It was perhaps three, maybe four, likely five, and truly six wicks later when she once again and after a long while, burst into a smile. Dry spells. Unlike the weather-altering one that their mage’s counterpart occasionally employed on a particularly humid, scorch, didn't need a person — a malevolent agent or perpetrator to conjure it out. For it, figuratively speaking, of course, didn't discriminate; it neither refuse nor choose. It was simply there, was there— claiming her in a tangling of bare. Thus it was a blessed, light blessed, occasion for her; that this day, that today, her dry spells had finally ended.

If one was to observe the sequence of all its magical moments —an exercise that almost no one did (or even willing to do) since most ones didn’t have access to the guildmistress’ room of the Freetown’s most economically successful city— it occurred like so:

Her palchite red lips were pulled to a taut; her eyes, small and thin, swelled like harvested erwee’s bladder overfilled with slime-water. Both complimented her clear-sky, cloudless teeth as they poised, full and blossom, in a grin. The rows glistened — glinted, waiting for the right moment. The moment that they were allowed to leap to the nape of their — her victim’s neck.

“Last time it was her father.” her lips said in a lovely crescent. “Now the daughter, too? Emily dear, Emily dear! How is your family so nice to me?”

“No, no, no...,” she said, patting her cheeks, chastising her urges — they often like this. Getting themselves too overexcited. The little bobs and bobbles had been dancing in their little wiggle-waggle for a while now; pleading that she’d lunge, claim and then take everything — everything at once. The chief perpetrator of that was, of course, her reflection — looking at her, grinning silly. She berated her. Be patient, little bobble, be patient. The fill will come — that was decided.

What was not was the road to reach there. It was a trek that long and winding — difficult. It was rewarding yes, with satisfaction and boundless ardor, flaring and blazing; but only, only and only if all of them — she; her; the rest of bob and bobbles, could — would exercise patience as if they were a nightbound couchee trawling in the night, as if they were a frit, still in the tall grass before it leaped.

Patience... was the key.

After all, being her (which was the best thing there was), she was very well aware of the badness of things. The sadness of things — things, sadly... didn’t last. If she plays things for more than a moon, pushes things too hard, does something too ...fun which she used to, yes, used to. Well, things break. And it was sad. She was sad. Things didn’t come easy.

She knew that for a fact, a fact so dearly it engraved itself on her heart, well, not actually on her heart (she'd die if that was the case), but slightly above it; by the skin and folds and there it was — hidden. The first letter of the word 'remember'. She touched it occasionally, once or twice when she was caught either by dread or as right now, palpitation. She felt how the isle's black ink had turned her smooth, bouncy skin into a patchy one. One that rough, scaly, and warm — warmth that radiated from her heart.

Remember. Yes. She remembered, little ‘remember’, for she had spent her youth; summers and meadows and rain and such on the field and in the depth of monsters and dungeons if you were curious enough to ask and no, dear, no; it was not glamorous. Rather, it was filled with mucks and gnats and her teammates snoring. Yet it was not just ...tolerable, she’d resent it if it was just so; in fact, as most people of her similar mind dare not yet to acknowledge, it was ...fun. Fun-tastic. After all, what else made ones’ blood rushes and sloshes and rushes again beside the sight of people screaming as their fingers reclaimed by the dirt due to some perfectly avoidable arrow trap? Or the terror, ooh the terror, as ogres, tens of them, marching side by side, lumbering line by line, in their funny heave-ho-heave-ho, shaking the whole plateau. It was a wonder — a magnificent wonder that she savored and enjoyed and relished as a torso, whole and one, occasionally tore into twos or threes or higher number of pieces that she. Lost. Count. As blood, salty and delish, swirling for a while before leaving her tongue in a fine coat of scarlet. Those were the days. Those were the days. But again, she needed to emphasize this to her bobs and bobbles and also to herself (so she remembered it this time), that it was an unfortunate fact, a very unfortunate fact, that things —good things— didn’t last. Good things ...break.

Seasons ago, she being the best girl she was, she had tried to make it last. Oh and how she had tried.

She made sure that everyone, yes everyone; her teammate, her charges, everyone, was taken care of properly. That their silly after-battle injuries didn’t linger. Everyone knew that there was nothing more boring than someone dying because of a samey, old fever in the middle of the night. Passing away like that. Horrible. It forced her party — and her, her of all people, to stop the fun’s bell and began the menial, pointless, long digging. Pointless she said, not because it wasn't without points, there were plenty of those, mainly from the leftover nails and branches often stabbed by their legs and feet — or hands, as those were the things that no delvers would dare to pull without consulting a healer first. Pointless she said, was because her teammates could simply let the dungeon claim them, a single bell of leaving them in the open and tada! The dungeon would clear them for you. Why toil where there was a willing foil, sillies?

But, people, yes, people. Even as they were far away from the eyes of the town and even though it was, well, pointless. They always insisted that a funeral, no matter how silly, should be proper. And while she got nothing against proper —in fact, she loved proper— but a slow, long funeral with a eulogy written and then read and followed by the obligatory tears everyone must wail for wicks and wicks — oh! It just so boring. Not that she didn’t play her part. She did! She’d properly wash the barely tepid bodies, she’d collect and tabulate and laid around their possessions for the bodies' family to collect, and she’d also gave them a nice, stitching, so in their final bother, they had a good smiling look, and that — all that was before her teammate, stupidly sobbing all the while, done with their digging. See? She was a good teammate! A very good teammate.

Nowadays though, with her stupid bones and her back and sometimes her ankle if it was raining, failing their proper duty; she couldn’t keep having fun down there. Watching death wasn’t fun when it was she that was being watched. Talk about a mood killer. Not that she couldn’t go down — it was just she needed too much rest in between to be worth it. When the time ripe and with the help of a certain skill, she, of course, would, under a disguise, go for her fill. It was very easy to arrange coincidences — happenstances that just, well, unfortunately, happen. Especially if it was to happen to a new, wide-eyed, and eager team. Falling to pitfall, blinded by [Flash] slimes (and getting their skin burned for it), also her favorite: ripped by the rusts.

Did you know that if one was to, let say, drop —accidentally of course— a certain flower and a certain rock in a certain way, it'd make the weapon-destroyers raving mad. It was also unfortunate that sometimes such occasions coincided with carelessly placed broken logs and falling branches in an established, quick escape, intersection. At least that was what often happened back then. Yes, back then. Now, one silly accident and they’d stop in their tracks. Even if just like one death happened, the guild, her guild, had managed to instill to them that they must in that very instant, fall back. Fell back and licked their wound and be taken care of with a good break and a night full of gailen and a visit to their own family for a week or two, and then just then, they would be called and reprimanded and investigated and the whole stories, the whole happenstances accounted until it was decided if that was negligence or accident.

And if it was the latter like most of the times it was found, even though the fact spoke otherwise, they would be trained harder and smarter and again. And again and again and again and again until everybody was sure that no such thing would ever happen again.

Boo!!

What happened to the old days of giving your all? Charging to the end and beyond! For treasures — treasures littered and came abound! Were those empty platitudes? Farmelle’s Fiction? What a selfish bunch.

That was why, nowadays, sad and miffed, but mostly sad, she filled her days with things that were less breakable, more lasting, more ...obtainable. Yet while there was certainly excitement in seeing a general who boasted that they commanded thousands under their belt, squirming under her (most of the time) figurative leather shoes, she still craved — missed that good old day.

After a certain point, whispers and backroom deals and well placed words and leaked information and all that silly intrigues revealed their true colors. That they were nothing like blood splashed to her face. She missed the days when a splayed torso painted the ground red — her face red. Grime and Blood? More like a fun time, bud!

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

Oh sure, there were moments of joy when a deserving bastard, his entire family included, was toppled and jailed due to her spilling certain things at certain people, but chaos for chaos? In the town she lived in? That was dreadful. Everything and she meant everything had their proper places. The finished reports she filed and collated? Their place was in the filing cabinet. The quill’s tip she had finished using? That should be wiped and dried and resharpened so it could be used tomorrow. Places, places, places. The fun death should happen where people didn’t question why it had happened; as the previous magistrates hung a rebel in a secret gallows, she too, gouged a part of her dead teammates’ liver for a fine night with a gailen, well, away from prying eyes.

The ink bottle would be closed tightly so it wouldn’t dry, and all the references material; documents, scrolls and books, paper, and everything hush ought to be returned to their own proper place. Shelves, stacks, secret compartments unspoken, all of those.

Beautiful wasn’t it? Proper. Pro-per. Proooper. Propeeer? How she loved that word. Nothing better than that. Well, fun came close. Very close. That was why as she hummed and skipped, out of her room and raced through the downstairs, she thanked Emily verily; her dear, dear Emily. How nice of her! Marrying the two best things in the world — and? Just for her!

Perfect timing, dear. Everything had just become so, so, boring lately.

“Is there anything I should know today?” she said. Now out of the privacy of her room and on the full view of those wasted opportunities who insisted on being alive day after day. Yes. She now was behind the front desk, facing one of her better receptionists, Hil. The little hat man had insisted to everyone that he should be described as middle-height. Cute.

Fastening his monochrome cap, he gave her a long longing look before like he always did, drew a crisp newly pressed paper from his second drawer. “From the top?” the middle-height man asked.

“Just the summary,” she replied, putting a disinterested face, looking at her nail. Fann Farnsworth. A fun-loving woman but also, a guildmistress. A guildmistress which these selfish bunch knew as someone who, well, serious. No-nonsense. Keeping everything in order and in line. She knew! Hilarious!

“All right.” the man replied — smoothly opening up the fold. “By today’s sixteenth bell, eighty seven quests had been submitted of which eighty of them were completed accordingly in line with the issuer’s specification. From those that weren’t, four were filled as disputed, two were canceled at the request of the adventurers, and one was canceled by the issuer.”

Ugh. Boring. And also, Hil, when did he become so confident, he used to be her squeaky little man, precious wubbly-bubbly who squirmed when she entered the room. Lovely days those were. Should she replace him — stale toys and all that. But then her work would be doubled.

Sad. So sad. Why was that to have fun the world required that she needs to sacrifice?

“What’s the reason for the last one?” she asked anyway, if this session insisted to be boring, it should be boring and quick.

“Filled as under secrecy.”

She snorted. Classic move. And most likely inapplicable. She could count in one hand the number of canceled cases that were applicable under the secrecy rule; mostly it was used as a signal, telling the guild that ‘if the guild didn’t bother them, they’d make it worth their time’ Well, it wasn’t like she didn’t understand their sentiment, but it was just, they shouldn’t label it as so. Oh, dear. That just made it tastier. More ...delectable. Should she request a collective injunction again? That would be fun.

But then, the city had specifically requested, nay, had insisted, that they didn’t want troublesome thing these four moons. Ugh — so boring. But whatever, she’d sell it as a favor for Nartan dear — he’d better pay her handsomely for this. Oh, wait. She could sell it as two favors. One to the town, the other to ...the gold grubbers. That would be wonderful.

“Madame Fann?”

“Sorry, go on.” As long it wasn’t something big no one would really care about her double—oh, what was this? Ah~ Them. Right on time. Right. On. Time. Like flies to campfires, two men and a woman were turning their ears toward her location.

Oh! That was good. She was good. Was that [Listen to the Crowd] used concurrently with [Polite Retort]? Beautiful! Was she a tread? No, no, no — not quite. There was a bit of slipping in her elvish inflection. A bit ...too human’s. Almost though. Must be a high nosing in line for promotion.

“...still showed an escalated level of atmospheric mana. Which six of our mage-enchanter had confirmed to be increasing in three different occasions.”

Hmm… what?

“...determined that it had and would still be increasing with the rates of three out of one hundred for every three days. There are also several reports that a few delver and miner groups who entered three days ago had suffered equipment loss due to the slime’s infestation. The cause is determined to be the increased deterioration speed of the minder’s sign. We expected this trend to continue, especially since today’s accident.”

“Accident?” she furrowed her eyebrow — why hadn’t she heard of this?

“A lower-silver accident was reported ...half bell ago, I have the report here but Mira said—”

“Yes, yes. I have private matters to attend — it doesn’t matter. What was the accident?”

“An uncontrolled swarm.”

“Again?” She missed it again? “When is the last one?”

“According to the logs… two weeks ago.”

She needed to camp the fourth then. Not that Jeanne would agree, and not that it would happen as so often again — Nartan would make sure of that. But she could, in theory at least, do a surprise inspection for a long week under a disguise, perhaps under some less… rowdy jobs. Something that allowed her to move freely. Lika a [Minder].

“And this one?”

“Reported as lower silver by [Administrator] Rowan. No death was reported, however, quite a lot of people were injured as the result of the A-14 partial cave-in. We counted five miners and two guild-affiliated support staff that would be incapable to work for at least two weeks.”

“...that's the good news right?” she said, pressing her eyes to the man. To his credit and her sadness, he didn’t break into a sweat. What a waste — he just nodded to her; grimly. “Yes, I’m afraid.”

“...what’s the bad news then?”

“Two were poisoned and now under constant watch of the healers. As we speak, they are still trying to flush the poison out. However since these two were struck by the [Swarm’s Poison] instead of a [Toothfang’s Poison]...” he paused, biting his teeth. “Unlike the latter, the swarm’s had tendency to—”

“Relapse without any sign whatsoever, yes, yes, I’m aware how the 4th poison works, Hil.” she cut him off. Men. Hah. They always thought she didn’t understand what they were talking about. Which was cute... but only sometimes. More than sometimes and she couldn't help but stab them. “What about the rest?”

“Three…”

“Three what?”

“Three people got ...disabled. Their families and friends petitioned that we opened the vault for [Philter of Restoration].”

“Light damn it!” What a waste would that be! Restoring those people’s limbs? She might as well throw the philters to the Ilo. Grateful civilians were the worst kind of people — they stopped taking risks on their work, they were more careful on their day, but most importantly, they wasted a chance for more proper adventurers to continue to risk their lives.

“The three are sole providers. Their fellow miners are ready to bring this to the magistrate,” he added after a beat. “If they have to.”

“What a mess...”

“Should I continue? We have four tickets open. The most pressing one was from Administrator Rowan, he issued a remonstration to —”

“No, no, I’ll read it later. Bring the full report to my room.”

“All right. Do you want your meal with that, guildmistress?”

“Yes. But be quick, please. I need to deal with this.”

[https://i.ibb.co/kHLk3wt/Line-Break.png]

Which was a lie.

While she did need to deal with that. It didn’t mean she needed to deal with it immediately. Besides the obvious taking care of them on the back alley — her master’s favorite way of handling difficult things — which was not proper. There were procedures in this kind of thing. Long, long procedures. Opening the vault for nonlisted emergencies required two hearings and a public vote by all the affected parties. And without at least one of the five branches requesting for an expedited process, skipping at least one of the hearings, well, she could simply wait. Two moons of the process, which she would make sure, would rot their limbs beyond repair. Even if theirs were under Hendrick’s care.

That was why what Hil brought under the silver cloche a wick ago was not food, instead what he had dutifully brought to her room was a stone. Pink and gleaming, it would emit phrases — her voices of she shouting stuff like ‘unbelievable’, ‘what they were thinking’, and one time ‘rot in Kraa stomach, you bastard’. The last one would be so loud, Hil would rush to the room. It was unfortunate that the stone was a bit expensive. Fifty gold for a use. And she only paid a material price.

But it was worth it.

After all, it would sell the act. A very, very important act that if she was to find the source of the rumor that thanks to Emily, had been brought to her attention.

What fun!