Young Writers Society

"Wraithaxe Wizard Entertainment fans, are you set to erupt?! Coming to you live from the Wraithaxe Colosseum, it's that wizarding action you know and love! I'm Disgraced Archbishop Thelix, and I'll be emceeing your personal rise to stardom! If your brand of magic cuts it, you'll win the title belt and the glory of all our fans!

Though maybe I'm getting carried away; we're not that big of a company. But that's why we need you! You're an accomplished wizard, maybe enough acting and skills to keep things entertaining, hm?

So join with us at the birth of the WWE. Now hiring of all ages and sexes! Get set to erupt!"



Medieval humans developed what we call magic in a war against elves for dominion over the earth. A few generations have passed since that war. The elves have since gone into hiding, but magic still remains. These days, people have gotten bored with peace, trying to turn war magic into something for the good of mankind. The WWE was created to profit from that boredom!

We begin in the ruins of a castle, where a ring has been carved out for the enterprise of the WWE. The castle sits at the edge of a larger city that wants little to do with it. It is a thoroughly medieval place, with magic not widely afforded for daily use. And we're certainly not helping!

Currently, the WWE stands at around ten people, formed of the staff and founding wizards. The true owner stays wrapped in a cloak, watching the affairs from afar. Her cowl has been removed before, and nobody recognizes her. Still, she keeps it on for the mystery, and her magic is said to far outstrip the competing wizards.

Perhaps you're a bold young warrior looking to make their name. Perhaps you've been forced into the entertainment business by debt. Perhaps you're one of those scholarly libertines who's trying to patent their own brand of magic! Whatever the case, if you can use magic (or fake it, we don't care!) and look good doing it, you can cut it in the WWE!

Thelix and the writing team produce storylines for the wizards, scripting the fights to be as dramatic as possible. Though, when dealing with something as volatile as magic, you never know when publicity disaster might strike. The wizards do their best not to harm each other, lest their backstage relationships suffer. Wizards will be interacting on and off the stage, so keep your kayfabe in mind!



Whether you're a face or a heel or somewhere in between, you'll wow the crowd in the WWE! Behind the scenes, deal with your sinking wages and the mystery(?) of the owner! All the while, be sure to smile for the fans!

Character sheets:


I don't anticipate this being huge, but I'll probably cap it off around eight writers if need be. Feel free to come and go, though; that's showbiz, baby!

The castle’s battle room lay dormant, four stone obelisks towering above the arena. The sun flew down on them through the shattered ceiling, and their long shadows lay broken on the rubble surrounding the stage.

On a terrace overlooking the arena, a figure walked out of the darkness. Though, some of it stuck around the figure, trapped in the folds of his brown, monklike robe. The man looked out on the empty room, and burst into a grin.

His hands ripped away the burlap, revealing a raiment of jesterlike reds across his barrel chest. As he did, a signature catchphrase tore from his lips. “ERUPT!” he roared, and the empty castle boomed back at him.

“Wraithaxe Wizard Fans, are you ready?” The jester-monk hoisted a microphone to his giddy teeth. “Tonight we’ve got the fight of the century between two of the greatest wizards within hirable distance! Sparks will fly, spells will cast, all set to a gripping power struggle between hero and villain! But what’s divine or deadly has no guarantee in the Wraithaxe Colosseum! Now, get - set - to - ERUPT!”

He was greeted with a dead silence on all sides of the stadium. The jester flung his finger to the far entryway. “Coming from the red corner, you know him, you hate him, you fear him but mostly hate him, it’s the rock-and-rolling thunder, Revolt!”

Lightning fried through a thrown bucket of water, creating a dramatic cloud of steam. Then, the fog supercharged into a fine mist, and as the sparks came to a head, a wizard dashed out of the cloud, tearing the lightning towards the arena.

Wild purple hair streaked every which way while teeth gnashed behind a muzzle and spikes. He wore no shirt, and his arms waved as he ran, static sparks crackling in the air behind him. He reached the edge of the arena and flipped oddly onto the stage, letting out a cackle as electricity streamed around him.

“You better be ready!” Revolt challenged in a harsh, nasally voice. “Cause I’m gonna make sparks fly!”

“Clever! Yet unmistakably lackluster!” The monk now turned to the other corner. “Now, from the blue corner, the hero you know and adore, give it up for Wraithaxe’s own Rrrrrroulette!”

A woman walked out smiling and waving, miming shaking hands with the audience. Her simple dress gleamed from the championlike belts across her chest. Eventually she psyched up and jogged towards the stage, climbing up with a noble gaze.

“Cut!” The jester shouted. “I’m not seeing that magic, Roulette!”

The woman’s face dropped into a scowl. “I know that, Thelix. This is just a dress rehearsal, remember?”

She jerked a thumb in Revolt’s direction, smirking. “Besides, I wanted to be generous and give Hal the spotlight. With his vanilla magic, it’s not gonna happen again.”

Hal’s face fell. “Come on, Whither,” he protested meekly, scratching the back of his head.

“Don’t you ‘come on’ me!” Whither snapped, sending Hal’s hair spiking out from static shock. “You just do your bit, and I’ll do mine.”

“But I - I was! You didn’t even do your bit!” Hal looked up to the platform. “Thelix, can you help me?”

Thelix the jestermonk seemed lost in thought. “Of course,” he boomed. “I agree wholeheartedly.”

“Thank you-”

“Hal’s magic is indeed vanilla!”

Hal blanched and crumbled inside. “Nevermind,” he muttered, shaking back into the role of Revolt.

“Which one of these competitors will reign supreme?” Thelix announced. “The carnage is just starting, ladies and gentlemen! But first, a message from our sponsor, Horst’s Hogmeats!” What followed was the silent unfolding of a scroll containing long speech detailing the benefits of Horst the butcher’s brand of meat. Even Thelix couldn’t be bothered to commit to that. He began on scroll one of five, set in his mind to read quickly, but he got no more than six words in.

Thelix’s eyes widened as a cloaked figure appeared beside him. He whirled around - only to be faced with the owner of Wraithaxe Wizard Entertainment. In the poorly funded lighting of Wraithaxe Colosseum, she seemed to be one with the shadows. Thelix felt a rush as she leaned in and spoke a single word into his ear.

“Pig-doping?” he repeated in a whisper, then shouted, “Pig-doping! In Horst’s own hogs!”

Thelix rushed to the terrace balcony and roared, “All wizards! Here be congregated!”

Two other wizards in their regular clothes walked into the stadium, coming to stand in front of the stage. Hal hopped down to join them, leaving Whither with her arms crossed at the top of the arena.

“It has just come to my attention that the pigs of Horst’s Hogmeats have failed a league doping test! The good people at Wraithaxe have no choice but to disassociate with this level of scandal.”

“You say that, but aren’t we the scandalous ones?” one of the other wizards asked amusedly.

“So what do you propose, then?” The last wizard looked up at Thelix.

Thelix grinned. “Jeanne, friend, I believe that is obvious. Sponsors are crucial to the success of the WWE! Now that we have built all of your stars, you are prepared to bring in more sponsors than we could ever dream of! In the name of the WWE, find a sponsor by tomorrow night, and fulfill the glory of Wraithaxe!”

The one who’d commented before raised a hand. “What kind of glory are you talking about?”

“Milphar, Milphar, Milphar,” Thelix said, but did not answer. “Our show begins tomorrow night!”

With that, he disappeared, but the wizards could still hear him jingling down the hall. The four of them looked at each other, at a loss for words. Suddenly a piece of the ceiling crashed beside them, and they scattered to prepare for the best part of selling out.





In his wizard’s abode (the castle’s servant quarters) Hal pulled up a cloak around himself, checking his reflection in a bucket of water. He tucked away every lock of his purple hair, noticing too that it had started to grow out, showing brown at the roots.

The worst part is that I don’t even know what Thelix does to it, he thought. He just gets me somehow when I’m asleep.

With the hair hidden, he looked somewhat respectable, if a bit garishly tall. His reflection lured him back in time to when he was Hal, not Revolt, and his coat was white but filling with black pustule stains, and blood, too much blood that wasn’t moving, galvanized to a geyser by him, his work, his magic.

His fingers snapped open, crackling with electricity. Gently, he reached a finger of electricity out to the water, trying to use the energy to draw the vapor around it. Instead, it exploded like a depth charge, knocking the bucket over and spurting the wash-water onto Hal’s face as he grimaced. Bending down, he set the bucket up again and walked out of his quarters.

He met Whither at the castle gate, which was just as ruined as the rest of it. Whither looked surprisingly fitted to the desolation, but that was just the venturing look in her eye, which turned moody when she saw him coming.

Hal put up a hand in greeting. Whither didn’t respond, so they both waited for the other two wizards and stared out at the valley. From here on the hill, he could see the path winding down, across a field of corn widening, flattening, becoming the road of a city. That city was called Rudigall, up to its neck in the most wholesome activities imaginable. It was a town which thrived on its main export of corn, a hardworking, earnest living which seemed to finally be paying out.

The castle behind him was a little different. It had belonged to an old monarch of the region, destroyed during the war, its monarch supposedly going down with the ship. The townspeople immediately joined a representative democracy, and by some media magic, Wraithaxe came into ownership of the ruins of old. Now they and the castle sat high up the way, an ominous blight that cast sunhigh shadows over Rudigall.

That’s why it’s important that none of the sponsors figure out that we’re from Wraithaxe, Hal thought. Even Horst’s Hogmeats had only stuck with them because Thelix had blackmailed the owner with something involving their stock; Hal was sure it was the pig-doping. With the blackmail gone, a new sponsor would have to fill that victim’s void.

Despite the public consensus that the Wraithaxe wizard fights were equivalent to heresy, they’d still managed to attract a die-hard following from the townsfolk. Nobody would admit to it, of course, but it would still hurt for Hal to be recognized out of costume. He wondered whether anyone else had the same problem.

Footsteps behind signalled the arrival of the other two. Hal sucked in a deep breath and marched forward, ready to take promotional marketing head-on. Get set to erupt, he thought sadly.

Pig doping. Of course our only sponsor would be doing that. It's not like Wraithaxe is a magnet for the morally pure. And now, when I have so many better things to be doing with my life, I'm out here in the middle of Humanville cleaning up Thelix's most recent screw-up. Typical. To really top everything off nicely, though, he hadn't even given me my normal time to disappear and recharge. If there's anything I hate, it's being around humans on half power. I always felt paranoid, even though I could feel the rune strung around my neck still pulsing gently, I could just imagine everything going wrong in the space of a second.
If there was one upside to this, it had to be the cloaks. This way I had at least the comfort of pulling the hood a little lower, making sure my face and ears were properly obscured just in case. My one hope was being able to get this over with quickly, or that I'd find a quiet place to recharge before the sun started to go down.

In case you were wondering, it ended up being the second option. Believe it or not, not many of the happy residents of Rudigall wanted to support our perfectly honorable fake blood sport, especially since we couldn't exactly tell them who we were. Some horse crap about "ruining the affect".
At any rate, I found myself a quiet and unremarkable back alley, making sure the others were well away before slipping into the darkest corner and pulling the rune out from under my cloak, the solid disc of carved gold I usually stopped to admire but now held tightly inside my fist. Charging the rune meant letting the illusion fall, and the thought of doing it in public was enough to keep me looking constantly over my shoulder.
It was because of this that I saw him. A tall man, something small clutched to his chest, running and shoving his way through the sparse crowd. I would have just let him go, but at that moment his hood slipped down, and in the brief two seconds before he yanked it back up, I saw the pointed tips of his ears poking through his hair. I felt my stomach twist as I watched his progress, willing him to move faster, and emerged just when a shouting human lady came barreling into sight, shouting for guards. I looked from the now hooded elf to her. So she probably thought he was just another human, thank goodness. Elves in the city were a big enough deal the lady would probably have let the whole town know by now, especially with her pair of lungs.
As she passed, I stuck out my foot, and the oblivious woman took a nosedive right into the road. The elf kept going, not looking back, and disappeared into the main square again. I let out a little sigh of relief, and started to turn in the direction the lady had came.
Jeanne was there, staring at me. He was gaping in a stupid way that made it clear he'd saw what I'd done. I thought about the hood of that elf falling down for that key split second, and the question of how long he'd been standing there made me scowl at him. Fortunately for me Jeanne was a coward, so he hurriedly backed off without saying anything. I thought my people problems for the day were over. Of course that was the moment the lady I tripped chose to speak up.

"What is wrong with you?!" Her voice was so annoyingly shrill, like she was trying to reach that frequency that made dogs suffer.

I sighed and turned around. Even when she was standing at her full height, she barely cleared my chest, but she was glaring like she thought she could make me apologize. Honestly, this was supposed to be threatening?

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself!"

It was generic enough to get a snort from me. "Oh, I ought to be ashamed of myself. Truly words from the gods themselves. Poetry, really. You should be very proud."

The lady flushed. "That boy stole my coin purse!"

"And? You've got more, and he hasn't."

The lady's lips quivered, but thankfully, whatever she had to shriek never came through them.

"Think of it this way," I continued, "At least you donated to a good cause."

She kept shrieking at me as I walked away, but I was done listening. I kept my head down as I pushed my way through the crowded market again and back towards the castle in the distance. I passed Jeanne again, then Milphar, but it was Hal who stopped me.
"Did you find someone?" The tiny hint of hope in his voice almost made me roll my eyes, even though it was probably a hope that we could all go back.

All I said before pushing past him was "Nope."

I could hear him protesting behind me for a second before he gave up, but I couldn't afford to waste time arguing. The sun was low enough now that I knew if I didn't head back now the illusion would wear off out here, in front of them. And then they would know. They would all know.

Jeanne watched in equal amounts of surprise, concern, and dismay as Whither marched away from the city. They had left the castle in a group of four, more or less at noon, so to return on her own at twilight wasn’t safe. He would ordinarily have accompanied her, even though she was far from harmless and would resent the escort, but Thelix had pointedly instructed them to find a sponsor by the following night; it left them with the evening and following morning to accomplish an impossible task.

“What do we do now?” Hal asked dejectedly, turning away from Whither’s retreating back. “We’ve been here barely for ten minutes.”

“That is precisely why we must coordinate ourselves,” Milphar said sagely. “Thelix gave us little time, but he sanctioned any means necessary to acquire new funds.”

“He did?”

“Anything to ‘fulfill the glory of Wraithaxe!’”

“Oh. So… what do we do now?”

Milphar discreetly patted his belt, from which a leather purse hung. “Money is frequently needed to make money. With a few careful words, it can loosen tongues like nothing else.”

Jeanne nodded. “I had the same idea.”

Hal pouted and looked down. “I… didn’t think of that.”

“I’m going to explore the marketplace while there’s still light,” Milphar announced. “You gentlemen should find a suitable inn for us and see what you can glean from the patrons. If we’re lucky, you might learn of clues we can follow tomorrow.”

“How will you know how to find us?”

“I’ll ask around. Rudigall’s economy thrives on agriculture — there isn’t much reason for people to stop here, so there won’t be many inns.”

Milphar nodded his farewell and departed, merging with the masses after only a few steps. Jeanne turned to consider the woman Whither had tripped. Short, stout, and dressed in russet, she looked rather akin to a grouse flapping about in distress. Evidently the melodramatic type, she was making a scene about her misfortune — likely since Whither had left her. The passers-by merely ignored her laments and continued the rush to attend to their business. If she had seen the bag-snatcher’s ears, however, they would no doubt be paying more attention to her high-pitched cries.

The woman noticed her fellow citizens’ disinterest and desisted, instead occupying herself with trying to dust the dirt from her dress. Jeanne approached cautiously, not wanting to startle her.

“Madam, are you hurt?”

“Indescribably!” she shouted without looking up. “Humiliated not once, but twice! Oh, the indignity! That a lady of my standing must be subjected to such vulgarity! My pride is utterly shattered!”

Jeanne never liked such women during his days as a woman himself, and becoming a man had unfortunately not changed that. Still, she probably didn’t deserve to be mistreated so.

He removed the feathered cap on his head, a sign of sincerity. “Is there anything I can do to be of assistance?”

The woman straightened and threw her hands into the air. “There is nothing that can be done to salvage my—!” She interrupted her exclamation upon staring upwards and making eye contact with him. Her mouth remained rudely agape for a couple seconds before she wiped the shock from her face and plastered on a wide grin instead. “I mean, why of course! A more courteous gentleman cannot be found! Why, you who are dressed in the sapphire hues of a peacock and shine with the brightness of a summer sky that even dusk cannot diminish, your honour would be sullied by even the hint of a refusal! You are a veritable paladin sent by our heavenly Father Himself!”

She concluded the monologue and inelegantly searched her pockets for a handkerchief. Finding one, she dabbed it against her forehead, gazed skywards, and dramatically tossed away the piece of linen, which struck Jeanne in the face before dropping to the ground. He flinched and almost dropped his cap before collecting his composure and stooping down, offering the handkerchief back to her on bended knee. Playing along was tedious, but at least the passers-by only gave them mildly interested glances — it also lent her the benefit of not needing to crane her neck to look at him.

“You dropped this, my lady. It would be a shame for your dignity to be soiled any further.” He cringed on the inside.

She plucked the item from his hand and stuffed it back into her pocket, trying and failing to look calmly pleased; in fact, she looked not unlike the wife of a butcher who had just slaughtered a great boar for Sunday roast. “Such kind words! There can be none more appropriate to soothe one as distressed as I!”

Jeanne at first bemoaned her poor and pretentious grammar, but then he noticed her expectant stare and realised she wanted him to continue. No. It had to end.

He rose. “May I accompany you to your residence? I should hate to keep a lady such as you away from the safety of her home.”

Her cheeks became flushed. “No, not at all! I am not a prize hen to be ushered into her coop! You, fine sir, may…” She furrowed her brow in concentration. Dear Lord, she was searching for an excuse to insist on his company, wasn’t she? “You may accompany me to the inn instead! Only a powerful tonic can quell my anxiety!”

“Very well,” Jeanne replied, sighing inwardly. “You may lead the way, madam.”

He stepped back to give her room, but unfortunately, that brought the very lost-and-confused-looking and cloaked Hal into view. Her eyes expanded to the size of saucers. Pointing at him, she shrieked, “Him! He is the ruffian that had accosted me! Look at him, having the audacity to return and jeer at me in my embarrassment!”

“What?!” Hal spluttered. “I’ve done no such thing! I would never!”

“He is correct, good lady,” Jeanne said softly, extending his arm in front of the woman to halt her advance, but without touching her. “That man is my companion.”

“Oh.” She scowled and stroked away an imaginary fold in her dress, looking away from Hal in distaste. “Such an uncouth fellow could hardly be worthy of calling himself your companion.” She looked back up at Jeanne, smiling knowingly. “But decent help must be hard to find in a backwater settlement such as this. Come!”

She strode away, leaving Jeanne to regard Hal with palms upturned. “I suppose we should start somewhere.” He placed a reassuring hand on the crestfallen man’s shoulder before turning away and following the woman. “Let’s go.”

The inn to which she led them didn’t seem shoddy, contrary to his expectations. In fact, it looked quite hospitable. The Four Pheasants. They entered the establishment and immediately found their ears assailed by the hubbub of men and women relaxing after another long day’s work. About an hour after leaving the castle, Jeanne had realised his colourful attire might not be suitable for inconspicuously searching for a new sponsor, but to his relief, the patrons were similarly dressed, though perhaps less brightly.

The woman approached a table occupied by two reeds of a man and woman and shooed them away, using wild gesticulations and shrill assertions to emphasise her greater need of the seats. They hurriedly obliged, though Jeanne heard them muttering about ‘unpleasant fustilarians’ as they passed. She then waved them over, with Jeanne reluctantly and Hal unhappily obliging and sitting opposite her.

“The gin here is quite marvellous! You simply must try some.” She turned to look at no-one in particular and called, “Servers! Attend to me!” Returning her attention to Jeanne and pointedly ignoring Hal, she asked, “So, what brings such a fine gentleman to such a lowly city? Not the conversation, I should imagine. Why, you are lucky indeed for happening upon one of the few individuals worthy of your attention.”

“I have…” He shared an uncertain glance with Hal. “…come here to investigate any potential investments.”

“Your search must have been terribly disappointing,” she observed nonchalantly. When a waiter finally appeared, she commanded, “Two glasses of your finest gin with accompanying juniper berries, as well as a tankard of whatever passes for ale.” She flicked her hand dismissively.

Watching the boy go, Jeanne replied, “My search has yet to begin. My companion and I only arrived this evening. Do you perhaps know of any businesses seeking financial partners?”

“None whatsoever. I might have suggested this establishment, but it very recently changed owners. We shall see whether the new hand will maintain its prosperity or throttle its success.”

Jeanne made to respond, but a tap on the shoulder and a loud, “Oi!” in his ears prevented it. Startled, he turned around to gaze at his addresser. “Yes?”

Glaring at him was a man dressed in brown and with features as ordinary as they came. He didn’t look like the individual who had previously occupied the table, but Jeanne supposed he could be a friend of his. The last thing he wanted was a dispute.

“What do ye think yer doing?”

Jeanne looked at the man in puzzlement. “Conversing?”

“Conversing with my wife! I was just minding my business, thatching roofs — a good, honest job — when my mates came running to warn me about how some blue bloke strutting about with my wife. Like a rooster, they said. I couldn’t believe them. I had to see it with my own eyes. And damn it, they were right! Here ye are, a bloke dressed in blue, chatting up nobody but my wife! Nobody sweet-talks my Betsy but me!”

Hal rose and quickly backed away, not wanting to get involved in a brawl if he could avoid it. Jeanne would do the exact same thing, except he probably didn’t have the pleasure of that option. He scooted to Hal’s spot on the bench and then rose too, ensuring there was enough distance between them to avoid any undue contact.

“Sir, this situation isn’t at all what it seems. Your wife—”

“Yeah, my wife!”

Said wife, who had been gawking in astonishment since her husband’s arrival, finally found her tongue. “How dare you speak to a gentleman in such a way, you bumbling buffoon!”

“But Betsy—!”

“Elizabeth!” she countered. “I may indeed be Elizabeth Thatcher, but I quite enjoy this knightly fellow’s company. He consoled me after I was viciously robbed. Begone, you fool!”

The man glared at Jeanne. “Ye’ve been consoling my wife?!”

“Her purse was stolen!”

Up to that moment, Jeanne had been completely unaware of the sword strapped to the man’s back. Once he’d pulled the blade from its scabbard, however, it was infinitely less possible to miss.

“Have at you!”

Jeanne stepped aside, and the sword harmlessly sliced air. He wasn’t about to kill a man over a misunderstanding, but he certainly wasn’t about to die over one either. He summoned his own sword, but ensured to keep the broadsword a regular grey. When the next blow came, he easily parried it.

The man’s jaw dropped. “Betsy, yer knight is a wizard! You allowed yourself to converse with an evil man!”

Elizabeth stood stunned. Jeanne sighed inwardly. Of course he was evil now. Although… at least that meant she’d leave him alone.

He stepped back, adopting a defensive stance. When the man recovered from the surprise and attempted to swipe at him again, Jeanne met the attack with force. To his… significant surprise and dismay, the man’s sword flew from his hand and cluttered to the floor. The room erupted in boos and laughter, causing Jeanne to start and look towards the other patrons. He hadn’t even noticed they had fallen silent to watch.

Catching himself, he quickly moved towards the discarded sword and offered it back to the man, banishing his own sword. “I meant no offence, sir. Take your weapon and your wife and leave. You need never see me nor hear from me again.”

Though taken aback by and embarrassed at being disarmed, the man was willing to listen to reason. He called his wife and exited the inn. She followed without taking as much as a single glance back at Jeanne.

The momentary excitement gone, the regular merriment of the inn resumed. No sooner than he faced the rest of the room once more, Jeanne found himself staring at a small crowd of men and women. They all began talking at the same time. Trying to listen to only a single voice was impossible, but Jeanne could at least tell they were praising him and begging for acknowledgement. The excitedly uttered “Paladin” provided all the context he needed.

He had been afraid Elizabeth had recognised him when making the paladin comment earlier, but it quickly became clear she had no idea who he was. Now that he’d been identified, though, he would need to find a way to escape. Unfortunately, the group had surrounded him while he was idle, so that wouldn’t be an easy task.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please leave this poor man alone. He’s clearly flustered and most likely not the person you think he is.”

The group dispersed in front of him, revealing a lady dressed smartly in lavender and cream. She stood considerably taller than Elizabeth and with actual poise, despite the slight weight attached to her frame. Jeanne found he approved of her confidence and manner.

“Please, good sir, follow me.”

She turned and walked farther into the inn. Jeanne started after her, turning back to look at the crowd of fans. They remained where they were, most of them still gazing at him with adoration. They probably weren’t convinced, but as long as they didn’t spread stories, his presence in the city would go unnoticed. Naturally, it most certainly wouldn’t.

Taking a seat in a booth in the only quiet corner of the room, the lady gestured for him to sit down opposite her. A glimmer of a smile danced on her lips and in her eyes. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

She knew; there was no doubting that. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t feign ignorance anyway. Maybe she might even buy it. “I don’t know how you would know of me, madam, but you did assist me when I was in a potentially problematic situation. For that, I thank you.”

“You are most welcome.” Still that smile lingered in her features.

“If I may be so forward… who are you?”

“Taylor Chapman — an unassuming name for an unassuming woman.”

Jeanne sensed that brand of shrewdness so frequently employed by the fairer sex. Little did Taylor know he knew far more than most men. “With respect, madam, I question the accuracy of that.”

She seemed amused. “You don’t think it an unassuming name?”

“I don’t think you an unassuming woman.”

Amusement mixed with pleasure. “Then your eyes see more than most. I expected no less.” A server appeared and placed a glass before each of them. Taylor dismissed him with a nod. “The previously mentioned gin of this establishment, mixed with some cordial. I can assure you that it’s as good as you were told.”

Jeanne tasted it, but kept his eyes on Taylor rather than the glass. “Indeed. I take it you’re the new owner?”

“That is correct, mister… shall I call you ‘Paladin’?”

“John.”

Taylor regarded him critically for a few seconds before smiling slightly. “I’ve seen each of your eight acts. If you were lying, I would know.” She sipped her drink. “Either you have more masks than Thelix lets on, or you speak the truth.” She softly scratched her neck with a long fingernail. “You’re too sincere to be a liar. It’s why your name suits you — the most unassuming name for the least unassuming man; but in appearance only.”

Jeanne had never believed he was the smartest man or woman in any given room, but acknowledging his inferiority to many intellectuals granted him the advantage of identifying anyone who did entertain that notion. Taylor must think she had him all figured out.

“You are perceptive, Madam Chapman.”

“And you are cunning, Mister John. Which is why I have a proposition for you.”

The corners of her mouth lifted ever so slightly, giving away her intentions. But she lacked true leverage, so her hooks wouldn’t snare him. “I’m listening.”

“You said you were looking for potential investments. We both know it’s not for your business. You came here looking for mine.”

“Hypothetically speaking, what would you be proposing?”

Taylor leaned back in her seat. “I grew up a farmgirl in these parts, like countless other women in the city. As a younger sibling, I knew I would never inherit the farm, so I took what little money I could earn and bought my first share of any business by claiming a stake in a bathhouse. The revenue gradually provided me with enough to invest in another venture, and so it went on until I could purchase entire businesses. Now, I own four bathhouses, three stables, and three inns throughout the city, not to mention the innumerable stakes I also hold. Do you know what the key to my success is, John? And you may henceforth address me simply as Taylor.”

Jeanne nodded. “Very well. Do enlighten me, Taylor.”

“Logistics and entertainment. In a farming economy, the former provides the backbone, while the latter keeps the body going. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

“I do,” Jeanne said, “but I think you want to tell me anyway.”

“Hah! They say never to meet your heroes, but I think people are simply poor at distinguishing reality from pretend.” Another sip from the glass. “There is one major source of entertainment I have yet to invest in. The people of Rudigall may not all appreciate it, but Wraithaxe scratches an itch like nothing else. Fortunately, it seems both our parties have something the other wants. It is a pity about Horst’s Hog Meats, but one person’s sorrow is another’s gain, isn’t that so?”

Taylor carefully studied Jeanne’s face for any reaction, but he knew it was better to misdirect than hide. He masked his concern with a veil of thoughtfulness. Taylor was a woman who knew what she wanted and how to get it. Admirable in itself, but also quite dangerous.

“A pity, yes. Yet I personally don’t have much fondness for pigs.”

“Naturally. Even so, you need funding.” She finished her drink. “You will have it. Tell Thelix he can expect the first of many contributions tomorrow. Of course, he will need to meet me personally to discuss the particulars. Not that it wasn’t a joy to meet you.”

Jeanne bowed his head solemnly. “Likewise. Is that all?”

Taylor traced her finger along the rim of the glass. “You don’t like gin?”

“I prefer wine or cider.”

“Ah, I see.” She remained silent for several seconds. “Your preferences are of great interest to me, John. Moving forward, I would very much like to work with you. After all, you are the star of the wizards. I have no doubt you’ll relay my offer to Thelix, but as added incentive, I’ll even gift you a horse. It won’t seem much to someone like you, but an individual of your composure is above walking.” Her gaze drifted a bit before focusing on him again. “Actually, let’s make that four horses. I sense you’re more invested in group efforts than solitary interests.”

“You’re too kind,” Jeanne replied.

He didn’t want to seem anxious to leave, but he realised he had left Hal alone when following Taylor, and scanning the room, he couldn’t see him. The man was his own person and could do what he wanted; Jeanne would never dispute that. But he was also meek and hapless. Trouble had a way of finding him without much difficulty.

“…I see.”

His gaze snapped back to Taylor. “I beg your pardon?”

“You are excellent at hiding your reactions, but not reacting is also a reaction in itself. Nothing I’ve offered truly interests you.”

“Your offers have been more than reasonable, Taylor. If I am who you think I am, then they will reach the right ears.”

“It’s about more than just that. I’ll add one last incentive: a share in one of my businesses. Now, money is clearly of no importance to you. I suspect the concerned businesses might be instead. You see, this is merely a popular and successful inn I appropriated. My other two inns serve somewhat more… shall we say, ‘specialised’ services. The Canary’s Perch was the first endeavour I launched myself. Surely you’ve heard of it?”

He found it amusing how she seemed almost desperate to get inside his mind. “I have, yes. It’s quite popular.”

“Indeed it is. Who doesn’t like a pretty little thing?” A woman approached Taylor and whispered something in her ear. Taylor made an affirming noise and waved her off. “My other establishment is The Prancing Stallion. It offers more discretion, naturally.”

Jeanne sighed. “It sounds like you want something, Taylor.”

She chuckled. “You already know what I want, John. You are undeniably handsome, but besides that in which I’ve already expressed interest, nothing else you can offer would appeal to me.” She rose, and he followed her example. “I have some matters that require my attention, so you must excuse me. If you and your friends wish to stay the night here or at either of the other inns, you may do so free of charge. I look forward to working with you.” She gave him one last smile, its hidden fire still shining in her eyes, before leaving.

Jeanne quickly moved to the other side of the room, hoping to see Hal waiting at one of the less populated tables. The inn had simply filled with yet more patrons as time had passed, making it difficult to pick individuals out from the collective, but Hal proved impossible to find. Jeanne ran his hand through his hair and down his neck.

Where had Hal gone?

As Jeanne walked off into the back room, the wonder that had filled the tavern quickly petered out. Hal stood and stared around as the rest of the patrons quietly returned to their meals.

Judging from his luck so far, he wasn’t going to get anywhere by himself. But a doctor shouldn’t rely on luck. Anyone who does is giving up too soon.

“Too soon, too soon,” Hal said, thinking of Jeanne’s display of magic. It had earned him a crowd, and definitely a few new fans. If Hal had tried something like it, he’d have been kicked into the dirt.

But still, the thatcher had seen Jeanne’s sword as a work of evil. That was a little true of most magic, maybe of everything. But there was some good to be done if you could exchange luck for evil.

The waiter returned with the gin, surprised to find an empty table. He glanced at Hal, who shrugged helplessly and edged towards the door. The boy darted around to block his path, holding up the gin glasses forcefully.

Hal sighed and took the glasses in one hand, pushing a gold coin into the boy’s palm with the other. The boy gave him a churlish grin before bouncing back around to the next raised hand.

Hal put the glasses down on the table, looking to see if Jeanne had returned yet. Time rolled by, and food rolled over the lips of the other patrons, and soon enough, gin was rolling down Hal’s throat. He didn’t drink often, but he had bought it plenty of times for his patients. Maybe it was a sin, but it sure did help when the back-alley doctor came to cut your arm open.

Hal curled his fingers and sent a shock into the glass, giggling as the gin spurted upwards. He downed it and reached for Jeanne’s share, only to realize that he had just drunk it along with the five refills he’d ordered.

He wheezed, holding his sides and laughing. The waitstaff was eyeing him nervously, unsure of whether this reedy, drunken man would be a problem tonight. He would be.

“Why’d that idiot Horst go and get caught anyway?” Hal asked, draping his arm over the shoulder of another customer. “That was stupid. S-T-U-I - he’s stupid. Dumb.

“I really think it started when I was a kid, you know?” he continued, lying on the floor next to the waiter. “It was too much - much - pressure, yeah? No kid could - no. It was pressure.

“I just want people to *hic* notice!” he cried into the inn’s bar, pounding the wood. “I am not vanilla, I’m not, not, not-

“Oh.” He noticed that he was on the ground in the street. The manager was standing on the porch, dusting his hands with disdain.

“You can’t do that!” Hal shouted, his voice cracking as he sat up. The manager wasn’t listening, going back inside and shutting the door.

Hal’s voice withered as the strength drained out of him. “Don’t you know, I’m, I’m, Revolt,” he trailed off, his back landing flat in the middle of the street. Immediately, something tripped against his head. It flew forward and faceplanted in the dirt, its cloak splaying out. As its hand pushed it up and wiped the mud from its face, Hal looked over and recognized it as that of Horst from Horst’s Hogmeats.

Bedelveit Horst was a stout scrap of a man, looking equal parts tough and hungry. His meat had been second to none in the town. But thanks to his latest scandal, he’d surely be arrested if someone saw him.

“Damn it! If someone sees me, I’ll be arrested,” he snarled, whirling around to see who was watching. His eyes widened, and he pointed down at Hal. “It’s you!”

“It’s me!” Hal announced giddily. He stood up, grinning. His cloak had fallen away, revealing his shock-purple hair. “How’s it going!”

“I’m quite fine,” Horst said, drawing his cloak tightly around himself. “Don’t you dare follow me!”

He stalked off, and Hal, giggling, followed him.

The streets of Rudigall were dying down for the night. Hal drew a bit of attention as he sauntered by, but no one looked too closely at a drunkard on a walk. Horst, by contrast, was the picture of suspicion, so most people would stare at him as he scurried along, and immediately go back to their business as they saw Hal trailing behind.

Horst came to a stop in front of a large shop with a boarded up sign, peering through the slats across the window. He turned around and nearly jumped as he came chest height to Hal, who was looking around with enthusiasm.

Horst’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Just what do you think you’re - oh, I see.” He chuckled, glancing up with a wicked smile. “You’ve come here because you’ve realized you’re just like me, right? We both want to break free from our chains.”

Hal, not hearing him, smiled back.

“In that case, right this way.” Horst came at the doorknob with a small metal tool, prying the lock free. The door swung open.

Hal ducked into the carcass of the great Horst’s Hogmeats. The store's huge size made it seem exceedingly empty, shelves and tables carrying of nothing but the taste of what was once the most prized pork in all of Rudigall.

“Oh, they were quick to crucify me, the other butchers,” Horst said, looking around in disdain. “But when all’s said and done, the best meat in the city can’t just go to waste, can it?” He moved behind the counter, opening the door into the backroom. Hal followed.

They came into a large hall, almost a barn, with metal feeding tubes bolted to the walls. The wooden pens were empty; all save one, and Hal realized the small, moving shape was a slumbering hog.

“Roscuro. The one subject I’d failed to enhance.” Horst came up beside him, watching as the moonlight fell from the window onto the pig’s pink skin. “I think they were mocking me, leaving him. The runt for a runt. Yes, now that I think about it, they were mocking me! All of them, they were laughing!” He scratched at his head, his teeth gnashing furiously.

Slowly, slowly, his movements ceased, and he returned to his composure. He placed a hand on the table in the middle of the room, looking at Hal and smiling.

“There’s nothing I hate more than insults. Especially when they’re lies. After all, no matter how I did it, I did it, didn’t I? I became the best ever to be!”

His lip curled upwards. “But I think, at this very moment, I’ve come into full rein of my gifts. You understand that, don’t you?”

Hal thought of Whither tripping the lady earlier, and chuckled.

Horst laughed, closing his fist. “Yes, you wizards, enslaved by the common man to be their entertainer. You require freedom, and revenge.” From his cloak, he pulled out a small silver case. He placed it on the table and turned his back to Hal, working at the clasps.

“I always knew that my gift was raising hogs. Then I was told I was not good enough. So I began to get creative in my ways of raising them. I bought oh so many ingredients, all to make the best meat in Rudigall.”

He turned around, holding a syringe and two vials. “But this, this is not for meat. This is for revenge."

He walked over to Roscuro’s slumbering form, and, fitting a vial to the syringe, slid the needle into his backside.

Hal watched as Roscuro began shivering, as if in a bad dream. The pig seemed to be growing before his eyes, muscles shredding and expanding immensely over one another.

Roscuro squealed awake, shocked by his transformation, and began to stomp around his pen; but suddenly, his eyes rolled back in his hoggy head, drained of stamina. He collapsed, sitting at the height of Hal’s waist.

Horst chuckled. “When he awakes, he will be a mad beast. An unstoppable wave of destruction! Do you find this as poetic as I do? The town being razed by pig-doping? A masterstroke,” he laughed.

“And you, Hal Ventus,” he said, turning to him while fitting the other vial, “you shall be it’s pale rider. A rider of the apocalypse!” He cackled wildly, jabbing the syringe towards Hal’s arm.

“No thanks, I’ve had my shots,” Hal said, slapping his hand down. The syringe curved away from Hal and into the backside of the sleeping Roscuro. Pushed by momentum, the plunger sunk and injected the serum.

Horst blinked for a second, not registering the scene. He looked from the syringe to Hal, and back again. Then, he screamed.

“Hey, hey, calm down,” Hal said to Horst, who was wailing in panic. “You can get more o’that stuff.”

“No, I can’t!” Horst yelled. “And anyway, that isn’t the issue! Do you know what a double dose of Savage does to a living creature?”

“I don’t,” Hal said, cocking his head. “Do you?”

Horst bit his thumb angrily. “No, I don’t.” Suddenly, his eyes went wide, and his gaze went past Hal, tracking upwards as a shadow blotted out the moonlight from the window. Hal turned around to see what he was looking at, and came chest height to a demon boar, standing upright with its muscles bulging frenetically. Its eyes blinked open, red-tinted and devoid of reason.

Horst stood in shock as the creature shook its head, lashing out at the ceiling and walls. Quickly, that shock turned to crazed wonder, and Bedelveit Horst spread his arms out, his cloak blowing open like a mad scientist’s coat.

“Yes. Yes! Rise, my creation! Rise, Great Hogmeat! Rise and-” He was cut off when Hal tackled him, just as Hogmeat’s fist crashed through the space where his head had been.

Hogmeat roared, ripping the feeding contraption from the wall and throwing it across the room. It leapt over its pen, charging towards the wall and breaking through it in one shot. In the distance, more wreckage could be heard, getter further and further away.

Horst was shaking like a leaf on the ground. “I-I don’t understand. I’m the greatest hog-breeder. The greatest.” The realization had cut him down where he stood. He was unable to stand.

Hal had a pounding in his head as he stood up, coming to his senses. “What just - oh, no. No, no,” he said, looking around at the fresh rubble.

In the distance, someone screamed.

Hal didn’t even take the time to breathe. He was already dashing out into the night, towards the sound of destruction. I really don’t like this town, he thought.