A/N: I guess this series has been officially engraved with the Hunter's Mark, because it just keeps right on going, even after being marked "Complete" twice.

~X X X~

The woman manning the desk at the Yharnam Employment Agency regarded Balyn with a calm, unblinking stare, as if she was watching a particularly unusual bug crawl along a flower petal.

"You seem familiar, good sir," she said in a lightly accented voice that he couldn't quite place. She looked vaguely like she hailed from Cainhurst, with her pale hair escaping her bonnet and equally pale complexion, but from what he remembered they didn't sound like that. Though Balyn did have a vague memory of that accent being associated with whirling steel and blood on fire, and that did seem a little Cainhursty to him. They definitely were a group that understood how to make flamboyance work.

"I was just here last week," he said.

"Ah, yes. I believe that you took a job on a fishing boat that should have lasted through to the end of next month. Was it the curses? We've had a bit of trouble filling that position on account of them."

Balyn shook his head.

"No, no, I was okay with that. I mean, you'll never get along with anybody if you insist on talking religion or politics all the time, right? And I really liked the local music; I always had a thing for baneful chants. It was my health that was the problem. I thought for a couple of days I'd picked up a case of parasites—you know, the old milkweed itch—but thankfully it turns out I'm just allergic to slug oil."

"I see. That is unfortunate."

"So, I was hoping that you had something that fit with my skillset."

"I am here in this office to look after you, so let us see what I can find."

She took out his client file and began to glance down the pages. There was a lot of red ink there. Balyn would have written it off to the paperwork having been drawn up in blood (this was Yharnam, after all; it wouldn't even be the fifth-weirdest thing they used the stuff for), but words like "unsatisfactory" and "inadequate" kept showing up, so he had a feeling that he wasn't that lucky.

The clerk reached the end of the document and set it aside, then started paging through job listings.

"Hm, here is a request from the Choir. Do you sing tenor, good sir?"

He shook his head.

"Sorry; I'm a bass."

"Ah, that's too bad; they have a number of those already. The scourge of the beast tends to lower the vocal register of its sufferers and they had a number of cases during the recent red moon incident."

"I guess that would tend to make the voice kind of growly," Balyn mused.

"Perhaps a wheelchair repair shop? They have an opening."

"Oh? That sounds interesting. Do they make the explosive ones, or the ones with the extra compartments for rifle ammunition? Oooh, or are they the company that designed the Gatling mounts?"

"…Perhaps not." She continued to look through the listings, then brightened and went back to his file, running a finger down the page until apparently finding something she liked, for she gave the page a sharp tap.

"You've got something?"

"Possibly. According to this, you own some variety of portable flamesprayer?"

"Uh-huh. I was never all that good with it, but I have one. Almost hocked it for rent money, but it turned out I had an extra set of student trousers sitting around in my luggage, and I mean, when am I even going to need one pair of those, let alone two?"

"I do have a bit of trouble picturing you taking notes in a lecture hall."

…He'd probably asked for that one.

"You also own a 'rifle spear,' is that correct?"

"I do. Though if I'm going to be completely honest, it's more of a shotgun," he added with scrupulous fairness.

"That will be adequate, I think."

"For what?"

"Your new job, Mr. Balyn. The city council is hosting a Grand Re-Opening ceremony for the Great Bridge this weekend, and Valtr's Catering is seeking a subcontractor to provide the roast pig. Do you need directions to the lower Forbidden Woods?"