6^th Gemini, 1645

Andromeda lies on the ground, quietly seething as she works up to breaking the shaft off the absurdly oversized crossbow bolt sticking out of her chest. If not for the fact that she is presently physically incapable of doing so, she’d have to laugh at the sight. Her arms aren’t sensate again quite yet, so all she can really do for the moment is stare at the sun-dappled canopy of leaves above her and wait.

Well, to say she’s not sensate isn’t quite accurate. She can feel her back against the ground, as well as the blanket of leaves, seeds and nuts between her and the soft, nearthy soil. That connection with the nearth is oddly comforting to her in this moment, both literally and figuratively grounding her as her brain reaches out to the nerves in her extremities and re-establishes a connection. Out of nowhere, the thought suddenly pops into her head that she’s probably getting a lot of dirt in her hair, so that’s going to be unpleasant to deal with next time she bathes.

She grimaces at that, pushing the thought aside as she feels her fingers twitch. Plenty of time to dwell on that later, when she’s not half-dead. After a few more deep breaths she manages to force her hands up, grasping around the bolt’s shaft and, with her jaw set tight, snapping it off to the side.

“Hrrgghrrhgr,” she scream-grunts in pain, reflexively writhing on the ground. Her breath comes fast, hard, shallow, as much spitting through grit teeth as it is actual respiration, and by the time she has it even somewhat under control she can feel her feet again. That’s a good thing, she thinks to herself, one less part of the process to go through. Really, that just leaves the matter of the crossbow bolt’s tip buried in her ribcage.

She cranes her neck, peering into the wound, and notes with cold detachment that it actually struck her right in the heart. The merman either had very good aim or had gotten very, very lucky. She lets her head fall back down, hitting the nearth with a soft thud. This is going to suck.

Before she can even begin to psych herself out, Andromeda quickly plunges a hand into the gaping hole in her chest, screwing up her face to keep from screaming again until it’s over. Everything is, predictably enough, blood-slick, and it takes her a few tries to get a good grip on the thing but get a grip she does. With a final wave of triumphant nausea she wrenches the tip free, flinging it away from herself and rolling onto her side in the same movement.

And then she allows herself to scream.

Once that’s out of the way, she feels her heart properly begin to put itself back together, her sternum and muscles and flesh not far behind. Compared to how her impromptu auto-surgical procedure went, that sensation is almost a relief, little more than a dull ache – she’s used to it by now, and really, the soreness after a particularly tough work-out day is worse.

Eventually, she pushes herself to her hands and knees and vomits up a copious amount of thick, inky sludge full of little twinkling specks, like a night sky made liquid.

“Haln,” she swears, “Fuck.”

After catching her breath and struggling to her feet, Andromeda takes stock. It seems that the “grogstack gang”, whoever they are, didn’t take anything off her “corpse” while she was out – most importantly, she still has her shield and her Weapon. After she got shot, someone dragged her into a small copse of trees not too far from the road out of Pochaum. She can see a faint blood trail leading from where she was shot to where she awoke, a bit hard to spot against the color of the dirt had she not known to look for it. No signs of any other struggle in the area, indicating that the gang members either let Miss Ganguly and Dr. Mort-Stergen go without further molestation or they surrendered once Andromeda was down. Given how pissed the merman leader was, the latter feels like the safer bet.

With a sigh and a satisfying series of neck cracks, Andromeda walks back into town, making her way to the first tavern she can think of. Maybe it’s a long shot, but asking around is always a decent first step towards tracking anyone down. Normally she wouldn’t even bother, of course; sure, she might be pissed about being shot, but random deaths at the hands of random idiots had long since fallen beneath her concern in terms of pursuing justice/revenge/what have you. Bigger fish to fry, etc. etc. In this case, however, Andromeda didn’t like the idea of Ganguly and Mort-Stergen being taken captive, especially given how genuine Dr. Mort-Stergen’s confusion and fear had both been. For whatever else she might think about those two, they are in need of assistance, and that means she can’t wash her hands of them just yet.

Her and her big damn heart.

The barkeeper, a lass named Lisa with a fondness for low-cut blouses, pales a bit when Andromeda takes a seat.

“Uh… Andi?” she asks.

“Yeah?”

“Your um… do you wanna maybe get cleaned up before you order anything?”

Andromeda looks down at herself, suddenly remembering how her hands and chest are covered in her own blood, to say nothing of the sizable hole in her shirt where the bolt went in. That explains why people kept looking at her funny on the way here.

“…Yeah, that’s probably for the best,” she says, standing back up and making her way into the restroom.

It doesn't take her long to wash off, thanks to the tavern's fortuitously well-outfitted facilities. Hydromancy sinks sit along one wall, ready to dispense nearly-scalding water specially enchanted to help deal with everything from spilled booze to vomit. Once Lisa comes in with a towel Andromeda is able to get the stain out of her shirt with relative ease, though it of course doesn't repair her recently acquired cleavage window. The contact with magic worsens the fatigue that was already creeping in from having to heal, but after splashing some cold water on her face she feels a bit better.

Good enough to track down some gangsters, at least.

As soon as she steps back out, someone stands up from the bar. It's the motion which draws her eye at first, even though it isn't particularly urgent or sudden, but her eye is kept by the fact it was the same reedy woman who’d been tailing her earlier. Her departure doesn’t seem to be a response to Andromeda, no panicky attempt to get away from the person she thought she’d killed a few hours ago, rather just a slightly inebriated individual deciding she’s had enough for now. Andromeda mutters a quick prayer of thanks to Old Woman Syl for her good fortune and follows her, depositing the towel Lisa gave her on an empty table on the way out.

The reedy woman hadn’t exactly been subtle earlier, when she was trying to tail Andromeda and company, but now Andromeda is almost a little embarrassed for her on account of how easy she is to surreptitiously follow in turn. She doesn’t seem to be blackout drunk, only a bit tipsy, but even so her awareness of her surroundings is…

Well, Andromeda does have to admit she’d rather deal with this than have to chase the woman down.

It doesn’t take long for Reedy to reach her destination, a nondescript warehouse on the edge of town. It doesn’t stick out at all from any of its neighbors, though a bored-looking merish youth sits on a stack of crates near the front entrance carving away at a bit of wood. Reedy exchanges a few words with them that Andromeda can’t quite make out before the woman disappears through the doors, leaving the youth alone again. Andromeda ducks back behind the corner of a building, out of sight while she considers her next move.

“Privyet!” a chipper voice loudly calls out five seconds later.

Andromeda peeks back around the corner, wondering who could possibly be approaching a gang hideout so brazenly. The woman she sees is a caprican in her early or mid-twenties, tall and willowy with snow-white hair in a bob. Her hair frames her horns cutely, which are the same dark red color as her skin and protrude straight up from her forehead, and a long, thin tail lazily waves about behind her, tipped by a soft-looking tuft of hair the same color as the rest. Her clothes are odd for the situation, pseudo-formal with lace around her collar and chiffon accents. The merfolk looks momentarily just as stunned by the young woman’s sudden appearance as Andromeda feels.

“...Who the fuck are you?” they ask. 

“Oh, no one of consequence, really,” she replies, her voice high, soft, and chipper with a thick Serpensian accent, “Just passing saleswoman.”

“Um,” the guard narrows their eyes, “What are you selling?”

“Serpensian Scale-Candles!” she produces one from the fancy bag sitting by her hip, “Made of special mixture of blubber and scale marrow harvested from great sea snakes of north!”

Andromeda narrows her eyes. It was subtle, but she could swear she heard the caprican put a little something into some of her words there. Is she…?

“Uh,” the youth flicks their gaze nervously between the candle and the saleswoman’s broad smile, “What’s so special about them?”

“Oh, am glad you asked!” She takes the top off the jar in her hands, waving the unlit candle under the guards nose, “They have special calming properties, and help you sleep. Some do bit more, like this one – ‘wintry skies’, evokes feel of crisp Capricorn nights.”

“That’s…” the guard yawns, swaying a little on their feet as their words start to slur, “thas pretty cool…”

“Da, is very cool,” with a flourish, the saleswoman produces a match and lights the candle, “let me promise, you use candle for just a few nights you will feel most refreshed of your life. You dream so deep you’ll forget what being tired is even like!”

“Wha- what are you-“ they can barely keep their eyes open now, and the caprican blows out the candle before finishing her sneaky little cant.

“Just close your eyes.”

The guard closes their eyes and pitches sideways, snoring before they’re even off their feet.

Well, not every day you see a bard who can do that.

After the guard hits the ground, the caprican drags them (with some effort) around the corner of the warehouse, out of sight of the entrance. Amazingly, their conversation doesn’t seem to have drawn any attention. Even so, Andromeda isn’t about to get careless, so when she repositions herself to keep an eye on this new factor in the situation she does so carefully and quietly. 

By the time she has eyes on the caprican and unconscious guard again, the latter is leaned up against some crates stacked by the side of the building and the former is bent over them, drawing a sigil on their forehead with a piece of charcoal or something. The caprican pulls a long, thin needle, balanced for throwing, out of her bag, and Andromeda’s eyes widen as she jabs it deep into her arm. In the same fluid motion, she pulls it back out, and as she does it draws with it a thin thread of blood, waving slightly in the air as though a strand of spider’s silk blown by the breeze. She brings the tip of the needle to the sigil on the guard’s forehead, brushing it against in the lightest of touches, then when she pulls it away the end of the blood-thread sticks to it, going taut with the other end still attached to her arm. She stands stock-still for a moment before nodding, apparently satisfied, and after the thread flows back into her veins she wipes the sigil off the youth’s forehead, leaving behind no indication whatsoever of whatever it was she just did.

Andromeda isn’t sure what compels her to confront this strange caprican, but before she can think better of it Weapon is in her hand and she’s creeping up behind her. The smooth, thin cylinder is a familiar and comforting weight in her grip as she twirls it once, willing it into the shape of a falchion, and by the time its rotation finishes and it comes back to a neutral hold that’s exactly what it is. That familiar weight admittedly feels a bit heavier than usual as she is reminded, again, how worn down she is… but she refuses to let her tiredness stop her yet.

When the blade comes to rest against the caprican’s neck, who had started to root around in her bag for something, the stranger freezes. After a moment, she slowly raises her hands in a gesture of surrender, back still to Andromeda.

“That was a neat trick with the sleep spell,” Andromeda says, “What was that other spell? What did you do to them?”

“…I didn’t hurt them,” the caprican says carefully, “That is most important part, da?”

“I know blood magic when I see it.” she presses the blade a little harder into her neck, still not enough to break skin. “What did you do?”

The caprican sighs.

“Grogstack gang has something of mine. I want back, so I look into mind and learn where it is. Guard may have slight headache later, but will be fine.”

Andromeda’s eyes flick over to the merish youth, whose breathing is gentle and even. They certainly seem fine, and the caprican’s explanation seems plausible. Sure, Andromeda’s never heard of hemomancers being able to do that before, but she’s hardly an expert on the subject, and the caprican hadn’t hesitated or shown any other signs of dishonesty.

Besides, they might be able to help each other out.

“What did they take from you?” she asks, and this time the caprican does hesitate briefly.

“Old family heirloom, only valuable in sentimentality, but… grogstack gang not believe me.”

Andromeda slowly lowers her Weapon, and the caprican turns after a moment to look at her with confusion. She knows she doesn’t have the whole picture here, but if she tried to get it the two of them would likely be huddled next to a pile of crates all evening and night.

“I think we can help each other. What’s your name?”

“Winnifred,” she says, pushing herself to her feet and shaking her legs out from kneeling so long, “And yours?”

“Andromeda. Did you see anything else about the warehouse in the kid’s head? Maybe some hostages?”

“Oh, that’s why you’re here for? Da, they’re here I think. Two women, middle aged?”

“That’s probably them, yeah. Any idea where in the warehouse they are?”

“Shouldn’t be hard to find – layout is not exactly complex, and they’re not hiding them or anything. What did you do to piss off grogstacks?”

“I have absolutely no idea. They came after the other two women while I was with them, but Doctor Mort-Stergen didn’t seem to know why and- “

“Pardon: did you say ‘Mort-Stergen’?” Winnifred interrupts, voice strained and expression blanched, “as in Lucille Mort-Stergen?”

Andromeda doesn’t have to say anything. The look she gives Winnifred is answer enough.

“Oh dear… ah, this may be my fault.” she at least has the decency to look sheepish.

“How on- Okay, you know what, one thing at a time. Right now, let’s focus on the grogstack gang. BUT,” Andromeda puts a finger in Winnifred’s face, “You will explain later.”

“Da, da, I promise.”

“Okay. So… what’s our first step?”

“Hm… how good are you with that sword?”

******

Andromeda has probably done dumber things in the past, especially since she was like most people a kid at one time, but she’s having a damn hard time thinking of any. She grips Weapon firmly – currently in the shape of a long, plain staff – as she strides forward with an affectation of confidence. She’s not confident on the whole in this moment, but she is at least confident that she looks confident. By god she hopes she seems confident, because that’s a pretty important part of this dumb fucking plan.

Winnifred was right about one thing, at least: the warehouse has a very simple layout, and it isn’t hard to find anything. Practically as soon as she walked in she knew exactly where Miss Ganguly and Dr. Mort-Stergen were, thanks to how well as sound carries down the aisles between shelving racks. She’s walking towards them now, straining her ears to try and catch any of the details of the conversation between Lucy and the merman from before so she can at least have some notion of what’s going on before getting fully involved.

Not that there’s much room to back out at this point. Reedy saw her come in and shouted after her, and though she ignored her and is ignoring her still, the gangster is following her at about ten paces, blocking her easiest escape route.

Of course, the last thing she expects is to see Krisha and the good doctor sitting unbound and having a hot mug of… something with the merman when she rounds the corner and lays eyes on them. The merman clearly wasn’t expecting to see her either, because his eyes widen to the size of dinner plates.

“What in the goddamn?” he says.

“Miss Starr!” Lucy jumps to her feet, spilling her mug all over the makeshift table she and the others are sat around but entirely unbothered by that fact. “You’re alive?”

“Uh… yeah,” Andromeda says lamely, her grip on Weapon loosening a bit as her brain works overtime to try and make sense of the situation.

“But you- I mean, that… how?!”

“I got lucky, I guess,” Andromeda offers, not technically lying.

“Oh thank Syl,” the merman says. “I was afraid I’d really killed you.”

“…you shot me with a downsize ballista.”

“Well yeah but not on purpose! I mean, it went off on its own, I just had it along for intimidation purposes!”

Andromeda drags her hand down her face in exasperation.

“This is exactly why we need trigger discipline classes,” she says into her palm. “Okay, fine, whatever, now can someone please explain to me what on nearth is going on here?!”

“Ah, so um… funny story…” the merman begins, sheepishly.

“Someone sold the grogstack gang some spiked medicinal tea while pretending to be Lucy,” Krisha cuts in mildly. “It took some doing, but we’ve managed to come to an understanding with Munce and his people.”

The gears in Andromeda’s heads immediately start turning and a little inkling of dread starts to take up residence in the pit of her stomach.

“Right, that about sums it up,” Munce says. “Sorry again for shooting you.”

“Oh. Okay, yeah, I think I get the pict- “

A loud thunk sounds from a barrel of ale along one of the walls, followed by an even louder explosion and a wave of heat as an alcoholic fireball blooms out into the air around it.

Andromeda swears, reflexively ducking her head and stumbling away from the rapidly-spreading fire’s point of origin. Before she really knows what’s happening, half the warehouse seems to be alight, entire racks of ale collapsing and blocking the aisles with flaming debris. She looks into the rafters, where she spies the shadowy figure of Winnifred stealing across a beam towards the edge of the warehouse she didn’t turn into an inferno. With a growl she starts after her, only for the shouts of those on the floor with her to recall her attention.

“Fuck! What the fuck!” the reedy woman screams, slowly trying to drag a now-unconscious Munce away from the fire. A terrified Lucy clings to Krisha, who looks only slightly more collected.

“You!” Reedy shrieks at Andromeda, pointing a slender finger accusatorily and advancing on her. “You did this! Why did you do this?!”

The reedy woman’s punches have nothing in the way of grace or control to them, but they certainly do not lack for savagery or harming intent. Andromeda only barely manages to dodge, a fact which she will be simultaneously proud and disappointed in herself for when she looks back on this moment later, given the sum total of all the chaotic factors in play. She will be slightly more disappointed by her reaction to the reedy woman’s successive (equally unsuccessful) swings, which is mild panic followed by a retaliatory strike to her ribs with Weapon and a light follow-up jab to her forehead. Her opponent stumbles back a couple steps before falling over entirely, out cold.

With a little more breathing/thinking room, Andromeda glances around for an escape route. Luckily, it seems Winnifred has yet to ignite the other end of the warehouse herself, so many of the aisles are clear. Her eyes dart from Reedy, then to Munce, and finally over to Krisha and Lucy, and just like that a plan is formed.

“Ganguly! Mort-Stergen! Pick up the merman!” She commands, twirling Weapon into its storage form and tucking it snugly away before bending down to pick up Reedy and sling her over a shoulder. “Follow me as close as you can!”

Astoundingly, nothing goes catastrophically wrong during their daring escape. Despite the heat and smoke already starting to claw at her lungs, compounding with her fatigue to make each step a matter of sheer willpower more than anything else, Andromeda doesn’t collapse. Despite a shelving rack that tips over, blocking the aisle in front of them and forcing them to move further over, further away from the side of the fire’s origin, they are not trapped, and everyone (who is conscious, at least) breathes a sigh of relief when they stumble through the front door of the warehouse and can unceremoniously dump their unconscious charges on the ground.

No, things wait to start going really poorly until after Andromeda runs back in.

You see, just as Andromeda was stumbling across that threshold, she caught sight of Winnifred dropping to the floor of the warehouse out of the corner of her eye, rushing directly into the inferno in search of her precious “family heirloom” or whatever it actually is. The sight of her disappearing through the wall of flames plays itself back in her mind’s eye as she bends over, hands on knees, struggling to catch her breath, and for some reason she feels compelled to help her. Despite knowing the woman for all of fifteen minutes, despite the arson and lack of consideration for others’ safety it indicates, despite that she apparently decided to completely dick over Andromeda, she can’t bring herself to just leave her to whatever happens in there.

And so, with a growl of frustration, she turns on her heel and dashes back inside, ignoring the confused cries of Krisha and Lucy after her.

Big. Damn. Heart.

Ugh.

The heat had been oppressive before, but now it feels downright authoritarian, intensified in that way that can only come with having to continue to suffer something after experiencing reprieve from it. Andromeda pulls her shirt up over her mouth and nose, only to be rudely reminded of the hole in the front of it, then lets it drop again so she’ll at least have both hands free. She’ll need to be fast.

Finding Winnifred isn’t hard – a small office space near the front of the warehouse seems the most likely place for something besides alcohol to be, and sure enough the caprican is ransacking the desk within, too focused on the task to notice when Andromeda busts down the door.

“Winnifred!” She shouts, followed by a cough. “What the fuck?!”

“What is problem? You got your people out just fine, da? And I saved you from grogstack gang. You’re welcome.”

“The problem is they weren’t hostile till you set their warehouse on fire!”

“Ah.” Winnifred blinks owlishly. “I could not tell from up in rafters. Apologies. At least you got them out fine.”

“That’s not-“ her retort is interrupted by a coughing fit, which gives her opportunity to think better of what she was going to say next. “Look, we need to get out of here or we will burn to death.”

Winnifred nods a bit absentmindedly, making her way around the desk.

“Da, da, that is-“ she stumbles, putting a hand to her forehead, “Oh… used too much blood…” and then she promptly passes out into a perfect faceplant.

“Oh my god,” Andromeda hisses through grit teeth, turning her face to the heavens before she bends down and, for the second time in ten minutes, lifts a woman who has nearly gotten her killed in a raging inferno into a fireman’s carry. Without any further thought, she rushes towards the exit.

And, as luck would have it, she nearly makes it out safely before an explosion catches her from behind, launching her through the door in spectacularly dramatic fashion and into a face-first slide against the cobblestones.

8^th Gemini, 1645

Andromeda comes to consciousness in her own bedroom, much more gently than the last time she woke up. Her face feels a bit sore, not that she can immediately remember why, but at least she doesn’t have a big ol’ crossbow bolt sticking out of her chest, nor is she lying on a bunch of dirt and dead leaves. A gentle breeze blows in through her opened window, carrying the mingling scents of a bouquet of flowers on her nightstand no doubt left by Michel. The gentle sweetness is relaxing… at least until the breeze also carries a bit of pollen onto her nose and she sneezes, which is a currently a far more painful experience than usual.

“Hrrgghrrhgr,” she groans. A moment later, Michel appears in her doorway.

“Oh, Andi! How are you feeling?”

“Eh, you know me,” she says flatly, pushing herself into a sitting position with some effort, “I’m always fine, sooner or later.”

“Mm,” Michel is unimpressed, “I still say you’re too reckless, even with your blessing. But, what do I know?”

“How long was I out this time?”

“It’s the 8^th. Late morning, so about a day and a half.”

“Right. And what happened after I ate shit on the cobblestone?” Andromeda has enough presence of mind at this point to remember what lead up to that moment.

“Well… the fire didn’t spread to any other warehouses, thankfully. The municipal pyromancers didn’t show up soon enough to save any of the one you were in, because as it turns out a building full of alcohol is exactly as volatile as you’d expect, but nobody was hurt… er, too badly,” he winces a bit, giving a pointed look at Andromeda’s face.

“And the grogstack gang?”

“Well… Miss Ganguly spun up some story for the city watch that kept blame from landing on anyone, somehow, and... well, it might be best to just hear it direct from them. Everyone involved in this whole chahut is around. We’ve been waiting for you to wake up.”

“…Any chance I can skip the debrief?”

Michel gives her a look.

“Yeah, alright,” she says, gingerly standing up out of bed and hobbling exaggeratedly over to the door.

“Oh, arrête de dramatizer.” a light smack against her shoulder makes her grin.

Contrary to what Michel said, everyone involved in the events of two days ago is not around – Reedy, Winnifred, Krisha and Lucy are, but Munce and the guard Winnifred sung to sleep are absent. Not that Andromeda particularly minds having fewer people to deal with, of course.

“Oh! Miss Starr!” Lucy spots her first, breaking away from the circle of awkward small talk they’d all been clustered in, “You’re awake! You, um… your face looks better.”

Andromeda raises a bemused eyebrow.

“What my diminutive friend here means is that your face is back,” Krisha clarifies, “Most of it got skinned right off by that spill you took when the kegs near the door exploded.”

“Right. How exactly have you managed to recover from that, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Uh... it’s a blessing from Haln. I recover from damn near any injury, given a bit of time.”

“Holy shit…” Reedy’s observation is punctuated by slack jawed wonder, an expression mirrored by the rest of those present (save Michel), “…we really did kill you with Munce’s crossbow, didn’t we?”

“Yep,” Andromeda chuckles, “hit me right in the heart. Had to pull it out myself and that was not fun, let me tell you.”

“Nines and nerves…”

“Listen, all’s well that ends well, right? And Munce already feels bad about it, no need to give him an even guiltier conscience.”

“I… still, I’m sorry we did that.” Reedy rubs the back of her neck. “And I’m also sorry for taking a few swings at you when everything caught fire.”

“Don’t worry about it, tensions run hot when things get chaotic like that. Is your head okay?”

“Oh, yeah, you didn’t hit me that hard. Which, you know, thanks.”

“No problem. Although,“ a thought occurs to her, “I’m surprised you’re not more upset about the warehouse itself. That was a lot of alcohol, are y’all gonna be okay? Financially and whatnot?”

“Yes, we’ll be fine. Miss Winterfin gave us a pretty hefty sum to apologize for the arson.”

“…Winterfin?”

“Da,” says Winnifred, speaking up for the first time since Andromeda came out.

“As in the Serpenthold Winterfins?”

“Oh, you are familiar?”

“With the family that runs one of the wealthiest shipping businesses in the world?” Andromeda deadpans, as she mentally bemoans getting tangled up with a weirdo rich girl, “No, can’t say that I am.”

“Well, suffice to say the money is no object. Least I could do,” Winnifred says casually, blissfully unaware of the way she’s making half the room bite their tongues and the other half want to throttle her.

“Right. Anyway, even with Haln’s blessing having to regrow your face takes a lot out of a gal, so I appreciate everyone checking up on me but I need some more time to rest.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Reedy and Lucy say in stereo, then just Reedy follows up with, “Hey, if you ever need a favor or anything, come find me, yeah? I still feel bad about all this, so…”

“Thanks-“ Andromeda pauses, “You know, I never did catch your name.”

“Oh, it’s Reed. Petracchia Reed.”

“Wh- seriously? Your name is Reed?”

“Yeah?” Petra doesn’t grasp the source of Andromeda’s confusion, “Why? What’s wrong with the name Reed?”

“Oh, no, nothing!” Andromeda goes in for a handshake, suddenly even more eager to get out of this conversation, “I really appreciate that, Petra.”

The small crowd shuffles out of Andromeda’s living room until it’s just Krisha and Michel left. Then, following a meaningful look between the two of them, Michel leaves too.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said two days ago,” Krisha gets right down to business, and though Andromeda rolls her eyes at the woman’s bluntness she makes no move to interrupt, “and perhaps it’s a tad petty to have been so fixated on it, but I’d like to make a rebuttal if you’ll listen.”

“Sure,” Andromeda sighs, “might as well.”

“You told me before that you don’t know anything about architecture, but I’d wager you at least know one or two of the fundamentals. In particular, the absolute most rudimentary part of construction: if you don’t want a building falling down around you, you need to make sure that the base upon which it is built is solid and strong. Minor flaws early in the process can lead to catastrophic failures further down the line, no matter how well put together a structure’s skeleton or masonry might be.

“The reason I bring this up is because I’ve long held that this philosophy can be quite clearly translated to other disciplines as well – a perfect example of which being what you told me about instilling discipline in your pupils. Now, I admire that conviction greatly, and I will grant you that you are indeed making a difference in their lives, giving them tools they’ll need to hold up everything else they might ever learn. However, I would counter by saying that it is not the only way for you to do so.

“What The Unioknights! are doing may be risky, as any pioneering effort must be, but if we manage to do this right we lay the groundwork for others to follow in our footsteps. Other adventurers, hopefully all over the world, will be able to band together just like we are, form their own groups just like ours, and show the rich and powerful just how dangerous we can be when they try to exploit us. It may take ten or twenty years, perhaps even a lifetime, but I truly believe we can make things easier for starry-eyed youths like the ones in your classes.”

Krisha puts her hands back in her pockets, a stance Andromeda is already starting to recognize as neutral for her, and smiles gently but confidently at her.

“There. I’ve said my piece. You’re still free to refuse, of course, but I very much hope you don’t.”

Andromeda walks slowly over to her couch, plopping down onto it with a heavy exhale. She can’t deny the sense in Krisha’s words; it’s obvious she practiced that little speech while she was recovering, but knowing that doesn’t make it ring any less true. It would be a lot of hard work, and she doubts twenty years would be even close to enough to change things so drastically as Krisha hopes, but… what if they managed to, in the long run? What if, what if, what if? They really would be showing the whole world a possibility for a better way forward. They really would be setting an example.

Try as she might, Andromeda can’t deny the little thrill she feels at the thought. Her ego, it would seem, is not quite so immune to such appeals as she typically likes to think, and that gives her pause. If she does this, it needs to be for the right reasons, it needs to truly be a matter of changing things for the sake of others, and not simply because she likes the sound of being some kind of shining beacon of hope for them. Then again… is a bit of recognition really so wrong, if the ultimate impact is the same?

Her eyes wander across her living room, settling on one of the many succulents she keeps on the windowsill, a cactus with a just-budding flower on it. Would that she were a cactus, she thinks ruefully, able to easily be taken out of one pot and put in another, without disturbing her roots overmuch. Her students will miss her, if she leaves. Her fellow teachers will miss her, her friends and acquaintances all across the city will miss her, and she’ll miss them too, to say nothing of how other people would have to pick up the things she does for all of them. For a moment, she wonders just how much of disruption her departure would have on the lessons of her class, until she remembers the words of Mrs. Vale, and she chides herself for thinking that way. Pochaum will go on without her, even if just for a time.

Yes, she thinks, she can always come back if it goes poorly or if she simply decides she’s had enough.

Of course, she doesn’t communicate any of her thought process to the other woman in her living room.

“Fuck it,” Andromeda says, making eye contact with the still-waiting Krisha, whose smile splits into something broader and toothier. “Someone needs to keep you lunatics from getting yourselves killed.”

“I look forward to working with you, then, Miss Starr.”

11^th Gemini, 1645

Group hugs are, as often as not, bittersweet affairs. In the context of a farewell, the comforting warmth of your loved ones is a soft yet insistent reminder that you will not be able to feel it for quite some time in the best of circumstances. Even if one plans to write or visit, it will always sting, and so Andromeda finds herself tearing up in the middle of a cluster of half a dozen weeping adolescents (and Michel, his normally impressive mustache drooping pathetically with his mood).

“We’ll be sure to write, Miss Starr!” Ollie promises through hiccoughing sobs.

“And I’ll make sure Eli takes care of himself on days off,” says Milo to a round of teary laughter.

Michel blubbers out something nearly incomprehensible.

“Yeah, and maybe we can even visit you in Wurzelort!” Addison adds.

“Thanks kids,” Andromeda sniffles, “And you too, of course, Michel. I’ll miss you.”

Emotional as the moment is, Andromeda doesn’t want to keep Lucy and Krisha – who are standing patiently with a trio of turbo-ungulates a respectable distance away – waiting too long. With one final collective squeeze, the huddle expresses its fondness for itself before breaking apart and letting one of their number go. Andromeda walks backward a few paces, waving to her students and peer, before turning to face her new companions. Lucy offers her a handkerchief when she draws near.

“Thank you, Doctor.” she blows her nose.

“You can have a bit more time to say goodbye if you need,” Krisha tells her, “We’re not in any rush.”

“Nah, goodbyes get awkward if they drag on too long. Plus, you know, it’d be even more awkward if I turned around and went back at this point. I’m good.” As if to prove it, she does a quick run through of her steed’s saddlebags, double-checking that she has everything.

“Very well.” she nods and mounts one of the turbo-ungulates, Andromeda and Lucy following suit. “Don’t worry, Miss Starr, I’m sure you’ll find plenty of community in Wurzelort. Who knows – maybe you can even start teaching lessons there whenever you’re between union jobs.”

“Not a bad idea. We’ll see how things shake out.”

Though turbo-ungulates are known for their incredible speeds over long distances, they are of course not limited to them. As the trio of Unioknights! wants to talk with one another to grow a bit more familiar and pass the time on their journey, they urge their beasts along at a light trot. It is for this reason that Andromeda is able to hear more hoofbeats coming up behind them after a time, and when she looks behind she sees Winnifred Winterfin approaching.

“Oh, great,” she mutters under her breath.

“Dobry Utro!” she calls out once she’s fairly close.

“Something we can help you with, Miss Winterfin?” Krisha asks, her voice much more tactful than Andromeda would’ve been able to muster.

“Er… da.” the caprican nods, tail flicking nervously through the air behind her, “I heard you are making… union. For adventurers.”

The three of them share a look, feeling slightly nervous themselves now.

“…That’s right. What’s it to you?”

“Was thinking… perhaps I could join?”

“Excuse us for one second,” Krisha pulls her companions into an aside.

“No. No fucking way,” Andromeda hisses.

“That is my immediate reaction as well,” Lucy agrees, “But maybe it wouldn’t actually be the worst thing in the world?”

“Are you kidding me? She’s exactly what y’all are working against, here! Letting her see what we’re doing so intimately would be insane!”

“Not necessarily…” Krisha rubs at her jaw pensively, glancing over her shoulder towards the waiting heiress then over to Lucy, “Tell me what you’re thinking, Lu.”

“Well… I think she’s not all bad. Naïve, certainly, and reckless, but maybe she can learn to be better. I feel like she probably just grew up sheltered, and if we can show her a thing or two about the real world she’ll wise up. And if we can’t, it’ll be good to keep an eye on her. She knows about us either way and the Winterfins could pose a real threat if they catch wind before we can really get rolling. Keep your enemies close, you know?”

“Both excellent points,” Krisha says, “Any objections, Miss Star?”

Andromeda has to admit she’s surprised by how savvy Lucy’s assessment of the situation is. She hadn’t pegged her as the calculating type, but she can’t deny the sense in her plan.

“Fine. But I’m asking her why she wants to join.”

“Of course.”

The three of them look over to Winnifred again, who pulled out a bull-lute and is fiddling with its strings a bit absently.

“Miss Winterfin,” Andromeda calls to her.

“Doctor,” she says, not looking up from her instrument.

“Pardon?”

“Doctor Winterfin,” she clarifies. “I have a medical degree.”

Andromeda feels a muscle in her jaw twitch.

“Very well. Doctor Winterfin, I had a question for you.”

“Da?”

“Why do you want to join up with us?”

“I… still feel a little bad about how things played out when we met.” Andromeda is surprised to see that the heiress capable of feeling bashful, “I made up with grogstack gang, but… I want to be useful to you. And I like to help people. Think you will do lot of that.”

Andromeda doesn’t know that she totally believes her, no matter how earnest she appears to be, but despite her better judgement she looks to Krisha and nods.

“Well then,” Krisha says with her trademark grin, “Come ride with us.”