We jog a little shy of a mile before catching up to the others as they trudge down the road. We call out to them by name, and they jump as they turn to us. Their looks of horror force me to re-examine our appearance, finding the blood coating us— my blades, the ones still dug into my hands, are still shaking.

“You right?” Museph asks.

“Yeah-” I affirm with a crack that reveals the lie.

“Not our blood,” Jer notes, walking up to meet Kertan in an embrace, which Ker avoids.

“We should keep going for a few kilometers, camp far off the road. We will be safe when we find a larger group to travel with.”

“Alright, Vesh. Is everyone okay?” Jer rebukes.

“A little sore, but I can keep going.” Kertan mumbles.

“I’m fine; it’s y'all I’m worried about. Lots of ‘em’? Are they chasin'? Vesh, ya shoulder is fucked."

“It hurts, but we can treat it when we make camp. As for the other two questions? I have no idea, so we need to continue. I’ll scout ahead and grab you all when I’ve found a spot to camp.” I order, pulling a shirt from my pack to cut into a sling and a bandage.

“Are you sure? I can scout ahead.” Jer frets, moving to stop me.

“I’ll be fine; even one-handed, I make a better scout than you.”

Something festers under my skin, clouding my view and disrupting my harmony. I am a murderer or a savior, justifying either with each. I should have marked my target before attacking; that is Creations’ mercy. But the moment was so sudden— Stupid— how had I made this mistake? How have I been so careless with life in my hands? How have I failed so early? I know of three hundred and twenty spots on the haiman body that you can hit without lethal repercussions. I struck none of them— or did I? I didn’t see the attack land, but that cry—

We wash in a stream, using it to cover our trek to camp, setting up with little conversation. Gale and Jer set to my wound. Gale, the seamstress's daughter, elects to stitch my skin back together. Jer’s experience with combat wounds emboldens him to direct her when he can’t help it. It wasn’t the worst he had seen. It will last until we meet some people on the road. If not, Brinx is two days away, and we can find a Creation priest there.

“What happened?” Jer asks once we are all settled.

But I am already pretending to sleep. Jer gives in after asking a few more times, knowing I am too stubborn. The following two days are quiet until we are outside Brinx. There, we catch up to six younger adults around our age. The larger group makes us a less enticing target, though bandits usually won't operate this close to a town.

I dream of the person's cold, surprised features as my rapier slid easily into their neck, or did I see that? The nights fill with my screams, but Jer is there to coo. Their cry wasn’t more than a whimper, yet it tore through me, or was that the nightmare?

“Are you ready to talk?” Jer asks as I slump next to him.

“Possibly— There were six bandits altogether, and I attacked a few with the cover of the reeds.”

“Vesh, that doesn’t seem so bad. They are just bandits.”

“Just bandits?” Museph huffs from his bedroll before turning from us.

“Yeah, Museph, just bandits. People who’d have killed us with little qualm. Go back to sleep,” Jer defends.

“He is right. Whatever they are doing, taking their life is still a heavy burden.” Gale agrees sleepily, understanding my position.

“I told you, Gale, we didn't fatally wound any of them,” Jer argues, leaning over and holding me.

“In the grass— the willows, when I struck— I stabbed someone.”

“What happened, Vesh?”

“I stabbed them— I mean, they called out. Well— I guess it was more a whimper— I think,” I mumble as tears prick my cheeks.

“Vesh. You didn't mean to fatally wound anyone; that counts for something.”

“Yeah, it’s just— If not for you three, we all would be dead. You three saved us all.” Kerten thanks.

“I think you did your best. I do not think you should blame yourself. I understand your feelings, though.” Gale reassures, coming over to hold my other side.

Jer whispers similar platitudes in my ear as I fall on his chest, sobbing my horror without the frivolity of coherence. We slip asleep like this at some point in the tangle. Jer, Gale, and I snuggled together on our bedrolls. The night is full of bloody nightmares, punctuated by screams into wakefulness. I never meant to take the life of another person.

“Did you sleep well?” I ask.

“Mostly. ”

“Sorry if I kept you up.”

“Your shoulder?”

“That’s fine. Who is that next to Gale?”

“Lisen, you didn’t notice her? She and Gale met last night.”

“Hm. Good for Gale. We should get going.”

“Yeah, I’ll wake everyone if you want to go ahead.”

“I think I’ll do that.”

We continue down the road while willows disperse into prairies with sparse foliage as Brinx lifts into view on the horizon. The house of worship imposes a ringing bell, its tower oppressing morality on all those around with pure white brick. A short wooden wall wraps the center of the town, farms stretching in every direction. At the center is a colorful hodgepodge of townhouses and single-family homes with shop fronts.

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

Brinx has a reputation for some of the best soup around, a world-renowned light corn chowder that all four establishments sell a variation of. My father and I love the spicy version at the Brinx Brewery. We head there first, mentioning this to the group garners agreement from Ker, Gale, Lisen, and Museph.

The area is busier than I have seen on my prior trips, and the infrastructure seems unfit. The gates stay open, welcoming fields packed with tents. People pay local landowners to camp on these plots, saving money on inns. We enter Brinx as the sun sets on our right, yet streets swell with people and products. Jer and Gale, stepping up to the challenge, stride through the crowd while the rest of us travel in their wake. Our group aims at the Brewery, which sits on the main street between the Guild house and another Inn. We soon find the dark green structure, looking completely different than I remember, yet I can’t point to a single change.

Heading down the alley beside the building, we wait outside for someone to come out, a respite from the clutter calling itself streets. A few minutes later, a younger ginger person walks out of the back holding compost bins. We stay a ways back to avoid intimidating whoever comes out. Jer’s inexorably imposing figure affects at all distances, instigating immediate notice.

“We are friends of Yeln. No trouble.” I shout before the figure can reach the knife at their side.

“Ah? I am Jorg, Desh's kid, right?”

“Desh’dan. Yeah, sorry. It’s busy. I am Vesh’dan.” I greet them before introducing the rest of the group.

“We should be able to squeeze you in; come with me.”

“Thank you. How do you identify yourself?” I ask, coming up behind and following through a stuffed storage room.

“Right, I knew I forgot my manners somewhere. I am Jorg, son of no one special until Yeln took me in.” He greets, mindlessly grabbing several things from the shelves.

“A ward then?”

“Not that official. Just a bit of charity.”

“Yes, I’ve heard Yeln is the charitable sort.”

“The best sort, in my biased opinion.” He argues, leading us into a room full of tables, people, and noise.

Dark wood from the forests further south bundles the building in a fancy shell. Inside that shell, a bard’s half-heard diddy swims through the ambient murmurs as workers swarm around serving food, beer, and bussing dishes. The tavern is a well-oiled machine, with every employee doing their part to contribute to a function. Jorg weaves between obstacles, leading us to a table on the right wall near the bard.

“I’ll put in a meal for everyone; Yeln should get here before it does. Soup with the entrees?” Jorg asks as he sits us down; the mugs appear, yet I had not noticed him acquiring them.

“Soup!” We all cheer back.

“I’ll be back promptly.” Jorg accommodates, melting into the throng.

“He seems nice,” I observe, looking over to find everyone in a drinking contest, staring challenges over the brims of their mugs.

I consider the strife of before and how it juxtaposes the mirthiness now abundant. A warm meal and a bed can lighten a lot, but this atmosphere is the real prize. Even though a part of it is pretend, I laugh and tip back my own, drowning the gunk as the fun in the ale warms my chest. We continue like this, each drinking three mugs in thirty minutes while Jer and Gale put down four. When Jorg returns to the table, we all cheer equally for his welcome arrival and its meaning.

The soup is light with creamy broth suspending simmered chunks of vegetables whose freshness entices the pallet; none of that rehydrated stuff this close to civilization. The dish's heat perpetuates a loop whereby the spiciness from the last bite soothes under the creaminess in the next. A few at our table can't handle it, so Jer and I pilfer theirs. The meal for tonight is an asparagus risotto with cashew cheddar rolls; the soup is better. Yeln comes by our table by the end of our meal. They look a little older and shorter than I remember, but they still wear that same tight black suit, accentuating their gray eyes.

“I am Yeln, child of Kandor. And here is the group drinking my inn dry.” Yeln jests, coming up and standing at the side of the table.

“Yeln, I'll tell you this: Your soup and ale make me consider abandoning my life and staying here to drink and eat all the hospitality you have.” I eloquently thank them through my stuffed mouth.

“Hush. Vesh is trying to say thank you.” Jer unhelpfully assists.

“Why thank you, Jer, that is what I meant to say.”

“Remind me to limit that hospitality to two drinks the next time you gluttons swing, though.” Yeln admonishes, grabbing a chair from the table across from us and sitting down.

“We won’t.”

“Alright, troubled youths, back to business. You’ve spilled half of it on the table. No. It’s fine—a tool of the trait. I’ll clean this up, and you can keep the map. Jer and you shouldn’t have a problem getting hired. Depending on the skills of the rest of your friends, they might have to pay their way onto the caravan.”

“Couldn’t we just sneak behind ‘em’?”

“You could, but you would leave you behind at some point. The coordinators are wise to the trick.”

“Wew, juust souns’ rough,” Ker slurs.

“The caravans coming through here are affordable, so folks don’t bother with the hassle.” Yeln returns.

“Much’ll be ours?”

“It will be sixteen coppers each; in the next few days, the price will go up by eight. You can stay at my place; Jorg will give directions when you finish. Is there anything else?” Yeln asks as they stand.

“Yes, do you know anyone who can see this shoulder injury? I am also to remind you of your previous engagement with my father and receive a letter?” I ask, tipping back my fourth mug and gesturing to my shoulder.

“Uh.”

“Vesh might need a creation priest. The other part was about a letter?”

“Hush that idiot up. I’ll have someone see to your wounds. As for the other matter, tell your father not to send an inebriated, wet-eared— You’ll have everything you need.” Yeln offers with a strange glance towards Gale, and then they are off to put out more fires.

“Nice person,” Gale gurgles.

“Does anyone think a party will be going on after this?” Jer enthuses, finishing moments before Gale.

“Ya can ask Jorg,” Museph adds, finishing third.

“We can start a party.” I encourage from fourth place.

"Why 'on't we juss say go?" Ker coughs, spilling the last beer in his lap, disqualifying himself.

“We should say go; it’s only fair,” Lisen adds, speaking up from behind Gale for the first time.

Lisen’s shyness mismatches the group's energy. After a couple more rounds, the tavern slims as people mill into the town or back to their camps. Jorg walks over and sits down in the chair Yeln had pulled up. He is a bit dirtier, with stains smearing his dark blue uniform.

“Yeln said this is the last.”

“Juus too— Beguurk — soon I say.” Ker gurgles through a burp, face down on the table.

“Well, Jorg, where can we keep this going?” Jer asks.

“That will be The Traveler; Yeln also owns it. They are only open for the few months we get traffic from the Vying, catering to this storm of hooligans.”

“What is it for the rest of the year?” Gale inquires.

“It’s a school,” Jorg snorts.

“Which a’ Yeln’s buildings we stayin’ in?” Museph chastises.

“That will be their residence. It is on the eastern side of town, a tall purple building on the main road. It sticks out. Here is a key to the building; there is only one, though, so you’ll have to share.” Jorg directs, handing over a simple iron key.

“Will you be joining us on our escapades, Jorg?” I inquire.

“I’ll catch up with you all at The Traveler,” Jorg promises, standing up and walking away.

“Alright, who can walk?” I call for rolls.

Everyone seems better off than me, except for Ker, who falls to the ground at my shout. Gale and Lisen agree to help him to Yeln’s house, claiming they are too tired to go off with us. Jer assists me to my feet, and we are off to continue our decompression.

Walkways bulge with late-night street vendors and people holding mugs. Bards play to the tune of generosity with passersby, who give copper bits. Several glow gems line the parade, casting shadows on the richly painted buildings. I had never seen such a congregation getting drunk together, celebrating creation. People surround a two-story dark green brick building with a balcony and porch wrapping halfway around. A sign hanging from the front of the building shows an embossed carriage.

The press of bodies is so consistent that you are brushing up against four people standing still. The crowd thickens around several counters, where indiscernible blurs attend to drunks. After ten minutes, we get a pony keg of ale with a few wooden cups; the keg even comes with a strap—how ingenuitive. Jer cracks it at the first picnic table after clearing the crowd.

He soon gets into an argument with a person who considers his sword an ornament rather than a tool of Destructions’ wrath. The two are close to a brawl when I suggest an arm wrestling contest instead. After quickly dispensing with the fool, Jer continues challenging people—a line forms, all eager to test their strength against the giant. Charging the losers a copper bit recuperates enough to pay for our debauchery.

Jorg joins us later in the night, having changed into a floral leisure suit. We greet him with a drink and another immediately after, helpfully allowing him to catch up. Proving susceptible to the poison, Jorg dances on the table soon after. What I suspect will be a painful fall turns into an impromptu concert as the local bards bolster Jorg's singing, pulling the entire square into several verses of Come Again, Drunkard Glen.

Come again, drunkard Glen.

Cronies captured and forgotten.

If ever you’d performed a feat.

I'm sure as bettin’ against a cheat.

Pretend again, drunkard Glen.

Pretenses drowned down with gin.

Winter winds freezin’ skin.

Wonderin’ for a warmer inn.

Spend again, drunkard Glen.

Serenade abandoned kin.

Until the end, you’ll have a seat.

Upon your tides, our hearts will beat.

Foreign friend Drunkard Glen.

Farewells tell of an amend.

I have heard it before with less production and less skill. Brass blasts its bravado to a steady timbre, calling cadence to the flutes while lute hollows vibrate a filling chest. The crowd calls for an encore, and Jorg obliges. We cheer and pay his tab for the gift of Creations’ light.

A few people attempted to catch my attention, but I focused on our fun and politely shut them down. A particularly insistent older man needs to learn the finer points of politeness before finding the hint.

On the other hand, Jer makes out with nearly six different people, each rather attractive. Even Museph chats up some gruff older person. The partially painful night of fun settles like a leaf falling from a tree, coming to rest in a gutter a few paces past Yeln’s tavern. Strong hands pull me to my feet while draping my arm over their warm shoulders. Once they figure out, as I have, that my legs are dead, they lift me like when I was young.

“This never happens to me,” I blush, belching.

“I know about your impotence, Vesh. Usually, I’m the one holding you upright to get us there,” Strong hands barks.

“Well, I’ll say.”

“Say what.” someone asks from over there.

“That’s right,” I affirm, pointing at where I thought the insurrectionist hid.

“That’s right,” Strong hands confirm as I huddle into the peppery scent of home.