568 You’ll Do What? Part One

Ariadne looked out the window, careful not to be seen. 

More had come. 

She gave silent thanks to the gods. Thankfully, the ones that came didn't look like they were from the Church.

...She didn't want to have to move again. 

Adventurers came once or twice a moon... all of them wanting the same thing, to recruit two Gold-Rank adventurers to their cause. 

It didn't matter how much gold they offered or whatever 'honor' they had on the line. She rejected elves and humans alike, Holy Invokers and Darkmages, Nemayans and folks from the Eastern States... 

She kept her courtesies, as she was raised as a proper lady. However, there were more than a few times she had to roll up her sleeves and reveal just how powerful a Gold-Rank actually was. 

All Ariadne wanted to do was to live a mundane life with her husband... free of war and politics, thanklessness and betrayal. Free of any of that adventuring bullshite, really. 

They had enough coin saved up for it-- at least for just the two of them. The harvest season was coming quick... and then they'd all be busy enough, working with the other families in the village. 

To do that, all she had to do was outlast the folks who kept calling for them. As the years went by, she and Bannok would be forgotten. After enough time... they'd get that life of peace...

She grabbed her broom and headed to the door. She had to defend that dream any way she could. It wasn't just for her sake-- she had to protect her husband too. The gods knew he'd suffered enough.

"You goin' somewhere, wife?" Bannok shouted from the bedroom. 

"Jus' out for a minute, darlin'." She called back, "Gotta get me a breath o' fresh air."

"Alright! If yer goin' to the neighbors--"

"Nope!" She yelled back, her impatience rising in her voice, "Ya've had more'n enough whiskey, ya drunk!"

A series of inaudible grumbles signaled that her husband had heard but did not agree. 

She shook her head. Her dear husband had come into a little bit of a drinking problem. She'd never let it get too bad if she could help it, though. 

Steadying her heart and putting a practiced scowl on her face, Ariadne opened the door, "Now lissen up, if y'all're here for--"

Her heart jumped up, sticking in her throat and making it hard to breathe. 

A man in black armor stood at her doorstep. He had a shining white helmet underneath his arm, a head full of green hair, and eyes as deceitful and yellow as a snake's. 

"Hello, Priestess Ariadne," Tycon hissed. 

"Get the f*ck out of my house," Aria scowled.

"Or you'll do what?" Tycon tilted his head, "Hit me with a broomstick?"

"I'mma stick this where tha sun don't shine, mister, if *you* don't f--"

"Ari!" Bannok called, "Is someone at the door?"

This was bad. The last person her husband needed to see was-- 

When she turned back, the Tactician had disappeared... "Slicker than owl sh*t, you--"

She swung her broomstick in an arc behind her. She didn't belong to a martial class, but any decent strike from a Gold-Rank would give the fella a nasty lump. 

Her weapon stopped. 

It was blocked... by the haft of a crimson spear-- and it didn't make a Flame-taken sound. She didn't feel any magic that blocked the impact... or enchantment that silenced the noise. The spearwielder had someone managed to... catch her strike, and ease it back.

He was good. Real good. 

The Tactician was inside her embarrassingly tiny home, looking at an old painting on the wall... something she whipped up to cover one of the many big holes in the wood paneling. 

Standing beside him was a young boy with sandy blonde hair-- he couldn't have been older than twelve or thirteen. That boy-- that impossibly young child was a Gold-Rank... just like she was. 

He wore custom-molded armor... bright blue, all of it Tyrion steel. On his shoulder was the only known sigil of the forbidden holy spell ⌈Ultima⌋. 

Only one class of person could wear that symbol in the Holy Country... the personal guard of the High Oracle. 

But where did he come from? He wasn't there when she opened the door. 

Putting her angry face back on, she kept as quiet as Elvenly possible, trying to get this snake to leave, "Y'all are *not* welcome here, I don't care who--"

"We're not here for you," Tycon interrupted her. 

Ariadne furrowed her eyebrows, "What in the seven hells and eleven heavens do ya mean, by that?"

"Stand down. We're here to speak with... 'Mister' Ariadne," Tycon gestured flippantly. "So to speak."

"You an' what army, bub?" She scoffed. 

Tycon nodded towards the boy, "Pale."

Ariadne turned to look and everything... stopped. All the tiny hairs on her neck and arms, all of them were standing. Her heart had stopped pumping. Something dreadful was rumbling in her gut and making her sick. Bells and whistles were going crazy in her head, like she was staring in the eyes of a direbeast and she was a thirty-year-old Sapling again. 

All she could see... was white... and the boy. 

There was... so much mana radiating out of the child... and it washed over her like a flood. Her knees buckled and she was about to fall when the Tactician caught her by the arm. 

"That's enough," The Tactician whispered.

And all at once... everything was normal again. 

The clock on the wall, it was ticking. Her heart was beating. Sweat dripped out of every pore on her body. Blood was trickling down her nose... and dripped onto the floor.

"Elves tend to have a very acute perception of mana," Tycon explained. "Any more and Lady Ariadne was at risk of injury."

"Ohhhh, got it, Boss," Pale nodded and bowed politely, "I'm sorry, um... Milady."

"Tactician..." Ariadne gulped, "You recruited... a Hero? To Guild Letalis?"

"Oh, is it that obvious?" Tycon mused.