An Arsonist and a Necromancer Walk into a Bar

The Art of Not Getting Paid

Palmira was dreaming.

It was night in her dream. She sat on a bench in a field of endless grass. The grass was tall enough to reach her knees, and yet the bench was so tall that only her toes brushed against the blades. She swung her feet back and forth absently, smiling as the blades of grass tickled her bare feet.

She looked up at the sky. Except the sky was the sea, and the sea was the sky. And the sea was in front of her, endless yet finite. An inch deep, an eternity wide, and full of nothing.

An octopus swam past her head. It was the only living thing she could see. She blinked and it was gone.

She blinked and everything was gone. Then there was a cough, and everything was back.

There was an old man sitting next to her. He was real, she knew, though she didn't know how she knew.

She wondered why. She'd never met the man before, and yet he was familiar. She glanced at him, confused, but despite being real he looked fake.

Deciding it wasn't important, she put it out of her mind.

"It's a beautiful night," she told him.

The old man chuckled. "Indeed it is. It's not like it can be anything else. There's no sun, after all."

Of course. How could she have been so silly.

"Would you like to make one?" the old man asked.

Palmira hummed. She didn't particularly care. But she did feel there wasn't enough fire in the world, so she supposed she should.

She raised a hand, and a star flashed into existence. But the star was lopsided, and burned out quickly.

"Not quite like that," the old man told her. "Stars aren't born so quickly. They take time, you see."

"They do?"

"Mhm. Stars are born when dust accumulates over time, piling together until it gets so heavy the dust ignites. From that a star is born."

"Born? I thought stars were made. Did the Goddess not make the stars with her own hands?"

"Oh, no," the old man shook his head. "Stars are alive, and they live quite brilliant lives. Some get married in twos and threes, while others stay single all their lives. Some have children, and some do not. Some live long and quietly. Others live short, but die extravagantly. Some are not even satisfied with that, and their corpses become greedy, glutenous things."

"Stars can die?"

"All things can die. The birth and death of a star is a process that can take many billions of years."

"Wow. That's a lot of years."

"It is," the old man chuckled. "But we don't have to wait that long if you don't want to. This is a dream, remember. The God of Time stakes no claim here."

She nodded, accepting this as fact. So she did what the old man said. She gathered dust. She gathered so much dust it was hard to hold in one place, but soon she found the dust preferred to hold onto each other instead. So she let the dust hold onto the other dust, and after many years she felt she had enough dust.

She raised a hand, and ignited the dust.

A new star was born. This one burned brown and low, but it did not go out and was pleasantly warm. The grass seemed to agree, as it grew ever taller, and the sky that was the sea returned to the sea that was the sky.

The old man smiled. "Wonderful, my apprentice. We'll make a proper mage out of you yet."

Palmira smiled, happy she had succeeded.

A shadow appeared suddenly. It reeked of death and hatred.

The old man frowned. "Ah," he said. "It seems we've attracted the attention of something rather foul."

"Oh," Palmira curled in on herself. The grass stopped growing and followed suit, hiding away from the Thing. "What happens now?"

"Now," the old man turned to her, and she saw the cosmos in his eyes. They were beautiful and terrifying and familiar. "I believe, it is time for you to wake up."

--

​

Palmira woke up.

It was still night. The sky was dark, but she could not see the stars.

She simply laid on her bed, blinking slowly in the dark room.

She had been dreaming. She knew this. And yet as she tried to hold onto the dream it slowly slipped away from her.

Soon, there was nothing left but the faint smell of the sea, and the taste of stardust on her lips.

She did not want to go back to sleep. Something within her recoiled at the idea.

So instead she got up and made her way downstairs. She'd just sit in the courtyard until the bar opened up for breakfast, she decided.

And as she left, her eyes burned low and brown.

--

​

Over the past few days Palmira had slowly settled into the guild. Each morning she'd eat breakfast alone, though Teresa would occasionally come by and drop some fruits on her plate. Afterwards she'd be tossed from one adventurer to the next as they tested her abilities and gave her tips and tricks on how to win fights. It couldn't really be called training, but it was better than nothing and most of them seemed competent enough when they weren't plastered. Which was often.

Speaking of, she'd discovered Morte had been correct about adventurers and their drinks. Her first night she'd seen everyone in the guild—Ósma included—down enough spirits to kill an elephant and not even look tipsy.

Apparently, Teresa's four bottles of wine that morning had been her drinking in 'moderation.'

The guild made more money selling wine to its own adventurers than it did from actual quests.

But as the days passed the guild quickly emptied out, and when she asked around she was told most of them had (been forced) to leave on jobs to pay for the repairs to the guildhall. By the fourth day there were so few people left in the guild she could count it on one hand.

And then, before she knew it, it was her turn as well.

"Good, you're here," Ósma nodded at her as she entered his office. He gestured for her to sit down. "I've found a job for you, and I've also called in two others who will be helping you on this quest. They should be joining us in—ah, here they are now."

Palmira perked up, turning to the door as her new apparent allies entered the room.

The first one to enter was a young man, probably about her age. He had brown, almost rough looking skin which barely hid freckles that seemed to cover him from head to toe. Green, almost vine-like hair dropped to his shoulders in dreadlocks, with what seemed to be sticks and leaves sticking out of it. His eyes alighted on her, blood red and slitted, and he raised a leafy eyebrow in surprise. He gave her a polite smile, showing off row after row of sharp teeth.

The one to follow him was a girl, perhaps a year or two older than her. Her features were exotic almost to the point of being alien. Her skin was a flawless white—not simply pale, but whiter than snow—which only emphasized her silver hair. Said hair was pulled behind her neck in an elegant braid, revealing slightly pointed ears. Crystal clear eyes darted around the room before landing on her, the orbs so clear that she could swear she could see her reflection in them, before her aristocratic features pulled into an angry sneer.

"Why is she here!?" the girl snapped, her crystal-clear voice cracking with anger. "Are you seriously putting me on babysitting duty!?"

The boy beside her sighed, and Palmira herself blinked, taken aback by the sudden hostility. Then the words registered, and a sudden surge of anger compelled her to her feet.

"Hey!" she snapped back, eyes smoldering with anger. She didn't notice, but the temperature of the room rapidly began to rise. "What do you mean by babysitting duty?"

"Chiara, please," the boy tugged at her elbow. "Not this, not now."

The now-named Chiara shook him off, turning to glare at Palmira. "It means I do not want to waste my time keeping some ignorant whelp from getting herself killed when I could be working towards something far more important."

The temperature in the room began rocketing skywards even faster. "Who the hell shat in your pastries this morning, princess?"

Ósma placed his head in his hands and let out a long, loud sigh. "Don't," he growled lowly, glaring at them. "Don't even start. Chiara, I don't care what possessed you to say that, and I don't care. Can it. That goes for you as well, Palmira—if she or anyone else decides to insult you, ignore it. Now, the client will be arriving soon and you'd better be on your best behavior, understood?"

The now named Chiara scoffed, while Palmira winced and shuffled back to her seat.

Ósma, apparently, took that as agreement, and motioned to the extra stools sat next to her. "Good. Now, Lorenzo, Chiara, take a seat. You two and Palmira will be working together for this job, and I want you to show her the ropes. Don't even try to argue, because I'm not changing my mind."

Chiara scowled and Lorenzo sighed, before they sat on either side of her. She shuffled a bit on her seat, clenching Morte's staff tighter as she felt their shoulders brush against hers. For some reason she felt embarrassed, and she didn't know why.

"Now that we've gotten that over and done with, let's get to the actual reason I've summoned you three here. Your quest. You will be escorting a caravan from Firozzi to Ripo—"

"What!?" Chiara snapped, jumping to her feet.

"—sa—oh what now."

"I have better things to be doing with my time than a damn escort quest to Riposa!" Chiara slammed her fists against the desk, furious. "You said last week that I'd advanced enough to start taking real work, not these damn newbie quests! Give me a real job, orc, lest I get you fired!"

"Chiara…" Lorenzo muttered in warning, his voice like rough bark scraping against stone.

"I did," he nodded, not backing down from her glare in the slightest. "And you'll get your job. When a quest like that is available. Until then, you still need to work. Unless you'd rather sit around doing nothing for the next few months?"

Chiara's scowl deepened, and something… happened around her. Some sort of shimmering, that almost made it hard to look directly at her. "Amina left alone to fight off a cult of Drowned-Men a few days ago. Are you telling me I can't even handle something as simple as them?"

"You should never underestimate the fey," Ósma rumbled. "And I sent her there because it was a job best suited to her. Just like escort missions are something you are well suited for. This is not, as you seem to believe, some slight against you. I am merely doing my best to keep this guild afloat and grant everyone work best suited to them. Sometimes, that means you must take meagre work for meagre pay. We all have to deal with it, so suck it up."

"I'm not even getting paid for this!"

"You will be, once we can afford it. Everyone's getting their pay recorded, Chiara. Be grateful you'll be seeing a paycheck by the end of the month—some of us won't be seeing ours 'till next spring."

Her glare deepened, before she finally huffed. "…Fine," she growled, crossing her arms. "I'll take the damn job."

"Like you had a choice," Ósma muttered under his breath, before coughing and speaking louder, "Right. Now that that is behind us, let me finish explaining what this job will be. As I said, you will be escorting a caravan from this city down to Riposa, where you will then be able to make your way back to Firozzi at your leisure. The caravan will be a combined force of pilgrims heading to the holy city and merchants transporting processed goods south. The merchants are part of the Dyeworker's Guild, who you should know are rather important. That means you'd better be on your best behavior. It is expected to take a minimum of six days round trip, but plan for at least eight just in case. Do you have any questions?"

Palmira glanced left and then right. Neither of them seemed confused in the slightest, but something about his explanation didn't seem right…?

Finally she grimaced, raising her hand. If there was one thing Morte had spent the last few days drilling into her head it was to always ask questions. Even if they were probably stupid questions.

"Um," she coughed. "I thought Riposa had been destroyed by demons…?"

Everyone turned to look at her, and she flinched back under their combined looks.

"…I forget it's not common knowledge," Ósma rubbed his chin. "You're correct, the original city of Riposa had been destroyed some five years ago, when the Woman-Serpent made her bid to sink the peninsula. However, much of the population survived and, seemingly out of spite, rebuilt their city in the exact same place. Well, mostly. Regardless, one of these two can tell you more on your way there. Do you have any other questions?"

"Um, no, that's all."

"Good," Ósma grunted, shuffling some papers around. "In that case, we can—"

He was interrupted by a knock on the door.

"…Ah, that must be the client. You three, stand and line up against the side of the room. Make sure to look competent. And don't say a Goddessdamned thing."

They hurried to follow his orders, and once they were in position the orc coughed loudly. "You may enter!"

The door to his office opened, revealing a pudgy merchant with greying hair and decked out in fine, colorful silks. He looked at Ósma the orc, then looked at them, and then stepped into the room with a grimace.

"Ah," he coughed, granting them a fake smile. "I was told I would find a Signor Ósma here…?"

"I am he," Ósma rumbled.

The smile slipped a bit. "Right… of course. How silly of me. May I take a seat?"

"You may."

The merchant shoved himself onto one of the far-to-small stools, before placing his hands in his lap and smiled. "I thank you for accepting our request. I assume my colleagues have already hashed out the price for your services…?"

"Aye, they have. Five gold Ducats per guard, as promised."

Palmira forced herself not to swallow her tongue. They would be getting paid how much!?

The merchant winced again. "Surely you don't think that's too much for such a simple trip…?"

Ósma merely raised an eyebrow. "The price is set, Signor. I do not have the authority nor want to renegotiate it."

"Of course, of course… But, I assume you've gathered proper guards for us, if you've called me in today? Would you mind bringing them here, so that I may speak with them personally?"

"They're already here—the three powerful adventurers standing to your left will be the ones to guard your caravan."

Morte snorted. Luckily, it appeared only she heard it.

The merchant dropped his smile, glancing at them. The frown deepened. "You are telling me you are sending a shipment of dyes halfway down the peninsula with only three children as guards? Is this really all we get for the amount we're paying you people?"

"With the amount you're paying us you should be grateful you got three."

"Regardless," the merchant snapped. "Don't you think this is a bit… sparse of a guard? Forget monsters, we'll look an easy target for any bandit stupid enough to think they can make it rich off our caravan!"

"You're exaggerating. You said it yourself, the road between Firozzi and Vola is the safest damn road on the continent," Ósma rolled his eyes. "I'm not sending my experienced adventurers to Riposa of all places when they could be dealing with more important things elsewhere."

Chiara's scowl deepened, but she held her tongue. Palmira side-eyed her as the air began to shimmer around her again, scooting away slightly.

"…Truly," the merchant bemoaned. "What has the world come to, that the Rosa Guild doesn't even promise the barest of quality to its customers."

"We have never promised quality to anyone. We just promise to get the job done."

Things continued on that vain for a while longer. The merchant grumbled a bit more, Ósma shot down any attempt to change the deal, and soon enough the merchant had left out the way he came, an annoyed grimace on his face.

Palmira watched him go with a frown. "…I don't think he liked us."

"Bah! He's a merchant. They're all scum of the earth, so who cares what they think!"

"…I am leaving," Chiara growled, storming out of the room in a huff. Lorenzo rolled his eyes and followed, apologizing to Ósma as they left.

Then there was just Palmira left, and she turned and gave Ósma a worried look. "…Are you sure this'll be okay?"

"Please," Morte scoffed, "That was practically a rite of passage! You aren't a true adventuring party until you've threatened to kill each other in a dark alley over petty matters. Cooperation always follows spite."

"You'll be fine," Ósma sighed, waving away her worries. "I understand you got off on the wrong foot, but Chiara and Lorenzo are reliable people. Even if their personalities leave something to be desired. …Goddess, that about sums up everyone in this guild, huh…?"

"But what about the merchant?"

"Hm? What about him?"

"Didn't he seem a little pissed to you? What if he cancels the quest…?"

Ósma snorted. "With one day before they leave? I doubt it. Don't worry about him—he was just trying to do some last minute haggling to lower the price. It happens for every quest and they all leave angry. You've just got to stay firm and not give an inch, lest they walk all over you. You'll learn in due time, I promise."

Palmira took a calming breath. "If you're certain. And thank you once again for the job. I look forward to finally getting those Ducats."

With a wave of Morte's staff (that accidentally knocked his head against the doorframe) she followed the others out, leaving the orc alone in his office.

And as they left, Ósma slumped in his chair, his hand over his eyes.

"Children."

--

​

They were given the rest of the day to pack and prepare, and the next morning Palmira found herself at the edge of the city, Morte's staff in one hand and a sack of dry pasta in the other.

She'd found the caravan easily enough. Dozens of wagons, carts, and pilgrims were gathering past the southern gate, where the dense urban sprawl turned to rich olive farms and rural villas. The slums and poverty from the endless waves of refugees didn't reach here, staying north of the river as close to the Capparelli as they could.

The caravan itself was almost done packing up, getting ready to leave south within the hour. Merchants shouted orders at servants to pile dyes, cloth, silks and else into the wagons, checking and triple checking that everything was secure. Important looking people in the center shouted and argued over maps about where and when to stop, while horses were hitched to the fronts of each wagon. A distance away from the organized chaos sat two dozen pilgrims, making one last prayer to the Goddess before they left. The three largest carts at the front held the richest merchants who'd be making the journey, their fancy wooden wheelhouses pulled by slave-centaurs in chains, whipped along by stableboys. The most decadent sign of wealth one could have on the road.

She always felt a bit uncomfortable seeing the centaurs like that, but it wasn't like there was anything she could do for them, so with a guilty conscience she sped past them.

"Hey!" someone shouted. Turning to her left, she saw Lorenzo waving at her, with Chiara lounging on a large rock next to him. They were both armed today, with Lorenzo in chainmail and a massive battleaxe strapped to his back, while Chiara was in blue riding leathers and had an elegant rapier tied to her waist. Behind them was a large mound of something that, as she got closer, she realized was alive. "Good, you're here on time! Now we can get to work on planning."

"Planning?"

"Of course," Chiara rolled her eyes, wiping down her rapier dismissively. "What, were you just going to follow the caravan blindly, waiting for it to be attacked before you did anything? My, how reactive. Though I suppose that's what I'd expect from a child like yourself."

Palmira squinted as she tried to look at Chiara. Out in the sunlight her pasty features almost glowed, making it hard to look directly at her. "What is your problem?"

The taller girl glared down her nose at her. "Nothing at all. I just loathe being forced to act as babysitter when I could be doing more important things with my time."

Palmira huffed angrily, biting back smoke. "You're like a year older than me, so I doubt whatever it is is that important."

Chiara's scowl deepened, and she stood to her full height. "Watch yourself, child. I have been fighting in this guild for nearly a decade now, and I will not listen to some newbie harp on about things she knows nothing about."

"Chiara," Lorenzo cut in, a fixed smile on his face. "Stop picking fights with the fresh blood. It's not her fault you're here anymore than it is yours."

She snapped to Lorenzo, a betrayed look on her face. "You're siding with her!?"

"I'm siding with no one. I'm telling you to stop wasting our time fighting with someone who is, in your own words, a child."

"But—!"

"Unless you want Bella to get involved?"

With his words the mound behind him shifted, and both Palmira and Chiara found themselves face to face with a giant brown bear.

The bear let out a low grumble, before curling back up.

"…Fine," Chiara bit out. "It's not like I need to waste my time here anyway. We'll use the same plan as always, just find somewhere for the girl to sit where she can't cause any trouble."

With that she turned around and, with a dramatic flourish of her rapier, drew a large circle in the air in front of her. At first, nothing seemed to happen, and Palmira almost laughed out loud at what she saw as a failed spell. But slowly before her eyes it almost seemed like the space within the circle began to warp. Crystalline cracks spread through the circle that created a warped reflection of the world within. Then, something began to push, stretching the fabric of reality further and further, a shape pushing its way out of the circle into something almost familiar. And then with a loud 'pop' the thing pulled itself wholly into their reality, landing on the ground with a dull thud.

It was like a horse. That was the best way she could describe it—it was a horse if a horse could be made of pure crystal, it's whole body a warped reflection of the world around it.

Chiara mounted the thing without a second thought, and the crystalline horse let out a whinny that sounded like shattering glass. She turned and gave them one last scoff over her shoulder, before she urged her alien steed off towards the rest of the caravan.

"Damn," Morte whistled. "I want one of those."

Palmira scowled. "I don't like her."

"She's not as bad once you get to know her," Lorenzo reassured her halfheartedly. "She's normally not like this, but she's been frustrated these last few months and she's taking it out on you. Please don't hold it against her."

"I will."

Lorenzo sighed. "Well, at least get used to working with her, because as the three youngest people in the guild Ósma will be pairing us together a lot in the coming months."

Palmira huffed, glaring off to the side.

"Well, enough of that. When Chiara left, she told us she'd be using our normal plan for escort missions. That is, she with her superior mobility will scout ahead of the group while I hold the rear on Bella here. I suppose with you here now… actually, how fast can you move?"

"Fast enough."

"That's not an answer. Let me rephrase—can your magic help you move faster than a normal human?"

"Oh!" Palmira nodded. "Yes, it can. I don't know how fast that is, though, I've never been able to check…"

"Well, we'll have a few days of nothing to look forward to, so we might as well figure it out then." Lorenzo hummed, patting Bella. The bear let out a low moan, before shuffling to her feet. Once there, she showed herself to be absolutely massive—Palmira barely reached her chin! "In the meantime, I suppose you can patrol the edges of the caravan. Maybe stick near the VIPs near the center. I doubt anything will happen on this trip, but it's good practice nonetheless."

With that he grabbed onto the bear and launched himself on her back, grabbing reins made of vines and riding bareback.

"Oh, one last thing," he smiled down at her. The razor teeth and red eyes made for an intimidating expression.

She felt her face flush.

"It was nice meeting you, Signorina! And I look forward to working with you for the following week!"

With that Bella let out a loud roar, and the two of them trundled off towards the caravan.

"Morte," Palmira frowned, poking at her face. "I feel hot."

"Really? Him? Well, to each their own, I guess."

"No, no you don't get it!" she shook his staff frantically. "I don't remember the last time I felt heat! It's like I'm drowning in molten lava! Do you think I'm sick or something!?"

"…Ah, right. No parents. …You know what? I'm not sure, but if you can walk I'm sure it's fine. Why don't you ask Ósma when we get back—I'm sure he'll know what's going on better than me."

…That didn't sound quite right, but maybe she'd been relying on Morte's knowledge a bit too much recently. It's not like he knew everything after all.

Nodding to herself, she put out the few flames that had sparked in her hair and resolved to ask Ósma about it once she returned.

But until then, onto her first adventure!