Expecting to sow nothing short of sheer panic with his words, Prospero was surprised to find the tavern’s patrons more accommodating than he first expected. He recounted his troubles plainly to En, who listened with fatherly patience to every ragged word Prospero had to offer. His tragedy soon garnered even the most disinterested, cherry-faced boozers to the table, and by the time he had wrapped up his story, even trailing passersby had popped in to check on the commotion.

  “...I don’t know what happened in Queensbridge after I left,” he concluded. “But Orlok will reach this port. Perhaps not tonight, but certainly sometime after.”

  “Right - I’m off to warn the Portmaster!” A patron near the back of the crowd raised his hand. “If anyone touches my drink, they’ll get a slap!”

  “Hang on, hang on…” shouldering through the crowd, a fiery-haired woman slammed her gauntlets down on the table and pointed a finger at Prospero. “You skimmed over it like nobody would notice, but you’re a Vampire too, aren’t you? Who’s to say you aren’t a runaway from this ‘Orlok’, huh? Trying to pull us into your problems?”

  “It is because I am a Vampire that I’m being pursued!” Prospero answered. “And I was not like this before Orlok attacked! Like I said, my father-”

  “Bullshit! You can’t create a Vampire! You’re born one!” the woman rebuked. “This stinks to the high heavens! We don’t want a damn thing to do with your kind, so what’s stopping us from handing you over?”

  A few agreeable cries broke out from the crowd. With a single spark, a kind of fervent phobia had broken out from the pitiable gazes Prospero had gathered. He struggled to conjure a response. There was no way for him to prove that he didn’t have some history with Orlok.

  “Erda,” the elderly En tapped his finger against the table. “He’s only a young man.”

  “Oh, give it up, En! Get real for a minute!” Erda placed both hands on her hips. “That Vampire will tear this place to pieces looking for him! Maybe the Guild in some backwater Port could take on a Vampire legion in your day, but it’s not the Age of Silver anymore! We don’t have the manpower!”

  En exhaled through his nose. “Do you suppose we should turn him over, then?”

  “Don’t take that tone with me! I’m not saying it’s the right thing to do!” Erda replied. “...We don’t have a choice, even if he is telling the truth! It’s either that, or have every man, woman, and child in this Port slaughtered! What could we even do to help him!?”

  “Hm.” En ran a hand over his beard. “Hide him? No - a Vampire could sniff out one of his kin easily enough. Perhaps-”

  “Enough.” Erda shook her head. “We’ve no choice. Get him out of here, En. Or you can take your chances with the Vampire alongside him. I’m not going to argue with you about this. All of you - bugger off! And keep your loved ones indoors, for the love of the Gods! This is all we needed…”

  She stormed off towards the entrance, and on her recommendation, the patrons dispersed. Prospero sighed and tried to compose himself, but couldn’t resist the urge to clench his fist. “I’m not asking for protection!” he said. “The man named Alto can help me leave. That’s all I want to do - leave! Who was that woman!? Does she even have the authority to say those things!?”

  “Prospero,” for the first time, En spoke his name. “Be at peace.”

  “I’m sorry,” he replied. “It’s just frustrating.”

  “That’s the second time you’ve apologised,” En leaned forward in his chair. “Wouldn’t you say it’s better to speak soundly, so you don’t have to apologise in the first place?”

  “It’s a bad habit of mine.” Prospero cocked his head and resisted a smirk. “I’m sorry.”

  “But that’s no excuse, is it?” En asked. “I know you mean well, but the best thing a man can do is carry himself with some grace. It’s not the habit that bothers people, boy - it’s the fact that you could replace it with something so much better.”

  He turned his head towards one of the windows, through which the busy raff of Glassoph’s streets continued to surge. “A few weeks ago, Erda led some Guild disciples on a hunt to cull a pack of Toximanders. Nasty critters - worse than we usually get out here in the wild realms. Two of those mercs died. I’m not suggesting it isn’t dangerous work, but…”

  Prospero followed the old man’s gaze. “That’s terrible. Did you know them?”

  “Only one. A young man. Married. His wife owns one of the bakeries just down the road,” En said. “She’s expecting a child. But that bairn will never know their father’s face.”

  The woman named Erda seemed unapologetically rude in the short moment Prospero knew her. Her words cut him deep, no matter how sound her intentions were. But from a different perspective, having learned what he now knew, her frustration seemed justified in a way. He could recall poor days where he had spoken to his father in much the same, heartless way.

  “I entrusted Erda with the title of Custodian because I knew she had Glassoph’s best interests at heart,” En continued, “-Even if she isn’t always tender about it. But that hunt, and your situation - weathering the responsibility can build a great wall in the heart that’s difficult to tear down.”

  Prospero asked, “Were you responsible for protecting this town at one point?”

  “Once upon a time,” he smiled, but the expression faded quickly. “Prospero. It pains me to say this, but your presence here is endangering many lives. We’re in no position to repel an attack from any Vampire, especially not one as powerful as this Orlok. Considering what happened to Innsworm… it’s likely he’ll lay waste to this Port when he arrives whether you’re present or not.”

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “But…” Prospero paused. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. Where else was I supposed to go?”

  En moved his lower lip from side to side. “...That is the question.”

  With some effort, he stood, and Prospero rounded the table to help him up by the arm. En was hunched and wrinkled despite his reputation. A warrior at one point, from the surprising endurance of his physique, but youthful no longer. “Erda will no doubt reach the same conclusion,” he said. “I imagine… yes - we’ll have to evacuate. No better place for it, I suppose. At least until this Vampire of yours passes through.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” Prospero asked.

  “As a matter of fact, there is.” En nodded over his shoulder, towards the far end of the bar where a single man remained tonic on a stool. The only patron left after Erda’s departure. “You said you were looking for Alto, didn’t you?” he continued. “That’s him. Owner of the largest Voidbeast in this humble Port - if you can convince him to fly it.”

  Prospero paused. “...Is there going to be a problem with that?”

  “Best to hear it from the horse’s mouth.” En patted Prospero on the shoulder and separated from him. “I’ve got bells to ring and families to warn. It’d be nice to have Alto’s beast helping out, so I’ll leave recruiting him to you. Be well, Prospero.”

  “Yes… thank you for being so patient with me,” he stepped aside to let En through and watched as the old man hobbled out of the tavern. Without a second to spare, Prospero marched to the bar and peered over the matted, greasy head of hair obscuring the lonely fellow’s face. “Excuse me? Alto?”

  A pause. Then came his reply. “...Fuck off.”

  Fantastic, Prospero resisted the urge to sigh. “You are Alto, aren’t you? My name is Prospero Baptista. I was told by Albus that you would be expecting me… that you could arrange passage on a Voidbeast to aid me in escaping from Orlok.”

  No answer. The one whose name was presumably Alto raised a limp wrist to sip from the half-empty bottle in his grasp, only to find it wrenched from his grip by a steadily-infuriating Prospero. “Answer me,” he demanded.

  “Fucking brat.” With a groaning wail, the man’s stool retreated. “You fancy a broken jaw?”

  Prospero took another step forward. “Just try it.”

  Alto punched furiously, and with a degree of familiarity that took Prospero by surprise. But the speed of his movement was too confident, and in his stupor, the man tripped over his own feet, crushing his nose against the wooden floor. “Oh, shit!” he cursed. “Fucking… urgh…”

  He pulled both hands from his bleeding nose to spot a hand lowered towards him.

  “Stand up.” Prospero said. “Speak to me, man. Let’s not waste our time like this.”

  They lingered like that, as if trapped in a strange limbo between pleasant and adversarial. When Alto reached up and allowed Prospero to yank him off the floor, he did so with a sigh that sounded more defeated than frustrated. “Baptista…” he muttered. “I never thought you would really come here. I hoped you wouldn’t.”

  “Albus made you out to be a man of your word.” Prospero said.

  “That was a while ago. A very long while ago,” he answered. “I overheard you. Is Gaspar…?”

  Another lump formed in Prospero’s throat. “Uh,”

  “No. Don’t answer,” Alto sighed. “Not right of me to force you to remember.”

  There was a man hidden under the folds of sunken, jaundiced flesh on Alto’s face. Prospero could tell it was not his first bender. Probably not even the first of that day. His eyes darted to the bottle still in Prospero’s grip. They were the desperate glances of a man who wished only to escape from the world. It felt wrong to ask anything of him.

  “I won’t mince words with you,” Prospero began. “I need to escape from this realm.”

  “Oh… damn it all,” Alto shuttered his eyes. “Then you’re shit out of luck. Víctima is no longer mine. She’s holed up in the Sunflowers’ pen, and I’m 60,000 silver pieces too poor to buy her back.”

  Prospero tilted his head. “Víctima?”

  “My Voidbeast,” he clarified. “She’s a class five, Baptista. Bought her egg damn near 40 years ago and raised her from a whelp into a star-streaking behemoth. Me and her ferried enough provisions to feed a fucking army… and enough Lokian tree bark to send the Emerald City back to the Silver Age.”

  Prospero folded his arms. “-And you don’t have her anymore.”

  Alto chuckled. A sad and loathsome noise. “Sold her to settle a debt,” he replied. “More than those bloodsuckers deserved. Uh - no offense.”

  “You sold your Voidbeast to Vampires!?”

  “No! No,” he lifted a lazy palm. “Figurative bloodsuckers. The Sunflowers. A gang… or, well - they don’t call themselves a gang, but their racket’s all about loaning and terrible interest rates.”

  “We’ll need to retrieve it,” Prospero said. “Let’s pay them a visit.”

  “You’re not getting her back. Not legally. No matter how nicely you ask,” Alto sniffed. “Their leader’s a tough one. Too tough for you.”

  He reached forward, took his bottle back, and settled back down on the stool. “I can’t keep my promise to Gaspar,” he said. “Sorry, Baptista.”

  “I’m going down to the Voidbeast pens whether you’d like me to or not,” Prospero replied. “This is about more than a promise. The Port needs to be evacuated before Orlok arrives.”

  He shrugged. “Go, then. You’re not a kid, so do what you want. Just leave me out of it.”

  It would have been so easy for Prospero to grab Alto by the collar and drag him kicking and screaming through the Port. A part of him wanted to - he thought for a moment that this drunken fool deserved nothing but shame for his words. But the short lecture he’d heard from En just a few minutes ago was still fresh in his mind.

  Things are rarely as simple as they appear, he thought. “...Alto.”

  “Huh? You’re still here?” he replied without turning his head. “I’ve got nothing more to say.”

  “I just wanted you to know that I don’t blame you for refusing me.” Prospero continued. “You’re down on your luck. I should have noticed that before I started demanding your aid.”

  “I don’t want your pity, Baptista,” Alto paused to sip from his bottle. “...Leave an old man well enough alone. Some folk are beyond help.”

  “I’m going to recover your Voidbeast,” he vowed. “What you decide to do with that information is your own business. I wouldn’t know myself, but I would guess that there are better fates to find in the stars than at the bottom of a bottle.”

  “Preach all you like,” Alto cleared his throat. “I’ve made up my mind. I’m too far gone, so do this hopeless drunk a favour and forget you ever spoke to him, alright?”

  “That would be the easy thing to do.” Prospero turned his back. “But, Alto… if my father trusted you with this much, then you’re not the sort of man who would stay down for good. And I trust his judgement more than anything else.”

  He marched off, leaving the purple-nosed Alto with his head hanging low and with less of a need for the bottle than he’d felt in years.

  “...Old bastard,” he muttered. “He’s the spitting fuckin’ image of you…”