Page 1 - Harlea's Visitor

Sitting up from his mat, Harlea felt the peace that came from Shavasana slip away as he returned to reality once more. His head still throbbed from a nasty hangover, but his stretches were non-negotiable for good reason. Every morning before sunrise, stretching ought to be done and there were very few instances where it didn’t make his morning better.

He rolled onto his knees and slowly pushed himself up to stand in the middle of his living room. A sea of clutter surrounded him and his yoga mat, with little space on the floor visible.

Before anything, he was going to need some water. Still feeling quite delicate, he carefully shuffled along the small path that led to his kitchen, careful not to move too quickly as he coaxed his body back to the world of the living.

A big yawn caught him off guard as he went but he slowed down to enjoy the decadence of the quiet moment. It was the sort of yawn that rocked his body, making him stretch all the way from the top of his head down to his toes. The sort of yawn that his weary body deserved on such an auspicious day.

The feeling faded away and Harlea cherished the brief rush of endorphins. With a small smile to himself, he relished in the discombobulating experience of feeling giddy and somewhat queasy at the same time.

An amiable quiet settled in the dawn light. The mess of his home looked beautiful in the golden hour and offered yet another reason why he wasn’t going to be spending his morning cleaning.

On his first day off he’d had in a month, he was glad to file cleaning as too disruptive to his cottage’s ambiance. That and there was no way he was going to waste his precious day off on cleaning, not unless he had some sudden and inexplicable desire to do so.

Stepping between his couch and a linen sack full of his random unsorted loot, he felt confident that the desire to clean wasn’t going to happen any time soon. He grabbed a coffee mug from his side table and swirled the dark, oily residue inside.

His drunken self had managed to clear a path between his bedroom and kitchen the night before. It was serviceable and he’d only make the house messier after Coalpass. Laundry was piled high and an eclectic collection of random adventuring gear was sprawled out all over the loungeroom and all the way into the kitchen.

Not far away from him, a little treat sat on the table and tempted him to change his path: a half-eaten sandwich just waiting to be eaten. He’d made it the night before but only managed a few bites before he’d collapsed on the couch.

Sitting on top of his new buckler, the sandwich beckoned him and he happily relented as a little bonus. With gusto, Harlea picked up the sandwich and took a bite as he took in the beauty of the buckler that he’d found.

It had been a nice little pick up from a ruin they’d visited a few weeks ago. Harlea couldn’t decide if he wanted to use the shield or sell it but he could make that decision on another day. A work day or any other day but his day off.

Absent-mindedly, Harlea unwrapped a grappling hook that was wound around the buckler’s edge as he chewed through the sturdy, firm breadcrust. With one hand, he looped the rope back up into a manageable mess before he placed it next to his magnifying glass and pitons that sat on the edge of the table. As the grappling hook hit the table again, it rolled and shifted several pitons to the very edge of the table.

Harlea’s reflexes acted quicker than he could think and he lurched forwards to slap the pitons back into the magnifying glass and buckler. After one more shove, he forced all of the mess back into the middle of the table and ignored several carpentry tools that dropped off from the other side of the table. Wincing as the sound reverberated around his head, a bit of a clean up would be a good afternoon task after all. Once he’d stopped by Nicolas’ forge, that was.

Some of his day off had been planned. It was a necessary evil, with the nap and the trip to the forge being non-negotiables, but everything else was going to be up to him and him alone. A nice little nap in the afternoon, and then he’d cook something for dinner before heading to bed for an early night to be ready for the next day.

Ready for their next contract, which was going to be a pain in the ass. He’d accepted their first Wild Node contract since they’d returned to Ol’Haran and the idea of braving the Wilds again filled him with dread. He was confident they could handle it though, and even Fiona had agreed it was a good idea. The money from the Wild Node contracts was excellent and the windfall would come at the perfect time for them all.

For Harlea, it was just the push he needed to order his new axes. In a few hours, he’d wander down to see Nicolas with the money and put his deposit down. It would be his only social obligation for the day but before then, he’d need a shirt and his coin pouch.

Making his way into the kitchen, Harlea switched his coffee mug for the full pitcher of drinking water sitting on the kitchen counter. He gulped down a few mouthfuls of water and gave a loud sigh of relief as it hit his stomach. Risking a bite of last night’s sandwich, Harlea juggled the pitcher and sandwich into his left hand.

To his surprise, his little nighttime snack was as good as he remembered. After stumbling home hungry after dinner, he’d used what he’d had in his pantry to make the sandwich, with it turning out much better than he’d expected. Inside the two pieces of stale bread was a bit of chicken liver and a couple small tomatoes and all three of them had mixed together beautifully.

As he ripped through a piece of the middle of the sandwich, the juices from the chicken and tomato seeped out and ran down the side of his hand. If the rest of the day was going to be like his sandwich, he was in for a good, good day.

Also on his sink was the next item he needed to continue his perfect morning, a cup for water. Stacked among his other clean dishes, the wooden cup was hidden away at the bottom but Harlea’s plan required its assistance.

Carefully, he extracted the cup from the pile and placed it into the palm of his left hand to sit below the sandwich wedged in his fingers. Juggling the pitcher as well, its handle hung on his left ring finger as well but he refused to reorganise. He needed his right hand for something special. A few months ago, he’d picked up a tiny keg of good liquor for when he wanted to be fancy drunk.

That very keg was integral to the plan he’d made while he stretched and he had faith it was somewhere in his kitchen. It couldn’t be hard to find, considering how small his kitchen was, and there was only a little pantry and a few cabinets to check if he’d put away like he thought he had. The cabinets gave him nothing and the pantry held only a few bags of rice, some dried herbs, and his water barrel. Harlea frowned. It had to be somewhere, he knew he hadn't drunk it yet.

He closed the pantry and stuck his head back out the kitchen door to check the living room again. On the side of the table, next to his bedroll and fishing rod, his little keg waited for him with his favourite coffee sitting upside down on top.

“Everything as it should be.” He muttered contentedly to himself as he made his way over to scoop up the keg. He picked up the mug and found it heavier than he’d expected. To his surprise, his coin pouch was wedged inside the mug, heavy with the coins he needed for his deposit. He pulled out the coin, popped it in his back pocket and looped his pinky finger through the mug’s handle.

His fingers strained from the weight of the pitcher and mug and Harlea relented. The base of the pitcher clunked on the floor and Harlea abandoned the water for later. The rule was ale first, then water.

As he stood up, the weight of the coins dragged on his shorts and threatened to disrobe what little clothes he had on. He hoicked his pants back up and prepared himself to lift the keg up, filled with a sense of immense satisfaction in life.

With his right hand carrying the cups and the sandwich, he squatted next to the keg and used his left arm to wrestle it up off the ground. By wrapping his left arm completely underneath the keg’s belly, and then pressing it into his waist, he managed to get enough friction to pull himself up onto his feet.

The keg was heavier than he’d expected, considering how it was only the size of a bucket. The wood had been well polished, with the varnish bright despite how well-loved the keg clearly was. Harlea readjusted so his hip took the brunt of the weight and shuffled forwards.

With a slight wobble as he walked with all of his goodies, he enjoyed how the keg looked like a little puppy with its tap sticking out like a dog’s nose. A bittersweet memory of Osexi’s little dog, Sebastian, hit him from nowhere.

Sebastian would follow Osexi around the house whenever she was home, the perfect little lapdog with a heart of gold. Then, as soon as Sebastian was left alone with Harlea, his demonic side would emerge. Harlea would have to constantly watch his back, in case Sebastian wanted to have a go at his ankles. A wave of nostalgia hit him as he relished the memory of the tiny dog snapping and growling from his little bed whenever Harlea moved past him. On the few occasions that Harlea happened to catch Sebastian, he’d hold the little mutt by his waist, just like the keg, and laugh as he tore into his hand with his tiny, sharp teeth.

Harlea wandered over towards the hallway and tilted the keg backwards on his hip as he went, mimicking a little yap for his new alcohol-carrying companion. A low chuckle rumbled deep in his chest as passed through the hallway door and ran the gauntlet of hallway mess.

Step by step, he moved towards the front door, carefully watching for any boots and sandals scattered through the small corridor. Switching between watching the floor ahead of him and the cup he was balancing in his palm, he slowed down his pace as a bout of dizziness hit. His right hand on the wall, he steadied himself against the wall and repeated the Red Damnable mantra, “My suffering is my own and I will definitely do it again.”

As always, the mantra was correct. The night before had been a proper laugh and he was already planning on getting buzzed again. As repugnant as the first sip of puppy-keg ale was, he knew the pure joy of being tipsy in the morning sun was going to be worth it.

Common sense said that day drinking was a stupid plan, given how sick he felt, but he could not care less. It was his stupid; his bad choice to make on a day where he got to call the shots.

A single day of stupid that ended the shocking run of busy day after busy day. They had been on the road for ten days non-stop and finishing the slow grind with the Garrond Cross debacle had been the stressful cherry on top.

But the pay out from the two contracts had been worth it, with the coin from both the Board and the loot they’d scavenged being very lucrative. The coin had filled up their coffers and nearly every injury they carried from the contracts was mendable.

Sure, there were a few unanswered questions, but that was the way of adventuring. One question was who was in the cabin, another was why the Board had agreed to pay them for the Garrond Cross contract and the answer to both were beyond Harlea. When they’d left Garrond Cross, the mayor had sworn to all manner of gods living and dead that Harlea and his crew wouldn’t see a single coin. Her reaction wasn’t especially surprising but the way the Board had leapt at the chance to stamp the contract and shuffle him out of the door… That had left him feeling perplexed.

When he had talked about it with Fi and Areli later that night at the Spoon, they had all agreed that they’d take the coin and push it from their minds. In theory, Harlea agreed.

Harlea reached back with his sandwich hand and gave his coin pouch a happy little tap in his pocket. First things first, tipsy sunbathing and then a wander over to Nicolas. Then, back to doing whatever he wanted to do for the day.

As he reached the front door, he extended his pinky to push the bolt lock out from its catch and worked to claw the door open from there. He needed three of his fingers and half his sandwich to work up the power to flick the door backwards slightly but it worked as his foot jammed in the small space before the door could close again.

He keg back up his side and pried the door back for him to slip through. The door banged against his back but he paid it no mind as he stepped out into the dawn light.

The cool morning air gave him a brisk welcome as he stepped forward. The dim light of the coming day had begun to emerge through the tall townhouses around Harlea’s cottage but was some way from joining him on the porch. It was still cool for now, but it wouldn’t stay that way for long, as was standard in the Valleys. The south was consistently muggy and they’d not got far enough into the wet season for the rain to be a continuous feature. Like every day in the dry season, the heat would hide for the first few hours of light before slowly baking Ol’Haran on the side of Hill Haran.

It was yet another benefit of him keeping his cottage rather than living in the skinny little townhouses that were all the rage on the hill. His snug cottage hid behind his dense, unruly garden and gave him a sense of peace in the crazy world of townsfolk. His favourite wooden lounge chair sat on the porch where he’d built it and he knew that it would always be there for him.

He hurried over to the chair and dropped the keg onto its armrest, relieved to have made it. With a quick readjustment, he worked the keg down onto the floor.

“At-ta-ta-ta,” Harlea breathed through the wave of nausea as he knelt down and placed the keg onto the ground. He switched the sandwich into his left hand and then used his right to delicately balance his mug and cup on the top of one of the keg’s metal hoops.

The mug kept its balance and he soared back up onto his feet, returning like a phoenix back from his ale-soaked ashes. A slight wobble tested his composure but he steadied himself on the back of the lounge chair.

He forced himself to have another bite of the sandwich, closing his eyes as his stomach revolted against the delicious savoury flavours. Chewing slowly and using the chair for support, the nausea came and then went, as it always did.

The physicians always said food and liquid was important to kick the hangover, Harlea just hoped he could keep both of them down. Moving around to the front of the chair, he fell eagerly into the cushioned seat.

He leant over and picked up his mug. The cup still sat inside the mug’s well and resisted the urge to flick it out with his fingers.

Grumbling angrily to himself, Harlea stuffed the sandwich in his mouth and used his second hand to pull the cup out and place it on the back of the armrest. The keg sat patiently at his feet, just out of reach but tantalisingly close.

He hefted himself up and over the armrest, careful to hang over the edge enough to reach the keg but not so much that he’d tumble from his chair. With practised efficiency, he deftly flicked the keg’s tap on and filled the cup with only one hand. Once the mug was sufficiently full, his pinky turned the tap off and he levered his body back into the comforting embrace of his cushioned chair, drink in hand and not a drop spilt.

The large chair sat in the perfect position, just as he’d planned. Several steps from the front cottage’s front door and close enough to the edge of the porch that the sun would come in and warm him while he napped.

It was one of his latest additions to the front garden and he could firmly say that he was in love with his new chair. He had fashioned a nice little setup from seven pine logs, placing cushions he’d found at the River Markets on its back, seat and arms. Some nights when he was on the road, he dreamt of sitting in the soft cushions of his wonderful new chair and watching time pass.

Harlea placed his feet up on a little stool he’d positioned in front of the chair and contented himself with sinking deep into his sunrise chair’s embrace.

Peace, tranquility, and then another bite of his sandwich as he rested on the chair, with his left hand tightly wrapped around his mug but his right leaving the last pieces of sandwich on his belly as his eyes felt so, so heavy.

Without opening his eyes, he pulled at the coin pouch in his pocket to shift it to a more comfortable spot for napping. Then, a little sip of his ale and his cup went into a little nook he’d made in the cushions for just such an occasion and he prepared himself for a nice little kip.

He turned in towards the cushions, attempting to warm them with his body heat.

He savoured the last vestiges of flavour of the ale as he drifted in and out of a light sleep. Exhaustion had a habit of creeping up on him if he spent too many days out on contracts. The call of a longer deeper sleep called to him already, asking him to go back to bed instead. With deep breaths through his nose, Harlea held to the throbbing pain in his nose and his decision to enjoy his day.

The fact that his nose had been broken by a cheap shot from a country bumpkin somehow made it hurt more. The physician told him that the nose would resolve itself after a few days if he left the mending alone to work its magic but Harlea suffered more from the injustice than what the Creation magic could mend.

He suspected the recent events were all his accumulating karma coming to pass. Karma handed him a black eye and a broken nose as punishment, or either Karma or one of the Old Souls, whichever one was in fact a real thing.

Some greater power seemed furious with him. Maybe because of how he let Viera walk all over him and the Red Damnables. Since she had arrived in Ol’Haran, she had beggared his every step, haunting him whenever with a lingering threat of blackmail if he didn’t jump on her command.

Harlea fidgeted, an ember of rage still burning within him from how she had ordered him to go to Nohlan lands to set fire to Good Gods only knew what.

With a deep steadying breath, he focussed on what he could change. He could enjoy his day, his morning, and the gentle breeze as it ran up his bare leg.

A shiver ran up his spine and he quickly pulled at his shorts to make sure no more errant air could catch him by surprise while he sat.

Another thing he could control was what clothes he wore. He could have, even probably should have, worn a shirt when he came outside but it was his choice to make.

He also didn’t have to wear red when he left home but he relished in the absurdity. Every joke, question, and confused look he got was worth it to be known as the captain of the Red Damnables. Folk knew who the Damnables were and many of the locals in Ol’Haran had told him how proud Osexi would have been of him for getting the crew back home.

Harlea’s hand felt for the familiar shape of his mug at his side. He shifted slightly so he lay on his back more and brought the mug up for a sip. Harlea wished he could agree with the townsfolk but deep down he knew Osexi would be livid.

He returned the mug back to its safe place as the brew burned nicely as it went down. It burned like one of the good ales; a much better drop than he’d expected when he’d bought it off a travelling merchant.

He remembered the day well, coming back from Tuelton with sacks full of silk, bellies full of food, and returning home of a week of fucking around without finding out. As they reached the far edges of the Dark Forest, they’d met a travelling merchant in a strange-looking carriage and were immediately suspicious. Merchants rarely wandered through the Dark Forest alone and her carriage was a strange magic none of them had ever seen before. Both reasons that they’d been too intrigued not to approach her regardless.

When Harlea greeted her, she’d gone on a tirade about being kicked out of the River Markets and the strange sensibilities of ‘you northerners’. Not sure what to say, Harlea had asked if he could have a peek at her goods and agreed that most northerners were a bunch of assholes.

With a smile, Harlea wiggled down in his chair and remembered the sweet memory of breaking lunch with that strange lady. They’d ended up trading some of their quality silk with her and she’d been all too eager to offer each of them something from her goods. Of all her funny trinkets, he had found the little keg to be the best find.

And, to think, that keg ended up being such an integral part of his perfect day. Deep in his musings, Harlea felt the soft embrace of sleep begin to wrap around him, and he made little effort to fight it. He had intended on napping later, but napping first could work just as well. His errand could always happen a bit later and he did need his sleep if they were off to the Wild plains the next day.

When he awoke, the first rays of a rising sun had managed to find him in his comfy wooden lounge. The heat slowly warmed his body and brought him back to life. His eyes fluttered back open and he reached for his mug out of instinct. The mug was still where he had wedged it but his sandwich had been lost to the cushions. His fingers reached down and dug up the bread. The cushions were relatively clean, and Harlea liked to live with the five hour rule, so into his mouth the rest of the sandwich went.

Pain radiated from his nose and Harlea wiggled his jaw from one side to the other, sending pain shooting through his face. He really needed a better mender.

He swung his feet back off the small stool and grabbed his mug as he sat up again. Lying back down again would be a mistake. Sleep was great but he would sleep the entire day if he wasn’t careful. A better plan was for him to go on a little walk to lift his spirit. Luckily for him, he had Osexi’s promenade path in his front yard and the fresh air, nice smells, and ample space to vomit was just what he needed.

Bracing his hands on his legs, Harlea forced himself back up and walked to the edge of the porch, propping himself up by leaning against the pole. The townsfolk began to file out of their homes on their way to work in front of him and Harlea relished in their dour mood. Several passers-by gave him dirty looks as they walked wearily past with one man openly scowling as he crossed by Harlea’s gate. More than happy to start a fight, Harlea offered the grumpy sod a little wave to see if he couldn’t get some snide remark. Instead, the man started and hurried off with his little pants in a huff, no doubt off to his little job in his little life.

Harlea downed the remainder of the ale in his mug and returned to his keg to fill his mug once more, content to avoid thinking about his own little life as much as possible.

With a devilish grin, he stood back up and looked out over the absolute wreckage that was his front yard and sighed. From the fence and gate right up to the porch was a mess of weeds, overgrown bushes, and odd knick knacks. The pear saplings that Osexi had planted a few years ago were now unruly towering trees on the edge of the property, dominating the limited space of his front yard. Beneath the pear trees’ watchful gaze were a mix match of different plants that thrived in the southern climate and demanded their own piece of his unruly suburban jungle. And every one of them was going to be an incredible pain in Harlea’s ass to sort out when the time came. It was a truly beautiful sight.

He swallowed the last of his sandwich and walked down the steps of his porch to reach the narrow trail of stepping stones that sat amongst the unkempt foliage. The promenade path was made up of two circles of stepping stones intersecting with a path that led to the front gate of his cottage. Osexi had planned on the circles being a figure eight but they hadn’t managed to make the circle quite line up correctly.

Harlea would go to his grave swearing that he had done the left side correctly. According to the plan that Osexi had drawn up, his circle was exactly in the right position to intersect hers. Hers was just a damned mess in comparison. He started along the central path stepping carefully along the stones of his circle. His attempt at a herb garden sat to the right side of the path, deep within the shade of the pear trees. Of all the herbs he had tried to plant, the oregano had won and now covered the entire wooden planter box. The dill, basil, and chillies hadn’t fared as Harlea had hoped, falling prey to the dense leaves of the oregano. No matter though, the oregano would come out and get dried when the time came.

With a little shake of the wooden bed, he was pleased to find it still in good condition. When he got around to it, he’d grab more seeds.

If he ever had time. Even outside of the travel time needed to work the contracts, when they were in town there was still a long list of things to take care of. He needed to train to keep his skills sharp, meet the Board to decide on future contracts, restock their long list of supplies and run all the other errands required to ensure everything ran smoothly. Or as smoothly as possible.

As much as he wanted to blame Viera for their constant contract work, the truth was that they had been inundated for the last few months from all manner of contract offerers. There was such a wealth of contracts from the Board in the Spoon and even out of the Board’s purview, many asked Harlea to meet with them to discuss some contract or another.

Fiona had been of the opinion recently that they needed to reduce the amount of contracts they went on. She had complained loudly that she needed more time at home and the others had grumbled along with her.

Six months of constant travel and work had started to wear thin on them all. None of this was a shock to Harlea, he was tired as well, but he found the success so addictive.

They had built up some good connections in the last half year and Harlea could almost taste the former glory of the Red Damnables.

The idea of returning the Red Damnables to their former glory gave him a warm feeling in his stomach. Or the ale was starting to really hit, he couldn’t be sure.
He had another long nip of the ale and wandered back to the porch. Only slowing down slightly to place the mug on the porch’s edge, he continued his walk around to the right circle of the misaligned figure eight. His garden shears leant against the edge of the porch, standing inside a pile of dead leaves that he’d cut from the path several months ago.

He brushed his hands along the branches of the living plants on his other side and revelled in how quickly the shrubs had grown back. The tenacity of his plants was admirable and Harlea couldn’t help but be pleased that they’d get to live wildly for just a bit longer.

Theoretically, he could sort them out after they returned from Coalpass if all things went well. They ought to get some good coin for the contract and they could have a week off after they went to the tournament in Dark Hold, if they all agreed. The tournament would be just what the crew needed to come together. Then, another week to rest and he was willing to be that he would have Fiona and Elayne banging on his door demanding they hit the road.

For now, a morning walk through his little slice of jungle at home would suffice. Later he would cut his garden down to size and even see about maybe moving his path slightly so it made a proper figure eight with Osexi’s circle. A lifetime ago, Harlea and the rest of the Red Crew had planned to surprise her with a fortnight off so they could redo the entire promenade path. He’d planned it for her fiftieth, with a fake contract from the Board as part of his elaborate ruse. Then, the war happened and he’d had to promise himself that the first thing they’d do when they returned was to have that little surprise birthday.

And now…Well now, he would get to the garden when he could. When he got a windfall or he finally had a change of pace, he’d bring the whole house under control again. Unable to get comfortable, Harlea sat back up to realign his cushion before lying back down and committing to his quiet time.

He’d considered a slower life a lot over the last few months, toying with the idea of hiring someone to teach him the lute in his spare time. If he could learn the flute and pick up the ways of the bard, there was a lot he could do with it. He could write his own songs and workshop his stories into them. Being properly proficient at the lute was maybe a touch too far fetched but, oh, the stories he could tell.

Running an absent hand through his beard, he let his mind wander. The Silver Spoon filled to the brim as he told stories of the dungeons he had explored and the monsters he had dragged down. He would spare no gory detail in his songs, giving everyone some real insight into the tricky trade that was adventuring.

He was often asked for stories, with many of the townsfolk eager to hear of the Red Damnable’s exploits. The real issue would be choosing which stories to make songs about first; stories from back when he was younger or stories of captaining the Red Damnables. A tough call but he was thrilled by the idea of getting to share his perspectives on adventuring and…

He walked for a few steps, struggling to think of the word he wanted. Like life but the difficult parts, the struggle of life even.

“Life.” He concluded to himself and continued on his relentless promenade. There was another word for it but it refused to emerge further than the very tip of his tongue. So often, words fell short of doing justice to the vivid ideas in his mind.

His stomach grumbled in discontent as it battled against the sandwich and ale but he focussed on his merry little trudge. Osexi had always warned him to find a hobby, convinced he would need something to keep him occupied as he aged. She nagged him the most about hobbies when she dragged him out to the garden with her. When she’d badgered him too much, he always gave her the same reply, telling her that his hobby was drinking, which would inevitably trigger a telling off for being so flippant about being a drunk.

What he needed was a pet, not a hobby. Maybe a dog, or that lovely wolf from the eastern hills… had it survived. The wolf would have been better because once he got it trained, it could have tagged along for their contracts. The idea made sense but Harlea was struck by a sudden wave of heaviness as he trudged. Good Gods, he was tired.

Harlea kicked a pebble off one of the stone stepping stones and watched it bounce into the bushes. Even if he did get a wolf or a dog, what would he do with it on the contracts he couldn’t bring them with him?

The question bounced around his head, no easy solution coming to mind.

“Telli’s Grace, I need to find more shit to do on my day off.” Harlea announced to the plants. He glimpsed a flash of dull red and blue in the weeds and stopped to bend down for a proper look, despite knowing damn well what he had seen.

On the left circle of the promenade and a few steps past the herb garden, none other than Gnora the Gnarden Gnome lived her humble life. She was only just visible past the thick branches of a lavender bush, standing as his mighty garden sentry.

Back in the day, they had placed twelve gnomes throughout the yard, one for each of their regulars in the Red Damnable crew. Gnora was Dorrien’s gnome, back when he was a Damnable.

His third walk around the circuit came to an end and Harlea stopped only to refill his ale.

As he walked, his stomach grumbled once more. With a hand placed on top, he willed it to be patient. He was hungrier than he should have been but he had a sneaking suspicion he knew why. The foggy memory of a rose bush and the stench of old vomit came to mind.

As he commenced his final lap of the garden, he noticed that the constant stream of weary, apathetic townsfolk had quickly filled out into a proper river as the day began in proper. Emerging from the crowd and heading straight towards Harlea was none other than the Bad Baron of the Outers, Jorgia Ulirsa.