An Arsonist and a Necromancer Walk into a Bar

An Arsonist and a Necromancer Find their Bar

Despite being an ancient city, most of Firozzi was relatively new.

Most of that was due to the recent influx of refugees. From both east and west thousands of refugees had been flooding into the city over the past half-century, leading to rapid and constant expansion. She'd heard from some of her older homeless friends that decades ago the outskirts of Firozzi had been ringed by an overpopulated slum, but then a bit before she'd been born the Capparelli Famiglia had started a public works campaign to clean up the city. They built hundreds of new houses and apartment blocks throughout the city, and the lingering goodwill from the act had won them the popular vote for the past twenty years.

However, while much of the city was new, the Old Quarter to the south was different. Older than even the crumbling walls of the Duke's Quarter where she lived, the Old Quarter was the cultural heart of the city and the heart of the Ambrosi Famiglia's powerbase.

The roads were thinner and less well-kept there, connected by dense, winding alleyways. Filled with old blood and old money, this part of the city was always darker and less populated then the rest, though she wouldn't call it dangerous. The Ambrosi were one of the most powerful Familgias in the city, and they wouldn't suffer any crime in their territory.

Still, it was late enough in the day that the shadows of the apartments above darkened the streets, making it hard to see. So as she made her way through the alleyways of the Old Quarter, thin yet bright flames clung at her feet, lighting up the alleyways as they bounced after her every step. Some people gave her wary looks—and she had to put out the flames at one point when she passed by a cafe that spilled out onto the street—but she stayed to the center of the road and made sure nothing caught on fire.

Eventually though she left the winding alleyways, and the city suddenly opened up into a massive plaza, the Piazza del Drago. The core territory of the Ambrosi and the final resting place of the ancient dragon Vesuvius.

She paid her respect to its titanic, eternal corpse which laid forevermore at the center.

The skull of Vesuvius loomed over her, the skeleton of the ancient dragon towering over the rest of the city even in death. The ancients had apparently painted it, but now only the occasional splotches of color clung to its bone-white surface. Far up in its empty eye sockets sat nests of hundreds of drakelings, the tiny dragons fluttering about the corpse of their progenitor.

She squinted up at it, keeping as much space as she could between herself and it. Even after years of walking past it's corpse, she still couldn't understand how anyone could've killed it.

Below, the Ambrosi Famiglia had inhabited the titanic skeleton for over a thousand years, building their villas from its scales in its shadow. Their house guards marched around the gated villas, some of them eyeing her warily as she passed. The Ambrosi claimed descent from the ancient hero who'd slain it, though she personally didn't believe them.

If they really were strong enough to kill a dragon, they would've been the ones in charge of Firozzi, not the Capparelli.

As she walked past, some of the drakelings fluttered over, circling over her head before they realized she didn't have any food. They squawked forlornly before flapping away in disappointment, though one of them plopped itself on her head and rode her down the streets until it got distracted by a street vendor selling kebabs.

She shook her head and continued on, eventually making her way to the edge of the Old Quarter, and her final objective for today.

An old villa sat squeezed between two apartment blocks. Despite its age it looked to be in well enough repair, with marble columns and faded yellow paint decorating the façade. As she got closer she could make out the name of the guild—Rosa Dominae—emblazoned in gold above the door, with the symbol of the Cadorna Famiglia—an upside-down tree—set beside it.

A short staircase led up to the door, and her feet came to a stop before it. For a moment she hesitated, her hand stopping halfway towards grabbing the handle.

"You sure about this?" Morte asked, sounding doubtful. "We don't have to join a guild. We could just set out on our own, do some freelance work for a while and come back once we have some experience. If we even need the help by then."

"No," Palmira shook her head firmly. "I've never been in a real fight before, and monsters aren't going to be scared away by some paltry fireworks. I'm not risking my life like that until there are no other options available to me."

"Ah, well, I suppose that's reasonable," her staff chuckled. "But if these guys reject you as well, I say we reserve the right to come back and rub it in their faces once we've become rich and famous."

Her lips quirked into a smile. "Sure, we'll do that."

With her resolve gathered she opened the door of the guild, pushing her way inside.

The inside was quaint, at least compared to the raving decadence she'd seen earlier today. It was a small square foyer painted a soft pink, with a set of doors leading further into the guild on both her left and right. A single painting took up space on the back wall, which she showed what she assumed to be a scene of the Hero and his party fighting the Demon King, though she couldn't be sure. Along the walls behind her sat some benches and tables, while in the center of the room sat a simple reception desk.

And sitting at that desk was a Goddess-forsaken orc.

He was massive, looking almost comically oversized when compared to the desk he sat behind. She doubted she'd even reach his waist if he stood up. His green, leathery skin was wrinkled and scarred, which hid powerful muscles that flexed at every movement he made. White fuzz clung to his face in a braided beard that nearly hid his massive fangs, while the top of his head was nearly bald from a receding hairline. He held a monocle in one hand, holding it up to his eye to read something from a book nearly three times the size of her head.

She almost stepped right back out the way she came, before she caught herself. Orcs were terrifying, but there was no need to be rude about it.

Also she was pretty sure Morte would mock her if she did that.

Instead she took a deep breath and called out to him. "Um, excuse me?"

"Hm? Oh, my apologies," the orc started, before turning to her and smiling far more politely than she'd expected. It didn't stop him from showing off his massive, protruding fangs. "I didn't notice you there. I'm Ósma, the receptionist here at the Rosa Dominae. Are you here to set up an escort quest, or do you want to request one of our adventurers for something specifically?"

She didn't speak for a moment, freezing up under his gaze. Instinctively she clenched her hands tighter around her staff.

"Psst," Morte hissed. "Kid! He asked you a question!"

"Ah," she flinched, clearing her throat, "Sorry. I'm actually here to apply. As an adventurer, I mean."

The orc's smile slipped slightly, his forehead creasing. Palmira felt her hopes dwindle and die right there—she'd gotten used to recognizing that look all day.

Ósma cleared his throat. "I see. So, you're a mage, I take it?"

"Yes!" Palmira nodded desperately. "I make fire. Er, I mean, I'm a fire mage."

The orc looked at her for a long moment, before he glanced at her hands. "What's wrong with your staff?"

She turned to Morte, who was still covered in the burlap sack. She turned back to the orc. "My staff's, um… it's falling apart! I need to keep it covered to hold it together."

"Right…" Ósma sighed, pulling off his monocle to rub his eyes. "Look, ma'am, I'm sorry, but we aren't taking on new adventurers right now. Please don't take it personally, but we just can't afford to hire anybody right now."

Palmira slumped. And she'd gotten so worked up, too. "I see," she grimaced. "…Thank you for hearing me out, at least."

The orc looked a bit uncomfortable, now. "As I said, don't take it personally," he hurried to reassure her. "It's just a temporary setback for the guild, you understand. In fact, if you're willing to come back in a few months, we might be in a position to offer you a job then."

Palmira blinked, suddenly snapping straight up, eyes widening. It wasn't a confirmed job, but at the rate she'd been going, even that halfhearted offer sent a jolt of hope through her heart. "Really!?"

"…Yes," Ósma let out a slow breath, a pained expression on his face. "Come back in the spring, and I'm sure we could make room for you—"

*CRASH*

The two of them jumped at the sudden noise, the crash shaking the whole building.

"What was that!?" Palmira yelped, sparks nervously crackling in her palm as she stumbled. "What's going on?"

"One moment, ma'am," Ósma stood from his desk, showing him to have been even taller than she'd expected. Apparently he hadn't been sitting on a chair, but on his knees behind that too-small desk. "I'm going to have to check something quickly, please don't worry about—"

*BOOM*

As an explosion rocked the building, Ósma stopped talking and just rushed out of the room. "I swear," he growled, his eyes alight with fury. "If those drunk skurwysyny are destroying my guildhall again, I'm going to wring their pierdolone necks until their heads eksploduja…!"

As the orc stomped out of the receptionist's area, Palmira found herself following behind subconsciously. As he exploded out of the room, she stopped in the doorframe, peeking out to see what was going on.

The room opened up into a large dining hall, painted the same pink as the foyer. One of the walls was only a series of columns that led out to a large courtyard, while covering the other wall was a bar and kitchen, tended to by an older lady calmly cleaning a wine glass. In between was a colorful crowd of drunken adventurers, screaming obscenities at two red-faced warriors beating the shit out of each other on one of the tables.

She arrived just in time to see an explosion of freezing air shatter the table in two. An elf in Landsknecht armor threw out a dozen punches in a second, each one carrying the essence of winter with it. Each blow was blocked by a scruffy looking knight, who fought back with a divine left-hook. The shockwaves let off by each exchange were powerful enough to blast away anything near them that wasn't nailed down, food and wine flying around the dining hall and splattering against people and walls alike. One ice-blast slammed into an expensive-looking chandelier, knocking it off its hook and sending it shattering to the floor.

And in the time it took her to take all that in, a dark-skinned mage jumped up into the middle of the fight, bowling over the Landsknecht with a cackle, only to put herself in the way of a divine uppercut by the Knight and get launched into the ceiling.

The other adventurers surrounding them shouted jeers and insults, or were just laughing at the carnage before them. Most of them slurred their speech, stumbling around the fight red-faced and drunk.

She glanced out the window, reassuring herself that the sun was still up.

"Oh yeah," Morte chuckled nostalgically. "This is what I remember adventurers being like. Drunken fools, the lot of them."

"WHAT IN THE GODDESS'S NAME ARE YOU IDIOTS DOING!?"

The entire hall froze at Ósma's roar, turning as one to look at him in wide-eyed horror.

Nobody said anything long moment, the terrified silence only broken by the mage who'd been launched into the ceiling falling back to the floor, bouncing once before laying flat on the ground, as if playing dead could save her from Ósma's wrath.

Finally, one particularly brave—or stupid—adventurer spoke up, pointing at the knight frozen on the remains of the broken table. "Charles started it!"

Ósma glared at the knight for a moment, before taking a deep, angry breath. "Bettina?"

The bartender raised an empty glass, not looking intimidated in the least. "Yeah boss?"

"You aren't going to be cashing out a single bet," he growled, eliciting a wave of complaints. "Instead," he shouted over the moaning adventurers, "You are going to be using that money to fund a new dining hall."

The second he was done speaking, a large chunk of the ceiling suddenly cracked and fell down, flattening the fallen mage, who let out a pained whine.

An awkward silence descended on the dining hall.

"…and a new roof, while you're at it," Ósma groaned, putting a hand to his forehead. "Goddess' sake, the guildmaster is going to kill everyone in this room starting with me. Just… just fix this."

Then he turned around and locked eyes with Palmira, who froze as his gaze landed on her.

"…Right, you." The orc grunted, before rubbing his eyes. "…You know what? Fuck it. You still want to join this circus? Congrats, you're in."

Palmira stared at him with wide eyes, unable to believe what she was hearing. "…Wait, really!?" she choked out. "I thought you said you couldn't afford to hire me?"

"We couldn't," he grunted, before motioning at the destroyed dining hall. Two warriors were pulling the chuck of the ceiling off the fallen mage, who refused to help, just lying there dramatically. One of them noticed her looking and waved, accidentally dropping the chunk back onto the fallen mage. "But now we can't afford anything. And I suppose I'll need someone here who can work once the guildmaster murders the rest of those idiots."

A wide and relieved smile grew on Palmira's face, and she stomped her feet to stop her sandals from catching on fire in excitement. Finally! "Yes!" she exclaimed without a second thought. "Yes, thank you, I accept! Thank you so much!"

The old orc sighed, waving at her to follow him. "Yeah yeah, let's just go get your paperwork filled out. Oh, and if you can, please promise me something?"

"Yes?"

"Please," Ósma turned to her and placed a massive hand on her tiny shoulder, naked desperation writ across his green face. "For the love of the Goddess, the Demon King, or whatever else you might pray to, don't follow the example of those idiots. We cannot afford to pay off anymore property damage. I know you're a fire mage—oh, Goddess, I hired a fire mage—but please. That's all I ask."

Palmira turned to look one last time at the dining hall, and saw that someone had finally got the fallen mage out from under the rubble, and was now dragging her across the floor by one of her feet. The mage, despite being wide awake, didn't do anything to stop them, at least until the adventurer dragging her chucked her into the pile of trash the others had started putting together. Then she screamed in rage, and with a wave of her hand started a flood which took out another table.

Ósma stopped and stared back at his guildmates, before burying his face in his hands and screaming.

Palmira patted his side awkwardly, a sympathetic grimace on her face.

At least she'd be getting paid.