gaiatic paladins, protectors of Gaia, and their powers worked similarly. What differed was their style. Instead of swords, they fought with spears, and instead of connecting with horses, they bonded with wolves and crows. Because their powers worked better upon the Mockeries, and ineffective against Undead, it was unusual to see an Odinic templar posted at the Necropolis.

Sir Eugene's helmet sported three-pointed antlers. From what Priestess Evelyn remembered, that means he's awakened three heroic powers.

Priestess Evelyn feigned misunderstanding, "Did you arrive recently, sir knight, to aid Camp Wolf?"

"Late autumn, priestess, and I fear not. I operate under royal orders."

So, they made their move that early, and they were being willfully late.

Priestess Evelyn studied Sir Eugene. He was tall and muscular, but not distastefully so. His blond hair was only a shade darker than Elin's. Clearly, they picked him as a matching pair. Moreover, he lacks a title, perhaps to soothe Elin's past as a fallen house, and ingratiate her. Their forthcoming rank wouldn't be an issue, at any rate.

As a third-party matchmaker herself, with some success in arranging marriages, physically, Sir Eugene is a good pick. He seems healthy and strong. As a bonus, he's pleasing to look at, no doubt, without the armor as well. But, at first glance, or rather, the first scent, Priestess Evelyn would have rejected him any service for arrangement.

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The smell of the pink scar flooded her vision, abundant in the district where the Disciples of Venus operated. Likely, he didn't even pay for most of the attention. That, by itself, wouldn't be enough. She could not fault the Odinic templars, known for their fierceness, for blowing off steam. Nor the Disciples for acting according to their beliefs. No one would. What earned her judgment, however, was his pretense at the awkwardness, the farce of innocence, so he could put a hand on her body and cop a feel. His first action was a lie, so she categorized him as fake. Sir Eugene was incapable of being Elin's husband. This is the man they picked as her deponent. She's going to reject him. That might be on purpose.

Sir Eugene held out his hands towards Sister Lora, an attempt to take Laira so she could dismount.

Sister Lora's eyes grew icy, colder than the icicle dangling off Letun's walls. All means of politeness froze for her. "I think not."

Sir Eugene glanced at Priestess Evelyn.

"Water to water, and fire to fire, sir knight. Please, let the women," the priestess said with a practiced smile, "tend to the girls."

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"Did you just squeal?"

"Be quiet! Let me be excited! I earned that much, didn't I?"

Walter tapped his chin and examined Elin as if he counted on an abacus. After departing from Letun, she changed back into the threadbare tunic, to avoid notice. She ignored the fact Walter pointed out a woman walking around in near-freezing temperatures, wearing just a thin bit of linen, gave her away faster than the armor.

Finally, he nodded, "Yes, I suppose you earned a little bit of squealing."

"How erotic!" Elin covered her cheeks, then said, with utmost seriousness, "I will hold you to your word."

Walter snorted a laugh.

"Well?" Elin's impatience reached its peak. "Cease this teasing and open the door immediately!"

"Are you sure, not even a little more teasing?"

"Walter! Do not make me beg! I will, but don't!"

The property in their interim care was a defunct estate, once a plantation, on the edge of the farmlands. Elin adamantly demanded isolation. A smattering of abandoned properties met her requirements, so it was a simple matter of picking one closer to the dungeons. Unable to work the land themselves, an alternative stewardship requirement was contracted, warehousing monstraculture goods. The dangerous nature of the land meant no servants were bonded to it.

Elin bounced from foot to foot while Walter, intentionally slow, unlocked the door. Once unsecured, she rushed inside. The door, stuck from swelling, creaked loudly as Elin easily forced it open. Walter shook his head, unslung their ruck, and placed it inside the doorway as he followed her.

"You should be more careful," Walter chided her, "They did mention there are dungeons nearby."

"Ah, yes, I apologize, beloved. Is this place not wonderful?"

The Tudor-style house was, for the most part, a linear series of three large rooms. The front door led into the middle room.

Elin stopped in the center, just before a firepit on the floor, and soaked in the details. Walter moved methodically, and also studied the house. He caught the details she excitedly missed or didn't care about.

The left-behind furniture, decrepit beyond use, left behind fresh marks on the dusty floor, along with a scattering of booted footprints. The plaster on the walls was flat and uncracked, possibly new, and the exposed wood paneling showed no signs of sun-damage. A sniff revealed a scent of freshly applied protective oil. Walter would bet his last silver coin the shingles were new, and the roof was leak-proof. Cobwebs were absent. The remaining damage, should it be called that, was easily replaced, like the slats of wood used to cover the windows. Mostly, the house required cleaning.

So, Walter concluded, either nearby monsters with a passion for house maintenance broke in, or Lord Remont ordered someone ahead of time to secretly work on the house. Elin said she wanted to repair it herself. However, it would be in the governor's and the town's best interests that Elin was comfortable and gripe-less, so they balanced the two.

Walter saw no reason to ruin Elin's fun.

"Let's go see the kitchen!" Elin dashed off, "There's a hearth. I didn't realize there'd be a hearth."

Walter ambled in the kitchen behind her. Elin stared intently at the stone foundation of the fireplace. It jutted out of the wall several feet, raised a few inches, and was long enough to lay down on. Artisans carved intricate symbols of the elements into the stonework.

"Well, yes? I mean, wouldn't you find a hearth in a medieval kitchen?" He tilted his head.

"That's not," She cleared her throat, "that's not what I meant. It's a tradition to 'warm it' when moving in."

"So, we light a fire?"

"Walter." Elin closed her eyes. "Please make an effort to understand. This is before lighting a fire."

"Oh." Walter's confusion faded away. "Oh... Elin. The stone is ice cold! We'll die of hypothermia, or, I will, anyway!"

Elin's fingers looped around the buckles on his gambeson, and worked them open, "Water to water, fire to fire. Until we satisfy tradition, no flames get lit in this house."

"You're joking," Walter shook his head, "What does that even mean? I don't have resistances like yours, I'm going to freeze to death!"

Elin nuzzled into his exposed neck, "I won't let you make excuses. Push me down and lay on top of me, if you wish."

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Walter's hands, numb from the cold, clicked the flint and steel. After an agonizing hour of collecting nearby firewood and lighting it, the hearth finally gave off enough heat to be comfortable. Elin refused, steadfastly, to help, but she cheered him on.

Since he was covered in soot, Walter no longer cared if he got dusty sitting in front of the fireplace. Elin cuddled up next to him, still sporting his blackened thumbprint on her cheek. They quietly enjoyed the fire.

Walter broke the silence first, "What does 'water to water, fire to fire' mean?"

"Hmm," Elin relaxed and sighed, "It basically means, wife's work to the women, husbandry to the men."

"Urk!"

Elin giggled and hugged him around the waist, "What?"

"Nothing." His voice was hasty. "So, I'm guessing the elements have something to do with it?"

He pointed to the hearth's carvings.

She nodded. "Air and fire are masculine elements; water and earth are feminine. So, you make the fires, I fetch the water."

"You started fires, though?"

"We weren't exactly together at the time. Besides, the elements are metaphorical. Fire means strength, water is grace. Earth represents fertility," Elin's voice trailed off, and she giggled again.

Walter nudged her. "And air?"

"Well, in general, it means life, but more crudely, it means seed. Your 'stuff,' so to speak."

He sucked in a laugh. "This world is filled with a bunch of perverts."

"Blame the summoned heroes! They're the ones that taught us." Elin tilted her head. "Is that Laira?"

Walter turned his attention to listen outside the house's walls. A little girl recited a nursery rhyme. "A coin for mum and a coin for dad. Share a coin 'tween sis' and the lad. Food for the day and light for the night. A bit o' firewood to fight off the fright."

"Seems so," Walter admitted, "What the heck is she doing here?"