Tindra was famed across the continent for the quality and sheen of its limestone, a badge of honour it wore in the construction of every building in its town centre. This lofty reputation did nothing to deter its residents from their purpose, though. This was a mining town, through and through. Every home, every inn, every structure was an extension of the quarries that shone in every cardinal direction, like the town of Tindra was looking out through an enormous set of glossy, grinning white teeth. It was a place where people came to chisel stone, load carts, and leave. In other words, it was not much of a tourist destination.

What Tindra did have, as with all towns and cities in the free states, was a mercenary guild hall. Mercenaries largely filled in for local law enforcement and standing armies in The Kaden Circle, where monarchies and tyrannies had been abolished centuries ago. There was still a semblance of public policing, embodied by the odd teenager or ancient veteran propping themselves up on a crooked spear outside a dusty administrative building, but it was widely known that if you wanted something done then it was off to the mercenary guild you went to post your request. This was especially true if you wanted it done with any semblance of speed or efficacy.

This particular guild hall was right on the edge of the town centre, where the ramshackle hovels of the seasonal workers broke against the white cliffs of the administrative district. It was a squat, boxy structure, important enough to be fashioned out of the local stone, but not loved enough to possess any kind of ornamentation. The interior was perhaps fifteen paces across, and perfectly square. There were a few mercenaries lounging around the place, mostly waiting to escort some caravan or another, but the place was certainly not a hive of activity. Naturally, then, it caused some surprise, and no small amount of dismay, when the double-door to the guild was slammed open by a massive cockatrice.

The off-duty mercenaries were immediately on their feet. Weapons were readied, tables were flipped to form barricades, and mugs of ale were switched to the off-hand.

“It’s alright, it’s alright. It’s quite dead, I assure you,” Archimedes called, the spiny-beaked head of the beast tucked under one muscular arm, much like a battering ram.

“Flaming hells, Archimedes! You almost gave me a bloody heart attack,” Pate, the mutton-chopped guild master boiled, setting down a mace that looked like it would reach retirement age before its owner.

“We have slain the great beast of the Tindra lowlands. We have killed the cockatrice!” Archimedes announced, his inflated chest straining against his shimmering breastplate.

“Yes, I can see that.”

“Umm, where should I put it?”

“You were only supposed to bring the trophy, Archimedes.”

“The trophy?”

“All the client needed was the damn thing’s tadger.”

“Oh, I, uh, thought they might want to set up a display or something.”

“Nope.”

“Just the, ah, ‘tadger’ then?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I see… Why just the-? You know what, it doesn’t matter. At any rate, I don’t suppose I could plop this down somewhere? What do you say, my good man? It is rather heavy.”

The creature’s forked tongue lolled from its serrated beak as Archimedes readjusted his grip.

Pate sighed, “Put it in the corner, I’ll deal with it later.”

“Excellent! Alright, back there! Push with all you have! Not much further now.”

Groans and grunts could be heard from the feathered posterior of the cockatrice, but, soon enough, the giant chicken-wyvern popped into the guild, like the product of some ungodsly birthing, and was deposited in a heap of reptilian poultry.

Eileen rested her hands on her knees, catching her breath. It was with some effort that the sweet, blushing young lady was able to say:

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Thanks for all the help, assholes.”

“You looked like you had it under control,” a tall ranger said, filling his pipe.

“Plus, it’s company tradition: the newbie gets the shit jobs,” Thomas smiled, his round, freckled cheeks rising to meet his ginger hair, making his entire face look like a satsuma.

Eileen had only been with The White Fangs for thirty cycles, having left her previous band, The Midnight Runners, after her leader and friend, Dexy, was assassinated. Nonetheless, the short-haired rogue was finding herself right at home in The Kaden Cricle’s largest and best-known mercenary company.

“Hang on, can’t you levitate stuff, or something like that?”

Thomas’s grin grew wider, “Oh, I most definitely can.”

“Thanks a bunch.”

“Just observing the pecking order,” he shrugged.

“Pecker order, more like.”

Thomas responded with an elaborate hand-gesture, the meaning of which did not require the input of a linguist to interpret.

“Quit flirting! It’s time I fixed this sobriety problem I’ve had all day,” the ranger, Adrian, said.

“You have indeed all earned some downtime,” Archimedes said, tucking the cockatrice’s limbs in as neatly as he could, “Pate, a round of drinks for my troops, if you please. On second thoughts, a round for everyone.”

“Wahey!” the room cheered in response, any irritation at the intrusion of a seven-strides long cockatrice now instantly forgotten.

Archimedes personally assisted Pate in handing out flagons and tankards of ale, offering a word of congratulations and gratitude to each of his retinue as he did. Only twenty of the Fangs had accompanied him on this occasion. The others were off representing the band in other capacities, throughout The Kaden Circle, Gara, Faiser and the Divided Realms.

“Oh, not for me, thank you,” Violet declined as Archimedes presented her with a mug of amber-coloured beer.

“Something else, perhaps?”

“No, thank you. I know a bit too much about mixing concoctions to trust alcohol,” the plump alchemist smiled sheepishly, indicating her belt of ingredients, just visible beneath her billowing, yellowish, stained smock.

Archimedes toasted her with the drink he had offered, and took a sip in her honour.

“Some very handy tricks there,” he said appreciatively, nodding towards the vials and flasks that, when mixed, could create any number of potions and bombs.

“I never really expected to see them in action, to be honest.”

“You are far too capable to be holed up in some musty academy workshop. What a waste that would be!”

“Maybe. I’m a little better at mixology when there aren’t wyverns or cockatrices trying to eat me, though,” she smiled weakly.

Archimedes placed a hand on her shoulder. It was a paternal gesture, despite there being only a handful of years between the two.

“You’ve been doing an incredible job, Violet. I see you trying, and I appreciate it. Besides, if it turns out that the frontline is not for you, then no matter! There will always be a place for talented individuals in The White Fangs.”

“And Vish, apparently,” Thom said into his mug, overhearing the conversation.

It had been literal years since Vish and Gabriel had departed from The White Fangs, but Thomas’s animosity for the mind-mapper still burned as strongly as ever. This was not helped in the slightest by their recent run-in with the breakaway band of mercenaries, whose previous job had caused quite a stir across The Kaden Circle.

The last The White Fangs had heard, Gabriel and his misfits had unwittingly become involved with a cult of zealots. Archimedes was utterly dismayed when a happenstance encounter with a fellow traveller had revealed precisely which cult. Vish and Gabriel had apparently had a run in with The Order of the Rising Dragon. They were a fanatical bunch, who believed that Ruby, one of the ancient Gemstone Dragon Lords, had resurfaced to take over the continent… again.

“Why do you hate them so, Thomas?” Violet asked.

“Hate is such a strong word,” the mage said, “but entirely accurate.”

“They have good hearts, Thomas. They are just a little misguided at times,” Archimedes said.

“They did get Dexy killed,” Eileen said, blinking the moisture from her eyes.

“Deeply regrettable, but not exactly their fault.”

“They manipulate souls,” Thomas literally spat, “That’s their fault.”

“A tool, like any other, my friend. When used correctly, that is.”

Thomas exited the conversation with a dismissive, “bah”, leaving Archimedes in quiet reflection. The dashingly handsome, white-haired mercenary captain allowed himself a brief moment to reminisce. He had grown up with Gabriel, Natasha and Vish. They had been a part of his past, and in some ways knew him better than any of his current retinue. They had been misfits, just like him. Granted, he was out of place because he was the son of Diomes, the founder and leader of The White Fangs before the mantle passed to Archimedes. They were outcasts because they were deeply unloved, largely incompetent social pariahs. Still, there was a link there somewhere, nonetheless.

“Are you worried about them?” Violet asked, peeking underneath Archimedes furrowed brow.

“I’m not sure. Perhaps I am.”

“I don’t think you need to be. They made it this far, after all! And besides, they trained with the best.”

“Ha! I suppose you are right, my friend,” Archimedes nodded, taking a swig from his ale and sighing appreciatively, “Perhaps it is I who needs to learn to let go, who needs to learn to trust a little.”

“Oh, Archimedes,” Pate called from across the counter, taking a break from dishing out drinks, “With all the bloody commotion you caused I almost forgot to tell you,” he wiped his hands on a rag and reached beneath the bar, “A message came for you.”

“Oh?”

“Or rather, a messenger came for you.”

Pate opened his palm and deposited upon the bar a small, green cricket.