Preface: Greetings, all! This story is the fourth in my series of stories, following "Wisdom in Shadow" which continued a story that begins in "What You Don't Know," also located on this site. This tale utilizes a character introduced in the last story as the main character, as well as the protagonists of the previous works. The primarily-featured monstergirls for this entry are a wyvern, werebats, and a dragon, although many others will be making an appearance or receiving a focus. This story features sexual content, primarily towards the middle and ending of the work, but action will be more prevalent than the preceding tale.

And, to conclude with a standard disclaimer: The monster girls featured in this tale, and many elements of the setting, are based off of the works of Kenkou Cross, and as such this work is intended to be a tribute to his creativity. The characters, however, are my own. Pray neither sue nor steal; I have very little to take, but I love that which is mine.

Heroes

Chapter 1 - Belly of the Beast

Dawn came late to the town of New Haven, but it arrived in splendor. First, the sun began to peek over the rolling, forested hills to the east, casting their backs in even-deeper gloom as the sky began to glow with pastel warmth made iridescent by a golden shine. It was the mountains west of the slumbering town that felt the sun's touch next; the pale stones atop those jagged, forbidding peaks gleamed like torches in the dawn, as if the morning had encircled the darkness in the wide valley below and now moved to charge inward.

The stone tower at the heart of the town was the first that caught the sunlight's attention, but it wouldn't be long before the sprawling array of half-finished buildings would feel the wakening touch of morning's warmth. For now, those inside those partial constructions and the maze of tents scattered all around the village's perimeter were still, but it wouldn't take long before they emerged, yawning and stretching, to face the newborn day's tasks. New Haven was in the process of being reborn from the ashes of its predecessor, and those who were shaping its new form had already begun to consider themselves its citizens, instead of labeling themselves as 'refugees,' as they had so recently.

Only one inhabitant of New Haven paid no mind to the morning glow, even though it peeked tentatively through the high, narrow windows of his chamber. Those portals were the only part of that room that were above the ground; the rest, including the floor, had been purposely dug into the earth. Considering the room's intended purpose, it only made sense. After all, when George Lambton was a child and had tried to imagine his future adventures, he had never foreseen himself ending up in prison, yet that was what this room was.

Some of the uncharitable sorts George had encountered in his less-than-two-decades might have predicted such a future for him, an orphan raised by the church to be a trained monster killer. He had borne the accusations of being foolish and simple all his life with rugged indifference; he knew in his heart his destiny was greater than any of his critics could imagine. He would be a great hero, the sort that songs would be sung about for a thousand years, the kind of champion that would inspire other poor, hungry orphans to face life with gritted teeth. That was why he had become a Purifier Errant, one of the Holy Orders' dedicated monster hunters.

But now he was in jail. George sighed and flung a crumbled piece of stone to clatter against the opposite wall, sending it ricocheting into the darkness. While his 'hosts' had taken efforts to make his involuntary stay as comfortable as possible, with a bed softer than any he had known during his upbringing in the capital of the Hellenistic Empire, and even a set of plush chairs for himself and a guest, thus far they'd had little time to combat the effects of time on the stone itself. Decades of lying forgotten and ignored had given nature a foothold at reclaiming the tower, and creeping sprouts and dripping rain had begun to chew at the stonework. That still meant little to George, as the tower walls would certainly outlast him, especially now that life had returned to the forgotten town.

Life, but not civilization, at least as far as he had been taught. He grunted as he remembered the immaculate streets of the capital, each pointing arrow-straight towards the great temple at the city's heart, and the quiet, orderly processions of the white-clad citizens that had walked those paths. The image was a far cry from what he pictured from the sounds he heard floating down from the windows high above: laughter, chatter, arguing and wheedling and singing. And yet, as pleasant as it all seemed, he knew the truth: New Haven was filled with monsters.

George sat up in bed as he heard footsteps in the passage outside the thick, bolted door across the room from him. He errantly swept a hand behind him to straighten the already-made bed he had been reclining on; old habits died hard, and he had been used to surprise inspections during his time as a novice. He showed the same amount of care as he brushed a hand over his unruly brown hair, fully conscious it would resist his efforts at calming it. Not that it mattered overmuch, as George knew well who would be visiting him this morning. His onetime friend, the former Inquisitor Errant Simon Hopkins, had been his only guest during the weeks he had found himself imprisoned in this nest of vipers. Despite himself, he looked forward to those visits, if just to break the monotony, especially when the scholarly Simon brought books to read to him. However, George knew he couldn't let his guard down around him, no matter how much he had once, even still, liked Simon. Just like all the other men in this accursed place, Simon had been bewitched by the monsters that had claimed this place as their den, and George could not let himself fall under the same spell.

As the key scraped in the lock, and the aged hinges squealed in protest, George crossed his arms, his chin set in a defiant tilt. He had been awake for hours, mentally rehearsing for this very moment, when he would confront Simon and demand to know how long they intended to hold him captive here. He knew the monsters that lived here must fear that he would reveal their location if he escaped, but George would never join their side, no matter what tortures they planned to unleash upon him. He would win his freedom and return to his proper place in the capital, where he would tell his superiors the truth about his and Simon's mission to Videre, and how he had found himself held captive. They, the priests and his elders in the Purifier Order, would be able to help him make sense of everything that had happened. They would make things right again.

"Are you awake?"

The soft voice that cautiously scouted his chamber was not one that was familiar to George. Instead, it was gently feminine, and George found himself subconsciously brushing his hand against his rumpled tunic before catching himself. He stiffened as his brain caught up to his reflexes, and he realized that this must be the next stage of his punishment. At last, they had sent a monster to corrupt him. "Come in," he demanded cooly, his blue eyes narrowed as he waited, crossing his arms across his chest.

Indeed, the woman who entered the room bore the telltale signs of her monstrous heritage. Though she superficially resembled a girl a little younger than himself, her hair was mostly blue, with strands of blonde mixed in. Canine ears perked above her head, furred in the same blue shade, as were the two pawlike hands that framed the wooden tray she held before her. She wore a simple white dress that descended to her ankles, but he could still see the claws tipping her furred toes, and a tail drooped behind her as she entered the room. Despite her inhuman features, her face still appeared mostly human, even if her eyes gleamed yellow in the dim light; were it not for her obvious monster nature, George would have even thought her to be very pretty. Still, George knew better to fall for that trap. His education as a Purifier had taught him that most monsters used a feminine appearance to hide devilish intentions.

His eyes flicked down to the tray she held, confirming what his nose was whispering to him: the presence of a steaming bowl of honeyed porridge, along with a small loaf of bread accompanied by butter and jam. Much like the accommodations, the cuisine here in his prison had been considerably better than the meals he had shared with his brethren in the chapterhouse of the Purifiers, but he wouldn't allow his faith to be eroded by something as simple as food. In fact, he had even been afraid that they would slip something into his meals to weaken his resistance, but Simon had put him at ease by eating along with him during his visits, taking whichever potion George suggested. Such wouldn't work this time, the monster hunter noted with a sneer; perhaps they had finally decided to resort to poison to end his captivity.

He met the eyes of the creature across the bars from him, his gaze cold. "I'm not eating that," he told the girl sharply. The werewolf - he recognized her type from the descriptions of his tutors; they'd said that werewolves were a breed of particularly vicious man-eaters that could curse anyone they bit to join their ranks, if they didn't just slaughter and devour them - lowered her head, her ears drooping as she placed the tray on a small table and took a seat in one of the chairs on the open side of the room. She smoothed her dress carefully as she sat, looking off to one of the corners of the room as she did so, as if hesitant to speak.

"I wish you would," she finally said, her voice scarcely above a whisper. "I prepared it myself. Mr. Hopkins said that you liked this, and that I could bring it to you if I wanted. He said that talking to me might…" she paused, her eyes flicking downwards, then cautiously over to George, "Might do us both some good." The intonation of her words made clear that she questioned them just as much as George did, though his own doubt was heavily veined with suspicion. Why would sending a werewolf to talk to him help either of them? A werewolf…

"Wulfe." George's gaze snapped up as he looked more closely at the girl sitting across the room from him. "You…" His Adam's apple bobbed as his next words hung in his throat, his mind crowded with images of a melancholy old man walking bravely to his place atop a pyre. "You're the granddaughter of the priest that we…"

The pause filled itself with agonizing words. Punished. Burned. Murdered. Finally Lyra mercifully broke the silence with a nod, and the faintest of restrained sniffs. When she managed to raise her eyes from the floor, they gleamed liquidly in the morning light, but he couldn't tear his own gaze from them. He could see her gathering her strength, fighting down the grief as she searched for words. "Mr. Hopkins - Simon - told me what happened. He said…" She glanced aside again, breathing in deeply. "He said you were ordered to do it. He said you didn't have a choice. That the lector was an evil man."

"Lector Themras was-!" George started, but his words crumpled to ash in his mouth before they could escape. An image of Themras came to George, his eyes burning with zeal and his cheeks heated red with passion. A memory of him giving the crowd of townsfolk a sermon as George and Simon had marched Father Wulfe to the stake. "He was… extreme," he finally finished, lamely, unwilling to meet Lyra's eyes.

He could feel her golden gaze on him, but he stared at his feet instead, his emotions whirling chaotically. "I have talked to Simon a lot since you all arrived," Lyra finally offered, and George risked a glance over to see her absent-mindedly stirring the porridge she had brought for him. "He's apologized - over and over - and told me how Gina showed him what was wrong with what he had believed. He's a good person, kind and gentle. He reminds me of Grandpa." Her head turned, looking at George directly. "He says you're a good person too."

"I…" Bile rose in George's throat, and his jaw clenched as he turned to face his bed against the wall. "Yeah, he's a good person. Just misled by that undead witch and that dog-monster. He should be back in the Capitol, or overseeing a church somewhere, but now…" The monster hunter straightened. "He can't go back now. He's better here. Maybe he'll be safe from the Orders, for a while. If he goes back, they'll kill him, just like they did your grandfather. Like they will kill you, if you try to return." The words felt cruel, but necessary; a severing, a necessary admission of the inevitable. His fists clenched, and he stared at the wall as if he could see his own way back home on the other side of it. "What are they going to do with me?" he demanded sharply, feeling as if the armor of his calling had draped itself over him, protecting him from the danger on the other side of the bars. He was a Purifier Errant, and he didn't belong here.

Lyra wasn't swift to answer, but he stared resolutely away, refusing to let himself meet her gaze. He didn't want to see what she saw when she looked at him, be it a monster hunter or a 'good person.' "Mr. Foster wants to speak to you this afternoon," she explained finally, and a sharp chill ran up George's spine. "I don't know what he plans to do. He's… a hard person to understand, sometimes."

George could remember the man perfectly, dressed in his demonic armor, with eyes even harder and colder. He was the lord of this monstrous village, and claimed - blasphemously - to have once been one of the great Heroes that had saved the world from the Demon King. It was a laughable idea; Foster's words alone would be enough to earn a harsh censuring from the church, but he had also confessed to having the blood of men of the Orders on his hands. No doubt, there was a warrant for his death among the higher lords of the Holy Orders, and Warders had been sent to hunt him. Hopefully his deserved punishment wouldn't expose the others of this village to the gaze of the church's trained hunters, because George had little doubt that they would purge this place in an instant if they found that it existed. Like they would if George himself reported it, upon his return…

"That's fine," George rasped, strangling his thoughts. "I'll look forward to my… little chat with John Foster." The smile he turned back towards Lyra showed his teeth. "He should have known better than to try to restrain a Purifier. He should have just run as far as he could, because he can't escape justice now." Standing proudly, the monster hunter nodded to the girl sitting on the other side of the bars. "He can do his worst - it won't save him."

Lyra stared at him for a long moment before nodding, almost to herself. She stood, picking up the tray from the table, and pushed it through the gap in the bars to George, who accepted it with a nod. She didn't say another word, but paused at the door, glancing back at George, who had turned, staring up at the window high in his cell, his spine as rigidly-straight as that of a man prepared for his own sentencing. Her head lowered in regret, and then she was gone.

In the stillness after her departure, George took a seat on his bed. Despite himself, he mechanically raised the spoonful of porridge to his lips. He had nothing to fear from the meal, he knew. To his surprise, it was delicious, sweet and still warm - but somehow his appetite was gone. Slowly, he lowered the spoon back to the tray, refusing to even look at the meal Lyra had prepared for him.

It would all be over soon, he knew.

For nearly a century, the ancient temple had sat in silence. Its balustrades and walkways, formed out of white marble that had once glowed brilliantly in the sunlight, had been washed with dirt and grit, piles of windswept refuse laying scattered across the walks in defiance of brooms that had long ago moldered away. The once-immaculate gardens had grown rank and teeming, but now even those weeds had wilted under the sun's glare, leaving brown leaves in drifts on the baked earth within the planters. The great doors that led into the heart of the temple had rested in peace for so long that their hinges had crumpled, leaving them slumped together, the solar icon emblazoned across them just slightly unmatched from their relaxed posture.

But now, fresh footprints disturbed the dust of the walks. The withered leaves stirred in the breeze of passing bodies. The great doors, last sentinels of the temple's heart, shuddered under the rough touch of a battering ram.

Those slabs withstood all they could, grating against each other, shaking off shards and pale dust with every collision. Like the monsters that had until recently protected the outermost regions of the temple, these final guardians would give way, though unlike those monstrous protectors there would be no escape to a safer haven for these wards. Instead, with a rumble and a clap like divine thunder, the doors fell back into the temple's innermost sanctum, laying defeated on the dusty floor.

A single man stepped forward through the ruptured portal, stepping atop the supine slabs to peer into the revealed chamber. This man wore a jackal's grin as he marched unconcernedly into the once-sealed room, his hand resting easily on the hilt of his gladius only because of habit, while his voluminous red cape streamed behind him as if to portray him as the very icon of a conquering invader. Though his short-cropped hair had faded to gray, his lined and tanned face held the vitality of a man half his years, and while the molded abs upon his chestplate were undoubtedly exaggerated, he moved with a feline grace. The scars that glowed on his bared upper arms spoke of uncounted campaigns, and battles where he had lived to tell stories of opponents forever silenced. When he came to a rest, the ranks of men waiting beyond the gaping doorway stood at respectful attention, waiting to let their lord savor his triumph.

Crusader Lord Julius Leopold inspected the inner sanctum of the Temple of Apollo, eyes drinking in the faded glory, imagining it as it once must have been. The room was made of the same white marble as the walkways beyond, though the stone here was stained in places, darkly tarnished by a bluish liquid that had dribbled down the walls and seeped up from beneath the stone pews that all angled toward the altar at the room's center. That altar stood atop a raised platform, and the roof above it was open to the heavens. Now-dingy mirrors focused the sun's light on the altar itself, and the liquid that had pooled at the foot of the platform glowed with faint luminescence, as if it had drank in the sunlight. There remained little else of interest in the room, long abandoned after its patron's voice had gone silent, but still Julius breathed a deep sigh of satisfaction, before turning on his heel and facing the men waiting outside.

"Gunther, Nasario. Oh, and Errant Miralis, bring our 'friend' in, would you?" Julius commanded, turning back towards the altar without waiting to witness the others striding forward. He waited until he heard the four men stop a few paces behind him, his eyes still feasting on the sight of the altar gleaming golden in the daylight. "Magnificient, isn't it?" He turned, smiling sharply at the four behind him, his tone warning them that the question was rhetorical. "You have all done well to bring me here. Nasario, please pass on my gratitude to Warder Lord Muntzer when we return down the mountain, as well."

"As you wish, my lord," answered the man Julius had addressed. He stood rigidly at attention, but his eyes, too, drank in the image of the altar. He wore a white shirt and tabard tucked into loose breeches, which were in turn tucked into black leather boots that had gleamed until this morning's mountain-climbing expedition had undone work of polish and rag. The man's tabard, as well as the epaulets resting on his shoulders and the dust-besmirched white cape hanging from them, all bore the same device: a flame, atop which was superimposed a staff topped with an eye-in-star pattern. Inquisitor Lord Nasario Jimenes was younger than Julius, scarcely into his fourth decade, and his face was decorated with a heavy black mustache. His eyes were dark and mirthless, and beneath his mustache his lips were pressed into a thin sneer.

The man beside him towered over Nasario and Julius both. Guardian Lord Gunther Walberg was a bullish man, hulking and broad, with a craggy face largely covered by a wild rust-colored beard, though the dome of his head was bare and deeply tanned, only fringed with scraggly orange remnants. He was armored in a suit of well-maintained mail, covered by a tabard similar to that of Nasario, only instead featuring a shield instead of the staff, or even the Spear of Conquest that decorated Julius' cloak. At his side, he carried a long-handled warhammer that had seen plenty of use in the decades he had served as Julius' subordinate and bodyguard, and the edges of a round shield peeked above his wide shoulders.

"Right like the heretic said it would be," Gunther offered in a gravelly voice, his smile unkind under his bristling beard. "How useful of him." His gaze, and that of the other two high-ranking soldiers, turned to the last two inhabitants of the room. Of less interest to them was the young man who wore the same device as Nasario upon his tabard. Richard Miralis was dark-haired and typically precise in attire and grooming, but the morning's hike had left him disheveled. His disarray paled in comparison to the final man, however: a wretch draped in rags, lanky blond hair hanging from a haggard face, with large round spectacles perched atop a thin nose.

"Ah, yes, of course," Axander Marinus replied uncertainly. "As it said in the old texts we brought from-"

"Your services are greatly appreciated," interrupted Julius smoothly, offering the captive cartographer a smile that was sharp as glass. "Unfortunately, now that we have attained the altar, those services are now at an end." Axander blinked witlessly, not yet realizing the import of those words. "Errant Miralis, if you would?"

"I-" Richard blinked, similarly caught off-guard. "Do you mean-?" He hesitated, looking at the prisoner, who met his gaze in a panic, suddenly comprehending the danger he was in.

"Stand aside, you witless whelp. I'll do it myself," Gunther barked. He pulled his hammer from the loop at his waist in a smooth motion, already advancing on the captive, who shrank against Richard as if seeking succor. Richard hastily stepped away, leaving the hapless prisoner to retreat as the hammer rose into the air, its shadow falling across his face-

"Halt." The command rang out from the chamber's entrance as two new figures emerged from the glaring sunlight, unhurriedly making their way into the temple as if on a morning stroll. The one at the fore was a priest, clad in elaborate white robes that seemed mismatched with his plain features, though something about his eyes spoke of a more complex mind than an immediate appraisal would suggest. Behind him walked another young man, who carried a crate before him, but showed no signs of fatigue at having apparently lugged the cumbersome container up the mountain. He was dressed in the garb of a member of the orders, albeit with one notable distinction: his tabard was black instead of white, and its device was a scroll atop a flame. At this, Julius's eyebrow raised, but the other two commanders glowered at the intruding newcomers with unabashed frustration. "Axander Marinus still has a role to serve, before he can be purified for his sins." The prisoner, despite having his life saved by the recent arrivals, looked at the priest with open fear, recognition apparent in the way he bowed his head with eyes screwed shut. Ignoring him, the priest glanced at Richard with the faintest of nods, and the Crusader Lord noticed the younger man return the gesture surreptitiously; another interesting connection.

"Prelate… Ipsele, I believe?" Julius hazarded.

"Bishop Ipsele," the priest corrected, inclining his head slightly towards the gray-haired commander. "A recent promotion, which carries with it certain new responsibilities and honors. Starting with…" Ipsele extended his hand, indicating the altar beyond the others. "The conversion of this stronghold of a misguided faith into one more appropriate for our era."

"This temple was my mission," Julius interjected wrathfully. "I was the one to take the town at the base of the mountains. I chased the monsters from Goslar, and it was my men that secured the paths to this sanctum." His ire cooled slightly as his eyes darted to the younger man standing mutely beside the priest, who appeared to be staring sightlessly into the near distance, disconnected from the debate entirely. "The Ecclesiastic Council wouldn't send someone to steal my command from me after such successes."

"Of course not," Bishop Ipsele replied, spreading his hands and shaking his head with an indulgent smile. "Indeed, they intend you for greater glories than these alone: conquest of this entire region, and battle with one of the greatest foes of the Church." The priest's words were placating, but Julius still rankled under their patronizing tone. "I am merely here to… sanctify this shrine, and to oversee a crucial ritual that will further the goals of our faith. That shouldn't be a problem for such a devoted member of the flock as yourself…" Ipsele's eyes darted to meet those of the Crusader Lord, and his next word carried all the threat of a bared blade. "Correct?"

A thrill ran through Julius, reminding him of the feeling of stepping onto a battlefield with naked steel in his hand, and he bared his teeth to the other man with a grin. Perhaps this priest was more than just another sniveling sycophant currying favor with the Council. "Of course not. So long as the Council is aware of my contributions, I would be more than happy to continue our push to cleanse this land of monsters." He offered a slight bow to the bishop, measured to the very slightest degree to waver between respect and mockery.

"Then we should prove to be the greatest of friends," Ipsele suggested with a thick facade of benediction. "As a matter of fact, in order to prove my good intent, I bring with me a gift: sacred relics shipped all the way from Palatine itself, imbued with a holy blessing that will make your soldiers as gods among men." He extended a hand towards the mute young man beside him.

The black-tabarded youth stepped forward and lowered the box he was holding to the floor of the temple. He busied himself with removing the wax-coated seals that bedecked it, the lines of script that coated each flaring briefly with golden light before fading as they fell away. Julius watched as the lid to the container finally gave way, the young man carefully sliding it to the side and placing it on the ground. Stepping closer, the Crusader Lord could see the crate was full of medallions, each at the end of a looped ribbon long enough to leave the emblem hanging from the neck to mid-chest. The face of each emblem was golden and engraved with a sunburst pattern that matched the icon that had decorated the doors to the chamber they all stood within. At the center of that on each, however, was a thumb-sized dull red stone that shone with the light leaking into the chamber. His inspection of the medallions was interrupted as the youth that had carried the crate straightened, and spoke loudly, the words feeling ritualistic and the voice oddly resonant, as if coming from somewhere distant, "No gods. No monsters. No heroes. Only man."

Feeling a chill race down his spine as the words echoed in the chamber, Julius reached down and claimed one of the medallions. As he picked it up from the mass of its brethren, he felt a surge of power pass through him; it felt as though his heart beat faster and more powerfully in his chest, and his vision focused, bringing the dim chamber into startling detail. He glanced down at his bare arms, and noticed a faint glow infusing his flesh, along with a heated feeling of power that made him feel like a man decades younger.

"These relics will protect your troops from the weapons and magic of the vile abominations that dwell further to the east. Take this, and scour these lands to the bedrock. Chase every single monster from the cracks and caves, and put them all to the cleansing flame." Ipsele's voice rose as he proclaimed his commandment, his fervor drawing approving glances from all of the other men in the chamber, save for the bedraggled cartographer, who tried to hide behind Richard. The bishop smiled at Julius, and the expression glowed like the heart of a pyre. "So demands the Faith." The gimlet eyes flicked to the side. "But leave me the heretic. He has purpose for a little while longer; his penance can wait until his service is complete." Axander quailed under Ipsele's gaze, but there was no succor to be found here.

"It seems this partnership could be profitable after all," Julius proclaimed, smiling at the priest. "For the Faith, of course." He motioned his men forward, and each of the lords stepped forward to claim a medallion for themselves, the black-tabarded youth stepping away with an absent stare. "Distribute these to the men under your commands, Nasario, Gunther. You two can lead an expedition to the east, to locate and cleanse the village our agents have told us about." The bearish Gunther snapped a salute, hammering a fist to his chest, while the Inquisitor Lord nodded graciously, not bothering to hide his eagerness. Julius did not notice their reply, however, as his gaze was captured by the pendant that he had slipped over his head. He stared at the emblem, and at his reflection in the golden sunburst, and the blood-red stone at its center.

"It is time that our crusade brought the Holy Flame to these lands, for once and for all."

The sun stared down at New Haven, rending into tatters the fog that drifted up from the meandering river that passed beside the reborn village. On the opposite side of that languid stream, the far reaches of the floodplain were beginning to show their own development: crude shacks, fence rows, the fresh skeletons of barns and the deep browns of upturned earth. Monsters and men moved about these nascent farms, clearing fields and planting late crops, sowing the seeds that would hopefully provide food enough for the village to survive its first winter.

On the land so recently claimed by the farmer Rolf Meir, much like the other farmsteads surrounding it up and down the river, work had begun before the sun had even completed its climb over the eastern mountains. Near the hastily-constructed shack that served as little more than a common bedroom, a holstaurus hammered stakes into the earth to serve as posts for the fencing around a chicken pen. Two weresheep with long canes were keeping an eye on a handful of ambling cattle. A centaur pulled a plow through the earth, turning it up for a troll that followed behind, strewing seed from a burlap sack. The only oddity in this picture of pastoral simplicity was the pair standing at the edge of one of those fields: a green-haired goblin talking excitedly to a farmer, who leaned on the shaft of his hoe as he squinted under the brim of his hat at a bedraggled piece of paper covered in swirling scrawls.

"Okay, so let me explain this very simple concept one more time," Mori the grocer blurted through sharp teeth that were supposed to be smiling. "This piece of paper - yes, the one you are holding, yes, that one - is what we call an ex-clu-siv-ity contract, and it says-"

"I jes' dun' know," drawled Rolf, staring at the furled paper skeptically, as if wondering how the paper could say anything at all, and why only the goblin could apparently hear it. "It seems a bit too fancy fer me. Can't I jes' sell you ma vegetables?"

Mori took a deep breath, steadying herself with the apparent patience of a saint. She closed her eyes for a long moment, wishing that she had managed to convince one of her sisters to take this job instead, that she could just be working on their restaurant or making silverware or plates or just doing anything else, anything aside from trying to explain a legal contract to a man with the intellectual capacity of the root vegetables he cultivated. "That is the idea," she finally replied, her tone molasses-sweet, and just as yielding. "You sell us your vegetables. We promise to buy a certain amount each season, and you promise to give us your best produce, excepting a certain percentage you can keep for personal use." Mori met the man's eyes, and noticed the glaze of incomprehension there. "You keep some of the good stuff, but we get first pick of the rest," she tried again valiantly, and Rolf nodded as if he understood, though Mori had her doubts about that.

"I jes' dun' know 'bout it," the farmer repeated, chewing on the grass stem trapped between his teeth. Nearby, one of the cows walking through the field lowed as it stared at them, the bell around its neck tinkling tunelessly, and the farmer glanced back at it with a smile before turning his gaze, shadowed by his furrowed brow and battered hat, back to the exasperated goblin. "Dudn't seem right fair, when ye think about it."

Mori sighed, forcing down thoughts of assaulting the farmer with his own garden tool, and decided to try a different tactic. "Is there someone else I could speak to about this? Someone more suited than you to legal documents or contracts?" Her tone was as saccharine and brittle as sugar-glass, but she couldn't keep the edge of sarcasm from slicing at the man. "Maybe that cow over there, or-"

The shadow and the wind interrupted her. Suddenly the sun was gone, and then back again, as a gale folded the grass of the fields and threatened to pluck Mori from her feet, almost sending her sprawling away like Rolf's hat, which rolled like a escaping cart wheel along the bumpy ground. The ground itself seemed to shudder under the downburst of air, while Mori and Rolf were wrenched in the direction of its passing, the contract torn from the farmer's hand and sent sailing into the sky. The goblin stared after the massive shape that had just flashed past them, her jaw dropping as she made out the form in an instant.

"Ma Bessie!" wailed Rolf, and Mori turned in horror, seeing the despair painted on the man's face. Her eyes darted back towards the farm, checking for and finding the holstaurus, the weresheep, centaur, and troll, before following Rolf's haunted eyes towards the nearby field where the cow she had just indicated had been walking. The animal was absent, snatched away instantly, and a glance towards the quickly vanishing shadow revealed a suspiciously bovine shape suspended beneath it. "That durned reptile took ma Bessie!"

Her attention abandoning the indignant farmer, Mori let a wide grin reveal her teeth. Now, this would be a story to tell her sisters and her boyfriend! She had to hurry back, spread the word, before some other wag beat her to it. This would be the talk of the town in hours, she just knew it, and as one of the closest witnesses she would be just the person everyone came to hear it from - and thus, everyone would have to come to their restaurant if they wanted the story. After all, it wasn't every day that something like this happened!

A dragon had come to New Haven to hunt.

Author's Note: Welcome back once more, for the fourth installment of my MGE series! It has, ah, been a while since I last darkened these halls with my shadow. Aside from a few eruptions of creativity for speedwriting competitions, I haven't been able to make time to write since I concluded the predecessor work in this arc - and up front, I won't make promises about keeping anything approximating the pace I had back then. Employment always proves taxing, but teaching especially so, and each year that seems to increase. This year is no different... and yet, I aim to try my best to make time, to shove extra hours into the day, to make progress at putting onto paper the visions that dance in my head.

The stories in this series are, up to a point, each quite different, and this one in particular looks to prove a challenge. Unlike the preceding works, this tale will star three protagonists - along with a central character that binds many of the works together. At first, the focus will be on George Lambton, but both Roger Miralis and Simon Hopkins of the last two books will play starring roles of their own, along with their paramours, culminating in a combined conclusion. If my plans continue as I have foreseen, then I will need to hone the skill of switching perspectives between various heroes...

Thanks to all of you who read my humble scratchings, and my apologies for those of you who may have to go back to read again what I wrote before. I'll try to make your wait worthwhile, as my absence has not been entirely wasted - this tale is completely outlined and envisioned, and so hopefully I can make good progress. Wish me luck, eh?

If you'll excuse me, I need to get back to writing. No time now to sleep...

~Wynn Pendragon