"Perhaps I would be content with it," I speak to them for the first time since we've been inside the shop. "If Einar only knew how to be a child. It's too late for me, but I am an adolescent. Einar is three years younger, yet he is my business partner. I only hope the same fate does not befall Casca."

"What's wrong with not acting like a child?" Ama inquires as she sets her face in my direction, her green eyes glimmering as she considers my point with a frown. "Xan seems pretty mature for his age. Not 'adult' mature, but, like, really mature."

My slick hand nervously kneads at the wooden hilt of my knife from my anxious awareness that every word that drops from my mouth sticks out. The more I say, the harder it is to hide my foreign lilt. I don't wear it comfortably like Einar and Casca; it's painfully obvious how careful I'm trying to be. Vocabulary? Yes. Clarity... Not so much. The irony of it all is that the less I speak, the more limited the practice I have at articulation.

"Does it not seem strange at all," I say with an agonizing effort at making my words distinct, "—that someone so young knows nothing but exportation and inputting, income and deals? I really don't know, but it seems beneath my honor to support such a thing."

"Sev, it's not that hard," she replies. "Just tell him to take a day off."

"He would never. That is exactly my point. It's an obsession with him, his job. If I told him--if I had the audacity to tell him--he would either scorn the suggestion or use the extra day to make a chain business." I sigh, breaking my gaze from Ama's eyes to the drab, stone floor. "... I shouldn't have said anything. Forget it."

I feel her gaze focused on me before I hear an answering sigh and her departing footsteps. When my eyes can't trace her feet anymore, I raise my head to watch her retreating back in time to see her open the forbidden door to the forge.

"I have no choice," is all she says.

She steps inside as if she belongs there, leaving the door only partly closed, without clicking it wholly shut. Should I follow her or play it safe until nightfall finally comes? If I go after her, I might have to face Einar's fury.

Eldrin slinks around the counter and slips silently into the forge, his face split by a malicious smirk. My curiosity finally gets the better of me, and I follow him. I don't see Abasi, who was until now a statue no more animated than one of the armored mannequins, but I can hear his footsteps behind me. It's odd how quiet he is. Unnerving. Different. After everything, I'm not sure if I should be afraid of or for him. What I am sure of, however, is which one would make the most sense. I should be afraid of an assassin, that's only common sense. But what confuses me is that when he died, I wasn't relieved--I didn't feel as if a weight fell, I felt as if I fell.

For some petrifying moments, the ground was gone, the cave was gone, the world had become intangible and I was falling straight through it, down down down until I had fallen through all realms and everything that ever existed.

I felt as if I had never known what it was to feel.

It's strange, this interest I have in this group. Something about them makes me want to stick around, but knowing their professions any of them could drop dead at any given time. Who knows how many enemies they have that I could gain simply by being near them? Just being in the same vicinity as all of them is dangerous. They're part of a world that would kill me if I got too close. And since, unlike Abasi, I can only die once, their world would make quick work of me.

The Egyptian assassin mutters something under his breath about controlling themselves and being civil towards other people. Rhys is completely disinterested in this new course of action and has his head inside my hood when I pull the door open, wary of the creaks and doing my best to open it slowly.

Before now, I had never seen the inside of a smithy. Ever since the first time I had entered this shop, Einar has made it clear that this area is off-limits. I had never tried to come in before because I wasn't interested in being hit with that hammer of his.

Casca's hands are held up, carved runes glowing on either one. Though the young boy's arms are shaking, he isn't sweating despite the stifling heat. His blue-haired master is hammering away on a thin strip of silver metal that he occasionally sticks into the forge for a few moments before beating at it again. The sound isn't like one would expect. There's no clanking or clashing of metal on metal. Rather, the thumps are dull and pulsating against the walls as if it were a tribal drum with the resounding vibration stomping on the ground and pounding my chest. The metal is soft and glowing, the hammer falling expertly onto the would-be weapon. It's a rhythm. It's a cadence.

It makes me appreciate how soundproof the walls are.

I nearly forgot to enter the room until Abasi shoulders past me, leaving me holding the door at the threshold. I step forward and let the door fall behind me, no longer worried about the creaking noise disturbing either of the smiths.

I can only witness, being too unsure of myself to interfere, as Ama sneak up behind the hammering dwarf with a broad grin. She begins to speak, but her words are drowned out by the sound of smithing. Her lips form the words: 'So, whatcha working on?'

"WHAT?? I CAN'T HEAR YOU!!"

I wince at Einar's answering yell and at the increased volume and frequency of his hammer on the metal. Just like that, the beat of the hammer goes from uniform and rhythmic to wild and primordial, as if a tribe had all jumped up agitatedly, hooting and howling as the drums become faster and more impending. The new rhythm is dizzying, and I hold my hands to my ears in pain.

The assassin scowls, cupping her mouth and putting it close to Einar's ear.

"WHAT ARE YOU WORKING ON, YOU DEAF DWARF?!"

Finally, the pounding stops. No more drums, no more tribe, no more of me holding my ears in pain. They're still ringing when I lower my hands, and the soundlessness is so concrete and sharp that I'm not sure what to make of it.

The dwarf turns around and gives Ama a dirty look, his glacial cerulean eyes glowering menacingly enough for me to wonder at how much less trouble it would have been if I had kept my head down and mouth shut.

Einar is not a friend. He's only a business partner that I've known for a long while. I don't claim to know him well, but for the love of all gods--

In all the time I've been acquainted with him, I had only asked once how often he rested. His response was a glare and a bark of "None of your damn business, shifter," as he thrust a staff at me and pushed me out the door. That was about a year ago. I know for certain that Casca has regular breaks and that he nags Einar to allow himself to rest as well. Einar's response to something he doesn't agree with is to yell at it to be quiet and keep working, too stubborn to expose how much it drains him or how much it hurts to raise the same weight over his head and swing it down repeatedly. Maybe he's trying to prove to himself, the same way he tries to prove it to everyone, that despite everything he is not weak.

"You shouldn't be here. You're a lot older than me, so I thought you'd already figure it out. If you want to know, I'm working on your rapier. Now go away." He turns around and resumes his loud pounding with a distinct viciousness.

Eldrin, who had been waiting off to the side this entire time, saunters up to Einar with his hands behind his back until he's a couple feet behind the smithing dwarf. Casca notices him and opens his mouth to warn his master, but is far too late.

"Midget," Eldrin whispers under the weight of the sound of a hammer on soft, hot metal.

This time, the silence is very, very cold. I'm not even being figurative this time: the temperature of the room drops several degrees in less than a second. The fire of the forge goes out completely, coughing smoke once before the air tears the grey haze apart. Ice spreads from Einar's still-raised hand across the hilt of his hammer and down his arm. Frost cracks as he turns his head, his face and neck a mask of frozen blue crystal compete with tiny icicles hanging from his hair and the sides of his goggles. After a few seconds pass, the only thawed-out parts of him left are the palms of his hands and the area protected by the goggles shielding his eyes. The glass of his goggles steams up, trapping the warmth inside as well as concealing the murderous glare of Einar Isa-Dverger under fogged-up grey.

By the time the ice reaches his feet and stretches around him in a small jagged circle, my breath is visible in the air and I'm holding my cloak close with shivering hands.

"What did you say, Magic Guy?" Einar whispers.

Taking complete advantage of the circumstances, Ama proclaims with a radiant smirk, "The magic guy just told you the truth."

"It was just something to get your attention," Eldrin adds with a shrug. "You need to take a day off, friend. Have a beer or something, by the Divine, look at yourself! You look like you haven't drunk in weeks!"

Einar doesn't look like he's had much of anything for weeks. He usually doesn't stand still long enough for someone to notice his condition, which is most likely deliberate. He's constantly moving around and showing his back to the customer to lead them someplace or to search for a particular material in one of his cabinets, so they can't see the hollowness of his icy blue eyes. He keeps them talking and then disappears into the forge before they could notice the pallidness of his skin.

I wouldn't blame anyone that isn't able to see the frailty in Einar's composure. Not even I was able to see it at first, and when I did I let myself be pushed away from it. It was easier than getting myself involved. It's always so much easier to walk away from everyone else and focus on something that distracts from what hurts us. Labor is a refuge, solitude is a shield. We try so hard to be alone in our pain that we torture ourselves with it.

Ice cracks as Einar slams his hammer down on the metal strip, plastering it flat against the deadened forge. Pieces of frost that encase his sleeved arms fall to the ground and shatter.

"I'm going to pretend you didn't say that," he says quietly as if trying to calm himself, "and I am going to keep working on these weapons."

Eldrin replies to this with a snap of his fingers, and my stomach lurches as the forge room around us dissolves.

I'm completely weightless in the brief second before my butt joins everyone else's in a single muffled thump as we each land in unison on individual cushioned seats of a pub. No one in the bustling and noisy room comments on our entrance, and as I look around I can see other magi entering in a similar fashion. This must be one of the places that tolerate magic users performing inside the actual building.

Usually, you'll find businesses with wards in place that don't let people teleport inside because people are paranoid about nighttime visitors that vanish with the money before they can be caught. These establishments are a bit fewer in number since nowadays you have warded banks and anti-theft merchandise display cases. An example of this would be the rumor that Rio Russo tried to steal a couple gauntlets from Einar's display cases last week. Russo's an experienced professional as well as a frequent sight at the black market, typically seen with either magic items or other people's stolen shadows. Word on the street is that after Russo tried to pinch something from Einar last Tuesday night, the armored mannequins attacked him without mercy.

Speaking of attacking without mercy, Einar appears to be steaming with the urge to do just that as Eldrin takes a seat.

"Here, friend, have a drink," Eldrin invites gallantly, noting Einar's fury but unafraid of it. "Just so you know, we are thousands of miles away from your shop, soooo you're going to have to take a break to go back. Ah, two pints, please," he adds to a barkeep that approaches his seat.

I quickly get up before any of the employees can look my way, my eyes darting around for a bathroom. When I catch sight of one, I glance at the assassins (plus Eldrin and the angry dwarf) before yanking Rhys from around my neck, plunking him on my seat, turning, and speed-walking to the one designated for females before anyone could ask me to pool out money I need to feed myself.

I shriek as soon as I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror to my immediate left. The dirty room is designed only for one user, so no one stares but me, at myself. I look away fast, leaning back against the door as I latch it locked and take deep, controlled breaths. I close my eyes and breathe some more. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In for four heartbeats, out for twelve.

I had fully expected to look terrible. After today's battle, I would not have been surprised. There's no reason for alarm. It's just a mirror.

Slowly, with my hands on my head and my eyes squeezed shut, I take a step forward and turn myself to where I know the mirror stands to wait for me.

Gently, I take off my hood and open my eyes. It's so much worse than I could have imagined.

The assassins (plus Eldrin) had been polite enough not to comment about it. It's not simply the marks of battle. You can't see the bruises, not with my cloak on. There's a large dried-blood-encrusted scab on my hairline whose origin is lost to me. Somewhere under my cloak, a rib is either bruised or broken and it's hard to tell which because I'm still numb from my earlier frenzy. No, what frightens me is my own face.

No, no, you have me all wrong. I can't claim to be pretty, and I'm perfectly fine with my usual gaunt, sharp-featured appearance. But as a person who hasn't seen a mirror in a while and doesn't own one, what I see now is a horror.

My eyes are sunken, their yellow irises rheumy and faded to a tone that looks like jaundice. My bony cheeks are hollow and concave enough to give me a starving appearance. My dirty skin that was once of a reddish hue in my younger years had paled after a while, but now it looks wan and pasty. My jet-black hair is now sallow and limp. It had been falling out lately, but I had assumed that it was because I was pulling it too hard out of nervousness. I look ashen. I look anemic. I look like I'm dying. And the smell... that stink of sweat and spoiled blood that overpowers the odor of public bathroom... could that be me?!

Shock is like a fly. Give it an hour, and it's already dead. Until then, it follows you around, lands on your face a few times, and contaminates your food.

I don't know how long it's been since I first entered, but I try to be quick and to take advantage of the utilities I rarely see. There's nothing I can do about my hair, but I roll up my sleeves and wash as much of my face and arms as I can reach with browned water dripping down my face into the sink. I pick at the dried blood with my nail until it comes off. I'm not sure what to do about my eyes, so I wash my hands as well as I can and open them wide as I apply water. I have no idea what I'm doing, but at the very least it doesn't look like I'm making things worse.

It all makes sense now, in a way. I had wondered about how I can go so long without food and not feel any side effects. Here's my answer: I can't. I can starve and live, but obviously, it won't be healthy. And I had also wondered about how little tolerance I have for light. It's too bright for my eyes, it burns me too painfully. It isn't because of any preference I might have had, it's because I'm etiolated and sick and didn't know it until now.

My own face still haunts me as I return, hood down, to where the assassins plus Eldrin sit. Except Eldrin is gone.

"Where are you?!" Einar roars as he wildly swings his hammer at everything in sight.

Gods almighty--!

"Einar, stop!" I cry, running towards him instead of away like I should be doing.

Unsurprisingly, he brandishes his hammer at me. I duck to avoid it, and the blow barely scrapes the top of my head.

Oh, I know I'm going to regret this. It might be the only way to get him to stop, but I don't like doing it so soon after the last time...

Shifting comes easily to me this time. My despair at seeing my condition, my confusion about this group and why I want to be them, envy at how they radiate strength I can never possess... It all spreads, just like the black scales running from my fingertips to my forearms.

As a black serpent, I wrap Einar in a diseased embrace. I can feel his anger through my scales as he struggles. He violently strains against me as if I were a rope, and I feel my scales stretch painfully as if I were a string about to tear.

"You had better have a good reason for this, shifter!" Einar bellows, wholly infuriated as Rhys joins the effort in helping me pin Einar's arms down so that he can't destroy anything (me).

"She does." The fierceness of Ama's support shocks me, and for a moment I loosen my hold on the dwarf. I tighten my coils again before he can take advantage of the brief opening. Ama's glare is sharp and intensely defiant. "She wants you to take a break. Why? Because you're obsessed with your job and you aren't willing to live like a kid. You need to learn how to live."

"Live?" Einar spits. "I hang out with dead people. They take my money, and I get supplies. And so what if I don't want to be a kid? I'm good at what I do, so let me do my Eitri-damned job already!"

Ama huffs out a single dry laugh. "I might be good at things, but that doesn't mean I'll do it forever. You have to learn how to live, it'll make your life better."

"Oh, I know how to live. I--mrf!" Einar exclaims as I cover his mouth with my coils (ew).

"One hour," I croak as best I can with an enwidened snake's mouth. "That's it. Then you can resume work."

He nods erratically, and I release him quickly. I shift back and crawl onto the barstool, placing my elbows on the counter and doing my best not to black out from exhaustion and from shifting so many times.

"Give me an Eitri-damned drink already, Magic Guy," Einar grouches as he sits heavily on the barstool.

Eldrin reappears and slides one of the waiting beers over to the fervent dwarf, as nonchalant as you could get. "I didn't want to call you a midget, you know," he apologizes. "I just had to get your attention. My name's Eldrin, by the way."

"Good to know," Einar mumbles, already halfway through the once-overflowing mug.

"Alright!" Rather than buy a drink, Ama whips out her hip flask of whiskey that she brought with her. How it managed to stay intact in the duration of the battle, I do not know. "Let's get this party started!" Ama shouts as she gulps it down at an alarming pace.

"You are all a bunch of alcoholics," I declare as I push my elbows against the counter and raise myself to a more erect sitting position. When I sweep my eyes to glare at them, I catch sight of Abasi. Has he been here this entire time? "With the exception of Abasi," I add quickly.

I mean... He's just sitting there. Watching? Waiting? Considering the meaning of life? Thinking about killing? What does an assassin think about, anyway? I suppose it depends. If I asked Ama, her answer would be something along the lines of 'whiskey'.

"The Helheim are you guys anyway, and how do you know the shifter?" Einar inquires around the mouth of his mug.

"I have a name," I snap at him.

Ama chuckles, momentarily taking her flask away from her lips. "I'm a girl," she answers simply. "And I know Severin because my boss brought her to me."

"While we're having this little chat, why're you buying weapons from me anyways, and how can you afford so many?"

"My job gives me a bunch of money," Ama replies, deliberately evasive. "Also, Sev told us about you and I was curious."

"'Sev'?" He smirks before taking a long swig, his frigid eyes lingering on me before instantly alighting on Rhys. "Never thought I'd see the day when that snake bastard would make a friend that wasn't another snake."

"I'm right here, you know," I grumble irritably, annoyed at his remark. He's an ignorant, diminutive gremlin for assuming that I need anyone else.

"I never really considered her as a friend, but I guess I could say she is. She's the only person I know that's around my age and is a girl," Ama replies with a roll of her eyes.

"As far as I'm concerned, Rhys is my only friend," I insist in an attempt to be realistic. It is a pathetic truth, but a truth nonetheless. "You other humans make... interesting acquaintances, though."

I know that I've made a mistake when the three acquaintances in question all give me that same glance of amusement. Ama and Eldrin actually laugh.

"It's funny how you think we're all human," Ama remarks with a wolfish grin.

"Good point." Eldrin briefly toasts her with a nod and a raised cup before downing the rest of his drink.

I have to taste the air carefully, but I don't notice anything I hadn't before except for the more recent tang of alcohol. As for Eldrin, I have no clue. He smells like a pure human. There's a faint smell of the ocean on Ama, but it's so minute that I don't even know if it's relevant. "You are a fish-human of some sort. I'm not certain," I guess before changing the subject. "And by Jormungand, how can you stand drinking that... poison?"

Abasi suddenly jumps up, startling me into nearly falling off the barstool. I had, once again, forgotten he was there.

"I know, right?! That stuff is disgusting!" he cries as his barstool falls to the floor with a bang.

Ama saves me from replying with a scowl at the both of us (mostly me). "One, don't call me a fish person. Two, I've been drinking for a long time."

"Noted," is the only answer to that I can come up with. I feel guilty for failing to remember Abasi's presence, as silent and mainly uneventful as it was, but I'm glad Ama cut in so that I have an excuse not to respond to Abasi's outburst. But I'm not depraved enough to ignore him completely. "And now they've got the thirteen-year-old kid on alcohol," I tell him with a wave at my hand at unperturbed Einar. "What is this world coming to?"

Midgard isn't perfect, but it isn't exactly a slumrealm either. As far as I know, young kids don't normally drink beer or mead or whatever other drinks are stinking up this place. Drinking is part of a more mature world of veterans, that broken state of cracked and bent souls that wish to drown.

"Hey, I drank when I was 12. There's nothing wrong with Dwarf Boy drinking," Ama says with her arms raised in mock surrender at the exact same time that Abasi replies with a sigh of, "I know."

"I would much rather go and buy a nice meal," Abasi continues as he jadedly contemplates the spear in his hand. The pressing of the hidden button and click of the tiny machinery inside are both so subtle that I couldn't tell just from looking or listening that it was anything other than pure magic. Abasi smirks in satisfaction at his new weapon.

"I would, but I only eat fish and vegetables," I babble erratically, not looking at him but at the spear. I'm confused again. I can't pin down this person's manner. At first, I thought he was more of the silent type of people, but he keeps surprising me with these impromptu outbursts. Not to mention that he doesn't say anything threatening, per se, but it's small motions like randomly pulling out his weapon and testing out one of its functions that reminds me all the more vividly of how dangerous he might be.

"The drink dulls the mind but relaxes it," Eldrin drawls with a casual shrug at Einar. "You needed to relax."

Einar shrugs back and keeps drinking, then points at me and makes a 'cuckoo' sign that I do not appreciate. This show of disinterest in sobriety might be the last straw for Abasi, who whirls away from the counter and strides to the wall.

"I'm eating in the Duat, see you," he grunts as he points at the wall. A shiny black bead, like a drop of ink, blooms on the tip of his finger before expanding into a full Rift. "Let Apep eat your dumb drinking habits."