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The Meeting

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Mud and ash. Those were the only words that could describe this dreary excuse of a city. The rotting wooden facades of the creaking, decrepit buildings slouched over the puddle-strewn roads, the melting snow and ice upon their haphazard and loose shingles dripping over the overhanging second-story boxes that counted as rooms and trickling down upon the brown-painted street as if the very life of the structures were submitting themselves to the endlessly-decaying mass that was Ervef. The previous week had been warm, but ever since news of the last offensive had arrived, a deep cold set in, posing as a reminder of the harsh winters that were always to come. It was a miracle that this town has survived until now – Ervef, it seemed, should have been crushed during the first snowfall, but somehow the little place was persistent in its existence, emerging after each winter like a poorly-treated wound: small and defeated, but still very much alive, somehow barely managing to cling to its existence.

It was a place where people simply seemed to wind up. Here and there some shops were open. The haphazard carts and vendor tables – only half of them occupied – were run down and offering stale bread and rotting cabbage. Every few buildings, the first floors of some establishments – which in many cases resembled nothing more than a wide-open room, with its columns that held up the second floor giving the whole appearance of a building on stilts – were ablaze with the warm yet somehow depressing glow of lanterns and fires. In some of these buildings were smiths, bakers, or glassblowers, and around some of their fires were occasionally small groups of miserable-looking, dripping people, chatting quietly and in whispers, as if worried that their conversations should be heard by some passersby, the dense fog of their breath condensing in the cold combined with their cigarette smoke producing unsightly fumes. Cloaked against the cold rain, paupers and gentlemen alike appeared as beggars under their heavy winter coats.

A light drizzle had just ceased, and in its wake, the street was nothing but a thin layer of cold brown water. My mud-encrusted black leather boots made slapping sounds with each footstep. My green officer's pants – tucked into the boots – were stained with mud almost up to the knees. A heavy green military jacket – a standard thick winter one with large, brass buttons – tucked into my pants, displayed to all who wished to see it that I am, or at least was, a soldier, though that probably meant nothing in this town – the bars and brothels alone brought hundreds of soldiers and officers here every week. No one would spare me a glance. A light-tan trench coat that hung down to nearly my ankles completed the look, its base also splattered solidly with mud.

My mind was absent from my body as I walked. Strangers passed by me, and I did not notice. Peasants hobbled from house to house, trying to sell a beheaded chicken or some cigar ends before the holy day, and here and there is someone who actually, for some reason, seems to have a place to be, walking more briskly and with more confidence. All in all, this place was a mix of every character that could possibly be imagined. One could find any race or species here, though there are only a handful of other humans around: an elderly woman attempting in vain to sell soggy knitted clothes upon a rotting piece of plywood propped up by two stubby logs; a spectacled man in a nice coat and expensive-looking hat carrying an umbrella and some papers under his arm walking swiftly in the other direction; two dreary-eyed soldiers carrying their rifles over their shoulders by the straps as they shuffled down the hilly street, bundled head to toe against the cold. But I paid attention to none of it.

My mind was burdened. I had been debating the choices that led me to this point all day, trying to convince myself of what I knew is not true: that I made a good decision. My chest burned with regret that I would not acknowledge, and whenever I yawned, my eyes watered. Most of that regret came from the fact that I could still turn back now, if I wanted to – without concern, without consequence. I could simply turn around now and walk away, leaving this godforsaken place behind me, and no one would come looking for me. But whatever, I convinced myself that it was too late for that, even though I knew that it was not. I had paid for the transport all the way to Northfjord, arriving in the city of Voeino only three days ago, and then spent all the time since then trying to get to Ervef – by horse, by foot…Whatever I could do. There were no rail lines in this downtrodden part of the country – it was as if Ervef itself knew of its own reputation as a place of destitution, and tried to push others away from it as much as it possibly could, by making itself as inaccessible as possible. But once you were here, according to the few stories I had heard, you were here, and you never left. That's how it always manages to survive every winter: the people here have nowhere else to go.

My mind at rest, at least in the sense that I gave the matter of what I was about to embark upon no more thought, I pressed onward, looking down, the thin black ushanka upon my head almost covering my eyes, its flaps drawn up. Finally, I saw the street sign, the words painted on a splintered plank protruding from the second story of a building at the V-shaped corner with crooked windows composed of many little individual glass panes: Bruneskaya Street. Tired from a lack of sleep and needing to rest, I hobbled over to the column of the building with the sign, its first floor half exposed as part of a smith's shop or something of that nature, and looked around with an exhausted yet indifferent expression on my face as I did so. I reached into the pocket inside of my overcoat, but waited until two chatting passersby had gone past before pulling out what was inside.

I lifted out a soggy piece of folded paper. Unfolding it, I saw the smeared words, drawn in thick lines with black ink in surprisingly-sturdy cursive: "Ivan's Travelers' Pub." I had read those words over and over in my mind so many times that they had burned themselves into my brain. I knew every curve of the pen, every mark, every little symbol that, when arranged like so, produced comprehendible words. Mostly I read them because they frightened me, though I told myself that it was because I wanted to be sure that I memorized them, to give me peace of mind (which never came); though in all honesty, if I went my whole life without ever setting eyes on Ivan's Travelers' Pub, I would be perfectly happy.

Folding the paper and gazing around, I searched the now-empty street for only a few moments before my eyes settled upon a sign hanging from two chains attached to a pole protruding from just above the main entrance of yet another decrepit building, its emerald-green paint almost entirely faded, with only a few curled vibrant strips still clinging fast, ready to peel off: Ivan's Travelers' Pub. My stomach was queasy. I pocketed the paper and pulled out my glass pill bottle, shaking out one of the little white tablets and shoving it into my mouth desperately. Drawing in a breath, I thrust my hands behind my back, under my coat, forcing its end to flick into the air and then settle back down as I confidently made my way towards the bar with a stern expression.

Walking inside, I was met with a sight almost more pitiful than that outside: a nearly-empty tavern, with only some furniture at the right side of the room, where the bar counter was. The wooden boards of the floor were warped and splintered, and the tables and chairs, though polished, displayed many signs of wear. Merely three patrons – all of them human – sat quietly chatting around one of the little round tables, a lantern hanging from the low rafter running just above them, clearly all either hung-over or extremely depressed. In the corner, presumably wanting to be left alone, a short, wolf-like man sat hunched over his beer, clearly uninterested in anything that had to do with reality. Perhaps he was a jackal, though? His wet fur was pretty thin, and he wore a heavy black coat to compensate – I was pretty bad at identifying species – most of Henlot was human, and the Federation's military for some reason often segregated divisions. Just another part of the unequal system. But not here, not in a place like Ervef. I suppose that in a place where everyone is a poor, miserable, downtrodden excuse for a living being, leaders don't care who you mingle with.

The bartender – an older, grey, cat-like man with a dirty white shirt and heavy brown coat, thickly-whiskered – stood staring at me with a look of polite indifference with shimmering green eyes, his hands pressed across the empty bar counter, a dirty rag clenched in one fist. I stopped, nodded, and stared. His expression did not change. Clearly, nothing was expected of me by this individual. I looked for the backroom door, and, finding it, pressed on.

Leaving the mopey crowd behind, I pressed through the door and closed it gently behind me. Walking through some dimly-lit and rickety old (and abandoned-looking) hallways, I finally emerged into a wide room with a dirt floor – or, rather, mud, given that the ground was mushy and slippery. There was no floor above this one here – at least not one intact enough to prevent the water from trickling between the large gaps of the planks in the ceiling that also allowed the dim white light of this cloudy day to penetrate down into the first floor. Some rats squeaked in the corner, and I felt disgust as I gazed at them climbing over each other, likely for some little scrap of food or to cannibalize some dead comrade.

Looking up once more, I spotted another doorway: one with an X clearly marked upon it – they couldn't be more conspicuous? Striding forward and reaching for the handle, I threw it open, and was met with the golden glow of a slightly-warmer, slightly-more-illuminated, though still cold and dim room. At least this one was slightly furnished, or one could argue that what decorations did exist counted as furnishings. There was an old wooden clerk's desk up against the near opposite wall, very similar to one that could reasonably be used by a hotel by a receptionist, or in some other, nicer establishment. An old painting rested upon the wall directly above it, its gilded frame flaking, and its canvass so dusty and faded that I could scarcely tell that it was an image of a well-dressed couple rowing across a pond in a boat on a lovely spring day. I turned and made my way down the narrow hallway.

Here and there were some stacks of furniture, upon which would be piled some books or cutlery or candle sticks. Every now and then, I would happen across a room with the door wide open, hanging on its hinges, the room itself full of rolled-up carpets or empty shelves and desks or more piles of furniture. It was as if this place had once been a much-fancier enterprise, perhaps a restaurant or a nice hotel or casino. I could picture the well-dressed guests of the past walking, conversing, joking, playing cards…All in a well-furnished and brightly-lit tavern or event manor, drinking and exchanging stories as the night wore on. Now, it sat decrepit and forgotten. A few dimly-glowing lanterns placed every few meters gave the hallway some light, though a glow at the end of the corridor was very much visible. In fact, the closer I got towards the end of the hallway, the warmer and warmer it became – clearly, someone was either tending a furnace or stoking a fire.

I stopped short, though, when I heard voices. They were low, whispery voices, so whispery that I could only make out the most-basic phonemes of sound that in no way resembled actual speech – merely sweeping murmurs. I couldn't even tell if it was in Henlot (the language that originated with humans, and the most-widely-spoken tongue all across the continent). Playing down my worry yet again, I told myself that these were the people I was to meet. Still, however, I continued forward cautiously and with slow steps. Little by little, step by step, creak by creak, I neared the edge of the wall, the other side of which would have, well…Somebody. As I got closer, I could make out more and more of what they were saying, in Henlot, at first only a few words, but then, full sentences, both male and female voices stirring together in a whispery mist:

“…action…endeavor…"

“Surely that's…hard to…everyone…"

“If he wanted to come by…perfectly free to do so."

“Yes, but why would he? I don't think I've even seen him since he lost his brother."

“He hated his brother – ever since he joined the infantry. Thought he was a bloody fool for getting himself killed for the twenty-third division."

“Well, they're not all foolish. Ranscore is overwhelming us on the Northern Front – I know that none of it really matters, ultimately, but you can't tell me that you're not a little frightened."

“Oh, for the love of- You're forgetting what our stakes are. What happens to the First to Fifth Armies is no concern of ours."

“It is for Sheko." I finally slowly rounded the corner. The conversation did not stop all at once, but rather died down as one last remark was made, as all eyes turned to me. Yet, the first things to catch my eye were not the figures sitting upon the chairs in the center of the room, who were silhouetted against the roaring fireplace, but rather the lavish decorations lounging everywhere – tapestries hung against the walls, a decorative pink carpet spread upon the dirt floor. A shelf filled with decorative, leather-bound and fabric-embroidered books sat off to the side, standing proudly at attention. A large globe, in the other corner of the room, stood contentedly, next to the decorative stone mantlepiece that surrounded the fireplace and supported a painting of a wolf general on horseback, the horse rearing high into the air as the general proudly held his rifle above him. This was flanked with several decorative candle sticks on either side, and even a decorative gilded clock, at the end, the sound of its ticking echoing steadily throughout the room.

By the time my eyes had adjusted enough to see the individuals sitting before me, I saw that they were all resting on fancy, decorative, padded chairs of various colors – one bright pink, the other deep, cobalt blue, and yet another a dark emerald green. It was as if this little room contained the last sliver of lavishness in this place, in the entire city. The people themselves, for better or worse, were even mildly shunned by their surroundings.

Directly across from me, sitting before the fireplace that roared behind her, was a fox woman. She stared at me with hard, green eyes, holding a glass of what was presumably red wine, her legs crossed. She wore a brown fur coat and had on dark-brown military pants, producing a sort of haggardly gentle fashion style. The gentleman to my right looked just as stern – a deer (is it stag? Or moose? I honestly had no idea) with medium-sized antlers, sitting upright in the chair, his arms on the armrests, in a long black overcoat and black pants, with a simple, thick button-down winter shirt – grey flannel, by the looks of it. This massive – yet surprisingly thin – individual gave me an even more hard gaze than the fox woman did.

The only member of this peculiar party who seemed to display any degree of joviality – and remotely matched the room – in fact, was a thin dragonborn…Or lizardfolk? He didn't have any spines or anything. Still, though, he looked more dragon-like. A smiling man, his legs crosed, and his head resting thoughtfully in his hand. His yellow scales, combined with the light from the fire, were a drastic contrast to the deep orange and dark brown of the other two characters. Some teeth poked out over his mouth – extended in a long snout – up and down, rendering his complexion all the less serious. He was dressed in black pants and a black vest, over a white shirt, and even had a red-and-white-striped necktie on. In his other hand, he, too, held a wine glass. His gaze – through fiery orange eyes – was significantly less intimidating than that of the others. None of the three looked to be older than their mid-twenties, aside from the woman, who was perhaps nearing thirty.

For a moment, nothing was said. I was on edge, but I did not show it – by habit I simply maintained the same stern expression as I had maintained for pretty much the last few days. I had no idea how they would react, or who would speak first, if I would be welcomed or shunned, or even shot. It was hard to tell what the other's felt, as well. The woman seemed distrusting, the deer seemed unimpressed, and the dragonborn seemed amused. None of these expressions I found very forgiving.

“Is this him?" The fox woman asked, turning not to me, but to the dragonborn.

“Why are you asking me," he chuckled, rolling his head over to me. “I don't know, ask him!"

“I am Tovef Halfe," I replied frankly, removing my ushanka as an act of courtesy, revealing my short, largely-unkempt brown hair as all eyes turned again to me.

“See, it is him," the dragonborn exclaimed. It took me a few moments to comprehend this, but once I did, I was overcome with relief.

“You are late," the woman replied, setting down her glass on the table next to her and crossing her arms with a quizzical expression.

“I was held up eight kilometers South of Ino," I replied, us somehow immediately settling into the conversation as professionals in our fields tend to do, as if we had known each other for years and this was merely our most recent of countless gatherings. “There were no ferrymen to take me across the river."

“Who are you, a rifleman?" The deer exclaimed with an evidently-displeased, almost disgusted, tone. Then, turning to the dragonborn, “I thought you said he was a mercenary."

“He is!" The dragonborn replied defensively. “Tiko hired you for a job, yes, and you performed well?"

“How do you know Tiko?" I asked, thinking back to my service with him a few months prior. He lived way out past the Vishryad Highlands.

“A close associate of one of my friends, you know, we make a lot of them in this trade," he replied with a smile.

“We also make a lot of enemies," the woman muttered.

“So why is he dressed like a soldier, then?" The deer reiterated more calmly, but still with a stern tone.

“I don't know," the dragonborn exclaimed in reply, and then seemed to pause as he came to his senses. “Yes, why are you dressed like a soldier?"

“I am not a soldier anymore," I replied. “I am only a soldier when it's advantageous to me." I paused, but then realized that what I said explained nothing, so I decided to stop playing tough-guy and just explain to these people why I was wearing military gear.

“I was a lieutenant, in the thirty-second division," I explained. “I was stationed on the Western Front and saw quite a bit of combat two years ago."

“You don't need to try to impress us, Lieutenant, we've heard good things about you," the woman sighed with a roll of the eyes.

“But you're here now," the dragonborn questioned excitedly, clearly prodding me to explain how I quit the service.

“I left," I replied.

“See, the thirty-second division calls it desertion," he clarified.

“I mean I was discharged," I explained.

“Why," the woman asked without giving me a chance to say anything more.

“What is this, an interrogation," I asked, a bit too rashly, provoking disapproving looks from all three individuals. I realized that I should probably behave more politely, as I didn't know whose hands I was placing my life into. I went silent, and in response to the woman's question, calmly turned, pushing my long overcoat out of the way, and yanked the right side of my officer's jacket from my pants, pulling it and my white shirt high enough to reveal the conspicuous, roundish scar of a bullet wound that remained from a shot that had been fired nearly point-blank into my large intestine. “It was outside of Korino," I explained frankly. “During an attack. I nearly bled to death."

“Hmmm," the woman merely grunted with a sigh.

“Are you impaired at all," the deer asked, raising his eyebrow.

“Impaired? No," I replied confidently, tucking my shirt and coat back in with difficulty, considering that I was still holding onto my ushanka. “I do have some, uh, lingering intestinal issues, but I have plenty of medication for that."

“Intestinal issues?" The deer seemed somewhat concerned at this, for his own sake. The dragonborn, sensing this, and evidently not satisfied with where the conversation was going, interjected as he sat up in his chair.

“He's fine," he assured dismissively. “We know his work. He's proven extremely capable."

“I don't want us dead because you had a belly ache," the deer replied, leaning forward in his chair and turning from the dragonborn to me as he spoke, giving me an accusatory point.

“Well, the bottom line is, you helped Warmpton retain his stock, you helped Tiko out of his little misadventures, and I'm told that that's merely the worst of your performances." I did not agree, but I did not object to clarify that I was actually more lucky than skilled – I needed the job. Some silence ensued.

“Who are you people, anyway," I asked, again a little too gruffly.

“Uh," the dragonborn scoffed with exaggeration. “What kind of barbaric monsters have we become?"

“The kind who don't tell people things they don't need to know," the deer replied with indifference, clearly not at all amused with the dragonborn's enthusiastic exclamation.

“But always with politeness," he smiled in reply. “My apologies," he turned to me with a slight chuckle. “You can tell we're not from around here."

“We don't know where he's from," the deer muttered in acknowledgement as he rolled his eyes.

“My name is Forticay Nalavius," he stated beamingly, ignoring the deer's remark. “And this," he gestured across from him, “is Vage Le-"

“Stop," the deer held up a hand calmly. “He does not, need to know my last name."

“Always with the trust issues." Vage rolled his eyes. “Fine then. And this is our boss, Novka Sty…Right." I suddenly regretted giving away my last name. But if they knew enough about me to hire me, then they probably were already aware of that, anyway. “Oh, and do feel free to set your coat and hat down over there, if you'd like," he ended, pointing to a polished wooden piano. I obliged, removing my coat and throwing it upon the instrument along with my ushanka.

“I hear you're a good rifleman," Novka raised her eyebrow.

“I should like to think so," I replied, regretting how much I undersold my abilities, even if my aim was merely average.

“Then why were you shot?"

“I said I was a good rifleman, not that I was bulletproof," I replied. “What is this, what's the job?" I suddenly questioned, losing patience. “All I was told was that it pays sixty-thousand salir, and that it involves a visit to the front lines."

“That's it for us, too," Forticay shrugged. “We know nothing else. We find out that information today."

“That is if we take you – Novka doesn't like soldiers," Vage stated in an almost-disapproving tone as he turned his gaze to Novka.

“Soldiers have pre-existing allegiances," she stated frankly in response. “Besides, it's not so much the fact that he's a soldier, more so that he's a human with unverified sympathies," she ended distastefully. I was a bit taken aback by this.

“Oh, my God, we're hiring him because he's a good rifleman, who cares if he's a bloody human or not?" Vage exclaimed, throwing up his arms.

“And," Forticay added in a much-lighter tone. “Now that we know Sheko won't be joining us, what other choice do we have? Not to mention, his experience in the army should be determinate once we're on the front lines."

“That's what I'm afraid of," Novka muttered, wiggling her whiskers. “Well then, Tovef, if you can shoot, and if you've clearly succeeded in this line of work before, then you may as well feel at ease with us."

“What were the details of your job for Tiko," Vage asked, now more out of curiosity rather than skepticism.

“We were hired to stop a shipment of copper from being delivered by one of his rival companies down in Central Brost," I stated. “Disguised as regular highwaymen."

“And, as I have repeatedly stated, it went very well," Forticay explained with an evident loss of patience. “Look," he continued. “I reviewed all of the information and suggestions that I had on hand, and I ran this all by you – Tovef was the best fit for the job."

“You clearly didn't want a soldier," I raised my eyebrows.

“We need a marksman," Novka affirmed.

“And one who doesn't miss," Vage added.

“Really?" Forticay stated sarcastically. “I actually really wanted one who couldn't make a point-blank shot." Vage rolled his eyes again.

“Well," Novka stated as she stood up, setting her wine glass down on an end table between her and Forticay. “I realize that this is all a bit abrupt, but seeing that we are currently running late, and need to meet with our client, I'm afraid that we're going to have to get ready to leave. I'm going to get my things. Meet me in dining in ten minutes." And with that, she pridefully left, exiting through a door beside the fireplace, next to the bookshelf.

“Well, I suppose that's my cue to leave," Vage stated, rising himself (he really was quite tall) and lumbering across the room, pushing through the same door that Novka had left though.

With just myself and Forticay remaining in the room, a brief silence followed. I was still standing in roughly the same place I had stopped at when I first entered the room, and upon realizing that Forticay clearly had no intention of going anywhere within the next few moments, I awkwardly took a seat across from him, where Vage had been sitting.

“You like red wine," Forticay asked as he grabbed the bottle from the end table where Novka had set her glass and held it up in offering.

“Not really," I answered truthfully. “But I take it you do," I asked, trying to make conversation now that I was more at ease, though I still had very little idea of what was actually going on.

“Actually, no," he replied, setting both the bottle and his glass down. “Simply trying to pass the time."

“It's a nice room, you mates have," I nodded, gazing around.

“It's not ours," Forticay responded with a shrug.

“Sorry?"

“A friend of Vage; owes him a favor. He happened to live in Ervef, so he's housing us for the time being, while we're all here."

“Is he here now?"

“No, he's away somewhere on business, I think."

“You said he owes Vage a favor," I inquired. I knew that it was a bad idea to ask so many questions so early on, but I was alone with Forticay, who seemed nice enough, if a bit eccentric, so I figured that I might as well garner as much information on this peculiar crowd as soon as I could.

“Vage has friends all over the entire bloody continent who owe him favors," Forticay chuckled. “I honestly don't know how he finds the time. He's more experienced than any of us, I assure you, save Novka." Some silence followed. Forticay must have been able to sense that I was feeling uncomfortable, so he continued to speak on the subject. “We're not some tight-knit group, you know," he shrugged. “I know Vage from one job we both were a part of a little over a year ago, and Novka is merely the one who hired both of us for this one. I've only known her previously via her reputation. She just charged me with finding our sniper."

“I've never heard of her until today," I replied, skeptical, but not allowing to let it show.

“Well, I doubt you'd hear much word of her in Henlot," Forticay sighed, and then realized that he may have offended, so he clarified: “Not to say that Henlot doesn't care what happens in her neighboring countries, simply that the geographical distance between there and-"

“I understand, don't worry," I interrupted calmly.

“Yes, but I should have been more careful," Forticay apologized. “As I understand the situation currently, the general disposition of the vast majority of Henlites are very accepting and welcoming of…The anthropomorphic and different. Forgive me for defaming your idiot monarch, however."

“Tsyegovin? I don't like him, either," I replied. “He likes his little fancy palaces more than his own people. Besides, military pensions are the lowest they've ever been." I actually let out a smile, and chuckled for the first time in a week. We sat in silence for a few moments longer. “You're awfully chatty about what's going on. Usually mercenaries aren't like that." I didn't want to extinguish the flame of free knowledge that had been burning before me so quickly, but I was beginning to worry that I may know too much information, and by pointing that out to Forticay before I could be discovered, I at least could claim that it was not my fault.

“We may be mercenaries, but we're not soldiers," Forticay chuckled, straightening himself in his chair. “At least, I'm not a soldier. God, I hope it's a lie that we're headed to the front lines! I couldn't handle combat like that, not at all." Some more silence followed. “Well, unfortunately," Forticay began rather abruptly as he prepared to raise himself. “I do have some things that I must gather before we depart." He had a distinctly upper-class manner of speaking, though I did not think it wise to acknowledge it. “Bloody hell," he muttered as he stood up, reaching behind him and massaging his bright yellow tail where it came through his pants. “It hurts to sit in those chairs." He turned, and I saw that his yellow, scaly tail was surprisingly long, and would surely have dragged upon the ground should he let it fall, though he managed to maneuver it expertly away from everything that it could knock into – likely a result of his simply having lived his whole life with it.

“Well, it's always nice to make an acquaintance in the trade," I nodded respectfully – I figured that it would be good to get at least one of them on my side, and it seemed that Forticay had the best chances of accepting me (he was, as far as I could tell, the one who had hired me for this job, and he knew I was from Henlot). But his reply to my friendly attempt at outreach was far from reassuring – perhaps he was clever, and saw that my warmheartedness was provoked merely by personal gain.

“Mr. Halfe," he began, with one hand on the doorknob.

“Tovef, is fine," I reassured.

“Very well, then; Tovef," he corrected. “You are a member of this trade, and you know, just as well as I do, that there are never any real friends here," he shook his head with a smile. Even as he said this in his same lighthearted tone, and though I had been exposed to this line of thought many times before, I still felt a shudder as I stared into his fiery orange eyes. He strode through the door, only to reemerge a few seconds later, sheepishly. “By the way, the dining area is just down the other hallway there and the third room over," he explained, pulling out his pocket watch. “It looks like we have about four minutes. Cheers!" And with that, having completely fumbled his dramatic exit (and clearly aware of it, given his evident embarrassment upon saying these last words), the door slammed shut.

I was now alone in the warm room, the golden-orange glow of the fire now seeming to replace the inviting yellow illumination of the space with a deep crimson haze that warned of foreboding omens ahead. I felt uneasy. I had taken the job. It went well…Arguably. I had been thrust into it surprisingly fast, too. But in the past jobs I once had (of which there were two), it was at least clear who I could trust. In both cases, I at least knew who hired me – I wasn't even aware of that now. Not even Novka knew what the assignment was. Usually there was one member of the crew who would be easygoing – but that didn't always mean trustworthy.

Just off of my interactions with them, I already did not trust Novka, for sure. She clearly was frustrated about my participating in the mission and, for all I knew, conceded it as a last resort. I could imagine a thousand ways she could use me as cannon fodder or double-cross me. Forticay was at least nice, but something about him seemed peculiarly…Off. It was as if he were trying to get on everyone's good side, and his little remark to me as he left the room did nothing to sedate my uneasy feelings about him. His lightheartedness in this particular trade, as well, I found almost alarming – I couldn't imagine that he would have any qualms about betraying me if he had to. I would have liked to believe that his demeanor was genuine, but I have also met some good actors throughout my life.

Vage, for all of his shortcomings, was honestly the least-threatening one among them. Sure, he was a bit frank, stern, and haggardly, but his strict inquisitive nature was honestly completely justified given that he wanted to know as much about me as possible, and he clearly had an eye for practicality, seeing as he defended me against Novka. Honestly, Vage, to me, resembled the typical character of these professions: here for the money, good at his job, and if you do your part and respect him, you'll be fine. Not to say he was entirely trustworthy, but at this point, he was my best bet.

Sitting in contemplation for only a few moments longer, I grabbed my coat and hat and, putting them on, found the hallway that Forticay had been referring to. Upon locating the room (more akin to all of the others, but empty, and a far cry from the sitting room I had just left behind me), I found the other three already there, so there must have been some other corridors elsewhere in the house. All were silent before I entered. Novka had on her thick brown fur coat, which she tied around her shoulders, and also wore a puffy grey ushanka; Vage was in his long black overcoat, which was completely unbuttoned; and Forticay had now donned a heavy wool greatcoat, of a dark grey in color, over his vest, buttoning only the top button.

“All right, then," Novka nodded. “We meet our driver a few blocks away, at Keloskvak Square." She looked at each of us in turn. “Try to look as inconspicuous as possible – we already have a soldier marching around with us." I felt some disdain as she said this. Nevertheless, to prove my observational skills, I drew my coat further over my uniform. We made our way through the old, decaying manor and emerged onto the dead, sullen street. The day had lightened up a bit more, and the clouds were no longer so heavy with rain, but there was still not a sign of blue in the sky, and the temperature was still cold enough to justify wearing multiple layers.

The atmosphere had livened up a little, as well, seeing as it was about an hour away from lunchtime, and some of the stores and bakeries that were not open earlier suddenly emerged from the dense collection of rotting wood and made themselves available to the world. More people were bustling around the streets, and more noise and conversations could be heard. It was almost as if something of a little resurgence of life had occurred in the wasted place, but only in the sense that everyone seemed to be able to temporarily block out the reality of where they worked and how they lived.

Keloskvak Square was in a slightly-nicer area of the city. Here, at least around the square, the streets took on more of a grid-style pattern, and the buildings were more uniform, though there still lingered abandoned and decrepit ones here and there, and none of the others looked particularly inviting. The streets leading up to the square were all mud, though the plaza itself was composed of many small, grey stones cut into squares, many of them smeared with mud. In the center of the square was an old, stubby stone fountain, either dysfunctional or shut down for the winter, as no water could be observed streaming out of it.

“I suppose that's us," Forticay stated as he nodded in the direction of a run-down looking black carriage that sat solemnly along one of the buildings lining the square. Its driver sat hunched over in the driver's seat, eyes closed as he rested his chin in his hand, a large black coat upon his back.

“No, ours is blue," Novka stated, sparing Forticay only a glance. Almost immediately after she spoke, the sound of carriage wheels rolling over stone erupted across the square as two majestic black horses pulling a beautiful, shiny blue carriage gracefully and swiftly passed us by, stopping at the other end of the square. I looked up at the driver as he passed – a large brown, wolf-like man in a heavy black coat and driver's cap, the thick fur around his neck pushing up over his white shirt collar.

“Novka, I presume," he stood and greeted in a loud, very-Northern accent with a wide smile. “Sorry I'ma bet lae'."

“Oh, this is much better," Forticay stated gleefully. “It's even polished!"

“Is he usually like this?" I whispered as I leaned over to Vage as we walked up to the carriage. I decided that if I were hedging my bets with him, I may as well start to converse with him some more now (which was somewhat difficult, considering that he was easily a foot taller than me).

“Honestly, I think he's had too much to drink already," Vage muttered in his low, deep voice.

“Well 'ang on now," the driver stated from atop his platform as we approached. “O'nee room in theya' for two, maybe three."

“We'll make it work," Novka replied with an air of annoyance. She was remarkably serious for her age. Sure, she was older than the rest of us, but still she was quite young. I supposed that it had something to do with organizing one of these types of operations.

“All'ite!" With difficulty, we managed to cram ourselves into the two (maybe three) person carriage. It would have been a lot easier if so much of the space were not devoted to baggage, but we made do with the center-facing seats as best we could. Unfortunately, Vage was sitting across from me, his legs being so long that we had to essentially arrange both of our legs in a zipper fashion, with his knee in between my legs almost touching my crotch, which, I could tell, would make for quite the awkward ride. This was not an ideal position if I wanted to give him reasons to like me. At the very least, the ceiling in the carriage was tall enough for him to sit straight up, as even when sitting down he was still easily taller than anybody else, even discounting his antlers.

“So much for being inconspicuous," he grumbled as the cab jolted to a start, hinting at the fact that we were riding in a very luxurious carriage.

“Forticay, would you stop moving?" Novka snapped as Forticay twisted and turned in his seat.

“I'm sorry, it's my tail," he replied, shoving it to his side and letting its end hang over the bench, where it nearly touched the floor.

“Why did you not get it shortened when you were younger," Novka asked with exasperation.

“That's an expensive surgery, and it's nonreversible," Forticay shot back defensively. “Besides, my parents thought that a longer tail would look more noble."

“Well, it's too late now," Vage muttered, seemingly wishing to put an end to the conversation. I probably should have said something, but I did not want to contribute any more to the dysfunctionality of this group – in my past two jobs, there had never been such a frequency of disagreement among the members, at least not so consistently. Everyone pretty much did exactly as they were told. This, on the other hand, appeared as if someone simply took four random people, shoved them into a room, and decided to observe how long it would take for them kill each other as some sort of crude social experiment. But, then again – Forticay had worked with Vage before, and both clearly knew Novka, at least in terms of reputation, so I supposed that I was the odd one out there.

As we rattled along, I gazed out the window at the buildings passing by: little by little, they became less decrepit, more uniform, more sturdy. Even the clothing of the people on the streets became nicer with each block we passed…We were surely nearing the neighborhood of whichever aristocrat I would find myself doing the dirty work for this time.