“White-hair?” seethed…well, the man in question. He seemed utterly unperturbed by the fact that the great, shadowed creature was diving for him. White-hair had maneuvered himself into the room at large and was walking backwards so that he circled the room without ever turning his back to the creature. He held his staff in one hand, the other behind his back, and proceeded to show off.

  Every time the creature lunged at him, he flicked one end of the staff in its direction. The purple energy crackled off the edge and smacked the shadow in the face. Every time it got hit, it squealed--not in pain, like when I’d hit it with my formerly-glowing shovel, but in rage.

  White-hair, however, seemed very unconcerned with the monster that had rusted and melted swords and dismissed fire and vines. The hat-feather lady had managed to drag the big man somewhat out of the way. The purple fire was still in progress, but the other staff man was successfully herding it, and had contained it to burning down one corner of the tavern. The wood it had left behind was blackened from the flames.

  Barefoot and shrieking had stopped her ear-splitting lament and seemed to be hyperventilating. But, as I looked at her, she managed to pull herself together long enough to go help feather lady with their Knight friend.

  So they were all…fine was a strong word. Managing seemed more accurate. I turned my attention back to the creepy entity and White-hair.

  No, White-hair was mad, and he was mad at me. If I actually thought about it, I wasn’t that surprised, actually. That was a very him move. I hadn’t known him for very long, and I still could’ve told anyone who asked that it was a very him move.

  “Is that the extent of your creative mind?” he spat. “You pick a color and a feature and determine that to be acceptable as a designation?”

  “Named my cat Orange Kitty,” I said. It was true--look, I hadn’t been able to decide between Dorito and Cheeto, and, in my indecision, Orange Kitty stuck. It had even been on the little furry bastard’s vet paperwork.

  “Orange--you named your cat its fur color and diminutive species title?” He flicked the staff as another limb swung towards him, and rippling, crackling purple energy caught it, sending it spinning.

  “…Yes?”

  “You are a curse to my eyes and a damnation upon my ears,” he snapped.

  God, this man was dramatic. I rolled my eye.

  “Sure, White-hair.”

  “You will not call me that.”

  I flapped a hand at him.

  “You will also not refer to me with such vulgar, banal gestures.”

  Before I could open my mouth to respond, White-hair spoke. “My name is Cato Surtr, and you will refer to me with the according respect. Furthermore, you will not just stand there like a timorous lout.”

  Right, shit. I hefted my shovel. It wasn’t glowing. I shook it slightly, like I might knock something loose. The steel remained dull and unshining.

  “Paladins,” White-hair--Cato--said. “Functionally useless the moment your Conviction fails you.”

  Didn’t know what he was on about with the whole conviction thing.

  Cato Surtr. Cato, I knew--some Roman senator who liked to rant, if I was remembering my history correctly. That seemed on brand. Surtr dug at me though, like I should’ve known what that was. It sounded Scandinavian. Hmmm. Thoughts for later.

  “How do I fix it?” I asked. I hefted my shovel--I wasn’t sure what would happen if I tried to hit the sword-rusting and melting monster with it when there wasn’t any radiance.

  “What was your First Conviction? Do not tell me that you fail to recall this,” Cato snapped.

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  I couldn’t recall shit. I probably could, if I sat here and strained--I did remember the whole fuss with the First Conviction, but I couldn’t remember exactly what I’d said. Had I said my grandmother’s quote word for word? “The First Death is Doubt?” What did that have to do with anything here and now?

  The creature had gone from bipedal to moving around on its fours, skittering like a crab, and it belched shadows in Cato’s direction. The man dodged it, moving with surprising speed and elegance, sidestepping the attack entirely.

  I took a deep breath. Well, if the shovel died here, then the spade had served me well already. I wasn’t going to just watch. Even as I thought it, some of the light came back, rippling across the steel.

  I grinned. We were back in business. The creature was opening its mouth to vomit those weird shadows again. As it did so, I ran up behind it and slammed the tip of my shovel into what I reckoned was likely its skull--hard. Its jaw snapped shut, swallowing the shadow it had been about to release.

  This screech was agonized. Like before, the cloth-shadow of the creature hissed, like I’d pressed a brand into flesh.

  I pressed the shovel down, and it caterwauled, bucking wildly. My shovel slid off, and I staggered back. It spun, rising back to two legs and unhinging its jaw. For a moment, I could see inside. I was greeted by rotten flesh and whirling teeth, and, to my very eyes, I saw what might have been muscle pulse and split, like I’d pulled stringy meat apart.

  Cato lunged forward. He’d been on the other side of the creature, but now that it had turned its attention towards me, he slid to stand between me and the creature. He slammed his staff, and the purple light that wreathed it, where I’d just hit it with the shovel.

  The creature moaned and retreated, shaking itself, like a dog that had just been drenched.

  Cato’s grip tightened on his staff and made the oddest noise I’d heard from him yet. It was an offended huff, like a disturbed cat. “Come up to my right and hit it on the side,” he snapped.

  I did just that, stepping back around him. The creature was shaking itself, like it was dazed. I swung my trusty spade, still shining, and bounced it off the creature’s side. It seized, and Cato stepped forward, snapping his staff to hit where I had just injured it. Once again, the creature moaned, scrambling away, trembling.

  “Did not anticipate that you could be hit, did you, Herald of the Decline? Run, if you seek to avoid being returned to what you once were.”

  It actually listened. Sure as shit, it turned its back to us and burst through the open doorway that Cato had just come through. Disappearing out into the snow, it vanished, like it melted in sunlight.

  Before I could open my mouth, Cato spun on me. “It was raw luck that carried the day. Such creatures are not within either of our capacities to truly defeat. It was bloated from consumption, slow with the weight of its meal.”

  “Its meal?” I glanced around, rapid, turning as I looked. How many people had it eaten? The large bloodstains on the floor beneath tables that I’d initially seen--good God.

  “Most of the Raiders and Non-Playable Souls in this tavern, if I had to guess--which was quite full, by my reckoning in the evening prior,” Cato said, but I didn’t totally hear him. I gaped.

  There was blood everywhere. A host of abandoned bags, weapons, cups--I looked down and saw that I was tracking gore and small pieces of guts and flesh everywhere. I gagged, violently, like I was going to vomit, except I didn’t have anything to vomit.

  The purple fire had finally been put out, and the man responsible for casting it had sat down on a bench. His head was down, his hand loosely between his knees, and he stared at one such puddle of blood on the floor. The barefoot woman had thrown herself over the chest of the Knight and was sobbing, great terrible gasps for air. The feather-woman sat on her heels, staring at the wall.

  I took a deep breath. Then another. I turned back around. I’d go and talk to them soon, figure out the name of the Knight that had dived into that monster to save me.

  Cato was still talking. The man was all bladed tongue and no sense for respectful quiet. “Well done, fool. You have successfully saved three idiots that will likely not survive the coming horrors. Lack of knowledge and chance granted you a respite that you had not earned, and it will not come again. Paladins.”

  I was still staring at the blood. I’d just been so focused on the creature that I hadn’t processed. My fingers tightened on the shovel. “What was that?” I said. Cato somehow looked…better than when I’d last seen him. The circles beneath his eyes weren’t quite so dark, and the haggard edge to him had shifted towards something more elegant, his eyes bright and alert.

  Cato sniffed. He spun the staff in one hand, before slamming the tip of it into the floorboards. “A Herald. Specifically, Herald of the Decline, one of the many great horrors issued forth from the Birthing Tomb. It cannot be harmed by natural means, and it consumes all that lies before it. Until the entropy that it embodies makes it so disparate that it can not hold itself together, and it shatters into a multitude, starting the process over again. Raiders that encounter such a creature at this level do not survive.”

  “We’re alive,” I said.

  Cato laughed. It was not a kind sound. It was a sharp, low chuckle that rolled into the tavern’s dark places. “It knows us, and it resents us. It has retreated, and it will follow until either we are consumed, or we find some manner of destroying it. I would not call that alive.”