An Arsonist and a Necromancer Walk into a Bar

Ash on the Wind

Palmira marched through a desolate land.

The world was dark and grey in all directions. Black clouds hung low in the sky, occasionally erupting with bursts of lightning. Ash fell like snow, covering the molten ground in an ever-increasing layer of soot. The only breaks in the bleached hellscape were the burning corpses of trees, just barely peaking over the ash.

She wasn't sure when she'd returned here. She thought she'd left this place behind long ago.

Or, perhaps, had she never left?

The memories were fuzzy.

Smoke tickled her nose, and she turned her tired eyes down, confused. A small ball of fire was clutched to her chest, burning softly. It was green—or perhaps blue?—and it seemed to almost curl into her.

'Who are you,' she wanted to ask, but no sound came out. She knew why, tasting ash on her tongue, in her throat, filling her lungs. But she tried to talk anyway, unable to stop herself. 'Why are we here?'

The fire didn't answer. But it did begin to move, pulling away from her. She clutched it harder, but it didn't seem like it was trying to flee—rather, the color of the flame mixed with the ash, painting the path forward in light and smoke.

Palmira clutched the ball of fire tighter, and began to move.

Step by heavy step she pushed forward, ignoring the pain in her bare, blackened feet as they dug into the burning ash. She knew she just had to keep moving forward, keep following the flames.

Just as she always had.

But the ash was growing heavy in her lungs, and her breath came shorter and shorter. She coughed, feeling her lungs shake like stones in her chest. She gasped further, the smoke of the flame she was following suffocating her further. But she couldn't let go—couldn't let this one chance at survival slip from her grasp.

She took another step, but her foot slipped, and she fell to her knees. She let out a soundless scream as the ash burned her knees, unable to stand back up. She cried tears of fire, trying to push herself to her feet but only succeeding in burning her hands. She crawled further regardless, ignoring how her skin blacked and melted, how the ash turned her lungs to stone, how her vision grew darker and darker. But all the determination in the world couldn't save her from her fate, and soon her body would move no further.

And the ash buried her once again.

--

​

Palmira gasped as she woke up, lunging from her bed. Taking deep, wheezing gulps of air, she glanced frantically around her bedroom—her bedroom, not the ash fields—slowly calming herself down as she realized where she was.

"Morte," she rasped, clutching at her chest. "What the fuck was that!?"

"What?" Morte seemed genuinely confused. "What are you talking about?"

"The dream!" she snapped, eyes wild. "If this is what you call training, then you can take your damn training and shove it up your non-existent ass!"

"You mean—? Oh, I see. I'm sorry, but despite what you seem to think, I don't spend all my time messing around with your dreams. Sometimes, your nightmares are your own."

What? Her own nightmares? But what would… that would mean…

Ah.

She'd been so busy with everything else recently, that she'd almost all but forgotten it. The memories of that day, so long ago.

Her anger left her in an instant, and she slumped back onto her bed, drained.

Smoke tickled her nose, and she glanced down, realizing she'd been clutching a ball of fire to her chest like a stuffed animal. Glancing into the flames, she swore she could see the smoking peaks of the volcanoes and the ash falling from the sky.

She let the fire dissipate, taking deep breaths to calm herself down.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Morte asked.

"No."

Morte didn't push further, and she was grateful.

Somethings were best left forgotten.

Gathering herself, she got dressed and grabbed her staff and her mace, heading down for breakfast.

Or at least that was the plan. The second she left her room, she was treated to an unusual sight.

"Left, move left!" Chiara snapped. She trying to shove a… was that a bed frame? She was trying to shove some sort of massive wooden thing into the room next to Palmria's. And struggling pretty badly at it, it seemed. "No, not there—I mean my left, not yours!"

"I know what you meant!" the guildmaster's voice shouted back from inside the room. "But your damn quartz is in the way! I told you we should have brought the bed in first!"

"Goddess almighty, if it's that much of a problem then let's just take everything out of the room and start over!"

"Like Hell I'm wasting the past hour of work doing that! We can fit it in here if you'd just follow my lead!"

"Huh," Morte hummed curiously. "I wonder what they're doing."

Palmira was curious as well, but she was also hungry, so she didn't particularly care. "Whatever it is, it's not our problem."

Ignoring the mess the siblings were making of the hallway, she made her way downstairs. She stepped into the dining hall, only to sigh as she saw the state of the place. The tables were piled high with dirty plates and empty wine bottles, with drunken adventurers passed out between them. Some were even still awake, drinking straight from the bottle as though it seven at night instead of seven in the morning.

"Did they really spend all night drinking?" Palmira sighed, at this point not even surprised. "I know we don't have anything else to do right now, but surely there's something better they could be doing with their time?"

"They're adventurers, what else do you expect them to do?"

"I don't know? Get a hobby? Go home? Do anything besides waste all their money on alcohol?"

Morte gasped theatrically. "What sacrilege!? Can you even call yourself an adventurer if you don't get into a bar fight every night?"

'Derision. We agree with Our Lady. The Maker uses her free time to create jewelry. These adventurers are wasteful.'

Did she really? Huh, that was actually kind of cute. Granted, Tintinnia probably made them out of the skulls of babies or something, but hey, ignorance was bliss.

Palmira shook her head, deciding it wasn't important. It wasn't her money, they could do whatever they wanted with it. Instead she just continued on, stepping over her passed out guildmembers as she went. Some, she noticed, were even still awake.

The Crusader Teresa gave her a tired wave as she made her way to the bar, Anima passed out on her lap. Palmira responded in kind, before turning away when she noticed exactly where Anima's face was.

Ignorance was bliss. Ignorance was bliss.

Bettina the bartender gave her a grin as she finally made it to the bar, somehow just as awake as ever. Come to think of it, she was always behind the bar—did she even sleep?

She pondered these questions as she settled down onto one of the few open seats at the bar. Of her two guildmates she was squished between, one was a dark-skinned elf passed out face first on the bar, while the other was an older, scruffy looking knight who was chugging down a bottle of some murky looking alcohol.

"Here's your breakfast kid," the bartender smiled, placing the plate down before her. She gave her a wink, leaning in to whisper, "I also hid some grapes under the bread—make sure you don't let the guildmaster see!"

Giving Bettina a much more genuine smile, she dug into her food, beginning to feel better now that she had something to eat.

Beside her, the knight slammed his now empty bottle onto the bar with a groan. "Hey, Bettina," he growled, squinting through bloodshot eyes at the bartender. "Get me another one. Something stronger."

Bettina rolled her eyes. "We don't have anything stronger. Frankly, we don't have much of anything left."

"Then give me whatever's left."

"Actually, I think I'll be cutting you off for now," she told him, sliding a glass of water over to him. "Drink this, you'll feel better."

"Bettina."

"Charles," she mocked him. "The sun's already above the horizon. Just drink the damn water—you're setting a bad example for the kid."

Charles glanced at Palmira out of the corner of his eye, as though he'd only just noticed her. Sighing, he grabbed the water and started chugging it as quickly as the wine.

Adventurers were weird. And depressing.

"Palmira!" Ósma called out to her. Turning on her barstool, she watched the massive orc casually shove the drunken and passed out adventurers out of his way as he came up to her. "I was hoping I'd find you here. Are you still eating?"

She glanced down at her plate, mostly empty by this point. It wasn't a lot of food, even with the extra grapes. With a shrug, she shoved the last of the bread into her mouth, giving the old orc a thumb's up once she did.

"Excellent," he waved at her to follow, turning to head back out. "I have some things I want to talk with you about. Come with me, we'll talk in my office. It'll smell better, if nothing else."

Palmira nodded, following in his wake through the trashed dining hall.

"Hey," she heard Charles ask Bettina as they left. "Now that the girl's gone, does that mean I can start drinking again?"

She shook her head, turning to look up at Ósma as he led them up to his office. "Is this about my next job?"

He hesitated. "…Yes. If you're up for it, at least. With everything that's happened, we don't have enough jobs for everyone yet, so if you want to take a break we can find someone else. But if you're fine with it, then yes."

She nodded, following him into his office. "I think I'll be fine," she told him. "I'd rather have something to do than not. …If I don't have something to take my mind off it, I'll just get lost in my own thoughts and make myself feel worse."

Ósma nodded, giving her a tight smile. Now that she could see him up close, she saw dark bags under his eyes and new stress lines across his face. She wondered if the civil war was causing him more stress than she'd realized.

It was at that point Dante suddenly stormed into Ósma's office, Chiara right behind him. The man was red in the face and drenched with sweat, while his half-sister looked significantly more put together. The guildmaster gave them both a nod before slumping down into the spare chair, sighing heavily. Chiara calmly closed the door behind him, before leaning against it casually.

"Ósma," the guildmaster sighed. "Did we get confirmation?"

The old orc gave him the stink-eye. "Aye, they did."

Dante almost fell out of the chair in relief. "Thank the Goddess."

"I still can't believe we have to do this. Groveling to a foreign power like this…"

"It's the only way!" Dante snapped back, rubbing his forehead. "The Ambrosi are blocking us from getting any local jobs!"

"It wasn't always the only way."

"Goddess, just give it a rest already!"

"Um," Palmira cut in, raising a hand. The two of them turned to her, apparently having forgotten she was there. "Should I head outside…?"

Dante sighed, shaking his head. "No, no. I'm sorry, we're just… it's been a stressful few days."

Palmira nodded awkwardly.

"I had Ósma call you up here because we're planning an expedition out of the city. Specifically, we're heading up to Iscrimo in order to ask—"

"—In order to beg," Ósma cut him off sourly.

"—In order to beg," Dante begrudgingly agreed, "that they allow us to start taking jobs in the north. And so that we can make the best impression, I'm gathering the most competent members of the guild together to come with me."

"I'm one of the most competent members of the guild!?" Palmira asked, more incredulous than touched.

"You may not be the strongest or smartest," he agreed with her, "But you're the least likely to cause a political incident by drunkenly insulting a foreign Famiglia. As such, you've secured a spot on this expedition."

Palmira stared at him, once again wondering if this was the right career path for her. Maybe it wasn't too late to become a professional campfire…?

"Of course, you won't be the only one coming," he continued. "I'll be bringing Lorenzo, though he won't be back in the city for a few more days. Chiara will be coming as well, of course," behind her, his sister puffed up slightly with pride. "And I'll also be bringing Teresa, Anima, and Charles, once they've sobered up."

"You aren't bringing Charles," Ósma told him.

"What? Why not?"

"If we want to make a good impression on them," Ósma spoke slowly, as though speaking to a child. "Then we can't be seen with a knight."

Dante stared at the orc for a moment, before his eyes widened in realization. "Oh, right, of course," he sighed, shaking his head. "It seems I'm more tired than I expected. Right, we won't be bringing Charles, though I'm not sure who else we should bring to replace him…"

"I'll find someone," Ósma assured him. "You, on the other hand, should get some rest. If you're making mistakes as simple as that then you definitely need it."

"Right, right…" he placed a hand on his forehead. Then, nodding to himself, he stood up and began making his way out of the office. "I'll see you all later," he nodded at them. Chiara moved to leave as well, though the guildmaster paused at the threshold. "Oh, and Palmira?"

She perked up, wondering what else he had to say.

"If we do get into a fight, please don't run away again."

Palmira twitched, forcing down the scowl that threatened to appear. "…Don't worry, guildmaster. I promise I won't. This guild is all I have, after all."

Dante sighed. "…Yeah. It's all I have, too."