Saturdays were, and currently are, notable for three reasons. The first: they represent the start of the week for much of the civilized world, the second, related to the first: they are a holy day for Paacists, both Orthodox and Reform, who observed the day of Requiem, an old tongue word for rest, and third: for everyone who wasn’t Paacist, they still probably weren’t required to show up for work until typical church hours were concluded, so it was a great day for day-drinking.

Paracelsus was certainly engaging in the third. He, along with Tariq, who had mostly just followed him, were engaging in a light bit of debauchery in preparation for the Gala. The morning announcements seemed to confirm Paracelsus’ suspicions, and Lonceré had hinted, for the two men knew each other well enough to slip a few messages between the lines, that he would appear at the Gala, even if he was disguised.

So, imagine his shock when a huge, warrior looking man with a giant mop of hair approached him, barrel of beer in his hand, “You must be Paracelsus!”

“Indeed I am, mister…?” He put out his hand for a handshake.

“Allifer Nice, just call me Alfie.” He grabbed the captain’s hand, but pulled him in for the traditional Cartesian greeting - la bise, where he kissed each of his cheeks in friendship.

“I have to say, Alfie,” He eyed the surroundings - fair games, stalls, as well as street food and drink abounded like a monument to hedonism, “If this is what all your parties look like - I daresay you’re in danger of making a new friend.”

The large man roared with laughter, throwing his head and waist back jovially as he slapped Paracelsus on the back, making him stumble forward, “Friends are never danger! Come, come, you have quite the role to play.”

“I do?” He asked, before remembering his encounter with the peculiarly ordinary man, “Oh yes, the envelope. What will I be again?”

“Oh it’s simple,” Alfie started as they walked, “You’ll be Tikno Meripe, in your tongue - Little Death.”

“Sounds grizzly, I hope I don’t have to murder anyone.” He joked.

“If this was a hundred years ago, maybe,” Made him worry, “But now? You just put on a mask, poke people in the back with the Little Death’s sword, and give them a fright. Oh, and enjoy yourself, it is a party, after all.”

—

Erstwhile, Gareland was observing the second principal of Saturdays. She sat in a cathedral with high, domed ceilings, elaborately painted with images of the heroes of Paacism - Paace himself, of course, surrounded by his four most trustworthy confidantes. She felt a silent gratitude as she sat there, praying and listening to the priest, blindfolded as per tradition, and his sermon.

“Sister,” Her good mood was interrupted by LJ, who was sitting beside her, vulpine hands in prayer, “How goes it?”

“I will tolerate your presence here,” They both turned around, and Gareland immediately recognized by stature and voice that it was Roland, the Paladin who’d formerly accosted her, now with his admittedly handsome face out for all to see, “But interruptions of the sermon will not be permitted.”

Further back, Peeares watched with rapt attention at the scene unfolding. Graave had the entrance covered, and Taylor had taken point on the opposite row of pews, forming a triangular net to ensnare their target. It would have to wait however, as the sermon continued without incident, the marines hesitant to make a scene of it in public.

Once it was over, Gareland got up hastily. She was surrounded, on all sides, by enemies - though thankfully none of them seemed to realize that they all had the same mark. Curiously, Rolan walked side by side with her, discouraging the junior officers, to the door, “Leave.”

“What, why?” Gareland asked instinctively.

“You’re a real woman of faith, aren’t you?” She nodded, “Then leave, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

She understood the implicit implication that he was to be of no help against the others, and quickly scurried outside, only to be met with the gigantic form of Graave standing by the door.

“It’ll be easier if you cooperate,” He said, preparing the iron clasps, “Come quietly, and I personally swear that we’ll release you when we have Paracelsus.”

As she whipped her head around to flee, she saw his officers standing at the door, and LJ further behind, still lurking in the shadows of the church. She sighed, annoyed, but whistled a low, droning sound like a death rattle.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

“You owe me for this.” A deep, inky blackness spread across the floor, emanating from LJ. The three marines, trained and disciplined as they were, couldn’t help their instincts, and they all shuddered as he stepped between them, “But then again, I couldn’t let any of them catch you, could I?”

Thanks to his particular discipline, Graave was the first to recuperate, quickly grabbing Lorenzo about the waist and charging into a nearby wall. It was a truly animalistic sight once they reached their destination, with the two beastmen biting and clawing each other - reduced to their animal instincts in combat. Neither were disarmed, each having a sword and two pistols, but neither seemed intent on using them.

“Don’t interfere.” Graave warned as Taylor drew her own pistol, “Sometimes, us hybrids, especially those of us that are predators - need to fight like this.”

“But sir-” She said.

“But nothing! Get the girl.” The lieutenant roared back. Then the bloodbath truly began, and with a great fury, Lorenzo bit into his shoulder, tearing a chunk of flesh off with ease before spitting it out. To get him back, the bearman dug his claws into the fox’s chest and dragged downward, making a might gash through his torso.

“So much for being inconspicuous.” Taylor sighed, resigning herself to give chase to Gareland, who wasted no time in taking advantage of the distraction.

She was of course, being able to teleport, and being surrounded in the concrete labyrinth of the city, incredibly elusive, ducking and dodging around with ease. Still, Peeares was able to observe from above, and with a gun, a powder horn that contained enough for a protracted engagement, and a similarly packed bag of shot, he was able to clearly communicate the criminal’s whereabouts.

“Shit!” She returned fire, and her superior aim meant she actually hit her target, landing a blow on Peeare’s left shoulder, unfortunately for her, his nondominant one.

Within a second, Taylor had caught up to her, and reached with her lanky outstretched arm to seize the fairy. The clasps clicked into place around air, Gareland having narrowly pulled her hands back in time. She tried to draw a gun to end the fight, but Taylor proved too formidable and smacked it out of her hands. Another shot rang out - Peeares had fired it, and it was off by less than a centimeter as he descended.

“Just give up -” The ensign tried the same trick again, and did manage to snag one of the fairy’s hands, along with her own. “I’ve got you now.”

Try as she might, Gareland was unable to provide positive proof to the contrary. She blinked, bringing Taylor, who was now connected, along for the ride. She even tried doing so in such a manner that the ensign would’ve been disoriented, but whatever vertigo existed didn’t matter, for Taylor was still even trading blows with their swords.

“Sorry, can’t,” Gareland very nearly lost her balance as Taylor brought her saber from above, pushing the fairy’s sword away until she managed a midair pirouette to regain control of the situation and push back the opposite direction.

—

Lorenzo’s eyes were nearly glowing as he managed to dig his claws into Graave’s bicep. Not one to be outdone, his adversary responded with a similar move, except his managed to find purchase a bit lower, and miraculously missed the major arteries of the forearm.

By now, they were each covered in innumerable cuts, punctures, bruises and lacerations that by the time either of them were treated by a doctor, they’d look as though they’d been sewn together from various constituent parts. Still, neither relented, and neither gave an inch in their primal, animalistic frenzy.

Then the warriors came to a mutual understanding, they would now truly be forgoing the pleasantries of a “civilized” fight. There was no martial art on display as they raced to the climax of their encounter. Rather, there was merely a contest of endurance, as each launched blow after blow upon the other, not caring to dodge or brace themselves. Over the course of just eight scant seconds, they had managed to lose an additional three quarts of blood between the two of them.

Eventually though, their coupling ended, and Lorenzo, being simply outmatched in height and weight, was the first to fall, his eyes glazing over as he dropped first to his knees, then his face as the Earth landed one final blow against him. Graave had no time to celebrate, falling shortly thereafter in one continuous motion, and rocking the ground below him as he did so.

—

“Not going to happen.” Captain Bonaparte had flagged down a wheat-selling ship who was trying to dock without going through him.

“Sir, with all due respect -” The merchant said, “The docking fee you ask is ludicrous!”

“Really?” He asked, “I shouldn’t think so for a merchant ship. A pleasure cruise of four was able to pay it, with no complaints, just a few days ago. Besides, you don’t want to dock here. There’s quite the kerfuffle in the city, you see.”

“That is exactly why we want to sell here.” The merchant explained, trying to change the topic, “No one else is, so they will pay any price we set for the grain.”

Bonaparte finally looked up from the chart he was looking over with a sigh, “Double the fee. Payable when you leave.”

“Thank you for your generosity, Monsieur Bonaparte.” The merchant captain bowed with a practiced reverence.

—

And the first tenet of Saturdays was currently being engaged by the man of the hour, Lonceré. Not like he ever truly had a job, so to speak, mostly floating his way through life on the goodwill of others - his eight years of service to the Revolutionaries being the only taste of discipline he ever had. Still, he was making good on the relaxed atmosphere the day of rest provided.

“Thank you, my good sir.” He pitched his voice down as he took a drink from one of the stewards, the mask doing the rest to obscure his identity. It was unbelievable, the note from Paracelsus. The chances of them seeing each other again were astronomical, but somehow, fate had seemed to intervene.

“Excuse me,” He tapped a (in his opinion) most wonderful mademoiselle on her shoulder, “Have you seen a man about yay-high, looking very brooding around here? He’s recognizable because of his scar under his chin and his refusal to drink or smile.”

“Sorry, no, sir.” She walked away hastily, and Lonceré soon realized why. All the time spent underground had made him rank, with a definite odor that probably resembled death.

Lonceré grew anxious, he was always paranoid but not being able to see Paracelsus was confirming the worst of his fears. And, speaking of fears, whoever was the Little Death at this occasion managed to scare him something fierce, as he got poked in the back.

“Shoo,” He smacked the sword away, “Begone, I’m looking for my friend.”

“Apologies, mate.” Little Death replied, but his body language made it clear he took great pleasure in scaring the poor philosopher.

He kept walking for a few more minutes, intermingling as best he could with the crowd. They parted like a dress shirt being unbuttoned due to his stench, but he persisted nevertheless.

Wait a second, He chided himself for his ignorance as he came to a complete halt and formed a bubble of non-approach around himself, I recognize that voice.