An Arsonist and a Necromancer Walk into a Bar

Interlude XI – Childhood’s End

[Four Years Ago]

The days that followed Lenna’s betrayal were some of the hardest in her life. Luckily, she hadn’t been completely left out to dry. While Lenna had abandoned her, she left behind all of their savings, not taking a single coin for herself.

Maybe that was a kindness on her part. Maybe it was a continued refusal to take any money for her work.

Maybe it was because Palmira slept on top of their meagre savings like a dragon over her hoard.

Who’s to say?

But while monetarily she wasn’t in any danger yet, there was an… emptiness that seemed to seep into her days. Worse than when Giulia had… transformed. Like where once there was a hole in her life, there now was a gaping chasm she didn’t know how to seal shut.

The crammed little bedroom she lived in suddenly seemed so much bigger.

But time stopped for no one. Especially not her. She gave herself one day to mope, and scream, and put out her smoldering blankets, before she regathered herself and got back to work. She returned to the streets, once more begging for money, avoiding the old places she and Lenna used to haunt to spare herself the pain.

At least that damn spider wouldn’t have any more reason to arrest her.

Days turned to weeks. Then weeks to months. And nearly a year later, the Goddess finally blessed her with a rare stroke of good fortune.

She finally got a job!

It wasn’t much. She worked for one of the less reputable stores in the back alleys, dusting counters and lifting heavy boxes. From sunrise to sunset she performed backbreaking labor keeping the shelves stocked and the few customers who bought from the store happy. But it would be worth it!

It had to be.

But Palmira knew how the world worked. Good fortune never lasted, and for every good thing that happened to you, a dozen bad things followed. So when the other shoe dropped, she greeted it with not surprise but resigned acceptance.

The news came one early morning, when one of the adults pulled her aside before she could rush off to work.

Palmira couldn’t help but level an exhausted stare at them, feeling every one of her twelve years of life.

“We’re getting evicted?”

The old man sighed. He was missing his legs from the knees down, an injury he got as a young man during the Demon Wars. Most days he spent sitting on a chair by the street, watching the people outside. And so he’d been there when one of the Capparelli officials came by, and told everyone on the street the same thing.

“It’s part of the Capparelli’s new ‘urban renewal’ campaign,” he sighed, scratching at his stumps. “They’re tearing down the old slums and replacing them with new housing. ‘Apartments,’ they say, though who knows if they’re telling the truth or not. Probably just going to build a new bank, the greedy bastards. …Well, not like it matters for us—they’re tearing down this building within the month, they said.”

“Within the month?” Palmira asked, hating how her voice cracked. “That soon?”

The old man just sighed again, unable to do anything else. “That’s what they said. I suppose it could be worse, considering we don’t even pay ‘em rent. They could have just torn it down when we were sleeping, not like anyone would’a stopped ‘em.”

“Is there…” she trailed off, already knowing the answer.

“Sorry, kid, but no. They’re tearing down everything.”

“…Oh,” Palmira slumped. “…Do you have any ideas where you’ll go after this?”

“Oh, I’ve got some,” he chuckled, tired and angry. “I’m going to jail, or I’m dying ‘ere.”

She flinched, snapping up to look at him with wide eyes. “What!?”

“I’m old, kid,” the veteran sighed. “I’m going on seventy soon, and these past few years… well, they haven’t been great. So I figure, I’ll stay here ‘til they take the house down on top of me. And they’ll either arrest me before they do, or I’ll finally get to see that Heaven they promised me when I enlisted all those years ago.”

“…Oh…”

“I don’t know what you can do kid,” he shrugged. “But don’t let what I’m saying get you down. I’m old—I’ve been old for more years than you’ve been alive. I’m ready for my end, whatever that may be. But you’re still young yet. Heh. So fight the good fight, kid! Struggle until you die, that’s what the heroes of old used to tell us, right before a battle. Keep struggling to survive, and maybe one day you’ll get to live!”

Palmira grimaced, but nodded. Just a little bit, some fire returned to her chest. “Okay…” she forced herself to stand up straighter, even as the weight of… everything pushed down on her shoulders. “I’m not good at much, but I know how to struggle. I know how to do that much.”

“There you go!” the old veteran sighed, leaning back in his seat. “…You know, the priestesses tell us that we struggle ‘cause we’ve sinned. Now, I don’t know what sin the two of us have committed to end up here, but I do know one thing!” he grinned, closing his eyes. “When it’s all over, the Goddess has a hell of a debt to repay us, don’t you think?”

Palmira huffed, a small smile trying to force itself onto her face. “Whatever you say, old man.”

With that she left, knowing already that she’d be getting chewed out by her boss for being late. Despite that, she paused, turning back to look at the old, crippled veteran. “…And thanks. For telling me, and for the advice.”

“Of course, kid! What else are us old timers for if not forcing our wisdom onto brats like you?”

--

Naturally, things got worse from there.

A week later, her first payday arrived.

Or it should have, at least.

Instead, despite it being the day she’d been told she’d get paid, the sketchy man who ran the store didn’t so much as glance at her, too busy digging through their supply of medicinal herbs (not what you’re thinking, that was on a different shelf). And at the end of the day, when the sun began to set, she cornered him, asking politely where her pay was.

“Oh,” he turned to look at her, barely pointed ears showing off a faint elvish ancestry. “Your pay? I, uh, that’s tomorrow, you know? Not today! Don’t worry, I’ll make sure it gets to you then.”

Her ‘you’re getting scammed’ senses were tingling, but she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Just this once.

And the next day, true to his word, at the end of her shift he met her at the door of the sketchy little shop in the sketchy little alleyway. And with a sketchy little smile, he dropped a single copper piccoli into her waiting palm.

Palmira glanced down at her hand. “…Where’s the rest of it?”

“Rest of it?”

“My pay,” she ground out. “Where. Is. The. Rest?”

The sketchy little man chuckled. She resisted the urge to melt that smug grin off his face. “Kid, this is all of it. It’s what we agreed on, after all!”

Palmira glared, her nostrils flaring. “You said one piccoli per week!”

“No, I said one per month,” he corrected her, lying through his teeth. “I have no idea where you got such a bizarre idea from. Well, at least now you know.”

And with that, he locked the door, turning and heading back to his fancy fucking house in the better part of the city, leaving her in the increasingly dark alleyway.

This was the last of many mistakes he would make that night.

Because Palmira stood there, staring after him in enraged shock.

One copper piccoli? One!? For a month’s work!?

What kind of cheap bastard—

Deep breath. She was calm. Calm. She was—

Okay, no she wasn’t.

[Three Years Ago]

The next year passed slowly. Mostly, things got worse. She was once again homeless, jobless, and broke, but after so many years she’d figured out how to survive. She knew how to beg, she knew what alleys were safe and which weren’t, and with her fire she was able to chase down and cook the occasional giant rat that found its way up and out of the sewers. It wasn’t the life she’d hoped for in Firozzi, but she managed, as she always did.

That wasn’t to say everything was awful.

A new church had been built in one of the many alleyways, replacing the burnt-out husk of what was once a sketchy little medicinal herb store.

Oops.

(Heh.)

In the beginning she’d visited out of a sense of schadenfreude. Praying to the Goddess in such a place gave her a tingly feeling in her toes that she’d had to check to make sure wasn’t fire. And that was all well and good, but that wasn’t why she kept coming back.

That was because of Sister Laila. The elven nun who ran the church, and the kindest person Palmira had ever met.

“And on the mountain of ash did the shepherd beg salvation,” the sister led them through prayer, her soft voice bouncing off the freshly painted walls. “And so did the Goddess hear his pleas, and in her mercy, bestowed upon him three nymphs, of olive, and lemon, and fig, and so he brought them back to his people. And the people rejoiced as the nymphs shared their bounties with them, and from such kindness and mercy did the remnants of Man survive. Small and shattered, but alive.”

Palmira tried to follow along, but she didn’t know the words well. She’d been to many churches in her life, but organized prayer had been hard for her on the road. So instead she mouthed the words and hoped that counted, looking anywhere but the Sister in hopes she wouldn’t notice.

The church was small and somewhat crammed. There were stained glass windows, though any light that might have come through was blocked by the much taller buildings surrounding it. There was only a single small altar at the back and a dozen pews not even half filled with people. It was a small, humble, and almost dreary church.

Despite that, Palmira felt a weight lift from her chest from where she sat near the back. Her head was bowed, and she listened quietly to the Sister. Subtly, she clutched her stomach, trying to stop it from growling to loudly.

Much as it might have disappointed the sister, she wasn’t here for prayer, no matter how good for the spirit it might have been. Neither was anyone else here, she imagined. Every person in this small church looked worn down and tired, homeless or broke or hungry.

Prayer was nice, but it didn’t fill their belly.

Finally, the sermon ended, and the Sister let everyone who remained (which was everyone) know that she would be making soup for them, if they wanted a bowl. Naturally, they all humbly accepted, moving to the front to help her prepare. Some helped her carry the bowl and the ingredients, while a mother handed off her toddler to her husband and helped the Sister cook. Even Palmira joined in, lighting the fire with a few flicks of her fingers, gaining her a grateful smile from the nun.

Eventually, a large pot of broth was boiling near the back, filled with as much meat and lentils as she could spare. A few loaves of bread were brought from a back room, somewhat stale but warmed by the fire. And those who did not help with the cooking or preparing took the time to help the Sister distribute the soup and bread to the rest of the churchgoers, until everyone was served and sitting on pews shuffled so they were closer to the warmth of the fire. Even some wine was pulled out. Poor in vintage, but enough that everyone could take a few sips.

“We thank our Lady,” Sister Laila whispered, hands clasped with everyone else’s in prayer. “For this meal today. We thank her farmers, and her shepherds, and all others who brought this food to our table. May she receive our gratitude warmly. Amen.”

“Amen,” the rest of them parroted, with various levels of devotion.

And then, finally, they could eat.

The soup was hot and almost tasteless. Some salt and herbs had been spared, but not much, not from a Sister who preached temperance. Who was barely a step away from poverty herself.

It was the best meal she ate all week.

Eventually the first serving was finished. And the little that remained was dolled between the few children whose parents brought them to the church, including—

Palmira blinked as a quarter of her bowl was refilled. “What? Me as well?”

Sister Laila smiled kindly at her. “Of course. You’re a growing girl, you know? You need all the food you can get.”

Palmira stared down at the bowl. Her stomach growled, not near enough full from the earlier meal.

And yet.

Palmira bit her lip. “…I can’t,” she said at last. “I’m old enough, I can survive without it. You should give this to the younger kids, they need it more than I do.”

“Bah!” one of the men sitting next to her scoffed. He held his own son on his lap, spoon feeding the baby bit by bit. With his free hand he slammed it against her back, almost making her choke. “Don’t go thinking yer that old yet, lass. Why look at ya, yer practically skin an’ bones! Eat the damn soup lass, none ah us’ll begrudge ah growing girl her seconds!”

There were murmurs of agreement from the others, and Sister Laila held out the last bowl to her with a smile. “I won’t force you,” she told her softly. “But I would sleep better at night, if I knew you left here well fed. Nobody here will begrudge you. So please, eat. For my sake, if not yours.”

Palmira glanced away, before slowly reaching forward and grabbing the bowl. She brought it close to her face, to hide the tears burning at the corners of her eyes.

By now the broth had grown cold, and the meat soggy.

It was delicious.

[One Year Ago]

She’d found a new alleyway, hidden between a candle shop and a butchery. It wasn’t much, but there was an alcove that was the remains of the bricked off old sewer, which easily hid her growing frame from the street. It smelled atrocious, of course, but it was deep into Capparelli territory in the nicer part of the city, which made it more than worth it. So long as she didn’t bring too much attention to herself, the guards wouldn’t notice one more girl amongst many.

That wasn’t to say things were smooth sailing, of course. Years had passed, and by this point she’d stopped looking for a new job. There was no point to it, she felt. Everyone who’d hire her would just try to take advantage of her, and anyone who wouldn’t wasn’t going to hire her.

Her last hope for a steady income was the vague, half-remembered memory of an adventurer and the promise of a family in their guild.

Or maybe not? It had been years, and she could be remembering that wrong. Regardless, she clung to that fading memory like a lifeline, planning out what little she could of her life around the idea.

She knew she was a mage, and adventurers needed mages. All she needed was a catalyst, and then surely someone would let her join. And then from there she could save up enough to go to the Università and get a job as some court mage for one of the nobilities out in the countryside and never have to beg again—

Ahem. She was getting ahead of herself. She had to complete step one of that plan first, and sometimes even that felt like too much for her.

But sometime, it felt just attainable enough for her to continue struggling. Struggling to survive, so that she could one day live.

“Hey!” she called up to the rooftops, waving her hands back and forth, a chunk of stale bread clutched in each. Subtly, she let some smoke pour from them, catching the attention of the things on the rooftop. “Pspspssp! Here little guy, down here!”

The drakelings curled on the edge of the roof stared down at her curiously. The tiny dragons came in a kaleidoscope of colors, ranging from red to green to pink to yellow. Eventually, slowly, the smallest one began crawling down. A brilliant red in color, its claws clacked against the limestone brick as it came within range.

With a closed-mouth smile, Palmira raised up the now toasted bread on an open palm. The drakeling came close, and after a few probing flicks of its tongue, reached forward and snapped it out of her hand.

That seemed to be the cue for the rest that she was safe, as they swarmed both her and the other drakeling, screeching impatiently for bread.

Palmira giggled, the rough tongues of the drakelings tickling her hands. Within seconds the bread she brought with her was charred black, and within a few more seconds they were consumed entirely by the many drakelings, crumbs and all.

Palmira smiled, running a finger along the back of the red one, who let out something between a purr and a screech in response. It let out a belch of flame, tickling the underside of her hand.

She wondered why she was the only one who bothered to feed the drakelings?

Especially since unlike the rest of the pests in the city, they understood payment.

Once they were done eating, the lot of them scampered back up onto the roof, and with chirps and screeches they started kicking down some shiny trinkets into her waiting hands.

Some broken pieces of tin, a shard of glass—ouch—and half a copper piccoli!

Palmira smiled, pocketing the coin and offering the rest back to the drakelings with a thank you. It always paid to be polite, after all!

The red one plucked the glass out of her hand, and dropped another eighth of a piccoli in its place.

As she said. It paid to be polite.

With one last smile and wave, Palmira turned and left the draklings to their daily squabbles.

Eventually, she returned to her new alleyway, sitting down in the alcove and counting the coin she’d made today.

Seven eights of a piccoli, between the begging and the drakelings.

Sometimes it depressed her that she could make more money bribing tiny dragons then from her own fellow man, but on days like today she was too happy to care.

With an excited grin, she placed the eighth of a piccoli in her pocket. That would go into her savings, while the rest went toward food. But even that one fragment of coin was progress.

With a smile, she fell asleep, dreaming to herself of the day she’d be able to afford a wizard’s staff of her own.

It would be another year before such a day came to fruition. And while his jokes were crap and he wouldn’t stop picking fights with her guildmates, Palmira wouldn’t give Morte up for the world.

[Today]

Lenna was a quiet girl, most days. Too sucked into her art to make small talk with her assistants, who chatted quietly to each other as they mixed pigments for her paintings and helped her build whichever new invention she thought up that day.

Time had been kind to her. Years of eating better (not well, even now some habits didn’t go away easily) had helped her fill out, and now it was hard to tell she’d ever been a bag of skin and bones peddling her art on the side of the road. Now she worked in an actual workshop on the edge of Iscrimo, filled to the brim with paintings and sketches and models and sculptures. The sheer wealth in the form of pigments and materials in the room would even cause the Ambrosi to blanch, but her Patron paid for it all without a second thought.

Yes. Time had been kind. She could make her art whenever she wanted, using the best materials money could buy. It was everything she’d dreamed of as a kid. She should be happy!

She missed her friends.

Lenna buried such thoughts deep within her soul. They had no place in her workshop.

Instead, she forced her hands to draw, sketching out a new idea for a flying machine. One that could even work without magic!

Probably.

Or she would have, had one of her assistants not tapped her shoulder.

“Signorina,” she murmured softly, knowing how much she hated being interrupted. “Someone it at the door.”

Blinking blearily, Lenna grimaced, before standing up slowly. Stretching out her back with a nauseating ‘crack’ she yawned. Rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, she took a minute to work through the black spots that danced in her vision, before stumbling over to the door.

She swore, if Lady Loretti was here to demand another painting of her and the harpies, she was going to wring her pasty little neck until it snapped.

Grumbling to herself Lenna di Vittoria threw open the door, an exhausted glare on her face. One that morphed into confusion as she took in the person standing on the other side.

It wasn’t, as she’d assumed, her patron. It was a… girl? Or a short woman. She was dressed in rough leather armor over a rust red tunic with thick riding pants shoved into old leather boots. This contrasted sharply with the red and grey Paluneran mask that covered her whole face, which contrasted even more sharply with the skull staff she was carrying how did she only notice that now—!?

“Lenna,” the girl whispered, her voice thick with some unidentifiable emotion.

“Um, yes?” Lenna jumped, clutching the edge of the doorframe with nervous confusion. “Do I know you?”

Please say no please say no—

“You don’t even—wait. Hang on, I forgot this stupid thing is still on.”

The girl reached up, ripping the mask off her head, revealing a familiar tanned face locked in her seemingly perpetual scowl.

Lenna’s eyes went wide. She did know this person! “…Palmira? Is that really you?”

“Yeah, it is,” her old friend’s scowl deepened. “And I’ve got something to give you. Something I’ve been holding onto for a long, long time.”

Then Palmira punched her in the face.