Light that failed.

  Words that failed.

  Certainty that never would falter.

  "Please... you must change this world for the better... No one else will."

  And he was chosen by the deity.

  From its northern zenith, the golden sun made its way downwards, onto the eastern mountains. The radiant white eye still had not surpassed its twin in the faraway north of burned Arbol, whence the other sun, the great star of death, spread tendrils of ruin and corruption. The twilight of the night was as far off as it was inevitable. But for now, children ran through the wooden city of Barlowe, laughed and played, safe within the empire of man. Priests preached the good word of the Lord of Light and Him who was Emperor, exalted upon the peacock seat of Sunhold, crown of the Heartlands. He who was child of Symeon the Golden and the Lady of Liberty. He whose line was given dominion for a thousand years and more. He who, in divine union, made grow the divine blood in his spawn and thus, the freedom of the realm with each generation of blessings more potent. Under his grace, the theater of the world in this place and all the lands the eye could see unfurled. Merchants sold and bought, civil servants kept the records, aristans saw to their trade and maids washed their clothes where the river still was clear. Even sweepers, builders and beggars acted and lived as the guilds demanded it. Competition, orderings and rules determined their daily games, wealth and honor the prize of a lifetime. Besides the multifarious priests, only one guildhouse hinted at the fantastic.

  It seemed like many others; formed in the contest with all the other buildings in the city; the shape it had wanted to be denied, a new one, more economic and practical, asserted. Now, it couldn't dream of any other shape, wouldn't want to. Above the gates and walls of timber, the statues of women with frozen smiles kept lasting watch, swords and armor and clothes of willow, faces of little detail, noses and mouths small, yet heads and eyes large and child-like, their bodies less beautiful than the makers intended. Stark and simple colors covered wood hollowed out by time and vermin, a replacement costlier than paint. Below these old icons, the masses of human sellswords rushed into the guild hall. The people from Demesia, their faces symmetric, pale or dark, with short hair and straight noses, refined dress and perfect bodies. Slavian men, pallid and dark-haired, bent and leering. And the heartlanders, the rosy cosmopolitans of fair hair.

  This basted quilt did part a light golden and white, outshone the bright multiplicity, forded the masses. The Sword Syndicate was perhaps not yet the greatest in the guild, but it was the paragon of all the empire stood for. Their latest quest, saving human smallfolk from orc raids, had been a complete success. Now Jacob Gryffen, their leader, gave a coy smile as adoring girls and women vied for his affection and perhaps a lock of his golden hair or to touch his shining brilliant armor while men begged for alms or the training of their children. “By the Lady of Progress! Now, now, ladies and lords. Some elation is approbiate, but please maintain Decorum…Don’t worry… there will be a feast to share the wealth… We will not abandon the unfortunate in the years of crisis...”

  Many smiles, but rationed size and emotion. Nothing in excess. A glance at the damsel-wizard beside him, who looked back with green, insecure eyes and pressed her white, thin robe against her lithe body. A reassuring nod told her that she needn’t worry. It was important that Astrid Blackstaff thought she held a special place in his heart.

  “Get off the boss!” A tall man with crooked teeth and strange skin rushed in, dressed in nothing but the furs of savages. He shoved the crowd away from the entrance and plucked the girls from Gryffen. “Thanks, Klorb.” The leader’s blue eyes beamed with gratitude to the other, rougher human. Inside, the last member, a short one in green robes and muted brown leather, waited before the beer hall, his feet visible from underneath the sandals. “Finally.” He moaned. “We aren’t here for wenching and drinking.” He flung a coin up high and caught it again. Klorb, as the last to enter, rammed the door into its frame and put his back against it - much safer than any old lock and key.

  Gryffen nodded sternly to the last hero in front of him. “Of course, Menas.” Names gave the faces and archetypes a touch of humanity. “Our party is a business and one we could run into the ground if we’d let one windfall put us off our guard. But we aren’t doing that, are we, people?”

  Nodding all around followed. "We have got debts to pay!" they answered in cheerful unison.

  Gryffen brought the game forward. “So, what profitable jobs has our demesian amicus found for us?” Everyone had a place here. Every race was free to contribute in the way they were best suited to. He held out his palm and Menas’ ruddy hand, silvered with scars and burns, put a wax tablet in it. Astrid leaned right in and read alongside him. Klorb just crossed his arms and waited for everyone to say their piece.

  Astrid was the first to speak up. “Alright. It looks like we have a choice to make. On the one hand, we have a dragonhunting job in the north, Arbol. A mighty demon is gathering her armies and imperils the mana-harvest. Without it, the local economic is another one ripe for collapse. I guess that's why its mission modifier says there is double the reward. But there is another quest, unrest in Slavia started anew. The hurgists spread propaganda about upheveal of the imperial order and prepare for an-ill fated, bloody revolution, like the one in Goldpick's Folly. The divine omens indicate a smaller threat posed by these radicals. But still one that might spiral into something more dangerous. These poor people look forward to another harsh winter and the streets are in mutiny. Chaos is spreading because of the social inequality. We need to do something there before things get worse .” She paused, looked at the hardened men around her. "If you ask me, at least." She added. Menas just rolled his eyes and laughed, to the annoyed glares of the wizardess.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  “You heard the man, lady. We are a business, not a charitable institution. I agree with you about inequality breeding unrest. Despite the lessers maybe having a hand in the bad hand they are being handed. But we have to make ends meet. There aren't enough ressources for everyone." He paused. Deliberated. Added something with an evil smile. "I guess we could do it. We have some liberty as to how approach the mission. The bill will be in the empire's favor when we squash those insolent rats and make more breathing space for the real hard workers. This way, we'd make sure heavy effort is heavily rewarded.”

  “Menas! By the highest!” The wizard clutched the bronze amulet with the serene, matured face of the lord of light tangling on her chest. “They are humans, just like us. Not animals! We need to help them! Adress the root issues of their plight before the radicals indoctrinate them and more people die!”

  The short demesian sneered back. “Those that are too dumb to plan for the winter deserve to freeze to death. The empire has no use for dead weight in our times of crisis. The going ons are rough enough here. We gotta defend what we have.”

  Jacob raised his hand. The game was getting too rough, both sides a little too heated. “Well, we haven't heard Klorb’s voice on this. Maybe he’s got a good idea on what to do.” Even Astrid chuckled, if only a little. Klorb just stared a hole into the door across the hallway.

  “I, Klorb, needs no tablet. I know dragon in hot north. Treasure there. Testing strength, there. Glory and Honor there.” The group shared a hearty laugh. Good, old, dumb Klorb!

  “And like we keep telling you: Quick, gruesome death there.” Menas mocked as he flicked a knife around in his fingers, playing with it as well as his role.

  Jacob however, had listened to them all and, as the leader of the Sword Syndicate had his decision to make.

  "So. We want to help people. We want to get rich. We want to fight a strong, reptilian monster and take its stuff.” Once again, they all agreed wordlessly to the words of the leader.

  “I say, how about we kill that necromancer and his drake minion near the eastern forests, up south, at the Slavian border? Been a while since we saw old Igor." More labels, names, roles, references. The world was a painting and he had trusty colors with which to paint. "Bottom there on the list; at the very least he’ll have a book, maybe even a wizard tower and we can get the premium of the Inquisition. And nearby is aggressive goblin trouble to deal with, if we get the chance. An easy quest for adventurers of low rank - but also double reward. They made a lot of mischief against the local boyars, threatening the peaceful farmers nearby and menacing traders. Their dark god, rebel against the divine order, drives them to aggression no doubt. I will repeat what we know from our enchiridion of monsters about drakes, for those slow on the uptake."

  He gave a wink to Klorb as he produced a pamphlet of "Tolarin's tome of dangers." Klorb grinned. A nice motivational speech. A nice little joke. All in good fun.

  "Goblins:

  Goblins are small, black-hearted parahumans that lair in despoiled dungeons, caverns, mushroom mires and other dismal settings. Individually weak, they gather in large numbers to torment other creatures, as the evil god possessing them commands them to.

  Drakes:

  Reptilian, wing-less dragonspan made from concentrated evil to serve a moral parabel. Cold-blooded, aggressive and unintelligent. Monster of middling threat at best, driven by bestial, cannibal appetites and the lust for evil, unable to increase their mana levels to the higher echelons. Dangerous elemental breath attacks."

  He closed the book with a bang and smiled. "With our levels of mana, we should have no problem with it. As long as we can seperate it from the necromancer, he will not be able to cast a spell of any significant rank before we can take him down in melee."

  “Sounds profitable.” Menas stated. "And we must curb the dark Gods who threaten nature, civilisation and all the Light build."

  Astrid said: “This will keep the people safe.”

  “I, Klorb is eager to prove ugly skin doesn’t mean he is not human. Goblins’re poor fight but good glory. And as we all know, Glory is important for Klorb.” Klorb added, with a wink.

  Gryffen beamed. “Excellent. We will handle the signage later. But now, it is time for charity. To the great hall! A heroes' feast awaits us. Let us see if we can reach A rank in the donation ledger!” He pulled Menas along. "Come on! It's tax deductible!"

  They brought the admirers and supplicants in for the promised selfless feast. The watchful, painted eyes of old adventurers and elder foes looked on as men sunk their teeth into meat glazed with fat and sugar, flirted and fooled around with women, boasted of their strength to them or bought them for a night. No one paid them any heed; their struggles lay in the past.

  They loved this time. For not a few adventurers thought that these busy days, where you didn’t think about how all stories of all things — all humanity and all races, all fights and all fighters, all arms and all armor and all the lurid lack of it, all magic and all magicians, all fireballs and all the campfires and all the rogues and all the villains and all the betrayals and all the romance and all the longswords longbows long knives long nights and all people in all deceit and deprivation and darkness and dastardy but all ideals and all cynicism and all divine comedies and human tragedies and all the eternal prejudices and all the heroics small changes in spite and because of it and all the gods and all the demons of light and madness and time and evil and shadow and good money and love and nature and death and art and war and life — all the time always were like everything else, meant happy days.