(A/N): Hey guys. Here's the next chapter. This has been in writing hell for the last three weeks because I was super unhappy with how it was going but I finally got it down. Hope you enjoy.

Thanks.

The world felt like it was on fire.

For Genny, that was very much the case.

What had happened in the last several hours were nothing but a hazy mess.

She remembered walking up to the fortune teller's tent and everything prior with perfect clarity, even that one scary cloaked girl that had ran into her.

She entered the tent and saw the shrouded fortune teller, complete with the usual crystal ball and wavy hand tricks. Genny remembered asking if she could reserve a spot for her and Marth to which the fortune teller nodded in response. She remembered the elated feeling she felt as she raced out of the tent to go tell her masked friend of their appointment.

And she turned the corner to the bar, she remembered the force a thousand bulls crashing against her head.

Then nothing.

Instinctively, her shaky hand went to touch the massive bruise that lined her less than delicate skull. It stung to the touch, with every pulsation of her heart only echoing the pain further. Too dazed to even cry out in pain, all Genny managed was a subdued croak that not even a hunting hound would have been able to hear.

But the beasts she was dealing with her far more trained, and far more worse, than any hound.

"Awake naw, litt'l lassie?"

From the corner of the dark room lit only by a single candle came a voice that bore nothing but ill will. The person it belonged to was just as sinister.

Stepping into the faint light of the room, Genny could just make out the person that stood before her.

He was gaunt and lanky, his skin a sickly sand awash with dark splotches. His eyes were as black as the darkness he emerged from, offset only by the crooked, yellow-stained teeth that decorated his ghoulish visage. With a face that was close to a skull, the man appeared more dead than alive.

But his movements belied any such trace of decay.

The man moved like a shadow, gliding across the floor with ease, faster than any normal man could. It was almost as if Genny's eyes were playing tricks on her, seeing the way the man moved.

No movement was wasted. One moment he would be as still as a statue and the next, in a literal blink of an eye, he appeared closer.

And with every step, every inch, his wide mouth contorted into a demented, aberrant smile, his revolting teeth glowing in the candlelight.

The face of a madman.

Even in her pained daze, Genny had an inkling of what this specter of a man intended do.

It had only registered now that he removed the lower half of his clothes.

He had already latched his cold, skeleton-like fingers on her wrist, pinning them against the stone floor she knelt on.

He was on top of her, and though he looked as if a breeze would carry him away, the strength behind his grip was unfathomable. Genny slowly lost feeling in her left hand.

With one hand grabbing her own, the ghoul had his way on her garments with his free hand, tearing away at her last bastion.

Genny tore her face away from the monster that had mounted her and, whilst doing so, mouthed a silent prayer, to any god that would listen to her cry.

And her yearning for forgiveness.

The scar that had been torn her face was burning. It always was, even more so when her mind was consumed with thought. It now roared at her, its once dull pain rising to the point where she wanted to drive daggers into her own skull to make the incessant burning stop.

Ever since that cursed swordsman Azul gave it to her, it was as if a fiery demon resided within the scarred remnants of her flesh, stabbing and prodding at her for everything she did.

When Roland commented how much it gave her character, she could only scoff at his remark.

Roslyn fixed her hood, doing the best she could to keep her long hair from escaping the clamp she had put it in. Still, she let some strands loose to cover the scar on her face. She had some dignity to preserve after all.

These last seasons were a terrible wound on her pride.

She fought tooth and nail to clear the blemish on her family name, the very blemish that the bastard Azul had stained her family with. Her father was now was much too ill to fight for their family name and, as the only remaining child of her line, the task fell to her to fulfill absolution.

She would never forgive the Masquerade for what they had done to her family but most of all she could hardly forgive herself for her own inequities.

The scar on her face reminded her everyday of her failures.

Time and time again, her target escaped her grasp. She herself was no pushover on the hunt, the members of her house could attest to her skill and prowess as a hunter. It was luck alone that kept Azul alive and away from her clutches.

But luck shone anew this time around. Roland was proof of that.

He was the master-at-arms of her house and the one who taught her how to wield a bow and handle a shortsword. It was truly by the Silent Goddess' grace that Roslyn was able to see him again ever since she had left home on her quest for her vengeance and her family's redemption. Familiar faces were far and few in between, especially ones she wanted to see.

"Used to it yet?" A familiar gruff voice called out to her.

Roslyn turned around to see her teacher standing in the doorway.

"Used to what?" She asked, straightening out her clothes as she made her way to the door.

Roland shook his head. "No, lass." He chuckled. "I mean this life. The life of a sellsword."

The word made her insides churn. It reminded her of a certain, smug mercenary that had bested her at every twist and turn. Swallowing her shame, she grumbled a tempered, "No."

The man roared with laughter, the creases by his eyes showing his age. Roland seemed to have aged nearly twofold since Roslyn left, the man now a far cry from the noble knight she remembered from her memories.

His well-kempt appearance was now haggard and disheveled, his hair having grown past his shoulders and the remains of an unclean shave littering his chiseled face.

Roland rested his hand atop the girl's head, ruffling the hair she worked so hard to keep clean. "The life of a wandering sword isn't an easy life, Ros. Few can stomach the storm this sort of life brings ashore."

Roslyn knew the feeling all too well.

The two walked out of the room, towards the center of their encampment. Several of Roland's men gruffly greeted the two as they passed, a hollow reception unlike the one she saw in the Masquerade's camp.

As they walked through the camp, Roslyn saw a great majority of the mercenaries, none of whom she could recognize were from her household, wore clothing that befitted thieves and pickpockets, with little to no armor protecting their vitals; some went entirely shirtless with warpaint as their only means of protection.

"Do your men know anything about proper battle attire?"

Roland laughed heartily, "They already have a hard time with basic etiquette, do you think they'd even bother with dress code?"

Roslyn kept any further comments to herself. If Roland, their leader, was not doing anything about it, then neither should she. She wasn't this lot's leader. Instead, she let her eyes go back to wandering, this time with her mouth shut.

Black.

It was nighttime but they stood out regardless.

Their armor glistened in the fire's light, the sheen that reflected off the rigids remarking how well-crafted, and expensive, the man inside of it was. The ebon-plated cuirass was worn over a similarly dark gambeson. Their armor bore no insignia.

Roslyn could count no more than ten of the armored soldiers in the camp, a sight that felt completely out of place given how rundown everything else appeared.

"Don't worry about them." Roland assured her, after having traced her concerned gaze. "They're the insurance policy we received for our contract."

Roland did mention earlier that he was currently in town because he was on the job. In fact, that was how the two encountered one another, which led to Roslyn helping out a bit before reuniting with her old friend. He had her "encounter" several people before returning to the designated area Roland had written for her on the back of the sorry excuse of a map she still carried around.

Cartography was never her strong suit, the crude map being testament to her lack of skill. But she still carried the old thing around with her as a memento of home.

It was what she and her friends drew together in their youth, with Roland's assistance. Their signatures now long since faded away as did most of the map.

"Insurance policy?" Roslyn questioned. She had worked several odd jobs herself, being a wandering sword for hire and all, but had never heard of a client enforcing such a decision on a contract. "Insurance for what?"

"To make sure that no one gets in our way during the job." Roland chuckled. Roslyn saw it for a split second but she could see a dangerous glint in Roland's eyes flash by. "And to make sure we meet our end of the deal."

Folding her arms, Roslyn leaned against a decaying picket, one of many that dotted the encampment. This entire deal that Roland seemed to have taken reeked with suspicion. "Just what exactly have you gotten yourself into?"

Roland shook his head and smiled ruefully. "Can't disclose that kind of information with you I'm afraid." His eyes glanced side to side. He leaned close and whispered, "They have ears everywhere" before pulling away.

Before Roslyn could mouth "who" she caught a glimpse of one of the armored soldiers glaring her way. Their completely encasing helmets may have hid their eyes but she could feel their piercing gaze nonetheless. She would have to be careful too.

"Is this all of them?" She whispered, subtly cocking her heads towards the black sentries, who were all armed to the teeth, brandishing spears and shields matching in hue.

Roland only shook his head, aware of the keen eyes and ears honing in on their conversation.

"Come with me, Ros."

She was more than happy to oblige.

Roland led her to an aging flight of wooden stairs that nestled haphazardly against an old building. The building itself was along the border of the camp, just skirting the fringes of Hearth.

As Ros ran her hand along the pine railing that guarded the edges of the stairs, a great many splinters bristled against her open palm, forcing her to quickly abandon the idea.

"Wouldn't do that if I were you." Roland suggested, glancing over his shoulder. "People haven't set foot in this part of town for quite some time."

"I can see that." Roslyn grumbled, looking at all the fine wooden splinters that had embedded themselves into her hand. She grimaced as she began to silently pull each one out, small droplets of blood replacing where each splinter had once been.

The wooden planks of the stairs screamed ceaselessly under every step she and Roland took, indicative of how rundown their surroundings were as Roland had mentioned. As to why everything was in such decay, Roslyn could only guess.

After the cacophony that was the staircase, the two finally reached the top, a balcony that was in an equally shoddy condition as the flight of stairs they had just escaped from. The railing was entirely nonexistent, with the pegs that dotted the edge of the platform being the only proof that they had existed at all. Even though Roslyn had left the stairs, the balcony made her feel no less different. It really did feel unsafe up where she stood.

Roland took a step forward, coming dangerously close to the edge of the balcony. Roslyn did not bother following after him.

"Small, isn't it?"

Curious as to what Roland was referring to, Roslyn followed where his hand had motioned to. It didn't take much effort to find.

"There used to be a lot more of us." Roland testified, his solemn gaze resting on the remainder of his band of mercenaries. "But these are scarce times. And scarcer times are still yet to arrive."

Roslyn understood Roland's feelings well. The war between the Embla and Askr had left many in the crossfire. Those fortunate enough to live within the protectorate of each kingdom were spared from the brunt of the campaign but those were the far and few.

Her household was blessed by being loyal bannermen to the Emblian royalty but Roslyn knew that what her household had was but a privilege. She was aware of the countless other houses and villages, on both fronts of war, that were not so lucky.

"It had gotten bad enough, many cry out that these are the end times." Roslyn added, forgetting her previous fears of the balcony and stepping forward to stand by Roland's side. On her travels she had seen the destruction left in the war's wake. There would not be enough parchment in the world to put the suffering she saw on the survivors' faces into words. "And I wouldn't blame them."

"Aye." Roland agreed, nodding his head. "And there was no worse time to become a sellsword than these." A dry smirk cracked across his weathered face. "Perhaps this is the Silent Goddess's punishment. Divine retribution for all those who contribute to the suffering."

Roslyn was never a truly pious adherent to Silent Goddess but couldn't help but agree with Roland's words.

"I suppose we deserve all the punishment that comes our way, I'm afraid." Roland chuckled. "We've done terrible things to try and survive out here."

She turned to face Roland, her once paragon of knightly virtues. "This is about your current contract right now, isn't it?"

He returned her gaze, another one of his smiles on his face. "You were always a perceptive one."

"Are you still not going to tell me what it's about?"

"No, lass."

An incomprehensible fury ran through her veins. Roslyn gripped Roland, who was much taller than her, by the hem of his collar and shook him about, teetering dangerously closer to the edge now. "Why?! Why Roland? Do you not trust me?"

Even now, she did not know what fueled her so. Perhaps it was the idea of having the image of one's hero being tarnished that she could not withstand. The Roland she knew from her memories was the paragon of righteousness and just, nothing like the haggard sellsword that stood before her.

He still offered no reply other than his apologies.

"Then at least tell me why you are here." Roslyn compromised, holding onto Roland as if her life depended on it. "You are a sworn knight of my house. That is a contract that binds you till the day you die. Tell me why you have left the house. Why you are doing this."

He nodded calmly. "The house has all fallen ill."

Roslyn felt her grip loosen. "What?"

"The illness that has robbed your father of his freedom has spread to nearly everyone in your house." Roland revealed, almost as if he were reciting. Then, the calm on his face was replaced by an uncharacteristic sorrow. "Your father has not much—"

"Stop." Roslyn begged, her voice a whisper. "Just… tell me why you are here."

Roland nodded. "I was among the lucky few that did not contract the illness. As such, we were set off to find a cure to what has befallen our house."

Roslyn felt that she needed to ask another question, as to why Roland was still out here as a sellsword, but that was self-explanatory. She decided to phrase it differently.

"So why are you still risking everything for a cure that might not exist?"

An adamance flashed in Roland's eyes. "It does."

"Then wh—"

"My daughter is among the sick, Roslyn."

She could offer no retort.

"This job promised that it would deliver the cure once it is done." Roland announced, his voice stern but calm. "And I… I will not let my daughter join her mother so soon. I must see it through."

"But why won't you tell me what it is you are doing?!"

Roland's hand reached to her own, still gripping Roland's collar. She thought he was going to forcefully pry off her fingers but they gently caressed hers. The warmth she felt from them had not changed after all these years.

A look of sorrow that Roslyn had never seen rested in Roland's grey eyes.

"You will never forgive me if I did, Roslyn."

They were the same eyes her father looked upon her with when she ran away from home.

"You have your reasons for leaving home, Ros." Roland uttered, gently removing her hands from by his neck. "And just as you still stay out here, chasing whatever it is that you are, so do I."

Roslyn's hands fell lifelessly by her side.

"Perhaps I lost a part of myself along that way." Roland whispered, barely audible. "Just… make sure you do not."

"But my family's honor—"

"Your father thinks shite for lost honor. You and I both know that what you are doing now is no longer about honor." Roland scolded, behind gritted teeth. "All he wants is his daughter back home, by his side before he can no longer…"

He paused.

"All he wants is to see you one last time Ros."

She couldn't find an answer.

Roland slowly backed away from the edge of the balcony. "I'm going to retire for the night. Don't dawdle up here for too long." And began his trek down the stairs.

Roslyn looked upon the dwindling numbers of Roland's crew, upon the faces of those who remained. Their faces caked with nothing but animosity and savagery at the world. Nothing remained to tell who they were before they went down the paths they did but their faces were all filled the exact same thing: loss. Roland's own face, one filled so much determination yet sorrow, was etched into her mind. And she wondered if somewhere along the way, she had decided to discard who she was as well.

END