They cheer and applaud. A celebration of the enslavement of my tribe and the heavy stack of coin for their vices. The tavern’s once merry atmosphere takes on a soiled and tainted gloom. As if hosting the Blackroots makes the very wood they stand on illicit to their crimes.

I should block the doors and burn it all down. Take out a chunk of their House before going after the rest. I see Fokston pushing through the crowd towards the tavern owner, his family trailing behind.

They’ve been so good to me, I shouldn’t do anything I can’t control. The wake of the merchant's forceful passing leaves a few sinister stares at the back of his head, their glares travel back along the cleared path to me.

What am I thinking? I shouldn’t even be here,

I’m wearing the bear poncho like a goddamn mascot of Mother. I turn to leave out the stable door when the hefty woman, still standing on the table, swings her stone again.

Having sunk several pints since her last toast, she unbalances and takes out the front row with a loud crash. Her flagon stays pointed to the ceiling, after several leaf falls she bounces back to her feet and swigs from it.

“Didn’t lose a drop!”

They cheer out for her.

I’m halfway through the door, welcoming this opportune distraction when I hear her second toast.

“To the Voice and his Shepherd!”

They’re here? I look for them amongst their troops. The fake Jesus man and that old testicle of a Satyr.

“Hope they drown in Topside swill!”

So they’re above, too high ranking for celebrations with this squaller.

“Aye, I know you,” A Blackroot squarks from inside a mass of crazy hair.

His friend’s drunken eyes open wide with amazement at my poncho. “Holy Order. It looks like the real thing.” He reaches out and strokes the fur in disbelief.

“Where have I seen you before?” Hairy face says.

“Gosh, it’s so soft and supple.”

“Ah! The summer raid with that hungry wyrm! Cleared out all of Yorkton’s orphanages, didn't it!”

“Can I try it on? Please. Oh oh oh, can I buy it? I’m rich.” His coins ping off the plank floor as they pour out of his pockets.

“No, hold your daemon dick.” Hairysaurus pushes his mate away and squares up to me. His hot breath feels like someone’s pouring a vapourised pint of ale over me.

“That was Stan, he died from a Banshee’s kiss trying to steal her nose ring. You’re a rutting liar, you were never on the raid!” He spits out the words.

“I never said-”

“That’s stolen honour, you miserable cretin!”

I need to leave before the entire House takes note. It would only take one sober Blackroot to call me out.

“I hear honour is only a Bukke dream away.” I pull a crumpled piece of paper out and nod to the stables.

“I wanna dream!”

“Stan would have forgiven the lies of such a generous man, so shall I.”

They follow eagerly as I continue on and out onto the streets and down a side alley.

“Few whelps watching the horses in there.” I say.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

Then begin dramatically patting my pockets and poncho.

“Bollocks. You lads got a pipe?” I ask.

The other men grumble about being unprepared and look through their possessions. I’m not sure if anyone saw me leave with them. So I can’t risk murdering them, even if Cane could easily dispose of their remains. They’ll soon kick off when they realise I don’t have any real bukke. But what If I try this new ability and pretend we are smoking the drug. My hallucinations in the Tower certainly left me shaken.

As the men rummage through the few hundred pockets inside their travel cloaks, they giggle with excitement. This might be my only chance to talk with some Blackroots.

“That woman on the table, doing all the speeches.”

“Samantha, she’s a sweetheart. Write’s witty poetry in her spare time. Don’t know half what she says, but most people find it funny.”

“Sure, she mentioned a voice and shepherd. Was that a House joke?”

“Ahahaha the shepherd’s career is certainly a joke. Got us paid though.” Hairy bursts into laughter at his own jokes and slaps me across the shoulder. While his drunken mate is vigorously rechecking every nook and cranny.

“Why do I have so many pockets? I don’t own anything.”

“Is this shepherd a terrible hero?”

“Ha! He’s a fraud, a self-proclaimed artist of emotion and character. He’s a wet fart trapped in a twig frame, I say. If you want a good laugh, then you can see his ‘performance’ at the Lonely King’s theatre.” He points Topside as his mate pulls a pipe from his trouser pocket.

Hairysaurus flicks him across the forehead. “You didn’t check your bloody trousers first.”

He snatches the pipe and thrusts it towards me.

“We’ll get a real show now.” I say, taking it and filling the end with crushed ebony.

“Looks off.” The drunk whistles out.

“New stuff, they call it Uke’s horn. It’ll take us to heaven and hell.”

“Who’s Uke?”

“What’s a heaven?” They ask at the same time.

“Wanna find out?”

They both stare at me with uncertainty so I ask for a light. In the dark alley, the drunk's hand takes on a rough texture that grates together over the pipe bowl. Sparks shower down to ignite the crushed ebony.

I bite down on my tongue, before placing the pipe in my mouth. Slathering the end in blood as I inhale the smoke. It barely relieves the itching from my marked arm, like the curse knows how close I am to fresh spirit.

Mark of Fear

Swaying from the use of chaotic will, the Blackroots stop me from hitting the wall. They giggle in delight at my reaction and beg for a hit.

“The Voice then. Is she a speaker for your lot?” I gurgle out.

“Nah, a real veteran that one. Dwen brought us riches and fame, now he’s where he should be.” The Hair puffs out with a haze of ebony.

Dwen, doesn’t sound like a satyr name.

“Topside?”

“As high as it goes, for our lot I mean. Right at the top of Black Tree, with the Black family. I hear he was an original son back in the day, got kicked out for some it.”

“I forgive him.” The drunk giggles out from behind the pipe.

“Aye me too.” The hairy hero sways.

“Did he do some sort of Black crime? Or failed a Black deed?” I ask.

“How do you know our secret tongue?” The drunk laughs loudly.

We hear chatter from deeper down the alley, in the low light I see a group skulking about. I’m still woozy from using my ability. It feels even worse than repeatedly using mirrored image. Wiping the sweat off my brow, I store my poncho in my inventory space.

“This place smells like muk. Back to the party?” I ask while pushing the two men on.

They laugh and stumble on, arm in arm. We make it back into the tavern, where the party is peaking. With barely space to move, the heroes of the house are drunk on booze and confidence. Surrounded by their brothers-in-arms, they dance wildly and bash into each other lightly, and not so kindly to those they don’t recognise.

The locals and regulars soon file out voluntarily or get tossed out the door. The owner’s frantically racing around the tavern at this point, trying to gain some control and stop the fools from tearing his livelihood apart.

As I push through the crowd towards Folkston, I duck my head and avoid eyes. A group of particularly rowdy women hop over the unmanaged bar and start helping themselves. Pinching whole bottles of spirits and cartons of ebonys.

They pass them to greedy hands over the counter. I snatch a pack of smokes for myself, having shared all mine in the alley. The Blackroots are rich now, so they do pay. But by throwing fat shillings at the stacked glasses on the shelves.

The merchant is rounding his daughters up as I reach him.

“We should leave.” I say as shards of glass and ricocheting coins fly over our heads.

“No muk. We never got a room key.”

“To the stables.”

We meander through the crowd like a river, passing men the size of boulders and as tall as trees. A few wandering branches sway down to taste the river as we flow, caressing young daughters. My arm itches, my heart pounds, my hand pushes the girls on as the three lanky men try to grope them some more.

“Where you going sweet heart? Wanna make some money for your old man?” One leers from behind orange tinted frames. The other two are copies, triplets.

I yank the key from inside the door, then quietly shut it behind me.

“I’ll stand watch while the parties still going.” I say.

“Door’s locked, do you think it’s going to get worse?”

“I have a feeling it’s going to be a bloody rager.”