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Smoking's bad for you, they always said. It'll kill you before your time. He laughed, even though the sound was more wet and groan-y than a laugh ever should be. He didn't think the cigarettes were going to do much against his already deteriorating lungs, anymore. He might as well enjoy his cigarette while it lasts. While he lasts.

He had two days, three tops, before the infection fully took his system. A saner man might have tried to do something exciting with his life if he knew the exact moment his number was up; but not Robert. He'd gone to work, same as every day, after being diagnosed with the infection. He'd been quarantined to an abandoned section of town, where the moans in the walls weren't even of his kind, but something else just as nightmarish. Still, he worked, waiting by the phone for his next job.

In his arm was a tracker. It tracked his life, but it would inevitably be the cause of his death. For safety, they'd told him. It'll only blow up when his heart stops.

Wasn't that kind.

The door swung creaked open, pulling him out of his musings as she walked in. She had legs that could kill a man just by looking at them, but it was the expression on her face that made Robert sit up and put his cigarette out, at full attention. His last job, he figured. He'd have to make it count.

And, God bless, she looked like just the kind of woman worth the count.

She told him her sob story, with a distinct lack of sobs. A black widow, being framed for her husband's murder. Just one look in her eyes made him guess that the word 'frame' wasn't exactly accurate, but she was there just the same, begging him to help her find evidence to the contrary. If they found her guilty, it would be the death penalty. And the world would be safer for it.

But what did this world ever do for him to make him want to make it safer? If he was on the chopping block, he decided it would be a nice flip of the bird to make sure this woman wasn't. Guilty or not. He would take her case.

Do nothing to draw attention to yourself. Be nothing more than a face in the crowd. It wasn't all that hard to be any of those when the world you lived in had fifty feet dragons hoarding ungodly amounts of gold in lieu of a mattress, undead sorcerers commanding armies of fallen loved ones waging war against the living, or even a band of halfling heroes off on some grand quest to divest themselves of some cursed jewelry.

Unusual things happened all the time, so often and so much so that mundane events would and should simply fail to hold anyone's attention. But that was precisely why Ruth had been stationed in this small, sleepy town of Shawnila. There had been rumors of it being some mana epicenter that she needed to ascertain whether or not they could or should overtake the town to harvest said mana. Her higher ups had their hands full dealing with the immediate and obvious threats which meant the fine details had to become someone else's problem.

And by "someone else" they meant Ruth.

She'd spent years and a considerable amount of coin before finally managing to trace the source of the rumor. It was obvious from the start really, hidden in plain sight, Ruth had to give the rumors some credibility if even she missed it despite all her time living in the town. It was a massive structure with heaven reaching spires, turrets and towers that looked like they belonged to castles rather than this massive mansion, and countless grotesque creatures carved to guard the walls and gates.

The house, standing in the very heart of the town, should have been impossible to miss.

And yet she had. In fact, a good majority of the townsfolk couldn't even see said house and no one thought to wonder why. Ruth decided against stepping inside, the grounds just outside the gates was the furthest she would allow herself to go. She was here for information, after all, she would leave the breaking and entering to some other band of adventurers.

((Ruth: 3. Fantasy, 17. Haunted house, 4. A spy))

The word in Wonderland was Superlidoo, which was obvious to any denizen of Wonderland.

The other word in Wonderland was that someone stole the Queen of Heart's Tarts. The old broad was bad news on a good day when she was in a good mood, but now that she was on the war path, most Wonderland denizens steered clear of the palace.

Petro himself never ventured too close to the Queen and King's lands. He didn't want to risk getting conscripted into becoming just another one of the disposable card guards. It didn't even make for good job security, what with the whims and constant tantrums of their monarchs. No, it may have been a harder life being a sell-sword in Wonderland, where a battering ram could just as easily lose to a mushroom shield as a doormouse could make off with a jabberwock's eye.

But someone had stolen the Queen of Heart's Tarts. And it wouldn't be long before someone dressed in either all colors of the rainbow or the very shadows of night to come to his little neck of the Topsy Turvy woods. Right on cue there was a series of knocks, the cadence too regular and purposeful to be a certain catterpillar contact of his hawking smoke-wares.

He lifted the covering of a knothole, and peering through it, Petro saw a sane-hatter staring back at him.

"Is this Horsehead Hollow?" the sane-hatter asked with a smile.

"Depends'v y' gotta job for me." Petro made no invitation for the Knave to enter.

"As a matter of fact I do. But it's best discussed indoors?"

"Gimme the gist first, then imma let y' in."

"Framed tart-thief. Reward to clear name. March Hare's out marching, need protection for investigation. Did I mention reward to clear name?"

A trap door openining beneath the hatter's feet later and Petro was staring at his latest boss.

((Petro - 6. Detective/mystery, 5. Wonderland, 6. A mercenary/sellsword))

Atop the throne, Joy sat, projecting an air of regal elegance as she stared down imperiously at the latest envoy attempting to forge an aliance with her kingdom. She felt as if she should be impressed at the envoy's earnest pleas, and the fact that they came in person as opposed to all the others who'd merely sent their intentions through holo-cubes.

Or at least that was what Joy had assumed the visit was for. In this instance, the envoy had not been there to negotiate some treaty or tax reform on behalf of their world or even submitting a potential candidate to be her King. "I come bearing gifts, your Majesty," the envoy said, holding out what Joy identified as an AR device.

"We already have a number of those," she said, audibly not impressed.

"Yes, your Majesty, my Lord is quite aware you have in your library an extensive collection but this is a limited edition of a certain entertainment package. My Lord only wishes to know if it meets your standards before the rest of its batch is released."

Joy still did not look impressed but she motioned for her guards to accept said AR. "We shall see if it merits its hype."

Once the queen managed to finish with her business, she chose to retire for the day. Mostly it was to test the AR. And while she maintained an aloof attitude during the audience, in the privacy of her chambers she was allowed to be excited. Slipping on the AR, Joy logged into an old-school form of the very first MMO she ever played.

((Joy - 20. Picking Sci-fi, 11. MMO, 5. Queen))

In the winter, the snow seemed to sparkle, landing light against the glass and forming floral borders, fine lines and designs, around the window into The Cathedral. Through the frost, people could peer in to see the crowd within, lit by the green and amber lights that lined the walls; they could peer at the ornate bottles lining the back of the bar, and catch just a hint of their own reflection in the mirrored wall.

Ever himself was a creature of winter. Fair-haired and pale-haired with dark eyes and a love for the heavy clothing of the season, he seemed meant to walk through the snow. And at nineteen, he was just starting to come out of the awkward shell of his youth and grow into a real person, some of the shyness fading out of his expression and something more bold starting to creep in. The awkward years of falling over his own feet and making an a** of himself with strangers weren’t completely gone, but he’d at least begun to flirt.

In particular, he’d begun to flirt with the dark-haired stranger who came into the bar on Thursday evenings, who sat in the back and drank liquor the same green as his eyes, who always seemed to be watching Ever in a sideways manner. His clothing was strange, old-fashioned; his tone was serious and cryptic. All of it was strangely exciting in a way Ever couldn’t quite explain.

So when he showed up, Ever always made sure to be the one to serve his drinks, always smiled and lingered at his table in hopes of a few stiff words from the quiet man in return.

Tonight, however, he was late. It had gone from the dead time to the quiet time to the busy time, and there still was no sign of his handsome stranger. Ever couldn’t quite figure out why this put such an unhappy hole at the pit of his stomach, or why he looked up every time the door opened, hoping to spot green eyes and dark hair.

For the twentieth time he looked up and, this time, there was the stranger.

And behind him: a monster.

The man’s usual reserved manner had turned to something more slick, more focused. His eyes settled on Ever even as he turned with a flourish, throwing a handful of marbles in the monster’s direction. They struck skin, and where they hit the beast froze, as if unable to move those limbs.

The green of his eyes was intense, and didn’t let Ever go. Somehow, instead of running from the seething mass of smoke, the monster than almost resembled a man, Ever found himself drawn toward it, pushing his way through a frantic, fleeing mob of people and rushing toward danger. And he thought, in response, he saw a grim smile slide across the stranger’s face.

He reached into the pocket of his strange clothing.

He pulled out a strange, silver case.

He slid it across the bar.

Ever’s hand landed on it instinctively, and in a puzzled way. On its surface, the initials “JA” were etched in elegant, winding script; his father’s initials, and also his own, and he barely had time for that thought to light his mind before something else slid through him. A powerful strength, filling him with light and then transforming him. He felt the wind of it over his body, pulling away the vest and tie that were The Cathedral’s mainstay and replacing them, instead, with white. White coat, long and loose; white pants, fitted to slim legs; white shoes, laced through with gold; white dagger, filling his hand.

And a white mask, settled on his nose.

“It’s about time,” said the stranger, without fulling looking at him, and Ever drew in a sharp breath. He looked to the weapon, and then to the monster. And without anyone quite telling him what to do, he knew he was meant to fight.

Dawn had come to visit him at her time: as first light broke the darkness of night, lighting up her hair and setting her fair skin to glowing. If Harrow was being honest, he had a bit of a crush on Dawn – but he’d always loved the mornings, had been the kind of person who got up at first light just to watch the sun crest the mountains, and then set to work so that he could get a decent amount done before lunch.

Lessons over and they were in the vacation months, which meant that Harrow had no papers to grade or students to fail, only long months to fill with travel and studies, to learn all he could about a world that was strange and unfamiliar to his explorations. He’d spent a week in a philosopher’s seminar, twelve people all shouting over each other to make their thoughts heard. He’d taken a boat across the wide ocean for two, a hand on the top of the charmingly monstrous figurehead, when he was out on the deck, horrendously ill when he wasn’t.

He’d seen a flock of golden sheep on an island where they landed, and had been warned that to touch one would bring down the wrath of a god. Some of the other travelers had laughed and waded in anyway, but Harrow had only collected tufts of golden fleece where they had caught on posts or trees, and tucked them like talismans into his pockets.

Perhaps that was why she was here to see him now: Dawn instead of Dusk, the night hand. Perhaps her brother had visited those who’d broken the rules, stopping into their makeshift homes as day’s last light faded away, to take back what they’d stolen and a bit more beyond.

Instead, she held out her hand, smiling, and with his heart in his chest Harrow offered back the prizes he’d gathered, unhesitating, halfway holding his breath to see what he’d get in return.

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