The celebrations reached their highest by the hour of midnight. People trampled in a wild dance, howled like beasts, saliva flittered betwixt their celebratory throng, wild waves of alcohol raged within their kegs, spilled over the oaken floor, wetted their clothes. Even with the entrance door, the windows wide open, the air grew thick and heavy with the people’s odor, and served nothing more than to spread the spirit of celebration across the streets of dreaming Olathoe from the Wandering J?tnar situated in the outskirts of the slanting city built upon a great mound in the northern regions of Cordivil.

  “Never thought people would celebrate the slaying of bandits as if we just won the Sibling’s War.” Sallustius swept his olive-green eyes across the crowd, perspiration and mended scars covered his body indecisive under the woolen coat draping his well-toned torso. At certain points the heat of the place triumphed, at other points during the night, the wintry cold reigning outside swept in and shivered his whole being.

  “These are peaceful times, peaceful lands my friend.” Madroum said as he spilled a little of his mead onto his tousled beard trailing down to his waist. The dwarf kept his gaze on the waitress who attended to most their needs and earthly desires for the night, a gift from the owner for their deed. “The Host is a distant threat which they may never have to fear truly, but bandits, deserters those are real evils to their everyday lives.”

  For years–at least since the 1261–the farmers, the upstart merchants seeking fortune in the winding and colorful streets of Olathoe, the custodians of peaceful times lived their lives in a furtive misery. A threat lingered beyond the walls, down in the ancient ruins hidden in somewhere in the hinterland separating them from the southern cities, towns and villages. A small bandit group festered under the shadowy canopies, in forgotten forts ravaged by a marching horde. First their attacks ailed only the farmers bringing their goods into the city, or journeyed south for familial visits. Then as their numbers grew, so did their confidence. Caravans met doom on their long journeys, hung cadavers and burnt carts forced them to choose the perilous roads or longer journeys towards south or north. Unless they were willing to pay a hefty price for the growing congregation of scoundrels.

  But now, the tumor has been cut out, the people no longer had to make plans with dread, at least not more so than in any other segment of the world where nature ruled.

  The promise of prosperity awaited at last, all thanks to the adventurers who offered their aid, received the support of the local consul who even provided the Wandering J?tnar for celebrations. They danced, sparkling stars flittered above them, sapping away all their rues, their fears even including the dark ruins cursed centuries before by the wandering horde of former Atoning, the descendants of a grim sovereign’s servants.

  Madroum leant against the balustrade separating their table from the dancers who occasionally slammed against it, his eyes focused on the homely waitress wrapped into fine garments of rich browns and green, a white apron, sleeveless exposing her wiry arms fair as ripe peaches, the veins popping along the muscles as she carried the heavy oaken tray, balanced the filled kegs on her bodacious bosom. Her long blonde hair streaked with apricot and orange yellows swayed as she navigated deftly amongst the people, her face adorned with a tapering, bulbous nose flared as if she used the lingering, clustered odors to empower herself.

  Love shimmered in the dwarf’s eyes, but quickly he veiled them in the gleam of celebration as she arrived to their table, panting a little after the arduous journey, during which not a drop had been spilled from any of the kegs. “Anything else I can serve you guys?” She asked with a genial smile on her thin lips, further casting her bewitching hook out into the waters of love Madroum billowed about.

  “More than this, and I begin to feel bad.” Sallustius spoke up first, yelling through the crowd.

  “Don’t be darling. You are heroes to our backwater city.” She said, a heart-warming smile upon her homely face. Then her gaze moved onto Madroum who at last gathered his strength. Or at least the alcohol gave him some confidence, whilst lessened other faculties.

  “Only you if possible.” He said then felt a little embarrassed as the two laughed at the words. His eyes cast down for a moment, but shot up at the next words.

  “In an hour, I think I’ll have an hour of a break.” With parting wink, she went another round in the neighboring suites.

  “Hey!” Madroum bellowed, reaching for the keg Sallustius pulled away with telekinesis. A wide grin sat on the pale, gaunt visage of the sorcerer.

  “Trust me, it is poison to your mind.” His pupils pointed down to his nether region. “And to your proud spear.”

  “Trust me, it is not.” Madroum said. “For us dwarves, it is the nectar which awakens the dreaming serpent.” A childish grin appeared beneath his whiskers.

  “If you say so.” Sallustius gulped and sighed at the soothing bitterness. “I’ll be glad to regal the tale of the drowsy serpent and the grumpy maiden.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “What about you?” Madroum asked, wanting to avert the topic which planted doubts into him. Still, he downed half the keg.

  “What about me?” Sallustius asked back, left bushy eyebrow lifted. “Tonight, I shall enjoy only the liquid delights provided by the city and the Eight. It makes things bearable.” A low smile curled upon his lips, his eyes gazed past his friend and comrade, envisioning his beloved wife, the children under the dreary skies of their homeland. He could hear their laughter for a moment, thinking some pixie played its tricks on his ears, but it was just a farmer and his son tasting ale or mead for the first time.

  “Ever the loyal one.” Madroum followed the waitress whom he spotted after a lengthy search. “Still works.” Murmured whilst looking down at his pants.

  “Without her, I’d still be working on the fields.” Sallustius said, holding the medallion in his neck gifted by the three awaiting him home.

  “Sure, sure.” Madroum regretted changing topics a bit, but as the hour approached, they talked on where to go next, if their friends made sure to wear protection, which they laughed at. Then the homely waitress beckoned Madroum standing near the base of the stairs, who bid night to his friend. “Still works.” He said before trampling up the stairs, eager for the joys awaiting in the cabin.

  *****

  Things went well, she thought sitting next to the naked, headless corpse of the dwarven adventurer. A dark amorphous shape sat near the stinking toes. Bones crushing, flesh tearing echoed softly in the narrow cabin with two beds, the blue walls tainted red by the blood of Madroum, whilst from the bloody sack holding his severed head, dribbled blood onto the recently washed floor. “Too well.” She whispered under her black mask covering her lower face, a cowl shaded dimmer her crimson eyes peering through the wall.

  Whilst the Praetor’s Doom poison took its full effect on the raven-haired maiden, whose veins drawn out across her pale, wiry form, black foam gathered at the corners of her once luscious blackened lips, bloody veins popped in her eyes, the pretty sylvan-kin lover of hers still struggled over her corpse. His bark covered hands grasped the edges of the bed, tapped the floor for support as he rolled off. With a soft thud, he arrived down on his back, his handsome, oval face with subtle angles, verdant veins, and skin smooth and soft as the petals on roses contorted amidst the final agonies.

  “Should have gotten a stronger.” Vipsaeril whispered, wiping off the dwarf’s blood from her dagger’s needle thin, ivory blade. Then sheathed it, threw the piece of linen cloth onto the amorphous darkness. It quickly sunk deep into the impenetrable dark form of the Dusk Elemental. She was half prepared to finish off the sylvan-kin, but stopped as he convulsed one more, then went limp, his pinkish eyes lost their light and color.

  Then her black cowl of fine linen rustled, she peered through the door just as the last, Sallustius stumbled up the stairs, tumbled from one corner to the other outside. She walked over to the entrance, smoothed out the leather covering her torso, pulled out a sharpened needle from the stripes looping about her midriff and bust area, and waited. Patience was the greatest asset of an assassin, her master within the Order of the Red Dusk beaten into her through the long decades of her training. Unassuming victims like the inglian sorcerer shall come to her.

  In addition, the several liters of alcohol coursing in his body, the grizzly sight of his friend shall present the opportunity to strike. Though Vipsaeril hated contracts in taverns, inns. Be it murder, assassination, these things wrought a bad omen over such establishments. Hence her efforts to clean up. Patrons disappearing still created rumors, but folk tended to just stigmatize the patrons themselves.

  Vipsaeril pressed harder against the wall, heard the tender croak of the wood just behind. Her leather gloves creaked as softly as she tightened her grasp around the needle, pointing left, then at last the door opened, Sallustius nearly fell in. “Huh?” Was all he could utter whilst down on his knees, clutching the knob with one hand. Quickly the needle entered his throat, blood surged his throat and out his mouth, garbling his last words, then fell forward bleeding over the floor.

  From her waist belt, Vipsaeril unsheathed a short sword, one side of its blade serrated. She quickly grabbed the corpse, dragged it further inside. He parted the brownish-red strands flowing over the neck, took the medallion before sawing through the neck, the least favorite part of the contract. She pondered, shivered and shrugged. No point in figuring out, and two still awaited her.

  ******

  “Excellent work, sister!” Vipsaeril bowed before the Vermicillian of the Court of Red Dusk. She quickly handed over the four bloody sacks, watched weirded out a little as they disappeared under the folds of the dark, tapering robe.

  “I live to serve, live to satiate the thirst of the Bloodletter of Dusk!” She recited the words, a small prayer to close a contract. According to their sermons, uttering so reaches out towards the Grey Monarch, who upon judging the souls, slivers off a piece of their soul as payment to the Aydvroegh they venerate as the Bloodletter, the manifestation of murderous desires. A little she believed as a strange lull cloaked her being as she bowed her head in the shadow infested alley.

  Then her eyes opened, stared at the Vermicillian who retrieved a parcel sealed in violet. Feeling excited, she straightened herself up, the time at last came to move up the ladder. “The cart awaits you at midnight.” He said in his cold, monotone way as always. But under the shadows of his cowl, her crimson eyes spotted a faint fatherly smile.

  “I shall not disappoint.” Vipsaeril calmed herself, for decades she stalked the nobilos of the Empire, their servants. Learned the ways they behaved with their masters and mistresses, and without them. Now was the time utilize the accumulated knowledge, as the great Vaclav, a noble and devout worshipper of Daemeiorvoth invoked the cold wrath of another.

  One last glance at the parcel, then it burned to ash, then she was alone, staring into the distance where Pyrghos shot high towards the infinite heavens.