[Ah yes, the ten Professions…]

[Artisan, Builder, Cook, Entertainer, Explorer, Farmer, Laborer, Physician, Scholar, and Trader. Adopting these, the poor souls that arrive at Faerlon after death—criminals and na’er-do-wells of the worst sort—are given a second chance to lead productive, peaceful lives while enjoying the many blessings of the Concord system. A ‘do-over’ for those dealt a bad hand by fate.]

[Under the goddess’s wise guidance, they will surely all live in perfect harmony.]

[Wait—what are they doing? They’re… They’re not supposed to use their abilities that way.]

[No, don’t do that! Stop killing each other!]

[Oh dear…]

Will

Three men and five chimps sat in a rough circle, smoking cigarettes and making light conversation. It had been a long walk from Sheerhome, and if Will’s gut feeling was anything to go by, they still had a long day ahead of them.

Will took a last drag off his cigarette, put out the smoldering butt against a nearby rock, and blew a sharp stream of smoke out the corner of his mouth. “All right fellas, break time’s done. Let’s get this over with.”

The chimps glowered. They huddled closer together, hunching their furry shoulders protectively over their smokes as though he might snatch them away if they weren’t careful.

Kiddo jumped up, a hand resting on the rusted shortsword hanging at his side. His wild straw hair was badly tamed by a knitted red cap, which only pushed down the blond tangle so it half-covered his eyes. “I’m ready, Master One-Eye!” he said, a little too loudly considering the nature of their mission. Will considered giving the lad another lecture on the essence of subterfuge, but settled for a weary sigh instead.

Mongrel lounged on a rotted log, one leg steepled on top, the other outstretched in the spring-thawed undergrowth. Looking at least half a chimp himself—the fabled missing link, perhaps?—the odd little man pretended not to have heard. Mongrel was squat, with long, gangly limbs and a big, round belly and a thin, floppy neck that made him look put together all wrong. He chewed on a piece of jerky, the end sticking out between his crooked teeth and slowly being retracted inside as he worried at the aged meat.

Will stood, strapping on his sword belt; took comfort in the familiar weight of the saber on his hip. He clapped his hands together. “Come on, gentlemen. I can’t afford to waste AP surveilling this place all day, and I’m sure you don’t want to sit around getting your asses wet. Get your boys moving, Mongrel. That’s an order.”

Mongrel glanced over, scratching at his belly, and gave a haughty snort. He made no show of rising. “Since when do you give me orders, boy?”

“I seem to remember someone saying that being in charge was too much work.”

“Yes, well, counter argument—shut up.”

“If it’ll make you get up—gladly.”

Mongrel attempted to ignore him for another several moments, but quickly withered under Will’s one-eyed stare. Grumbling a stream of curses, he rolled off the log and onto his feet, wiping bits of wet mulch off the back of his trousers. His own belt fit him poorly, sword hanging askew and frequently swinging between his legs to trip him up. His boots were mismatched, a brown and a black, one or both likely stolen from somewhere. Every time Will looked at the man, he was met with a fresh wave of morbid fascination at the pure chaos of his presentation. Still, there was a shrewd glint in the little man’s eyes, as though he were playing the whole world a prank with his lazy oaf routine.

At a sharp whistle from Mongrel, the chimps put out their cigarettes and rose to form up in a somewhat orderly group around him. Three wore shortbows in soft leather cases on their backs, while two hefted heavy wooden mallets. They were Mongrel’s familiars, each one wearing an open-front vest with a number sewn onto the breast in yellow—one through five—as well as a larger matching number on the back.

‘Kill bad fucker man now?’ Number One signed with his hands. He was the oldest of the boys, with as much gray as black in his sparse fur, which made him the de facto leader of their little troupe.

“Yes—” Mongrel began.

“Not if we can help it,” Will interjected. “We’re here for the demon, nothing else. We’ll be ready for a fight, but I’d like to avoid one if possible.”

Mongrel's frown made his puffy face look even uglier. He scratched at his teacup-sized bald spot. “What about the bounty?” he asked. “That Buck fellow’s got a big price on his head.”

Will nodded patiently. “So he does. And for good reason.”

“I hear he put on a play mocking Brimstone right in his own city. No wonder the old bastard’s all fired up over him.”

“I don’t know if that’s true, but I do know that he’s proven himself to be quite the nuisance over the last few months, hitting slave convoys between Sheerhome and Timbryhall. My informants think he’s at least Level 16, which means he’s unlocked his semblance, which means…” He looked around at everyone in turn, even the chimps, waiting for someone to fill in the blank.

‘Means be careful?’ signed Number One.

Will nodded. “Yes, very good. I’m glad somebody’s paying attention. Now, let’s take our places, people. Remember, I’m going up first. I’ll Pulse if things start looking dicey, and that’s when the rest of you come in. Got it?”

There were murmurs of assent from the men and a few bobbing nods from the chimps. Good enough, Will thought, and took the lead as they began trudging up the hilly forest.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

A bit of winter chill clung to the air, unwilling to release its grip from the land and give way for true spring. The sun shone down through green conifers swaying in the wind, dappling the frosty forest floor in a sliding patchwork of light and shadow. In the distance, a woodpecker drummed out a too-quick beat to their march. Ahead, a bushy-tailed squirrel shot up the trunk of a pine, peered suspiciously at them through the branches high above.

They crested the incline and reached the edge of the wood, trees replaced by manmade works in the bowl-shaped stretch of land that opened up below. A loose cluster of houses huddled together, surrounded by fields that had not been tended in years. Millstone was one of many abandoned villages on the Frontier, its inhabitants having fled to the better defended cities once monster attacks began ramping up.

A large hall with a slanted roof reminiscent of an overturned boat dominated the village, standing head and shoulders above its squat neighbors. It was also the only building with light pouring out of the cracks in its shuttered windows.

Will crouched low so that he was halfway concealed behind shrubbery, and the others followed his lead. “Detect [Life],” he murmured, words thrumming with power, and one of the fourteen sparkling gems on his left forearm winked out.

The world appeared to change, trees around him taking on a soft glow, branches trailing spectral afterimages when they moved. In the village, a grouping of small lights shining through the wall of the longhouse displayed the presence of humans.

Will looked around carefully—studying Millstone itself, then the fields, then the treeline—but there was no sign of any other people. Good. That meant they didn’t have anyone on watch. Irresponsible on Buck’s part, but it suited Will just fine.

“We’re good,” he said. “No lookouts.”

Mongrel nodded, stuffing another bit of jerky in his mouth. He gave an order in sign, and the three chimps with bows each picked their own sturdy tree and scrambled up it. They perched themselves in the coniferous crowns at least fifty feet up, where they had perfect vantage points over the village. The two that remained, along with Mongrel and Kiddo, followed at a good distance as Will descended into Millstone.

He kept his saber sheathed, but took one of the small throwing knives he kept strapped at the back of his belt—its blade only finger-length—and palmed it in a thin-gloved hand so none of it showed. Just in case, he thought. If things did turn violent, he wasn’t sure he liked his odds in a fair fight.

The moving motes of light inside the longhouse became larger and clearer the closer he got, separating from one another so he could tell them apart. There were more people inside the longhouse than he had expected. He counted eight. Buck must have recruited some of the slaves from the convoys he had hit, not just selling them on.

Will walked along a path where weeds had begun furtively poking their heads through the thaw, passed old husks of buildings that had once been homes. More than one had its woodwork scored with claw marks or tooth prints.

Reaching the longhouse, Will pulled low his pinned-up left sleeve so it covered his AP crystals. He could vaguely make out singing and laughing inside. Maybe even an instrument being played. He didn't make out the demon among these men, but he hadn't expected to, either. Demons did not appear on a Detect [Life]. He could have done a separate scan for her, but decided that he didn't want to waste the AP.

Forcing back a wave of apprehension, Will raised a fist and pounded on the faded double doors. The ghostly figures inside became very still, and their merriment went dead at once. One figure moved, nearing the doors. The others stayed put.

Will backed away several steps as the doors were unlatched and swung open, revealing a handsome man standing confidently beneath the portal, arms crossed, backlit by firelight. He had perfectly styled hair worn swept back, and wore a fur-lined jacket; open at the front to show off a bare, lean-muscled torso beneath. He wore his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, making no effort to hide his sheet.

“We don’t get many visitors around here,” the man said in a full, almost sing-song voice that seemed made for telling epic tales or reciting poetry. “I don’t suppose you’re here for tea.” He glanced at Will’s covered left arm, and a knowing smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“You’re Big Deal Buck, I take it?” Will asked.

The man nodded. “Always happy to meet a fan.”

“Afraid I’m not here for an autograph.”

“No, you’re not, are you? As it happens, your reputation precedes you, too.” Buck motioned to his left eye with a pinky finger. “You’re Brimstone’s pet killer. What is it he calls you again?”

“I am the lord’s Misfortune,” Will supplied dryly. He hated that title.

“Aha. You have quite the reputation, Mr. One-Eye. The ghost stories they tell about you are enough to make a big tough Laborer shiver in his boots.” Buck did not look particularly intimidated. He shrugged, and his smirk grew into an infuriatingly self-confident grin, showing immaculate teeth. “Of course, I’m not too partial to those stories myself. Bit morbid for my taste. I prefer the romantic ones.” He tapped the side of his nose. “I was wondering when old Brimstone was going to start sending some real professionals after me.”

“I think you’re mistaken. I’m here to bargain with you.”

“Yeah? You going to ask politely before you string me up by my own intestines?”

“I’m not out to kill you.”

Buck snorted out a laugh. “Right. You know, people used to put a bit of effort into their lies.”

“I heard you have a demon. I want to borrow her. You do me that favor, and I’ll let you and your people go, safe and sound. I’ll tell Brimstone you’d already cleared out by the time I got here, trail gone cold.”

“You’ll let me go, will you? That’s right charitable of you, Mr. One-Eye. Isn’t it, boys?” Buck glanced over his shoulder as rough-looking men began streaming out of the longhouse. They formed up on either side of him, all eight of them, just as the duration of Will’s Detect [Life] ran out, and the glow faded. The men wore their left arms covered, effectively concealing Profession, level, and current AP. They carried an assortment of weapons, ranging from swords to knives to clubs.

Buck himself stripped out of his fur-lined jacket and tossed it nonchalantly aside, taking pride in showing off the seventeen sparkling AP crystals that studded his left arm. “So?” he said, rattling a saber on his hip that was almost a twin to Will’s own. “May I have this dance?”

I guess that means no deal, Will thought sourly. Why can’t anyone be reasonable in this damn place?

He sighed. Standing sidelong to conceal his off-hand, he made a series of quick hand signs. ‘Amp (Two): Pulse.’

Targeting a random spot twenty feet off to his left, he cast the skill, and a sudden ripple went through the air. Not quite a gust of wind, or a shockwave, but something inside the mind. Like the tugging sense of being watched by someone standing just outside your peripheral vision, only stronger. Instinctively, the men all turned to investigate the source of the disturbance.

Which left them perfectly exposed to the arrows that came whistling out of the golden sunset. Three fletched lengths of wood found three targets. There were cries of shock and pain. Men scrambled; fumbling for weapons, whipping around, shouting in confusion.

Not giving fear time to set in, Will capitalized on the turmoil as he flipped the palmed throwing knife up between pointer and middle finger, then tossed it with a sharp flick of his wrist. Buck caught the danger and moved, frighteningly quick, but not fast enough to avoid the blade scraping a shallow cut across his cheek before flipping away.

Another wave of arrows came, and Will was reinforced from behind by men and beasts pounding up toward the longhouse. Buck paid none of it any mind. Neither did Will. The two of them circled about each other like wary tomcats, drawing steel.

“Throwing knives, huh?” Buck said with an incredulous smile. “There’s more showman in you than I thought. And here I thought this would be a dull affair.” The Entertainer took an easy stance; lithe, naked chest lit double by golden sunset before and amber flame behind.

Will took a more defensive posture, shielding his vitals. It seemed a thin comfort, then. His hands were clammy, and he found that he was gripping the saber too tight, forced himself to relax.

This is going to hurt.