Haverbark felt small when we returned.

And it smelled funny. Or perhaps that was just me. Showers weren’t prevalent here, give me a break.

Whereas I’d been impressed by the cathedral and Halten Road and a few of the nicer structures around here previously, they didn’t feel as ‘one-of-a-kind' now that I’d visited Anpar.

I’m not saying that I didn’t like Haverbark anymore, but it was just, you know.

Quiet.

As you know, I was once a man who liked to live big. New York City fine dining, a humble mansion with a deadly ‘chef’, perhaps a visit to Macca’s when they did that phenomenal $1 cheeseburger deal.

Go in with a $20 note, come out a changed man.

I had to remind myself that I’d been here not much longer than a week — if that — so I shouldn’t pass judgement on the place just yet. Perhaps there was a lot going on under the surface, or I’d discover some skill or service that let me instantly travel across the continent.

God I’d be peeved off if I bought a place in the city center then found that out a day later.

Luckily, real estate investment was not quite top-of-mind for me at that specific moment. I was still dealing with that whole ‘adequate nutrition and a mattress’ issue.

Yeahhh.

I decided I would spend that day getting my life in order, starting with a place to rest my young bones.

Rental history would be tough, but I had two people I could get references from.

Adam and Pen.

Adam was a sure bet, but Pen was a toughie. If I was in a time where a prospective landlord would call my references on the phone, there was no way I’d direct them to her.

But the beauty of paper-form reference letters and an ultra-busy GTA executive is that if I whipped up something myself and handed it to her, I could probably get her signature in a heartbeat.

So, I wrote a glowing reference for myself. Please observe.

To whom it may concern,

I write this letter to assure any future landlord of Marcus A. Aurelius that you are dealing with a lovely, kind-hearted tenant. For as long as I have known him, he has never set a foot wrong. Marcus keeps his house clean, puts the bins out on the correct night, and is also a capable plumber in a pinch.

If I were blessed with another opportunity to have Marcus live in one of my properties, it would be cause for celebration.

If you wish to contact me, please come to the Guild Taxation Authority, Haverbark, and ask for Adam Warstock. His preferred name is ‘Addy Waddy’.

Kind Regards, Pen.

And so, gifting myself the last name ‘Aurelius’, I placed this letter before Pen as soon as I’d gotten back to the office and drafted it up. She didn’t seem to catch on to the fact that she was addressing the greatest Roman Emperor to ever live — don’t start me on Caeser or Constantine, just don’t.

“Hi Pen, Adam and I are back from Anpar. I’ll let him update you, he seemed very keen for you to hear it his way, and I think he drafted a report for you.”

“Mhm.”

Busy. Perfect.

“I’ve got a letter here for you to sign. It’s a reference letter so I can rent a place here in Haverbark. Just the usual stuff saying I’m a decent person and all.”

“Mhm. You got a pen?”

I picked up the pen sitting thirty centimeters away and handed it to her, sliding the letter across the bench as I did so.

“Hmph. There you go. Tell Adam he’s got fifteen minutes to bring me the report. I’m getting out of here soon.”

“Will do. Thanks Pen!”

I cackled to myself as I left my office. Adam hadn’t even started the report. He’d barely stepped in the door.

Oh, life is a fickle thing, isn’t it, ‘Addy Waddy’?

Next on the list was finding a suitable place to live. The goal was a two-bedroom house with a big fireplace, the expectation was a one-bedroom studio with the bathroom sink in the bedroom, and the bare minimum was a tin roof and a pot to piss in.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

The end result was somewhere above bare minimum, but below expectation. Think backpacker’s hotel, but a little bit boujee in the foyer since most occupants were long-term. I suppose that’s commonly called an apartment, but in this case it’s not because—

Argh — don’t worry about it. It’s four walls to myself and a bathroom shared with three other lovely Haverbarkian men and women. A communal ‘kitchen’ too, if you’re the kind of person who sees the world with rose-tinted glasses.

For those of you struggling with the rental market — I’ve been there, I wasn’t bunking with The Sinker for nothing — it turns out the immediate solution is to move to an old dustbowl like Haverbark, and engage with a property manager/landlord depraved enough to cram four adults into a teeny tiny space, and charge their entire weekly salary as rent.

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

Pardon the social commentary.

With one job ticked off, I turned to my diet. Peaches and biscuits weren’t passing muster.

Unfortunately, ‘food-wise, we have no food!’ Outfitting my new abode with sufficient furniture to make it more than squeaky floorboards and a musty smell set me back the entirety of my savings, so I was back to biscuits and peaches until further notice.

They were growing on me, and so was the GTA.

I admit it. Sue me.

###

That night, upon entering the cathedral, I discovered I’d been replaced.

In reality, the Rendar Team had just grown, but it still felt like a replacement. Granton and I had this understanding between us, I thought, where I was his Rendar-man, and that was that. I delivered, he paid.

Apparently not.

The greenies were younger than me and sat with copies of Ravenous Rendar on their laps. They consulted the book for minutes at a time, checked a chart, tasted the air, then consulted again. When I sat down, they noticed my blue armband and shuffled closer, shooting a barrage of questions.

“What will you offer tonight?”

“Are you Granton’s son?”

“Is there a way for you to pray on my behalf on Granton’s behalf?”

Dunno, no, and I wouldn’t if I could.

I murmured something about needing to ‘concentrate’, then started the nightshift. Granton didn’t show up that night, which was both miraculous and unfortunate. I didn’t want to face the music, but I also wanted him to be there so he could see that I was there.

Every couple hours, I got up and loosened my legs. It was mainly just an excuse to see if Church Man was still going at it, and invariably, he was. Instead of chatting to him, I sat down on the cool stone floor with a thick volume titled ‘Talthen: Prayer Guide’.

Such a boring name, and such a boring read. Whereas the author of Ravenous Rendar at least appeared to have an interest in Rendar and his diet, the author of Talthen’s guide wrote like he was chained to a desk and forced to retype the dictionary by word length. My sanity was only saved by a glossary-type page at the end of the book which gave me some general dos and don’ts for the mighty Combat God.

Do: Offer lots of red meat.

Don’t: Forget to provide brandy or rum with most meals.

Everything else was free game. Basically.

Before I switched from my dinner prayer to breakfast prayer — I threw the newbies a bone on this one and suggested chia pudding with raspberries — I scrolled through my Navigator to find any available info on [Dagger Recall].

Unfortunately, it wasn’t an outright skill that I could target with prayer, so I’d have to ask Adam which skill he leveled up to unlock the ability. I thought I’d still make the most of my efforts, so I unticked Granton’s permission-box and did a few stints aimed at [Blade Throw] and [One-Handed Attacks].

{One-Handed Attacks : Level Up! Current Level: 2}

{One-Handed Attacks : Level Up! Current Level: 3}

One-Handed Attacks (3):

{Increased proficiency with one-handed weapons.}

{+20% damage with one-handed weapons.}

Nice and basic. Exactly what I’ve needed since I got here.

It wasn’t a bad effort for a half hour’s work — Talthen was easy to please.

When I finished up in the wee hours of the morning, I managed to catch Church Man at least semi-awake in his pew.

“Hello? You alright there, sir?” I asked, prodding him.

“Roite as bally well raaiinn, aren’t I? Got a ringin’ voish in mah ear lahk a dronin’ buzzard!”

His response was barely English. I couldn’t tell if he was happy to see me or not. ‘Buzzard’ didn’t sound complimentary.

“I’ve noticed how you always seem to be here, and, well, I was wondering which Deity you’ve been praying to, and if you’ve been praying for anything in particular. Also, I’m Marcus.”

I held out my hand. He shook it once, a quick up-down, then retreated to his pocket.

It was like he didn’t remember me.

“Name’s Anselmar. Imma prayin’ for mah dorrta, she be out onna frontlines keepin’ tha world safe. You should all be prayin’ for ‘er.”

His daughter. Church Man — Anselmar — was praying to keep his daughter safe on the frontlines.

So wholesome. That’s why he was in here all the time — he was busy bolstering her skills.

"That’s very nice of you, Anselmar. If she comes back to Haverbark to visit, I’ll get her to send me a permission request and I’ll help you out. Lighten the load a bit, eh?”

He peered at me as though waiting for a punchline. When he saw I was serious, I thought I might’ve seen his beard shuffle. A smile, perhaps?

Satisfied with my night, I left the cathedral.

It was becoming a stale job, like re-watching the pilot episode of your comfort show for the fourth time.

I just wanted to go to my new home and rest on my stained, sheetless mattress. Heck the haters, I would’ve slept with my shoes on.

Unfortunately, the workday beckoned.

After my usual bath and clothes wash — if there was a [Bathing] skill, I’d be a specialist — I tormented a peach from the fruit bowl for half a moment and twiddled my thumbs for the other half. Right when I was considering some personal budgeting, Adam and Pen pushed through the GTA doors.

“Morning Pen, Adam. How are you?”

“Mornin’.”

“Hi.”

They continued into Pen’s office.

Oh. Cool.

I understood that I didn’t have to be looped in on all their comings and goings and near-death experiences, but I was getting paid to be here, and as much as I would enjoy a day of sitting still and asking Deities for EXP, I’d already had that opportunity yesterday, which resulted in a dank new residence and three roomies. My wallet might not be able to handle another idle day, lest I end up with non-essential furnishings.

Gives me shivers just mentioning it.

Of course, all it would take was a quick trip back to Granton’s and I could hop in through that window like last time and make away with all the random shit he had in his room. Not the mannequin, though.

Never the mannequin.

I sat down to pray, got about two meals served up, then Adam poked his nose out to my seat in the pig-pen.

“Oi! Marcus! Stop napping and get on over here. Got something urgent for ya.”

Work! Rejoice!

“Coming!”

I followed him down the hall and around the corner to a much quieter section of the office.

It was mostly made up of closed doors and tea carts, one of which rolled along in the hands of a lanky assistant with a tie so tight I thought he might be asphyxiating. He made a sweeping gesture, telling us to go in before him. I slipped past. The scent of chai lattes was gorgeous.

Pen’s office was classic. If you were to conjure up a vision of a 1950s executive’s office, this would match almost perfectly. All it needed was that smoky haze sitting in the air from the constant presence of cigarettes or cigars.

“Sit down. Come on, let’s get going. Ah, Julian, thank you. Tea, anyone? Coffee? Actually, it’s just chai lattes. No? Suit yourself.”

Pen was on edge today. She hoisted a mug off the tea cart and slapped a dollop of honey in, stirring it so fast that the whirlpool of chai almost rose over the edge.

“Adam, tell Marcus what you told me.”

Adam shuffled a stack of papers, then tapped them on the desk to straighten them. He opened his mouth to speak, and Pen interrupted.

“No papers, just tell him.”

“Right.”

The papers went away, and he turned to me, hands intertwined in his lap.

“We have received an anonymous tip-off that the incident in Anpar was premeditated.”

Oh shish kabob.

“We think someone was trying to kill us.”