An Arsonist and a Necromancer Walk into a Bar

Lofty Ambitions

Palmira ran.

Her heart pounded in her throat as her burning feet slammed against the city streets. She just barely remembered to hold onto Morte's staff (or maybe she'd just forgotten to drop it), her knuckles white from how tightly she was clenching it. She didn't know where she was going and she didn't care, just that it was away. Away from the fighting and the death.

Even now she could still hear the explosions in the distance, see the flames that lit up the sky. The city had bunkered down to wait out the storm, shopkeepers closing their doors early and commuters deserting the streets. Even the beggars and criminals were gone, hiding away in alleys praying the fighting didn't come to them.

Palmira ran past them all. She ran and ran until she couldn't run anymore, scraping her knees as she fell to the ground.

She leaned against the nearest building, greedily sucking in air with every breath. Her vision flickered, and she struggled to keep conscious.

"Kid? Kid!?" She realized Morte was practically shouting in her mind. "Palmira!? Damnit, answer me!"

"…I'm okay," she croaked, blinking the spots out of her eyes.

"Finally," he breathed, relieved. "And no, you aren't. But I suppose no one would be, after that. I sometimes forget you're just a child."

She didn't say anything, focusing instead on catching her breath. As her thoughts calmed and her heart ceased to race, she glanced up, only to freeze as she realized where she was.

Before her stood her alleyway, the old unused sewer, as empty and silent as she'd left it.

And she was tempted, for a moment, to forget. To drop her fancy armor and the crest stamped upon it, to return back to that life on the streets. It was hard, and painful, and she hated every minute of it, but after today? After seeing the blood on the streets, the people killing each other, the knowledge that she had a part to play in it, no matter how small?

Well, the streets didn't look so bad anymore.

"We'll have to go report this to the guild, of course. Don't worry about getting punished, the old orc's not the type of person to punish you for something like this. Well, at least not too harshly."

It would be easy. She could even keep the armor—scratch off the Famiglia crest and she could pass herself off as a travelling freelancer. She'd even be getting paid!

"It's the guildmaster who I think we'll have more of a problem with. He looked like he had a stick up his ass, but hey, I think he's desperate enough for quality adventurers to let you off with a slap on the wrist."

Maybe she'd travel to Palunera? No, too much water. Vola? No, Morte would be caught out too easily. Iscrimo? No, too many memories. Maybe instead she should look further south—

"Still, we should—hm? Hey, kid? You doing okay now? You look like you're about to puke."

Palmira nearly jumped, startled out of her thoughts. "Wha—?" she coughed, clearing her throat. "What do you mean?"

"…Oh, nothing much. Just… you do plan on heading back to the guild, don't you?"

Palmira hesitated. She wasn't… She didn't…

"Well, in the end it's your decision. I'm just along for the ride, after all!"

Palmira jolted at that. She hadn't expected him to just accept her decision—no, she hadn't even thought to ask, had she? Because he's just along for the ride, not allowed any choice of his own. Because it'd been so long since she'd had to think about somebody else that she'd just forgotten to do it entirely.

And that made her hesitate. She remembered, faintly, a birthday party celebrated in the mud. In an abandoned storehouse in a distant city, where three little girls laughed and partied and gorged themselves on apples they'd saved up for weeks to afford. A warmth that blossomed in her chest for the first time since she'd first discovered her fire.

(She sat in a restaurant and argued with a young pink girl. She rode away from a battle with another one who's eyes were of crystal. She chose a name, her name, in the crowded office of an old orc.)

…She didn't want to leave. It wasn't much—it was so little, in fact, but that just made her long for what could be all the more.

How long had it been, since she'd had anyone to care about?

She turned and ran back the way she came, back in the direction of the Rosa Dominae.

A bit longer. She'd stay just a little bit longer, and if she still wanted to leave, well…

She'd figure it out later. She always did.

--

​

Some time later she burst into Ósma's office, gasping for breath. Once she'd made her decision she'd run as fast as she could back, not wanting to waste a second. Relief and guilt and dread warred within her as she saw him there, sat behind his desk.

"Palmira?" Osma yelped in shock. He'd apparently been in the middle of a meeting with the guildmaster, as Dante sat in the chair across from him, a pile of papers spread between them. The old orc swiftly stood from his desk, his forehead creasing in worry. "What are you doing back so soon? And why are you out of breath? Did something happen?"

The guildmaster simply raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms and settling back in his chair, watching silently.

"They… the Ambrosi, they are…" she wheezed, tripping over her own words as she tried to breath and talk at the same time. "Fighting! The Capparelli… the Gennarelli… Sinbad—"

"Calm down," Ósma held up a hand, cutting through her exhausted ramblings. "Breath. Once you've gathered yourself, then you can speak."

"The Ambrosi are currently being attacked by their enemies," Morte took over for her. "From what they've said, the Ambrosi are apparently consorting with demons. And one of their scions are fucking a Capparelli daughter. So, you know," he made an explosion noise. "Time for a purge! Of course, being the thoughtful young guildmembers we are, we booked it back as fast as we could to warn you."

Ósma closed his eyes slowly, sitting back down. "…When you say attacked, do you mean…?"

Palmira took a deep breath, curling in on herself. "So many people died," she rasped, blinking tears out of her eyes. "I don't… People were buried alive…"

(The images were seared into her eyes. Fire and earth, countless dying to forces beyond their control. Smoke and ash; the sky is burning; her lungs are filled with stone and she can't breathe; Mama's face contorted in fear as the black clouds consume her—)

"It wasn't that bad," Morte corrected her calmly. The statement knocked her out of her thoughts more than anything else. She tasted ash on her tongue, and for the first time since they'd met really, truly wanted to smash his stupid little skull on the floor until it shattered. "I've been witness to a great many battles for a great many causes, and I can say with confidence that this was at best a skirmish. The Capparelli nobleman only brought a dozen soldiers with him, and the Gennarelli were two third mercenaries. Maybe two hundred people involved if you combined both sides."

"It wasn't that bad!?" Palmira coughed, glaring down at him incredulously. "The piazza was practically destroyed as an opening move! People died! In what world is this 'not that bad!?'"

"This world, unfortunately," Dante grunted, finally joining the conversation. "There's no way the Gennarelli would have been able to hide it if they were building up to a full-scale civil war. More than likely, this was a hastily cobbled together plan designed to push an objective, though… tell me child, who shot first? The guilds love their posturing and prattling, and there's no way either side would have risked their position in the city over something as simple as consorting with demons."

She took a deep breath, pushing every nasty thought she had about everything that had happened today into the depths of her mind along with all the others. Having gathered herself, she gave the guildmaster a play-by-play of the events leading up to the battle.

"…I see," the guildmaster leaned back, closing his eyes. "There wasn't meant to be a battle at all—this was a show of force by the Gennarelli, likely to weaken the position of the Ambrosi. They'd bring up their army, wave their weapons around threateningly, and then the Ambrosi would give up this demon they're hiding and probably a scapegoat or two before everything returned to the status quo."

"But they weren't expecting the Capparelli to get involved," Ósma continued grimly. "Francoise was always a hot-headed traditionalist, but to think he'd force a confrontation between the Ambrosi and Gennarelli…"

"Depending on how the battle went, he'll either be praised as a hero or quietly moved out of the city," the guildmaster waved the subject away. "That's not what's important right now. Rather, we should be considering how our guild will respond to this attack. We're the smallest of the three Cadorna guilds, but as the person bringing this information to my father I'll be given some sway on how to proceed."

Despite the seriousness of his words, the guildmaster had a self-satisfied look in his eyes. Like he was already planning how to use this to his advantage.

"Honor would dictate we call back our adventurers to act as a garrison should this escalate to war."

"But faith would dictate we abandon anyone who consorts with demons."

"You want us to remain neutral, then?"

"For now. We should wait and see, at least—if the Ambrosi look like they'll win, we join with them. If not, we wait until things have quieted down and see what they offer us to hold faith with them. Regardless, the Ambrosi will likely survive this conflict, so let us focus more on what we should do once all of this blows over."

"Actually, I wouldn't be too sure about them," Morte cut in. "Far as I can tell, the Ambrosi have lost all standing with the church. They've been excommunicated in absentia by a local Paladin, a man named 'Sinbad.' I've met the man before, and while I can't speak for his character, I can say with certainty that he's a holy man through and through."

Both Ósma's and Dante's eyes widened. "What do you mean excommunicated?" Dante swore, launching to his feet, for the first time looking truly panicked. "The Cadorna are a subsidiary of the Ambrosi! Does that mean those idiots have already dragged us down with them!?"

"Do I look like I know the ins and outs of church law?" Morte asked rhetorically, before letting out a light chuckle. "I mean I do, but really, what makes you ask the cursed staff these questions? I think you'll be fine. The Paladin only excommunicated the Famiglia, and didn't mention anyone else."

Ósma looked less than pleased by that explanation. "But what about Palmira? She was there when the order went out, do you think she's been…?"

"It's possible," Morte granted, causing her throat to tighten up. Would she really end up damned for something she didn't do…? "But I doubt it'll be a problem for long. Tell me, what do you think'll happen once this all blows over?"

"…The excommunication will eventually be lifted," it was Dante who replied, looking thoughtful. "Excommunicating so many people for long will only breed resentment towards the church, especially since most of those involved are likely innocent. Instead, it's meant to put pressure on the Ambrosi, forcing them to bring forth the perpetrators—or at least a scapegoat—and repent on whatever crime they've committed."

Ósma scowled. "Still, it's rather extreme, don't you think?"

"Not at all," the guildmaster shook his head. "Not if it's the Gennarelli making the call. Why wouldn't they recommend the course of action that would hurt their rivals the most? Even if this excommunication gets lifted by tonight, faith in the Ambrosi will be shot for the foreseeable future. Some of our fellows might even jump ship to align themselves with a less openly sinful Famiglia."

"Such as the Gennarelli, who were the ones to call them out in the first place," Osma sighed. He got up from his desk and grabbed a book from one of his shelves. It was an old, well-used thing with the city's crest on the cover.

"Indeed."

Slumping back into his chair, Ósma cracked open the book, leafing through until he found the page he was looking for. "Right, here's the list…" he muttered, scanning each page quickly. "Anyone important you want to watch out for…?"

"Perhaps another time," the guildmaster shook his head, gesturing towards Palmria. "Not while the girl is here, at least."

"Ah, right," he slammed the book shut, looking bashful. "Apologies, Palmira. I got so caught up in everything I forgot you were still here. Is there anything else you'd want to ask, before you head out?"

It was a dismissal if she'd ever heard one, and it put a bad taste in her mouth. She wasn't sure what she had wanted to gain out of coming here, but it wasn't this. "…Will I have to return to the Ambrosi?"

Ósma's face soured, and she felt dread pool in her stomach. Surely not. "Unfortunately, we've already signed the contract. And you did desert in their hour of need—it was a good thing, don't get me wrong, I'd rather you alive than dead—but if we renege on it now, we would—"

"No."

Ósma blinked, shocked, and Palmira felt something like hope rise in her chest. "No?" he asked incredulously, turning to stare at the guildmaster. "You understand what that means, right!? You can't just no the Ambrosi!"

"I can, and I will," Dante scoffed, standing to his full height. Despite the fact that what he was saying should have filled her with relief, something about the look in his eyes unnerved her. "This girl—Palmira, yes?—will not be returning to the Ambrosi guild. In fact, if we have any other members on loan to their guild, cancel the job and call them back immediately."

"Wait, what!?" Ósma's eyes widened. "You mean to cut ties with them entirely!? What the hell happened to wait and see!?"

"What happened was the Ambrosi getting excommunicated," the guildmaster turned and pointed at her. "And getting those uninvolved caught in the crossfire."

"We're apart of a damn Famiglia, Dante Cadorna. We are all involved."

"But the average person won't see it that way," the guildmaster shook his head at him. "The thought that anyone could get dragged into a war between the great Famiglias just because they belong to a subsidiary of a subsidiary would light a spark of fear in anyone's heart."

"That's not what happened though," Osma rebutted. "And you know the Ambrosi would disavow anything we have to say on the matter."

"But the Capparelli and the Gennarelli would not. I dare say they might do anything to undermine the Ambrosi."

"You mean to leverage our enemies against our allies? Have you gone mad!?"

"Not at all," Dante Cadorna smiled grandly. "I just happen to have caught sight of the bigger picture."

"You are the third son of the Cadorna," Osma gritted out. "Do not get ahead of yourself, Dante. Even your uncle did not so much as think of what you are implying, and you know what happened to him."

"Uncle's sins are not me own!" the guildmaster bit out. "And what of yours! Your brother was a world-renowned hero! Your apprentice the Paladin! And yet here you sit, not even king of your own castle! Death by bureaucracy, a fitting end to The Moonlit Spider!"

"Is that supposed to be an insult?" Osma spat. "I've never wanted for fame or fortune. I am content where I am now!"

"And that is it! You are always just content! Where is your fire? Your ambition!? Every chance you get to become something more you just let it pass you by!"

"And you forget your own place!" Ósma reprimanded him, a thunderous scowl on his face. "I have no more love for the great Famiglias than anyone else, but I will not see you throw us into a war just to satisfy your own foolhardy ambitions!"

"Are they really so foolhardy?" the guildmaster threw his arms wide in askance. "Times are changing, Ósma. The Capparelli have grown greedy, grasping for more than they can handle and letting it all slip between their fingers. The Ambrosi are losing ground just as fast, and have now even set themselves against the Church itself. And the ones with the most to gain are the Gennarelli, foreigners whose willingness to meddle sees them grow more powerful with each street they take and every Famiglia they flip to their side. The status quo is falling to pieces, and we must carve out our own place lest we sink beneath the waves of those who did."

"So what plans do you have? What goals!? Or are you just hoping to throw yourself against the tides of change and pray you come out the other end stronger for it?"

"For now, independence," he waved his hands around the room. "The Cadorna Famiglia is small, but we can stand on our own. If we manage to grab enough likeminded Famiglias to our cause, we might even become formidable. Perhaps, if we grow big enough, our guild could replace the Rodina as the representative of the Adventurers in the Signora."

"You're speaking nonsense," Osma scoffed. "Supplant the Rodina? The guild which slew Vesuvius and founded the city? If you want me onside, give me realistic goals."

"Just because it is a pipedream doesn't make it impossible. But if you want a more realistic goal, then perhaps a seat on the Signora?"

"Did you not hear me? I said realistic, not impossible."

"Hear me out. If things continue as they have, the city will only get more bloody, and with the mercenaries all hired out to fight for the bigger Famiglias, who will protect the common folk? The Arti Minori, the minor guilds who cannot afford to compete with the Arti Maggiori? What if they had a neutral guild to look to, one with adventurers uninvolved with the battles who would protect them and theirs from the bloody wars of the upper class?"

"And you think they'd vote for you? Or do you mean the equally unlikely chance they'd vote for your father? Because with only one seat on the Signora every five years, I doubt they'll be too willing to give it up to you."

"Unless we make that part of our stipulation for helping."

Ósma closed his eyes, exhausted. "…It might work. Might. But it's a lot of risk for little reward."

"I have more plans, if you'd like to hear them."

"Maybe later," Osma grunted, opening his eyes. "For now, I believe you forgot about someone."

He pointed over to Palmira, who'd watched the whole exchange with wide eyes.

"…Ah, right," the guildmaster coughed, straightening his sleaves. "Apologies, you shouldn't have seen that. Ah, you may leave now," he shooed her away. "And I'll see your pay for the job—uncompleted as it was—will get to you by tomorrow."

And Palmira, not knowing what else to do, nodded quietly and left.

--

​

Palmira had wanted to skip dinner that night, but the idea of wasting free food sat poorly with her. So instead she grabbed her bowl and brought it back to her room, dodging question after question about what had happened that morning.

She didn't want to talk about it. Not today, at least.

So instead she forced down her stew (and then forced it to stay down as her stomach revolted against her) and climbed into bed, ready for the day to just be over with already.

But laying down in the dark had a way of letting the bad thoughts creep up on her, and after today they hit her harder than normal.

So she just laid in bed, exhausted but unable to sleep, every moment of that morning replaying in her head.

"Psst. Hey, kid? You asleep yet?"

"…no."

"Cool! Wanna hear a story? I've got this great tale about the time I got into a fist fight with a Velken prince over a bottle of eyes!"

"…Not tonight."

"…Ah, I think I get it. The first time is always the worst. Don't worry though, it gets easier!"

She didn't want to hear that.

"Do you want to talk about it? I've heard that helps with the whole, you know."

She didn't, but her mouth moved before she could stop herself.

"…Are you ashamed of me?" she asked quietly, curling in on herself. "I keep freezing up and running away… you claimed to be my teacher and you've held up your end well, but I'm doing a pretty awful job at being an apprentice, aren't I?"

"…Don't be foolish," Morte scoffed. "You are alive, are you not? Nothing is more important than that, got it? I'll only be ashamed of you if you die."

"…"

"…It's not about me, is it?" Morte asked softly. She grimaced and curled in on herself tighter. "Are you ashamed of yourself, Palmira?"

"…I'm so weak," she spat, almost too quiet to hear. "If I had been stronger… If I'd been smarter… If I'd been more… Maybe I could have avoided the conflict entirely. Like… like Sinbad—someone so powerful they never fear any fight."

"Oh, I very much doubt that's the case," Morte gently refuted her. "Everyone feels fear, even disembodied abominations like me! And you've only been in the guild for what, two weeks? Give yourself some more time to grow, before you start feeling so sorry for yourself. Everyone starts somewhere, kid."

"…Grow stronger, huh…?"

"Hm?"

"…Hey, Morte? You said you'd teach me magic, right? Magic that nobody else in the world could possibly teach me?"

"Aye, I did. But there's no coming back from that type of magic. Take your first step down that path, and Fate will dog your heels forevermore."

"I don't care," she whispered. "Teach me to be strong. Teach me to be smart. Teach me so that I never ever feel weak again. It's… it's like what the guildmaster said, right? Where's my fire? My ambition? I've done everything I set out to do, and yet I feel like I've accomplished nothing. So please, teach me that magic."

"…Of course, my apprentice."

And as she finally drifted off to sleep, Morte's eyes stared into the darkness of the room, the cosmos roiling within them.

"I just pray you live long enough to regret it."