The Sword Dancer tore off the last strip of boar meat from the bone. Ever a Lady, she wiped her mouth with the clean surface of a leaf. All the while, Jacq contentedly rested her back against a smooth boulder after wiping the blood off of their golden statue, her body succumbing to the warm embrace of a full belly. Her eyes were partially closed but attentive, the flickering fire reflecting in them as if a dance of fireflies played within her gaze.

Seetha’s own gaze was up at the stars through the tree tops, and where her eyes went so did her mind. “Offhand, I sometimes wonder,” she mused. “Each and everyone one of those stars up there, scattered like stones after a great throw by the Mother, could be another world like ours, you know? It’s just a silly thing I heard the Scholastics talk over once, but do you think stars have their own lands and kingdoms? Do you suppose they have their own pagans as well?”

Jacq regarded her for a moment before turning to look up. “It had crossed my mind once,” she sighed softly, “but studying history at university gave me something like an epiphany. It’s strange, even in the libraries of brainwashed Imperials, you sometimes find unadulterated truth. I’m not too proud to admit that much, although I wouldn’t put it past them if they’ve forgotten half the stuff they never read. Anyways, I learned that there’s nothing new under the sun in this world, and mostly likely on any other world. From the old monarchies of Isyr, Old Cimbri, and the Athelings, to the rebirth of democracy in High Cimbria and the Sister Realms; it’s still all the same under the sun. The same story playing out on every world stage. The greatest lie ever created by society is that things will get better: ‘Peace will be achieved, lawlessness will end, truth shall prevail—so long as I am at the top.’

“Every upstart with good intentions gets chewed up and spit out into another pig on two legs. All fair and admirable goals? Boiled down into another struggle for the seat on top of the pyramid; and for what? One falls, another rises to fall, pulling the rest of us back under the iron thumb of authority to keep the failures of democracy cycling in endless contempt, and deprivation. It’s still the same thumb now, in High Cimbria, but just a different hand. A more civilized, nonhuman, feminine hand, which makes even agreeing to disagree all the more insidiously dangerous, because dissension costs you everything. Rebellion isn’t an inalienable right for the just anymore, but a tool for High Cimbria to exploit fear into other kingdoms into joining their corral. You remember what happened to Thacoville, right? All that mess over a jester who doubled-down over a gate lock?”

Seetha shivered. “That’s downplaying it quite a bit. When Fey’wild used to be known as that aforementioned name, pagans once helped build that town and lived alongside the locals. Peacefully, in fact. The Chantry claimed that the land it was built on was an ancestral birthright to some noblewoman from the Circle of Sorcerers, and demanded that the mayor resigned his post over to her. Some saw it as overdue reparations, others as an obtrusive removal of a democratically elected official.”

“So that a crone and her gaggle of smelly trollops could stand slack-jawed on the shoulders of giants and pretend that it was paradise earned.” Jacq added dryly.

“You jest, but you’re not wrong,” said Seetha. “When a mob arrived from Queens’ Barrow to expedite the transition, there was a traveling circus in town at the time. No one knows for sure who or what started it, only that one of the performers smelled trouble, took it upon himself to close the town gates while the guards were drunk. That’s when things began to get ugly… A thousand people frightened out of their wits who didn’t have the faintest idea what was happening. I still can’t believe it. The town guards just gave up and legged it after being under siege for about three hours. Then those hours turned into a month. Farm fields burning, homes and shops looted and vandalized. By the time my father and the circuit judge finally showed up, everyone inside was living on rats and rainwater and even... on each other. The rioters had to dig the graves afterwards, but no arrests were made. They got what they wanted in the end… paradise earned.”

All was still, save for the crackling of burning wood.

“How could those animals think themselves so righteous for attacking innocent villagers?” Seetha grimaced.

Jacq shook her head in lament. “The Imperial comes only to destroy what they can’t rob or control. Even the fields there that grow their Mokha beans by the dozen is sponged off, on account of those buried… still,” she sighed, desiring to change the subject. “Life, repetitively bad as it can be, is better than having no life. I say let the intellectuals ponder over stars. I would go a little further to even say that they can wonder about mirrors of our realities, if they’ve got nothing else better to do. I know one thing for certain: if there is more than one reality out there, then there are no less of me out there as well, but even being thus, there’s only one true me. I know myself: I am Rüzgârian.”

“Hmm,” Seetha pondered. “Not easy defining ourselves these days. So, what does it mean to be Rüzgârian to you?”

“Nothing…” Jacq paused. “Everything.” She went on meditatively. “My people came to the Continent to build a new home after the old empire fell. No one thought we’d survive if we didn’t do whatever it took to survive, but we proved them wrong. We keep our virtue when others lose theirs, we trust in ourselves when others doubt themselves; never dealing in lies or false pleasantries like the ‘civilized peoples,’ never making war for war’s sake nor giving way to reckless hate. It’s not in our nature to seek the what-ifs beyond death or stars, because life in this world isn’t without its glories or reasons to live. There is something more powerful than death or stars in each of us: the Will to hold on when there’s nothing in you. That is a power too precious to allow any king or empress, or even a god, to tamper—what better offer could the Imperials give to you or me? A piece of a plundered empire so far from what it was?

“I don’t know if you’re right and your Goddess has a plan for all of us, or if we’re simply caught between slavery under tyranny or the soul sucking wheel of the daily-grind, nor do I really care. All I want is to burn with life, to live deep and free while I live; to fight the battles worthy of songs where the lines are clear through the perfidious madness, to know the rich juices of red meat and malt beer on my tongue, the grasp of gold, the warm embrace of a hound at my side in winter’s throes, the mad exultation of muscles around my warm bosoms when the shaft breaches me and floods me with love, and I shall be content.”

“…Shall I leave you with your ‘happy thoughts’ then?”

“Greed, deception, negligence, abuse of power? Nothing has changed in over a thousand years, except now people are oh-so nice about it. And what is a pagan anyways, but a wiseman who’s seen the so-called betterment of a society by physicians blind to their own sickness and as such refuses to be a part of it, and for that is debased as some grunting Grognard? I’d rather be that than to envy the crown of my oppressors, to forget myself and settle for appetizers. I’ve seen my future in Imperial eyes whenever they look down at me, and you know what I’ve seen? A forty year old spinster sitting in a cat-turd-filled townhouse with a pixie poster, sipping on an almond chamomile while writing fake reviews for awful poetry reciting at a cabaret.”

Seetha stared at her for a long moment. Her lips slowly twitched into a crescent stretched across her face. All of a sudden, her laughter echoed through the stillness of the forest, puncturing the night with a joy that was contagious.

“Are you serious?” she gasped between fits of laughter as she doubled over. “An almond chamomile, really?! For a moment there, you were deep.”

She knew she was being ridiculed, but Jacq’s mouth couldn’t help but break into a smile, and soon she too joined in with her own hearty chuckle. “A little levity to bleak prospect is like a finger in the dam,” she retorted through her mirth.

“Yeah, but you never could keep a straight face,” smiled Seetha after settling down, “not with that sense of humor.” Just when she thought she had regained self-control, the image of the larger than life Barbarian living such a miserably mundane existence was too hysterical. “Oh Holy Mother, I can see it now,” she managed to say between breathless giggles, “you, in another reality, sipping on chamomile with a fat tabby cat named Muffins in your lap, fingers snapping in praise over Bartrius’ terrible sonnets about sticking it to the king.”

“If pigs could fly me up to the stars, I would find and unceremoniously murder that other me,” Jacq playfully protested. “And does it always have to be a cat? Because I’m a woman? Couldn’t it be a puppy or a snake? Hell, I’d settle for Fluffers if I knew that a cockatrice could be housebroken.”

“Heh. Always the critic,” Seetha sighed as she flopped back onto the blanket, her chest heaving from laughter, and stared back up at the celestial carpet above them.

Jacq found herself popping a random remark that’s been on her mind for some time, the crescent of the moon shone in her blue eyes. “If my conscious could still think after death, I’d miss you,” she said bluntly. “I’d miss burning with life, in spite of everything.”

Seetha made no response, but in the back of her mind she felt a tinge of sadness to remember that the world was still out there, ready to tear the two of them apart with the sins of Jacq’s forefathers. Would someone in the Guild listen to her report? Would Ishmael listen? She felt no doubt that he would, given that he mentored her in her first years at the Guild. That was a sad statement in of itself, but it was Jacq’s only hope. Soon, the fire had died down to glowing embers, bathing them in a warm red glow that casted dancing shadows against the trees along the ravine, surrounding them like an ominous palisade.

Smirking, Jacq rolled over on her side before pushing herself into a sitting position. “But what's with all the drama?” she said. “This is supposed to be an adventure, not a eulogy. Isn't this the part where we gloat over our treasure like some greedy goblins?”

Seetha rose from her spot, padding towards their golden statue lying beside the Barbarian. Half of it glowed orange from the campfire. The rest glimmered in the moonlight, the face now clean of blood, facing aimlessly up at the sky.

“So how much do you think he’s worth?” asked Jacq.

“Well, there isn’t any life-sized golden statues in Rourkehaven’s archeological archive,” she examined their treasure, “I know that for certain. On the other hand, it could be that he predates all archeological knowledge. We’ve just never seen anything like this until now.”

“So he’s lost treasure? I like the sound of that.”

“It’s a possibility,” Seetha explained. “The Cimbrians of the old empire used to make intricate statues of their emperors, like this one but bigger, to commemorate coronations and holidays dedicated to victories in battle. Of course, those were made out of marble, sometimes out of jade if they had enough of the stuff. Gold-smithing was always a costly practice, but it became considerably more so when the old empire fell, and even after it was rebuilt the secret knowledges of Old Cimbri were lost. Before that, the old empire still prospered; until the 2nd Century Y.III.S when the cult of Sol Invictus popped up in Renéria, took over Old Cimbri’s politics and religious indoctrinations.

“Sol Invictus? Wasn’t he just another emperor who fancied himself as some god?” Jacq inquired.

“Compared to his predecessors,” said Seetha, “they were saints. Before going to war, his acolytes would make golden statues in the resemblance of enemy kings and their false gods, before offering them up on the altar of Sol Invictus in his temple, where they melted them down using the sun’s light through a large magnifying glass. It was a ritualistic demonstration of Old Cimbri’s new divine power, destroying their rivals.”

“Which was a nice way of wasting gold,” Jacq chided.

“Well, it gets even worse,” Seetha went on. “If the enemy king of Sol Invictus was hated enough, golden statues would be sculpted in the likeness of his children, only to be melted down and then poured into the soil of his lands. Figuratively, and literally speaking, the seeds of his enemy would never rise from the earth ever again.”

“Tch, and they call my people barbarians.”

“Yeah, but no historical evidence of that exists anywhere, or so I thought. Alright, so the cult wasn’t exactly people-friendly, or very talkative about their ritual practices. Although, this could just be a commissioned piece from a private buyer.”

“Yeah, someone who didn’t like pagans.”

“But if we’re right,” Seetha pondered, “then that’d make him at least, um… 1,200 years old! He could be worth 500,000 gold florins!” she exclaimed.

“Crapper snappers!” Jacq mused aloud. “Now that’s a meal ticket, alright. His right hand alone could pay off both of our bounties; plus the fingers and nail clippings can get us better equipment, and maybe even a room in a proper townhouse.”

Seetha cocked an eyebrow. “I think you exaggerate, but I’m more concerned with the way you just described cutting up a boy like you would a cow.”

“Seetha, its a statue, not a living thing,” Jacq chuckled. Her eyes seemed to glint in the dim light as she bent down with outstretched arms, and kissed the cheeks of the golden boy with an air of delight. “Still, thanks to you,” she spoke to it as though it was a living thing, “we’ll be feasting like queens and shittin’ Cimbrian parfait for months.”

Seetha laid back onto the blanket again, her sparkled eyes fixed on the statue as she ran her fingers down its innocent face. “I’ll say this: no peasant is going to get their dusty mittens on this for no sixteen penny florins.”

Jacq giggled mischievously. “You got that right.”

At last, thinking about how easy it will be to settle those student loans, Seetha joined Jacq in lavishing their prize with actual hugs and kisses. Jacq turned to her and stuck her tongue out in feigned jealousy, before fully embracing with her whole body the—but then she realized what she was doing.

That same realization popped up on Seetha’s face as well, briskly releasing her grasp and scooted back. “Okay! I think we’d better get to bed before things get a little iffy,” she laughed nervously.

“Agreed.” Jacq shuffled away. “So who get’s the charmeuse?”

Seetha's hand shot out with determination, grasping for their shared bag. “I do!” she exclaimed.

Jacq's movements mirrored hers, equally swift and determined. “No, you had it last night. By the river, remember?”

“No, it was two nights ago in Wellington,” Seetha insisted with a furrowed brow.

“The hell it was!” snapped Jacq. “It was last night. It’s my turn!”

“Stop being such a baby, Jacq. I bandaged you up, so I’m the one who deserves a little reward.”

Jacq shot a petulant look. “And who had to carry around golden boy here? What do you think he weighs like, marshmallows?” Seetha stuck out her tongue cheekily. Seeing no diplomatic solution to their blanket dilemma, they resolved it with a quick game of probability; specifically paper-rock-scissors.

Jacq lost.

Seetha grinned as she triumphantly snuggled into the warmth of the soft fabric, her green eyes aglow with a conceited twinkle at the Barbarian who huffed indignantly, but conceded nonetheless. “Well, I guess next time, I’ll forget what I sleep with, too.” she moped, brushing off stray leaves from her loincloth as she got up.

Having volunteered to take the first watch, Jacq slouched against the boulder. She stayed awake for as long as she could manage, her hand resting lightly on the hilt of her sword. Her eyes, heavy with sleep, darted between the gold statue and the swaying shadows in the forest beyond. Despite the quiet stillness that seemed to fill their small camp, Jacq remained alert to any sort of danger that might come their way. Her vigilance didn't last long though; the soft lullaby of the running stream, the crickets, and the night birds began pulling her into slumber’s gentle embrace.

The fire popped and crackled, throwing its last sparks into the air like fleeting fireflies, illuminating Jacq’s tanned face. Her eyes were heavy, her vision blurrier with each passing moment. She shook her head, blinking rapidly to wake herself up, but sleep was creeping up on her, whispering sweet promises of rest into her ears. Suddenly, laughter broke through the silence again. This time, it was low and infectious.

Seetha stirred from her sleep, relieved to see it was only Jacq. “What’s so funny?” she grumbled.

“I just remembered...” Jacq managed to say between bouts of laughter. “...so, a Cleric walks in and says, 'anyone here who wants to be healed in four easy steps, please stand up…’”

There was a pause. “Wait—that’s it? You mean that was the cripple joke that started all of this?” Seetha stood up with a start. “Ah, that wasn't even a good one!”

“You haven't even heard my best one,” Jacq snickered. “So, which saint does a cripple pray to? Kris Kripple!” At that, she threw her head back.

Seetha’s eyes rolled towards the heavens before burying her head under the sheets. “Good night,” she muttered under her breath. “Dumb gorilla.”

“Good night, frowny-browny,” sighed Jacq as she slowly laughed herself to sleep, giving one last cheery glance at the their treasure. “Good night, Elric.” The golden boy, meanwhile, stayed motionless under the twinkling starlight as some solitary figure keeping watch.

While quietude wrapped the two adventurers in its somnolent shroud, Fluffers, their pet Cockatrice who had been bidding her time in her small confinement nearby, saw opportunity. After hours of inconspicuous but diligent gnawing at the weakest corner of her prison, she finally managed to break free; the taste of victory lingering on her sharp teeth. Stealthy as moonlight on a tranquil lake, her minuscule figure darted out from the cage and into the open.

As if with some unknown instinctual purpose, Fluffers moved toward the golden statue, her reptilian eyes glinting with an unsettling intelligence under the soft glow of midnight stars. She opened her maw to allow her forked tongue to taste the air around it, her nose twitching at the smell of cool metal and ancient magic that emanated from the statue. Her lithe body climbed onto its lap, before reaching up towards its cold face.

There was a pause; Fluffers then sat motionless, her gaze locked with the unmoving face. In that moment, it was as if time held its breath and waited for her next move with anticipation. Her beak grazed the golden cheek gently, as if petting it. Her eyes glared intently at its own eyes. Then there was a soft humming as both glances made contact with one another, the gold surface shimmering like disturbed water under the mysterious incantation that was happening. An ethereal glow began to emanate from within Fluffers, giving her plumage an otherworldly sheen. The silent beam of light extended outwards from her body, its tip touching the statue’s forehead where it spread all over it in rapid waves of psychedelic aura.

The hard gold surface softened, no longer reflecting the moonlight with its metallic glint; rather, it began to turn warm, flushed with life. The golden hue started to fade away gently, replaced by warmer tones of marble white flesh. The statue's golden hair loosened into tousled blonde with a mousy shade. His eyes, once transfixed in stillness, fluttered briefly with a sparkle of life—an effervescent grey that mirrored the foam of tidal waves. The golden prince, once wrapped in a golden tomb for three hundred years, now inhaled deeply the cool night air through his nose, his chest slowly shrinking and expanding with rhythm.

Dressed in feathers of moonlight silver and plundered gold, Fluffers fluttered in seemingly joyous triumph as she hopped off the sleeping boy and darted off silently into the wilderness. The running brook continued its calming whisper through the night.