Chapter 2 - Call to Adventure

No matter how many times it happened, Kenji would never get used to crossing the world in a moment.

Just a mere second ago, he and the old man had been standing outside of a town that lay at the base of a mountain, and now they were somewhere else entirely. Even the light was different - the sky was considerably brighter here, and he blinked his eyes against the sudden glare. That was far from his only discomfiture, however; as he swallowed, his ears popped painfully from the change in air pressure, and a sharp gust of chill wind slipped through his traveling clothes as though the battered articles were even more threadbare than they looked. Shivering and miserable, Kenji hunched under his heavy pack and turned to glance at his traveling companion - although, he mused, perhaps 'captor' was a better word for their relationship.

"Where have you brought me this time?" he asked dolefully, his habitual politeness having long ago been worn thin by the older man's eccentricities. Even though somewhere deep inside Kenji knew it was an exceptionally poor idea to antagonize the man, constant exposure to that danger had worn down his trepidation - familiarity breeding contempt, even when it came to dealing with a person able to transport them leagues in a moment… and, Kenji suspected, capable of much, much more besides.

"I'll be," drawled the elder, ignoring his melancholy hostage entirely. He had stepped to the edge of a cliff, looking over the edge at the valley that spread most of the way to the horizon. The vista was impressive indeed, Kenji admitted: a vast plain bisected by a meandering river, which led to a sizeable lake. The mountains they stood upon formed a solid wall that arched around two sides of the plain, while the opposite distance was marked by rolling hills that the sun was rising above - so the east, obviously - giving the sky there a golden shimmer that seemed to hang in the air. The south, then, was lightly forested up to the edge of the lake, while smooth grasslands formed most of the rest of the region, excepting the foothills nearby and along the northern peaks. Those intimidating slopes looked harsher than the mountains they stood among, with frosty caps and slate-gray walls that angled more steeply towards the sky than those nearby.

A chattering sound drew Kenji's attention back to the elder man, who, once more, was listening intently to the third member of their party: a small, bushy-tailed squirrel. The old man was absurd enough without his choice of consultation: he was hunched and bone-thin, with leathery skin draped across a knobby frame that was all angles and lines. His wrinkled skin was dotted with liver spots, and his gaping smile revealed a smattering of teeth that seemed to have all gone off course from their original orientation. Likewise, the bone-white hair that was sprinkled sporadically across his scalp defied any understanding of style or natural order, yet the dark eyes that peered out from beneath his jutting brow were bright with intelligence and insight. Unlike the once-sturdy traveling clothes Kenji wore, the old man was robed in a coarse linen tunic and breeches belted with a simple cord, and he clutched to a gnarled wooden walking stick as if it were the only thing keeping him upright, though Kenji had seen the elder's surprising spryness on several occasions during their incomprehensible travels.

"Yes, yes-yes, oh, he's down there alright." The old man's head bobbed as his smile split his face wide. The wrinkled head inclined conspiratorially towards the furry animal perched on his shoulder, as if sharing a profound secret. "Full circle, it has to be. It begins where it began… and it'll end where it ended, you wait and see." The wooden staff pointed towards a smudge along the river in the distance, and Kenji squinted his eyes, noticing faint trails of smoke rising skyward from what looked almost like a rudimentary village pressed against a bulge in the river's path. Beyond the collection of buildings, he could make out the brown squares being scratched into the earth - plots of farmland being carved out and traced with fencing. "He'll be there, and others too. They've started to gather, but they don't know it yet. Oh, this will be something to see!"

Without a glance back at Kenji, the old man began strolling down the rough mountain path, his staff unerringly finding the right place to plant itself. Kenji grimaced as he looked at the winding trail ahead of them, the switchbacks and steep descents, before hopefully calling out to the now-tunelessly-humming elder. "Could we perhaps start somewhere closer to our destination? It seems a rather perilous walk to that village. If we could only-"

"Legs were made for walking," the old man lectured, sternness undercut with a tone of mirth, "and mountain air for breathing. Hup hup, on we go!" He glanced back at the younger man with a smile that seemed to suggest that he alone got the joke, the biggest joke of all, and despite himself Kenji felt his curiosity pulling him forward. "We've only just begun, but this is worth seeing. You'll have much to tell by the time it is all done, a story for the ages!" The old man's laughter echoed off the neighboring peaks as he continued tottering down the trail, utterly oblivious to the dangers of the trail.

Kenji stood in begrudging silence for a moment, looking at the steep descent, then to the rolling plains beyond. Quick movement drew his eyes back to the path in front of him, and he watched the squirrel, having launched itself off the old man's shoulder and darting towards Kenji, bound across the rocks until it reached the morose younger man. It scrabbled up his pant leg and higher, until it reached a perch at the summit of his pack. Kenji could feel it settling down for the ride, and he glowered in its direction over his shoulder. "He said legs were made for walking; shouldn't that apply to you as well?" The squirrel chittered back in response, sounding almost mocking, and Kenji cut off any further reply as soon as he realized that now he, too, was conversing with a woodland creature. He had feared the old man's insanity was contagious, and he was being proven correct. Sighing and hefting his pack, Kenji forced himself onward in the old man's shadow, curious despite himself at what was to come next.

It was the sound of a key turning in the lock that broke the silence. As the sun had continued its ascent into the heavens, sound had once more began to seep into the prison cell from the high window, laughter and conversation and all the cacophony of activity, but the room itself felt insulated against those signs of life. George had refused to even look in that direction, to think about what lay beyond the stones that kept him sealed away and safe, but he wouldn't look in the direction of the sole door leading out of his captivity either. Instead, his brow furrowed as he leaned against the cold rock wall, he turned his gaze inward, thinking about what he would say to his captor once he was taken to meet with him. George was not skilled with speech on a good occasion, and though his time here had given him plenty of opportunity to craft his words, to imagine a hundred different verbal battles blow by blow, now that the time had arrived he found all his previous imaginings to have escaped. Something about this morning's visitor had also scathed him raw, too, and if he avoided looking to the door or the window, his eyes gave an even wider berth to the simple wooden tray laden with now-cold porridge.

This time, when the door swung open, it was Simon Hopkins who entered. On first appraisal, he looked little changed from the man who had departed from Olympus City with George and Lector Themras less than two months before. He had long ago discarded the uniform of an Inquisitor Errant, wearing instead simple robes that looked to be well-made, if plain. He still wore his round spectacles, and while his blonde hair had worn a bowl cut before, the weeks that had passed since their arrival in New Haven had softened its edges into faint shagginess. At his side he carried a long staff, its head zig-zagging to a rounded end. The big change in Simon's demeanor had been his confidence: since coming here, he had seemed to open up from the hunched academic that had followed meekly in the Lector's shadow, becoming much more passionate and energetic in his conversations with George each time he had come to visit.

That confidence was gone now, however. Simon quietly cleared his throat as he stepped into the room, not moving toward his usual seat or to greet George at the edge of his cell but instead carefully closing the door behind him. George sympathized with the stiffness he saw in the other man, knowing it to be a display of a nervousness they shared, but the Purifier Errant refused to let his own trepidation show so nakedly. Lifting his chin defiantly, George eyed his friend with a narrowed gaze. "Be careful, Simon," he warned, his voice cold, "you're going to get accustomed to walking men to their executions."

George's words instantly rankled the slighter man, and Simon shook his head in exasperation. "Come on, you're being dramatic. I'll admit, John doesn't particularly like you-" Seeing the other man's raised eyebrow, Simon pressed on with a conciliatory note to his voice, "Or any member of the Orders, but he has good reason! There's so much I wish I could tell you about-"

"I don't want to hear any of their lies!"

"I know, I know," Simon yielded, raising a hand in surrender. "But John has promised not to kill- I mean, John has agreed to a solution that seems fair, for all of us, you included. He'll give you the details, but I think this will maybe give you a chance to see the things I've learned for yourself. And, if it doesn't, then you get to go back to the Orders, and we have one less thing to worry about." Shrugging, Simon stepped closer and lifted the ring of keys he held, flipping through them in search of the one that was mated to the cell door's lock. "As long as you promise not to attack anyone here, I can take you to him and he'll explain everything about it." Simon's eyes flicked up to meet George's as the key slid into the lock, as if he was judging the other man's reaction to the unspoken request, yet the key turned without a pause.

George crossed his arms as the door swung open, the hinges squeaking shrilly in protest. "The ones on your side are the monsters, not me." He stepped forward, but noticed Simon was still standing in the doorway, just enough to impede his exit without physically blocking him. Sighing, George shrugged. "Fine. I won't fight anyone who doesn't come at me first." That was apparently enough to satisfy Simon, who stepped out of the way, motioning to the other man to follow him. As George did, his gaze fell upon the wooden tray despite his previous valiant efforts to avoid acknowledging its existence. "Oh, and…" He paused mid-stride, his brain seized by effort as he fought to find words to say something he couldn't even begin to shape, let alone define. "If you see Miss Lyra later, would you tell her that the porridge was delicious?"

Simon glanced back at the bowl, still almost completely full, before meeting George's gaze. He read the wordless plea he found there in an instant, and nodded resolutely to his friend, mentally vowing to dispose of the remaining food before the werewulfe maiden could come back to the cell to clean it. "I'll tell her," he promised simply, and George smiled in relief. A moment later, and the door to the chamber closed behind them, the cell as silent and still as it had been for the decades it had lain empty, before life had returned to New Haven.

The stone tower, Simon explained as they ascended the stairs beyond the door, had once been home to John Foster's master, a mage who had watched the east for the return of a Demon King. He had died trying to help the people of the town escape when the monstrous armies of that dark lord had invaded, with only a few people managing to survive the journey west to safer towns. Since then, the ruins of the town had lain abandoned, until refugees, this time monsters and men fleeing the expansion of the Holy Orders into a series of towns to the west, had resettled here and began efforts to return the town to a liveable state.

George could tell Simon was being careful in how he explained the story, especially when he gingerly discussed the recent role their brotherhood had played in the fate of this town. Still, seeing George's aspect darken at the suggested blame, the more bookish youth switched topics, pointing out things about the various rooms they passed on their ascent. Beyond the kitchens, and then the entry chamber at ground level of the hill the tower sat upon, the stairs passed a series of guest and storage chambers. One room in particular that drew George's interest was the library, currently being restored and re-catalogued, though sadly most of the collection had been lost to the passage of time and nature's invasive touch. It was a massive room that looked to span two floors, based on the amount of stairs they climbed before reaching the next door. This led to a suite of rooms for more important guests, though Simon deftly changed topics before George had a chance to ask if they were currently occupied. The penultimate level was split between chambers for the tower's master, and a wide-open study that, unlike all of the previous areas George had caught glimpses into, was currently occupied.

The olive-skinned young man, perhaps a year or so older than George, was lean and tall, though it was less noticeable due to the way he learned against a nearby wall, absent-mindedly fiddling with a small clay ball in his right hand. His black hair was long and hung down into his eyes, which were narrowed in preoccupation. His tunic hung loosely on him, and at his belt was a small cudgel, though something about the man, a civilian aura, made George fairly certain he wasn't used to using it.

"Ah, Roger, glad to see you," Simon greeted the other person, his joviality coming across as somewhat contrived. "This is George Lambton, the friend I've been telling you about. George, this is Roger Mir-, ah, the alchemist."

Roger glanced up, his gaze coming to rest on George, the dark eyes narrowing as they inspected the Purifier-Errant. He shifted his weight forward, coming away from the wall and standing upright, and George knew he was being sized up as a challenge. In return, he offered a curt nod to the other man, and after a long moment with their eyes locked Roger glanced over to Simon. "Nice to meet you," he offered lamely, not returning his eyes to George, instead nodding to his bespectacled fellow. "I've got to gather a few things; I'll catch up with you later." Without another word, he walked past the pair towards the stairs they had just ascended, and soon was lost from sight as the stairs curved downwards.

"Sorry about that," Simon apologized tersely, offering a sheepish grin to George. "He's helping me out by gathering a few supplies for… a project of ours. He's had an unfortunate history with the Orders, and he's one of the people that was forced to flee the towns to the west. That's why he wanted to see you for himself… to see if you were like those he had met in the past."

George eyed his friend coolly, certain that Simon had spent no small amount of time trying to convince Roger that the Purifier-Errant wasn't like those members of the Holy Orders Roger knew, and George was uncertain whether or not he should take offense at those efforts. His umbrage had no time to be voiced, however, before Simon led him to a final stairwell, this time sealed by an imposing door that bore a metal doorknob and keyhole. George noticed Simon glancing at him appraisingly, and the Purifier-Errant answered his concern with a steely nod. Whatever awaited him on the other side of this door, he would face it without flinching. He would show Simon, and all the other misguided men of this place, what the soldiers of the Holy Orders were truly like.

"You'll be fine," Simon reassured him - or perhaps himself - before reaching out to clasp his friend's shoulder. "He's not a bad man. And neither are you. Deep down, I think you both want the same thing: you want-"

"I doubt that, Simon," George cut him off, his words chilled by his mental preparations for what was to come. "He is a heretic, a liar, and someone actively working against the safety of our people. We couldn't be any different."

Simon met his gaze for a long moment, regret painted in broad strokes across his face. "I wish you could see how wrong you were. You and John share a lot of the same great qualities… and a few of your worst." Sighing, he reached out one hand, rapping firmly against the aged wood. A command to enter, sharp and authoritative, followed all but immediately after, and Simon gave one last reaffirming glance to George before grasping the tarnished metal doorknob and turning it firmly, the mechanism screeching as if in warning.

Simon stepped into the chamber beyond, and George followed closely behind. Simon stepped around his friend to close the door, giving the Purifier-Errant an unobstructed view of the chamber. Unlike the previous rooms they had traversed on their way up the tower, this one spanned the entire breadth of the spire, minus the stairwell's portion of the outer wall. This alone would have made the area feel spacious, but the lack of furnishings made it feel cavernous: a sole wooden desk dominated the room's center, while a handful of shelves and boards huddled around the walls, save for the one directly opposite, which featured a smaller staircase that led up to what must be the tower's open roof. A cursory glance at the shelving showed much of it was empty, and the boards likewise barren, aside from a handful of maps, ranging from continent-wide depictions he recognized from his classes, to more local ones, and some that were utterly foreign to him, colored in vivid shades of violet and magenta. The only truly messy portion of the room was the sprawled heap of papers atop the desk, a chaotic buffet of words that conflicted dissonantly with the man sitting in perfect stillness behind it, his eyes locked onto George with a predator's intensity.

At first glance, John Foster looked just as George remembered from their brief encounter previously: a young man perhaps twenty years old, with a sharp beak of a nose and hard brown eyes under a shock of brown hair. His face was especially angular with his lips pulled tight in a scowl, and his posture was also tightened by tension, sitting rod-straight despite the thick upholstery of the chair he sat in. Unlike their first encounter, John wore a dark vest over a black shirt, both decorated with silver scrollwork that looked expensive to George's eyes, along with black leather gloves - below his neck, not a bit of skin was visible. As different as the clothes were from the armor the man had worn when he came to Videre, John's attire seemed just as forbidding to George, who was accustomed to seeing people in simpler clothes unless they were a priest or a member of the Orders. Something of it reminded him of the stories his peers had told him of nobility, the arrogant upper classes that had ruled before the Orders had taken power from them and returned it to the people.

"Welcome to my home," John offered simply, though his tone proved how little he really intended to welcome his guest. "I would offer you the opportunity to make yourself comfortable, but our amenities are a bit more spartan than you are probably accustomed to." George scowled at the irony, which drew a humorless smile onto John's lips. "And I doubt you intend to stay very long anyways."

"John," Simon interjected, trying to curb the hostility seething in the room before it could erupt, "allow me to introduce my friend, George Lambton." The emphasis Simon placed on the word 'friend' was yet another attempt to soothe the tension - also futile. "George, this is my friend, John Foster. He's the leader of New Haven - along with many other things besides."

"At the moment, 'cat herder' may be a more fitting description," John demurred, frowning down at the papers before him. "Or clerk. This job feels like half wrestling paperwork, half convincing a group of people - who all want to do something different - to just walk in the same direction for a couple of minutes." His eyes flicked back up to George. "Not as glamorous a title as 'monster hunter,' I'm afraid."

"We don't need to focus on titles right now-" Simon desperately intervened, trying to stem the inevitable tide of bitterness.

"That's interesting," George riposted, undeterred. "Simon tells me you claim to be one of the Great Heroes. Surely you did a bit of monster hunting yourself?"

The room fell silent for a long moment, and the only motion as John and George stared at each other, eyes aflame, was Simon's slumping shoulders. John's smile did not abate, however; if anything, it grew sharper. "You know, we should continue this conversation… outside."

"John-!"

"Simon, I know you were going to drop by the new tavern down the street; feel free to go now, if you'd like." It was Simon's turn to frown, but John merely shrugged. "We'll just talk out there. I promise not to hurt him… first."

It was nakedly apparent from the way he looked between the two combative men that Simon was not reassured by this. "Are you sure-?"

"Don't worry!" John proclaimed, standing from his desk. "I'll show him the view, and we'll get to the options you and I discussed earlier. It'll be just fine." Before the others could object, John rounded his chair and headed for the stairs leading to the roof without so much as a look back.

Simon glanced to George, who merely shrugged in response, his eyes narrowed at the unspoken challenge in John's actions. The Purifier-Errant would show him that he wasn't afraid, whatever Simon felt. George could hear his friend sigh behind him, no doubt watching as George marched in John's wake. "I'll see you - both - in just a bit," Simon proclaimed, the scold inherent in his words unheeded by the pair ascending the stairs. Even as George reached the upper limits of the staircase, blinking his eyes against the dazzling brilliance of the morning sunlight as John held the door leading outside open for him, he could hear the door below pulling closed behind Simon, leaving the Purifier Errant alone with the lord of this city of monsters.

As George's eyes adjusted to the refulgent glare, he took in a deep breath of the open air. The walkway around the top of the tower was open to the elements, ringed only by a crenelated parapet. This left the wind to stream through the gaps in the stone, murmuring a low tone in the wake of one staunch gust, dying away to a sigh as it relaxed into a languid breeze. George took the moment to look around, not at the town itself but at the natural surroundings. New Haven was in a beautiful stretch of plain, with rolling hills to the east and sharper mountains to the west and north; the savage northern peaks were tall enough to be fringed with snow that all but glowed in the light of day. Closer to where he stood, George could hear the rumble and mumble of town life like he had observed from his prison cell, but this remote loft felt removed from that bustle of civilization as if it existed on a higher plane, observing but unseen.

George stepped up to the low wall, resting a hand on one raised corner and leaning over the waist-high portion to look down onto the town. New Haven was in motion like a disturbed anthill - workers and merchants streamed through the streets, calling out greetings or hawking wares, shouldering burdens or hammering at posts, laughing and sweating and creating. The place was different from any town George had ever seen, though there was a unity of purpose that felt reminiscent of congregations in the midst of rituals during holy days in the capital. Everything the people did, regardless of how dissimilar their individual actions were, was towards the goal of building the town up from the ground, developing the nascent city where nothing had existed not long prior, fast-forwarding the work of civilization and growth far beyond its natural pace.

It was the inhabitants, however, that were truly strange to George. Amid their number were men that wouldn't have looked out of place in any town the Purifier Errant had passed through: busy craftsmen hunched over their worktables, haggling vendors gesticulating towards their products, burly porters bent under the weight of their burdens. But mingled in with these, even outnumbering them by at least three-to-one, were a riot of other creatures. Some had serpent tails, others wings with brilliant plumages, yet others bulging muscles or curling horns. Every one of them bore some mark of their alien nature, something distinctly inhuman and alarming, despite the fact that they all wore feminine shapes - some exaggeratedly feminine, to George's discomfort.

"So… what do you see?"

George glanced to the side to see John regarding him with a smile that dissipated before it could reach his eyes; those were as dark and frigid as shadows. The supposed 'hero' was leaning carelessly back against the corner of one of the raised sections of the wall, hanging almost into the open crenellation beside it, his back exposed to the open air beyond that led down the height of the tower. George's eyes flicked away as he noticed that, repressing a grim thought and covering it with another inspection of the townsfolk below. "I see men, and monsters."

"Funny. I just see people." John sighed, spread his hands in mocking surrender. "I suppose you have to be a bit more discerning, being a monster slayer and all."

"I am a Purifier, yes," George proclaimed resolutely, facing the other man with a raised chin and squared shoulders. "One of those chosen to defend humanity against the monsters at the borders. Against the chaos that would tear down our society. Against-"

"Against girls like the one who brought you breakfast this morning?" John's laugh was bitter. "Not at my suggestion, trust me. I wanted to spare her that."

"Miss Lyra didn't choose what happened to her. I understand that. I know she's not…" George faltered, his next words knotting themselves upon his tongue. To say that a monster wasn't evil was nigh on heresy, even if it was true. Perhaps her monster nature would change Lyra over time, make her into one of those things, but she wasn't that now - she was more victim than villain at this moment.

"Lyra the werewulfe is no different from any of those people down there." John jerked his thumb back over his shoulder. "I've spent years with them. Men like you would throw them all on the pyre: fruit vendors, soldiers, farmers, bandits - one and all, without discrimination. Don't even try to deny it - we both know what happened to Lyra's grandfather. You would do the same thing to any single one of those women down there, and complain that you had no choice." Despite the facade of civility that John had worn in front of Simon, the man now let bitterness drip from his words like juice from an overripe fruit. "I know your type all, all too well."

George was slow in responding, gathering his words and weighing them as he could - and discarding each in turn - before finally the silence pressured him to speak. "I know that not all the monsters down there are the same. Maybe not all of them are pure evil. Maybe some are innocent - like Father Wulfe was." John paused on the verge of an interruption, silenced by the blunt admission. His eyes narrowed at the building passion of George's words. "But what you said is true. We don't have a choice. Monsters do steal people away, do attack villages on the borderlands. I wasn't the best student in history courses, but I know whole kingdoms fell even after the War of the Demon King. Maybe innocent people do die - on both sides - but we only do what we have to do to survive. We kill, but we kill for the good of humanity. Can you really say, if you claim to have been one of the Heroes, that you are any better?"

This last challenge hung in the air between them for a long moment. John glanced down at his feet, his lips tightening in a smirk that looked uncomfortable, but he held his tongue as he shook his head. Finally, he looked back up to George, his gaze dead and cold. "No, I'm not. Tell me, does your church keep records of the greatest of your Orders? Tell stories about their famous exploits?"

The question caught George by surprise. "N-no, actually. It's…" he motioned vaguely, trying to form an explanation, "it goes against the Precept of Selflessness. The names of heroes aren't important; only their deeds, and the glory of their Order. We do tell stories of what people have accomplished, but we don't attach their names to it, to show we each are capable of great deeds."

"Hunh," John muttered, shrugging his shoulders mildly, indifferently. "Well, just know this. If you took the greatest monster hunters of your Order - the best twenty, thirty… hell, more - I promise you something about them." He looked up, glaring straight at George with an intensity that the Purifier had seen on only one other face he could remember. Even his dark eyes seemed to glow from within, just as had Lector Themras's. "I promise you I have killed hundreds more monsters than they have, all added together."

George scoffed incredulously, but John's gaze didn't waver in intensity. "I guess they didn't teach you what a warlock is?" John pressed him.

"An evil wizard?" George hazarded.

"Ah, well, not precisely," John took a breath, considering his words. "I'll keep this as simple as I can." George narrowed his eyes at the implied slight, but the other man pressed on without seeming to notice. "All men, yourself included, produce mana. Think of it like a spring of magic inside your body, that swells when you eat and rest, and is expended naturally. Mages, like your friend Simon, produce a lot more mana than others, though some fighters do as well - they just release it through different methods, like sword techniques. Magic-users can expend mana through spells, using what they've learned to make their mana take physical effect. Warlocks, however, are a little different. While men produce mana naturally, some is also in the air around us, and infuses most natural things, like trees and water. We warlocks use our personal mana in rituals, starting and shaping a chain reaction in the ambient mana of an area to create an even bigger effect." Seeing the blank expression on George's face, John searched for an analogy. "Like… mages can make a fireball, but warlocks can make the air flammable, and then make a spark to set it off."

George nodded, less concerned with John's explanation of magical arts than his reason for bothering to offer it in the first place, and equally unsure of both.

Sensing his audience's lack of interest, John switched tactics. "Let me put it this way. When I fought alongside the other Heroes, I was often pretty much useless. Most of my spells, aside from a few simple ones, take ages to prepare, so I couldn't do much when we were racing to escape a dungeon or fighting a hit-and-run. But, when we were up against something bigger…" John glanced to the side, smirking sharply, and despite the brilliance of the morning sun George would have sworn he could see a golden glow emanating from the other man's eyes. "That's when I proved my worth. A thunderstorm to strike down flyers, a tidal wave to drown a fleet, an earthquake to topple a castle… I was our answer to problems too big to handle with sword or bow." There was a bitterness in his smile, more than melancholy and mixed with regret, that, for a moment, felt familiar to George.

"Then - assuming I believe you when you say that - why did you change? Why stop being a Hero, a protector of humanity?"

John took a moment before responding. Instead, he turned around, planting his hands on the knee-high rampart and leaning forward, out into the open air, as he looked at the town below. His stance was so unguarded that George shifted uncomfortably, moving back a step but not advancing to look over the wall himself. "I don't think I ever stopped being a Hero. Or, I guess, I picked it back up. A wise friend of mine once said, 'It's not what you fight against that makes you heroic, but what you fight for.'" John's eyes cut toward George. "So. What do you fight for, George Lambton?"

"I fight for my brothers," George proclaimed without hesitation, a familiar mantra from his training as a Purifier. "And for the good of humanity."

"Once, I thought I did too. When I was a kid, chased out of this town by the hordes of monsters that razed it, I dreamed of being the one that made sure no other kids were left homeless by the cruelty of wars like that. That no one else would have to see people they grew up with put to the sword or ripped apart. I dreamed of being the one to kill all the monsters and end the fighting forever. But now, I realize I fought then for the same people I defend now: the innocent. The people who just want to live, to love, to make the world a tiny bit better. And I still turn my sword against the monsters that would prey on them." There was no hiding the threat in those words, but the glare John directed at George extinguished all doubt.

George refused to back down in the face of that stare, tilting his chin up in defiance. Despite his unyielding stance, however, his words offered an olive branch. "I mean no harm to anyone here. So long as they don't threaten the humans I protect, then I have no reason to hurt them."

John barked a laugh at that. "Ah, so that brings us to the crux of our issue, doesn't it? Because, honestly, I don't care what you 'mean' to do or not. Even if I had the faith in you that Simon does - which, I can assure you, I do not - then I have just as much certainty that the people you answer to would gladly do all the hurting for you, once you told them how to find this place."

This drew George up short, and he blinked in surprise. "Well, of course, I don't know exactly where I am, so I couldn't send anyone here even if I chose to. And I would be willing to offer my word that-"

"That would be utterly meaningless. When you show up, leagues and leagues away from the town you were assigned to investigate, your leaders will have questions. You see, your fanatical friend the Lector was hardly one of a kind. You have a whole Order devoted to getting people to confess things they don't really want to - and a lot of them don't advertise how they do that. Not just magic, but also pliers and hot pokers and little pieces of metal that can slide under fingernails or into very tight, uncomfortable places." The sardonic grin grew as John spread his hands in mock helplessness. "So promise all you want; they'll get you to talk. And then they show up here, in this town under my protection, and a lot of people die. Mostly your people, but some of mine."

George considered this for a long moment. "I could be led blindfolded-"

"And, assuming you didn't fall off one of the cliffs on the way to your nearest outpost, you'd still have a good enough idea of what direction you traveled to get there. No good."

"Perhaps you have magic that could keep me from divulging the secret?"

"Oh, you're willing to let one of our mages tamper with your memory?" George's scowl was response enough, so John shrugged. "Try again?"

A long moment passed before the Purifier-Errant sighed in frustration. "Enough games. Simon said you had a solution for this problem. I'll hear it."

"So be it." John glanced beyond George, towards the steep mountains that formed the northern edge of the plain that encircled the town. "You see, while you have… enjoyed our hospitality for the past bit, we've been dealing with a few outside problems. One of them in particular offers the best answer to our little conflict." He moved past George, pointing out one particularly narrow peak that jutted above its neighbors. "Some monsters, less civilized than our citizenry, have been raiding our supplies. No one has been hurt so far, and I'd like to keep it that way. That's hard to guarantee, however, when you're dealing with a dragon." He glanced over to read George's expression, and chuckled when he saw the way the younger man was staring intensely at the peak he had pointed out.

"A dragon, you say? Like the ones from the stories?"

"That's right. I've fought a few myself, you know. Terrible beasts, incredibly powerful… and even the Incantation of Divine Transformation didn't change that very much. Somewhat hard to have functioning farms with one roaming around wild - tends to cut down on the livestock, maybe even a farmer. Now, I could take care of it myself, but I try to see opportunity in challenges. So I think, I send the second-biggest pain in my rear," George glanced down to see the finger pointing directly at him, "to take care of the biggest annoyance." Now, the same finger indicated the distant peak.

George fought down the excitement welling up inside himself to consider what John was really saying. "Wait," he murmured despite himself, "how does this solve anything you said before? If I slay the dragon, then I'll leave, right?"

John laughed openly at George's confidence. "Sure, you're free to go. You don't even have to kill the dragon; just chase her off, so she doesn't bother New Haven anymore. But to answer the question you're heading towards, take a trophy with you, scales or a talon - use that to explain how you got taken away from your mission in Videre. Maybe they'll even believe it - or not." Leaning again against the stone wall, John spread his arms in casual surrender. "But, to be perfectly honest with you, I don't think that will be a problem. I know what dragons are capable of, and I don't see you winning that contest. Best case scenario for me, the dragon thinks we're sending her a virgin sacrifice and takes you and leaves."

"A vir-!" Gritting his teeth, George forced down his indignation, taking a deep breath before exhaling through his teeth. "And what do you do if I actually win? Especially if you are so sure that me leaving means the Orders will come for you."

"Then I keep doing what I've been doing since the rebuilding started here." The warlock's smile was sharp enough to cut leather, and the pause in his words gave time for a chill breeze to wash over George. "I wait for the monsters to come."

The two stood in silence for a long moment before John suddenly grinned, reaching out with one hand to clap George on his shoulder. "This has been a good talk," he chuckled, seemingly oblivious to the glower his patronizing tone earned him from George. "Glad we could clear a few things up." Without pausing to see if the other man was following him, John headed for the stairs leading back into the building. Over his shoulder, he added, "Simon has gone out to gather the things you will need to get to the mountains safely. A horse that is trained to return here, some basic survival gear, food for a few days. Ah," the lanky man paused, and reached into his shirt to pull out a thin necklace with a single feather dangling from the front, "and I've got a gift for you, too." He extended it towards George, and there was mischief in his eyes.

"What is it?" George asked, looking the talisman over. As he had thought, it was a simple leather cord with a single reddish feather cinched to it.

"Enchanted harpy feather. If you ever find yourself falling from a great height, crush the feather to activate the spell, and your fall will slow enough that you won't be injured."

"I see. Yes, going up against a dragon, this could be-" George froze as he remembered the way John had leaned out over the edge of the building's roof, as if daring George to push him over. "Ah." It had been a test, then. "Well… thanks."

John smirked, shrugging, though George expected he was probably disappointed to have been proven wrong about the Purifier's character. "Glad to be of assistance," the arch-enemy of the Holy Orders proclaimed, and George rolled his eyes as he followed him down from the tower's summit.

George stopped just before he descended the stairs to glance in the direction of the distant mountain, and despite himself, a grin spread across his face.

An hour later, George Lampton stepped outside into freedom. Once again, he blinked against the harsh glare of the sunlight, but despite being not far removed from where he had spoken with John Foster, stepping out of this door felt completely different. He was free, finally able to leave this tower and-

His throat tightened as he looked at the flow of traffic crossing in front of the path that led from the tower's door down to the main road through town. While no one ascended up the steep path that led up to the warlock's tower, the road it intersected was busy at this time of day, and most of those travelers weaving to and fro around each other were monsters. A wagon trundled down the path, and a smaller cart was pulled by some woman with the legs of a horse, but most of the foot traffic was composed of women with the inhuman markings of monster races. He was going to have to walk among them, utterly exposed to the enemy, and that thought arrested his step.

He had to be bold. He was a Purifier, a hunter - a hero. He couldn't be intimidated by these creatures. Even outnumbered, he had his training, and he had even been provided with functional leathers and a decent knife strapped to his side. He could defend himself, just… not against a whole town full of monsters. Against just one or two, surely he would be fine-

"Mr. Lambton!" shouted a nearby voice, and George turned to see a familiar girl waving at him. Lyra Wulfe was still dressed in a plain white dress as she had been this morning, but she seemed far brighter out in the light of day - or, perhaps, her presence and brilliant smile brightened her surroundings, he couldn't tell. Either way, she jogged up to him, her canine tail wagging slowly behind her, and George couldn't help but return her grin. "Mr. Hopkins sent me to find you and to lead you to the stables where your horse is being kept," she explained, breathing a bit heavily from her jog through the crowded streets. She came right up to him, looking up to his face with an unrestrained smile. "Come on, I'll show you the way!"

George looked down at the paw Lyra offered him, and swallowed past the tightness in his throat. Taking the limb gingerly, he let her pull him into the flood of bodies, weaving and twisting as they spoke past all the obstructive bodies crossing their paths. "Mr. Hopkins just finished buying supplies for you, and I brought him some things from the tower," Lyra explained to him as they made their way towards the town's outskirts, glancing back to see if he was still there, even though they still held hands. "We think it should be everything you need for this quest, but if you can think of anything else, just let me know and I can run to whichever store would have it. You wouldn't think it with how this place looks, but the stores here have way more stuff than the general store back in Videre. I'm sure it's nothing compared to what you are used to, living in the Capital, but…" She smiled back at him, not noticing the wanness of his own grin as he stepped over the slithering tail of a lamia that crossed their path. "Oh, there he is! Mr. Hopkins! I brought him, like you asked!" She waved to the other man, and George let his hand fall away from her paw.

Simon looked up from his conversation with a stablehand, passing the man several coins as he turned to greet Lyra and George. He offered a thankful smile to Lyra before glancing to George, his gaze analytical. "I see you survived your conversation with John," Simon offered smoothly, his tone implying that his words were a joke, his eyes suggesting that they weren't.

George bared his teeth wulfeishly in a smile. "We both did, somehow. So… you are okay with this? With sending me off to fight a dragon?"

Simon's laugh was soft, and he looked at his friend knowingly. "Are you saying that you aren't okay with this idea? It sounded like something you would love." George's chuckle served as response enough, and Simon nodded as he continued. "And I'm not sending you off empty-handed, either." He motioned into the stable, where the stablehand he had been discussing with was retrieving a sleek rouncey already laden with saddlebags. Lyra rushed up to the horse, eyes wide and laughing, and the stablehand reached into a pouch and drew out an apple to give her, which she promptly offered to the horse with childish glee. George watched her with a smile, but it faltered as he saw her lupine tail wagging behind her, and he forced a grimmer expression onto his face. Simon drew his attention back, motioning to another figure approaching them. "I've already loaded rations and water for several days into the packs, and I got Roger to bring a few extras that will prove useful. He's a talented alchemist - he trained in a prestigious school out west," Simon added before George could object. Sure enough, the dark-haired man wore a heavy sling sack at his side, and he stared at George contemplatively through his bangs.

"Thanks," George said, to both men, as Roger finally reached them. The alchemist didn't reply directly, instead reaching into the leather satchel he wore and drawing out several stoppered vials. The glass containers contained a variety of fluids in different vibrant colors, although the majority were a deep reddish-brown in long, thin tubes. Roger counted out the containers, naming each as he did so.

"Three mending potions, two elixirs of vigor, one draught of slumber, three burn salves…" Finished inventorying his supply, Roger extended the collection towards George with a level stare. "Should be enough for most of what you'll face out there. All of these are most effective when they are directly consumed, but the mending potions can also be poured directly on wounds-" he held up one of the reddish tubes, "while the draught of slumber is also an aromatic, so if someone breathes in the fumes, they will be very drowsy for while at least." For some reason, the chemist looked especially satisfied with this one, a lavender-colored fluid in a round, flat-bottomed bottle. "Also, the elixirs of vigor will keep you running when you are wearied, but it comes with a price - about four hours after you drink it, the exhaustion will come back much stronger, and so you need to find somewhere to sleep for the better part of a day. Oh, and I would have included an elixir of boar's strength, but I'm missing a key ingredient…" George nodded as the man explained, trying to follow along - despite his obvious discomfort with the Purifier-Errant, Roger seemed on much more comfortable ground when it came to his concoctions.

"Thanks," George replied, simply but sincerely, and Roger gave him another long stare before nodding and turning to Simon, who had been watching their conversation.

"If you need anything else, I'm going by the Duck for lunch before I head back to the tower," Roger told him, and Simon offered his gratitude before the darker-haired man turned and left. While Lyra was still tending to the horse, cooing and gently adjusting the straps of the saddle, Simon came closer to his friend, holding before him a satchel lined with pouches.

"Here, this should be everything you need for a journey of a few days. There are water bottles strapped to the horse, food pouches full of jerky and trailbread, and a blanket. It should all break down easy enough into one pack, and you can just send the horse back when you reach the upper foothills. And this bag contains rope, flint and tinder-"

"The essentials," George summed up for his friend. He appreciated the gesture - though he had survived expeditions with far less during his training as a Purifier, having the basics always made the trips a lot easier. The gear was actually making him feel even more confident about this journey, especially as Simon reached over to the standing posts to claim a scabbarded longsword and a quiver with nearly a dozen well-fletched arrows.

"A few final gifts," Simon noted, handing them to George in turn. "First, a sword made by our best blacksmith." George drew the blade, admiring the sheen of the metal, the keenness of its edges. This was indeed masterfully crafted, and he squinted at the signature mark just above the crossguard - something like a B that still, somehow, reminded him of… Blushing, he sheathed the blade, resolving not to look at the mark again. "A quiverful of arrows with special heads - see the crystal?" Simon drew out one of the long arrows, and indeed, the head bore a small blue crystal embedded into the bodkin-pointed metal head. "It's an… enchanted crystal that I made." When George's eyebrow rose sharply, he pressed on quickly. "I used things I learned from the Orders to make them, so you don't have to feel bad about using monster magic or anything. Just… focus your energy on the tip of the arrow, and if it is working, it should light up." This explanation mollified George, and he reached out to take the quiver with a creeping smile. A yew bowstave and string came next, and George tested the stiffness of the bowstave as his grin grew - it was a close enough approximate to the bow he was used to using. Simon watched his expression, pleased to have correctly chosen for his friend's needs, before gasping in sudden realization. "Oh, I almost forgot! One last thing." He drew from his robes a small crystal on a string. The crystal glowed blue from within, a sort of whirling light that mesmerized George for a moment as he reached out to take it from the other man. "It's a sealed spell. Teleportation - specifically, summoning magic." When George looked up in confusion, Simon shrugged with a bit of embarrassment. "For if… things get really bad. If you shatter this crystal, it will create a point that I can open a brief portal to."

"So you can bail me out of trouble?" George laughed harshly at that, but his smirk wasn't entirely unkind. "You remember that we're on different sides of things now, right, Simon?"

Simon met his eyes, and the strength of that gaze surprised George. His friend had a new conviction about him that impressed the Purifier. "No, we're not," Simon declared unyieldingly. "You just need time to see how things really are. They really aren't-"

The tumult of the streets just beyond the stables had been constant, but now a couple of voices from across the street persistently pierced through the noise. "Will you take a look at that? Imagine how good those pants would look on the floor of my room."

"You can have the pants on the floor. I bet the ass inside them would look better on my bed," growled another voice, chock full of lust like a groping hand.

"Forget on your bed, it'd look better somewhere between my-"

George turned in shock to look at the two women making the crude comments. Across the street was a rough shack that served as a temporary pub, the timber skeleton of its intended maturation looming over the open-air seating for its current patrons and the single finished room that stored the kegs. Most of the seats were empty this early in the day, but the table nearest the road bore a plethora of toppled wooden mugs drooling backwash onto the coarse tabletop. Another handful stood, foam-topped, awaiting their own turn to be drained by the hulking women sitting at the table, their legs sprawled onto other empty seats pulled over for their comfort. In general, the two women looked similar - brawny, broad-shouldered, with skin bared by their brief fur-lined attire. Their barbaric natures were matched by the harshness of their faces, with high sharp cheekbones and brilliant white smiles punctuated by sharp canines, while slim curved horns arced above their heads. Their yellow eyes roamed George's shape across the street like lovers' hands, with quite similar destinations and intent. The key difference between the pair of women was the color of their skin: the slightly curvier of the pair bore crimson skin, while the leaner women had flesh of a deep blue. Seeing they had his attention, both women preened a bit, arcing their body to show off their more prodigious features - already bared by their costumes, the panoply of smooth flesh, of thighs and breasts, made George turn nearly the same shade as the red woman. "Like what you see, boy?" teased the blue woman lasciviously. "Feel free to inspect more closely, as long as you don't mind us returning the favor."

The red woman leaned towards George, exposing a deep canyon of cleavage that his eyes tumbled into despite his desperate efforts. Her smile spread across her face like warm oil as she let her eyes heft and caress his muscles and other relevant locales. "I prefer a hands-on inspection. Hands-on, clothes off."

"Ladies," warned Simon, and when George turned to glance at his friend he noticed they had been rejoined by Lyra, who was scowling fiercely at the two larger women, the fur on her tail bristling. Simon held aloft a symbol towards the pair, and from a cursory glance George noticed it was a wooden disc bearing a heart-symbol atop a pair of sundered lightning bolts. "This is official business on behalf of-"

"Oh, we really don't care," chided the blue-skin, waving a dismissive hand even as she eyed George like a lioness eyes a limping, chubby antelope. "We're from Zipangu. We don't answer to your Demon Queen." At those words, George turned to stare at Simon, but another voice silenced his question before it could emerge.

"He's not interested, so leave us alone," growled Lyra, with a fierceness that poorly matched her comparatively-smaller frame and unassuming garb.

"Poor widdle puppy upset she hasn't got a taste?" mocked the red woman in a singsong. "Come with us, then, and we'll show you how to really lick." Beside her, the blue woman extended her tongue, which lolled further down her chin than a human's could ever manage. Lyra blushed fiercely, not meeting George's eyes when he glanced to her.

"Hey, pretty boy, we're inviting you for a drink. Just come over here." The blue woman's voice was commanding, and her yellow eyes speared George like a fish in a stream. "Or are you scared?" Her mocking smile hooked into George's pride, and he stepped forward as if reeled in by her mockery. "Big boy too much of a coward-"

"What's that, cousin?" A new, gravely voice interrupted the woman, and she and her red-skinned compatriot sat up straight and went wide-eyed. George looked to the side to see a third brutish woman joining the pair, this one green-skinned and taller than either of the others, a true goliath of a woman armored with unclad slabs of muscle on almost every surface, though she was even more buxom than either of the others. Her face was as harsh as a crude axe, sharp and hooked and eager, and she too had intimidating horns emerging from her long white hair. 'You're not giving our hosts any trouble, now, are you?" Her words emerged from her mouth like weapons, and the sudden paleness of the seated pair showed they had bitten deep. She stepped up, pulling her cargo - what looked to be a small keg with a thick strap - from her shoulder and dragging a chair to plop between the other two women and their target, slamming the keg down onto the table with enough force to leave foamy beer sloshing from the other mugs. She glanced back, looking past George to nod at Simon, who bowed his head in gratefulness. "We've got drinking to do and business to talk, so leave the toys for later," she commanded, and the blue and red monstrous women shot disappointed glances at George before turning to talk to the newcomer, their game forgotten for now.

Beside George, Lyra breathed a sigh of relief, and Simon nodded. "I'll pay for Kana's next meal at the Duck for that one," Simon muttered, and George shot his friend an appraising stare.

"Weren't you just saying that monsters aren't such a threat?"

The blunt question brought a blush to bloom on Simon's cheeks. "They're not dangerous, just… persistent," Simon muttered, ignoring that even Lyra stared at him incredulously. "Anyways, you will see that all-"

"I should go." George shook his head, stepping closer to the horse that would carry him away from this place. "I appreciate what you've done for me, but… I don't think you'll convince me, Simon." George didn't let his eyes wander towards Lyra, afraid of what he would see there. "I have a job to do, and I'll do it. And while I disagree with you, Simon, I don't hate you - which is why I'll say this." He stopped, turning to look at his former friend, his blue eyes cold. "If John and you are right, then the Orders will find this place eventually, no matter what I do. And when they do-" His eyes flicked towards Lyra, who watched him with distress plain on her features, "No one you care for should be here. Run away, and save yourselves." With that, George hauled himself onto the rouncey, easily settling into the saddle.

Helping to guide the horse towards the stream of traffic passing through the town, Simon took his time to respond. Finally, as they waited for a wagon to trundle past and leave the path clear, Simon looked up to his friend with a resolute smile. "We're not running, George. I found something truly worth defending, and if I must lay down my life for it - like Father Wulfe - then I will." His gesture encompassed the town, not just the girl standing nearby also looking up at George with a conflicted expression. "I just hope you find something just as worthy."

George stared at his friend for a long moment, his heart encumbered by a Gordian knot of words. Finally, instead, he just smiled and nodded - and then he rode away.

George's progress through the countryside was considerably swifter than he had expected. He had stopped not far from New Haven to take an inventory of his possessions, and to study the map that was included within the packs. Included within was a rough survey of the mountains that surrounded his destination, and he could see several promising paths that should help him ascend the lower slopes at the least. His journey to the base of the mountain would take less than the rest of this day if he maintained a decent pace, and he intended to camp out at the peak of one of the foothills for the evening before beginning his climb the next day. He would turn away his horse once the climb got steep - he wouldn't risk injuring the beast, and his own experiences during his wilderness training let him know he would have an easy enough time making progress up the mountain until he got closer to the summit - assuming the dragon let him get that close.

Riding through the plains, he found no signs of human habitation, nor of the monsters that had thronged the town. It was a solitary journey, interrupted only by the sight of deer and other grazing wildlife, and the cry of circling hawks, though he did see the prints of wolves as he crossed a shallow stream. It surprised George that being so isolated from other people left him feeling so free, but being removed from his cell and the oppressive confines of the monsters' town made him feel almost ecstatic - he hadn't felt this energized since his training forays during his time as a Purifier Squire. The closest he had come was his unsuccessful hunts during the mission to Videre, but then he had been working with a crew of mercenaries; now, he was free to move on his own, to rely on his own wits and skills. He breathed in adventure with the crisp air streaming past his face as he rode for the northern mountains, his cheeks windrosy and his eyes bright as the sky above.

Uneventful as his journey was, weakness from the time he had spent in his cell left him feeling sore as he dismounted for the evening, the sun beginning to sink below the western mountains, painting the landscape in warm hues belied by the crispness of the air that let him know a fire would serve him well that evening, protecting him not just from the shadows of the mountain. He tied up his horse with a long enough lead to let it graze, and stripped it of its burdens, beginning to condense what he would need for the journey into a compact pack. He wore what he could on him, including the harpy-feather necklace and the pouch of potions, and pocketed the crystal Simon had given him. Likewise, he kept his quiver, bow, and longsword together and within reach, not certain if the night would bring more dangers than the journey thus far had foreshadowed. With those things settled, he started a small fire and broke into his rations, eager to eat and be ready for bed soon after the sun was completely set. He knew, without someone else keeping watch, he would have to sleep lightly, and wanted to get as much rest as he could for the next day's climb.

He was almost finished eating when his horse began to panic, letting out a scream that broke the silence and kicking up its forehooves. At the first cry, George lunged for his weapons by instinct, his eyes searching for danger as he drew out the blade. A glance at the spooked animal showed that its eyes were rolled back in a panic, but its face was turned up towards the sky and was tracking something above. Sudden realization sent his stomach plummeting, and George dropped the blade and dove back for the bow. A moment later he turned, his own eyes searching the sky, now a plum's mottled purple and black. Even his trained hunter's eyes searched in vain for a long moment, but as his horse cried again, he spotted it - a darker patch in the heavens above, moving swiftly in a great curl over the foothills.

With a piercing snap, the rope holding his horse gave way, and the animal dashed away down the hill, cutting away from the shadow overhead. George bit back a curse - in truth, the animal had only been drawing attention towards him, and now it would draw that same attention away - plus, he had only meant to release it in the morning anyways, and it would follow its training back to town, assuming it survived what was prowling overhead. A dragon - !

Grinning with feral enthusiasm, George slipped closer to the sole tree that topped the hill he stood upon, one of the arrows Simon had given him nocked and pulled taut as he tried to read the heavens above him for the swift shadow. There! against the full moon, the shape of outstretched wings, batlike but unfurled like sails; a central long-necked body with an arrowhead tip at the front and the curl of the tail at the back; even, as it drew closer, two legs pulled close to the body at its waist. George watched as it arced closer, drawn to the sound of the horse's screaming cry.

George brought the arrow's tip higher. Even with the beast coming closer, the shot would be impossibly far - the target, moving at a clip faster than anything he had even scored before. George's eyes fell on the small gem decorating the tip of the arrow, and he remembered Simon's words, his suggestion to just focus on the magic stone within to empower it. His eyes narrowed, and he tracked the dragon in the skies above as it came closer.

'This is it,' George resolved to himself. 'The moment I become the Purifier I dreamed of being. A dragonslayer. A hero.'

At that, the gem at the end of the arrow flared with a brilliant yellow light. It reminded him of the spells he had seen Lector Themras cast: a flame, searing and cleansing. His smile grew, and he focused as the beast flew to its closest point to him in its arc towards the fleeing horse.

Time froze, a tipping point - and a star rose into the heavens, arcing up to meet the turning shadow. A sound tore the air, a painful screech that sent a shiver up George's spine, and the speeding shadow wobbled in its course, its wings beating ineffectively as it lurched away from the sudden pain. The beast's assassin watched from below, trying to read the shadowy form to see if his arrow had struck true; had he taken it in the heart? He could only see dark green scales and flailing wings as the graceful flight turned into something jerky and uncontrolled as, rolling in the air, the beast careened off its path and towards a nearby depression between two of the rolling foothills. Even as it descended, its flight decayed into a tumbling crash, and George could have sworn he felt the earth jump as if startled when the green meteor struck. He lowered the bow slowly, hope blossoming in his heart as he reached down to claim the sword he had discarded. He hadn't been gone a day, and already - !

He crushed that childish glee as he saw to his preparations. He couldn't be sure the beast was dead; dragons were notoriously durable, and even such a mighty crash might not have killed it, if his arrow had been off its mark. He belted his sword in place, and threw the quiver of enchanted arrows over his shoulder, keeping the bow close to hand. If the beast still lived, he would be ready to confront it and finish the job, no matter what it took. He would show them all how great he was, George and John and Lyra-

His stomach tightening, George started walking towards the downed monster. No, that wasn't right. He was looking for a trophy to take to the Orders. They would be the ones to salute his achievement, perhaps even to promote him for his victory over such a terrifying monster. That he felt a whisper of disappointment at the situation was nonsensical; this was what he had dreamed of as a child, and tonight, it would come true. His steps long and his balance true despite the gloom of night painting his path with stippled moonlight, George raced down the hill and up the next, eagerly approaching his destination.

As he topped the final hill, his pace slowed. Something was wrong. He could see where the dragon had collided with the earth - but the crater was empty. No still corpse, no dragging tracks leading away - surely the beast couldn't have just disappeared. He could see something smaller, perhaps, in the shadows of the small pit, but the thing he had shot had been several times larger; at least several times longer than he was tall. He walked more cautiously towards the shadowed depression, his weapon ready at his side. Had it burrowed, perhaps? Or maybe it had some type of camouflage-

A shadow drifted past the moon, and pale light slipped into the crevice like cold water, splashing over pale flesh. He could see inside now, but instead of the gargantuan beast he had expected, he found… a girl, just a bit younger than himself. No, he corrected himself grimly; a monster. Where her arms would be, she sported the same batlike wings at the creature he had shot down. Her legs, too, were scaled, and under her curled a long, serpentine tail. Short horns curled back from the top of her head, and her wings and legs sported hefty claws. She wore decidedly little: a tight-stretched top and what resembled a leathery skirt; nothing that would be protective from the weapons he bore. Speaking of, he could see the fletching of his arrow sprouting from her right shoulder. She had rolled onto her back, facing the sky above, and as he watched, her face screwed up with pain and she cried out, a sound far from the bestial shriek that had come from his arrow's interruption of her flight. Underneath her messy nest of smokey-gray hair, her eyes were winced shut, and he fought to harden his heart against her moaning, audible even where he stood. She was hurt badly, he knew, and he had done it. He stared at her for a long moment, unable to move, to act, to think.

The next arrow, locked in place, rose on the hinge of his arm, and trained on her breast. It couldn't miss from this range. Another shot would give her peace, silence the moans. The gem at the tip of the arrow ignited with yellow energy… it waited, ready to pierce distance and flesh… its light sputtered, died.

He had begun to lower the arrow when the heavens rang out again. This was a different sound: a roar, but not a cry of pain. It was a statement of irrefutable dominance, like the thunder that sent primal man scuttling for his caves. It slammed into the stone of the mountains like a hammer, resulting in rippling echoes that were pale copies of its majesty. The sound made cowards of George's knees, and with blood cold in his veins George looked back up into the sky, seeing a monstrous shadow far, far above.

Despite the much greater distance, he could see this beast was much greater than what he had shot. It was bulkier, with four legs instead of two, and the massive wings spread further. Some hapless creature was clutched in its grasp, and it looked to be a whole cow. Those claws could hold a man like a pencil, and snap him with greater ease no matter what armor he wore. Just the sight of the creature drove hope from George like air from his lungs, and he realized exactly what he had agreed to do - and the reason for the dark humor in John Foster's eyes when he had agreed to kill a dragon alone.

But… if that shape, soaring now to the peak of the mountain, was a dragon… then what had he… Another trembling moan from behind him made George begin to turn, and his fingers tightened on the bow he held. He swallowed, knowing what he had to do, what was right, and what his instincts were telling him to do. He just wished any of them were the same.

He turned, bow in hand, and walked towards the fallen figure in the grass.

Author's Note: While I am guilty, frequently, of long breaks, I can't really muster a sufficient apology for this one. I offer, not an excuse, but a reason: my job has become increasingly covetous of my time as I become more of a fixture in the faculty. The time since my last published chapter has seen me take on a variety of demanding roles in my school: sponsor for major clubs with lengthy field trips to arrange and chaperone, director for two school plays (one of which I largely wrote), as well as counselor to… far too many of my students, and peers, and bosses. The responsibilities have left me little time to write, as much as that galled me, and chipped at my sanity.

This year seems a bit more promising. I have classes that are on a college schedule, giving me more time to plan on certain days; I have to do the yearbook, but that is a job that has its demands come in seasons, much like my drama classes. So, with gaps in my schedule, I have had time to finally finish this chapter, and I hope to return soon - definitely sooner- with the next chapter.

I will say, the next chapter will switch its focal character for a bit (one of the gimmicks with this particular tale) as we turn to one of the other titular heroes. Look forward to more of a glimpse of life in New Haven, as well as the reappearance of characters and plotlines from Not Alone. George's story will have to wait its turn, but don't worry - the main part of this tale is his, in the end.

I go now to take a short break, but then to pick up planning for chapter 3. Just a brief sleep...

~Wynn Pendragon