In a darkened room lit only by candlelight, two people sat at a small table nursing drinks. The sun had long set, and the calls of the various wildlife could be heard echoing outside the building. Curtains had been drawn over the window along the far wall to block out the light from the moon.

Azarus stared moodily down into his cup, finding it empty. He reached for the bottle sitting in the middle of the table to pour himself some more, only to find it empty as well. Across from him, Grey had long abandoned his own drink to stare contemplatingly off into the distance. He seemed as if he was a million miles away. Azarus sat the empty bottle back down to stare into his cup again.

After a few moments, Azarus spoke up. “So, what’s yer take on all this?”

Grey didn’t answer him.

Speaking louder this time, Azarus repeated himself. “I said, what’s your take?” He said. “Oi, Greycton. You there?”

Snapping out of his fugue, Grey directed his gaze back down to Azarus. “Ah.” He said slowly, as if he was only now realizing where he was. “Apologies, Azarus. What did you say?”

Pushing his empty cup away from him, Azarus said. “So, what’s your take on him? The Precursor guy.”

“In what way?” Grey said confusedly.

Throwing his hands in the air in frustration, Azarus answered him. “Pick one! The fact that he even exists, the fact that he might have some kind of eighth bleedin’ Profession, or, I don’t know. The fact that he somehow made his way here, to you of all bleedin’ people, in this bleedin’ situation! That don’t strike you as suspicious at all!?” He finished, raising his voice.

Grey leaned forward and shushed him. “Lower your voice. He only recently managed to fall asleep.”

Azarus relaxed slightly before looking back down at his cup. “My own damn house.” He muttered under his breath.

Grey sat back into his wheelchair with a sigh before staring off into the distance again. “I don’t know what to think, Azarus. Precursors have no rhyme or reason to the timing or location of their appearance. Some have postulated that the System itself chooses the ideal time for them to appear. Perhaps they’re right.”

“Don’t give me that shite. I know you ain’t some kind of Gyreite street preacher, hollering about how we need to trust in the System.” Azarus said, looking up at Grey and raising an eyebrow.

Grey made a frustrated sound. “What other explanation could there possibly be? I truly don’t believe that Nathan is either malicious or has ill intent. He was Unawakened, Azarus. At his age! He has no knowledge of even the most basic knowledge of our world, our society. He’s floundering. Frankly, I’m surprised he’s holding up as well as he is.”

“Holdin’ up, huh,” Azarus said, unimpressed. “I don’t know if we’re seeing the same thing. That guy is a mess. He’s a tangled-up ball of anxiety and confusion.”

Grey leaned forward. “Exactly my point. You know as well as I do the care that Elven slave-takers show to those they capture. I don’t know what he saw when he was captured, and I don’t intend to ask. Many of those that have undergone what he has simply shut down. I’m thankful that he’s not completely broken, at least. He will recover.”

Azarus settled down. “Yeah,” He said. “Alright, I guess.”

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

“Besides,” Grey said confusedly, settling down as well. “Where is this suspicion coming from? What could he have possibly done to bring this on?”

Azarus sighed. “Nothing, I suppose. It’s just a damn weird situation. Booze has my hackles up, I’m guessin’.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

“An eighth Profession,” Grey said wistfully. “I wonder what it could be.”

“No bloody idea,” Azarus grunted. “The seven we got already cover anything I could think of.”

Grey picked up his cup and took a sip of his drink. Grimacing at the taste, he set it back down. He looked back up at Azarus. “The thing is,” He began. “The thing is that this is actually, truly unprecedented. As you well imagine, I’ve spent a considerable amount of time poring over the Academy’s archives, if for no other reason than that I enjoy it. I’ve never seen even the slightest hint about what an eighth Profession could be. There isn’t even any true speculation about the existence of one, beyond academic fringe theories. Why would there be, after all? The Profession page only has seven spots on it, after all.” He shook his head. “The Academy likely has the oldest, most intact records still surviving from before Initialization. In all my years, nothing.”

Azarus smirked. “All your years, huh? Didn’t know you people had records back before dirt was invented.”

“Hilarious,” Grey said dryly, pushing his drink toward Azarus. With a nod, Azarus took it. Picking up the drink, Azarus mockingly saluted Grey with the cup and then downed what was left in one gulp. Grey grimaced. “Nasty stuff. Don’t know how you can stand it.”

“It’s an acquired taste,” Azarus said, finally slurring slightly. “Them Gnolls know how to brew a mean liquor.” Setting the empty cup down, he frowned at Grey. “So, we’re really doing this then? Putting all our hopes on a freshly Awakened? Man is only level one.”

Grey sighed. “What other choice do we have, Azarus?” He said tiredly. “I know people have expectations about my ability, but I’m at a loss. The slave binding is not something I’ve ever had the time to truly dive into. And now that I’ve been subjected to it, I find that I’ve been too crippled by that very binding to be able to truly research it. I have none of my tools, none of my assistants. I do not have my library or the resources I’ve built up over my long life.” His face fell. “I don’t have my daughter.”

Azarus still retained enough presence of mind to look away uncomfortably.

Visibly gathering himself, Grey continued. “I haven’t felt this weak or unprepared in centuries, and I do not appreciate the reminder. But, at this point, yes. I think that the only way I can contribute to our escape is by supporting our new friend. Perhaps he can perform a miracle where I have failed.”

“Cheers then,” Azarus said grimly, staring back down into the cup Grey gave him. “Here’s hoping we’re not buggered.”

The conversation lulled.

Stirring, Grey spoke hesitantly. “Have you…heard anything new? Perhaps from the new arrivals?”

Azarus shook his head. “Not much. You know I woulda told you if they’d said anything important.” He paused. “From what I heard, they were all just members of a fringe farming community eking out a living near the border with the forest. Not important enough to be involved. Supposedly there was a skirmish not far from their home that spooked ‘em enough they decided to make a break for it. Poor bastards. They’d‘ve likely been better off back home than chancing the knife ears.”

“I see,” Grey said quietly.

Azarus shifted. “They’re probably just regrouping right now. Laying low, yeah? They lost a lot of people in the Battle of Helstein. I’m sure the Uprising is doing fine without you.” He said awkwardly.

Grey leaned his elbows on the table and put his head in his hands. “I need to be there, Azarus. I need to be there, instead of here. This is a problem I quite literally created, and it’s my responsibility to moderate it. This senseless waste of life will not convince anyone in the House of Lords of the righteousness of their cause, much less the High King. I can only imagine what those vipers are whispering in his ear.” He finished bitterly, raising his head from his palms. His eyes were glowing a slight silver.

“Probably why they set this whole thing up,” Azarus replied, unperturbed.

Grey settled down. “Indeed.” He said morosely.

“Well,” Azarus said, raising his empty glass in a mock salute. “Here’s to our new friend then. May he miraculously solve all of our problems.” He finished, semi-mockingly.

After a moment, Grey reached for the empty bottle still sitting in the middle of the table. He picked it up and clinked it against Azarus’s glass. “May he perform a miracle.” He whispered.