Superstition. Sometimes they were just nonsense, sometimes they were sensible, and sometimes they were warnings. You could give a superstition to a kid and they could figure it out quickly enough. But when everyone gave their kids a superstition it could transcend a simple warning.

  This wasn’t a case of stay away from the river, there are ghosts that drown kids, the kind you tell to kids to warn the young away from falling in and drowning, no, this was a living fear.

  There was a seriousness among them that made each believe that what they were doing was not only necessary, but that they could stop the bad, by doing something right now.

  That was tricky, and not in the way I could figure out either because it was all about talking them through it and trying to talk people out of superstition, which was not what I was going to be good at.

  I would need to try to anyway.

  “I need you a lot to start explaining right now, or I’m going to start getting unreasonable. Why are you doing it? What's going on here that’s made you lot do something? Are there ghosts? Are they getting back up?” I asked them, doing my best to keep my voice clear and my tone neutral.

  “Well, we have to-” one of them started, but I cut them off.

  “Details. I need details,” I hissed. “I need to know what you think about these things that have happened, like here, today. How are there ghosts? You said ghosts; what are you talking about?”

  I couldn’t do much at the moment, but if I could figure the problem out, peel back the skin and find the muscle, I could cut this out. If I could triage the problem, I could get this all over with. Wack it over the head, and off we went to let the dead rest in their pots until I got give them their ever after.

  “Strange occurrences,” one of the men said.

  “Voices in the dark,” a woman said.

  “Three guards wandering off into the dark,” Tommy Carpenter said, still mostly down for the count.

  “Hells. Was that so hard? I needed to know that stuff; that’s the good stuff. Thank you.” I told them.

  These were the answers I so desperately needed. Good gods, it was like pulling teeth with these lots. You would think I would be threatening them with murder over how damn skittish they were being.

  The Beastkin looked at me funnily but gave no voice to whatever he felt like saying.

  “So… Multiple [Guards] have gone missing? Are the others aware of this? Can I assume you’ve gone looking?” I asked them.

  “Are you mad? Go off into the dark? Where the [Guards] went missing? I wouldn’t leave the light of the square if you paid me,” the second-armed man told me.

  This gave me something to think about.

  “Ok, so there were actual [Guards], ones that were now missing. Presumably, they were either fine or something bad was going on… They think it's because of ghosts, but the only spirits around are the ones that need to get put in pots. I couldn’t sense anything else.” I thought to myself.

  What to do though? What could I get done with that? I could run off into the darkness and hope I came across whatever was going on, I could run off to other guards…

  I couldn’t wait on Strause, unfortunately, which left me needing to do it on my own.

  Or I could run over one area, find a second group with [Guards], and get them moving on this.

  This was where they were collecting the dead, and this square was thought with the dead; there would be more people guarding here than a handful of [Guards].

  I seriously needed to get an aid or something.

  “Where is Selly when you need her,” I thought to myself, the thought better of it a few moments later.

  She would definitely not care for that, couldn’t speak common yet, and would probably just kick me.

  “Do you think you lot could hold on a few minutes? I could go get a few [Guards] to keep you company or a [Priest] or two and then go deal with whatever it is,” I asked, open-ended, not addressed to one of them but to the group as a whole.

  They looked amongst them, three civilians, two and a half fighting men and seemed to come to the conclusion almost unanimously.

  “Yes,” they chorused, with a deviation of, “I don’t see why not” or “If you could,” from a pair.

  I sighed but nodded, quickly picking up Carpenter, who groaned but managed to stay up with some effort.

  “Ok, then. I’ll get on that, but first things first… You, the [Scribe], I need to talk to you.” I told him, quickly leaving the flagging man to take care of himself.

  He did not like that one little bit. Backstepping, as I closed on him, his head forced to tilt up to stare me in the face.

  “Wow, hey. I don’t have anything for you,” he said waving his hands in a, ‘no, not me, please leave me alone,’ but I couldn’t speak hand, so it couldn’t stop me.

  It probably helped that running away wasn’t an option for him and that he couldn’t walk backward faster than I could stroll toward him.

  “Could you quit backing up?” I asked him.

  “Could you stop being so damn intense?” he asked wearily, “You rustle my jimmies something fierce.”

  “How about you get ahold of your jimmies, whatever those are, and start talking bucko. There should be a bunch of urns around here. Are they here? Because if they’re not, I need to go get them here.” I told him as I got within throttling distance, staring down at the shorter man as he watched on, hair raising slightly as a wave of goosebumps took him.

  “It would be a whole lot easier if you weren’t looming over me,” he said, throwing up the sign of Purity, a simple cross of the fingers in a little X shape.

  I stared at him, not impressed, at him acting like a fool. I wasn’t this intimidating; he was just being a coward, taking the piss, or both at the same time.

  I tried to read him, but all I found was an intimidated man.

  The scent didn’t give me much more than my poor social skills, and my instinct gave me nothing but a confused huff as I held it in my mind, the two of us staring out the windows of my eyes at the pathetic man as he trembled.

  ‘Leave the rat alone,’ it suggested with its huffing.

  “But he knows if they’re here. He has to know,” I told it.

  It sneezed.

  This meant nothing; my instinct had spoken, and it was unconvinced.

  “Talk, little man. Are there a load of urns here or not? It's not a hard question for you and your… Jimmies to answer,” I told him. “They’re either here, or they’re not here. And if you’re the one recording things, you would be the one who knows… So are they here?”

  “I’m just here to record names,” he told me, fear sweat coming through the damp evening air and petrichor.

  Cowardice then. Definitely cowardice.

  I sighed, but then I brought myself back quickly.

  Was it wrong to expect everyone to be as on top of everything as Gunther? Some people were just built to be normal people.

  I clicked my tongue and turned from him, “That wasn’t so hard. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go kick a [Priest’s] ass.”

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  “Um… What?” he asked, though I didn’t answer him. I was too busy envisioning how I was going to shatter a man's ass with my foot while I left him behind.

  ***

  I didn’t get to kick his ass.

  I found some guards and almost needed to fight them when I approached. I was a bit surprised, but at least it wasn’t unfamiliar, not after the prior checkpoint.

  These guy’s, at least, didn’t think I was a ghost, they just saw me walking around in the dark. I told them about the issue over with the bodies, and at least one of them went to find more free [Guards].

  There were twelve of them there, but eight of them weren’t [Guards]; they were just guarding.

  I didn’t much care, having gotten out of it without needing to wack anyone over it. But the pattern was repeating itself when the same thing happened again a few streets over.

  The [Guards], managed to keep the lot in line for the most part, but this group was five strong, but with more than twenty five it was only so effective and I had to wack two with my shovel before one of them recognized me.

  This group thought it was ghosts, too.

  I was starting to get creeped out, only getting more so when I got to the old man, and he informed me that they had sent the pots, and they should be there.

  When a nearby guard suggested it was ghosts, I had to stop myself from kicking his ass.

  “This is getting old,” I told the [Priest].

  “Indeed,” he said, “After a day like yesterday, the undead are on everyone's minds. The shadows move, and instead of a [Rogue], it’s a ghost. No doubt that’s what this is. Hooligans running amok… Then again… With so many lost maybe there is something out there.”

  Despite the words of wisdom, the [Priest] seemed to mean it. It unnerved me just a little.

  “Is it common for ghosts to come about?” I asked him, “The group over with the bodies was scared of ghosts and revenants. They were placing stones in their mouths. Is that normal, because where I’m from that would be considered a crime.”

  “A rock is known to stop revenants. Assuming you can deal with it, we won’t need to deal with it, but that’s one of the reasons we burn our dead, beyond preventing a rising anyway. Revenants can be quite a hassle.” He told me with a weary sigh.

  “That’s all well and good, but why would a rock help, and why would you stoop that far?” I asked him. “Why do all of you people talk about stuff like everything makes perfect sense? Revenant is bad, so defiling the body is good? I need answers man. Bow make stick go far won’t fly when I’m the one that needs to make the bow.”

  We looked up at me, eyes opening in clear annoyance, but he turned the other cheek.

  “If I must, I can give you the talk. When there is corruption, the soulless dead rise, and ghosts haunt the witching hour. Having a ghost around can be scary, but it's often not that big of a deal… But ghosts have something similar to a rising; the more of them there are, the higher the chances one gets into a body.”

  The explanation didn’t need to go beyond that.

  A ghost could get into a body.

  If a soul hopped into a corpse, and that corpse could become animate.

  “Naturally occurring ensouled undead,” I told him.

  “Indeed. Intelligent, magical zombies. Honestly, I’m surprised someone worried over revenants wouldn’t have attacked you… They didn’t, did they?” He asked.

  “One of the guards guys, one of the new ones, tried, and I knocked him on his ass. He should be fine; I managed to talk to them.” I told him, thinking about it.

  It made everything clear. The more I knew, the more I understood, and the more I understood, the more I understood. If you could stop a semi-intelligent undead from puppeteering a dead body by sticking a rock in its mouth, it would be no wonder they collectively decided it was reasonable when letting it happen was worse.

  It also explained why the people who decided to stop a revenant would run at me. Maybe they could talk. I had an accent and spoke roughly, I used a lot of simple words, I looked like an ensouled undead, and I had an intelligence that was reserved for people. If that was revenant-like, it made sense.

  I didn’t just have the looks that could make a kid cry; I was literally a walking-talking ghost story you told to children. There were probably stories where something that acted like me walked out of the dark, eyes ablaze.

  “What a nightmare…” I sighed, “I really look like a revenant? I mean, I had assumed I was scary or that I reminded people of the undead… But a…”

  “It's more than just the looks or the way you talk. There are plenty of reasons people may be weary of you. You have a bit of each cautionary tale to you. A strange creature that looks Human but isn’t, eyes like an undead, driven like a revenant, never seems to die like a [Necromancer]… You have a bit of all of it, unfortunately.”

  “Thanks,” I told him, the lack of thanks clear in both tone and face.

  I could certainly use that. It was great for my lacking sense of self-esteem that I was actually something that would make children cry, as I had joked.

  “Cheer up,” He told me, clearly not meaning to kick me while I was down. “You might scare people… But they are telling stories about you, too. Did you know that? Are they telling stories about a revenant that spares or saves the lives of good, honest people? You might scare them for now, but your story is just starting out. Right now, you’re a revenant… But tomorrow, you could be a whole lot more.”

  That was clearly supposed to encourage; it just made it worse.

  Not only were people telling tales and all the good and bad that came with it, but I was also being directly compared to a scary story.

  “Great, I can make children afraid of me, fail to live up to my own stories, intimidate people with my greater-than-life tales and never live up to any of it… Great.” I told him.

  “It's not that big yet. You stalk through the dark, finding things that hide in the dark. You carry a shovel to return the dead to their rest and punish monsters,” he told me.

  “I carry a shovel because all my life I was only good at digging ditches, and now I’m some kind of… What? A vengeful spirit that hunts evil by moonlight? I can’t even fight a Monster one on one. I managed to save one kid from three gremlins and a handful of skeletons. Now, people are going to think I can magically walk out of a shadow and save them.”

  I couldn’t be free of my appearance; I couldn’t be free of expectation; I couldn’t be free of other people’s preconceived notions and fears, and so much more.

  “I wouldn’t worry about that too much. Most people won’t expect that of you. I can see your worries and their cause plainly, but the stories are just stories. No one ever lives up to their stories, and only the unreasonable or young expect that” he told me.

  “Well,” I told him, a grim chuckle in my throat, “When I get persecuted again, I can’t wait to say I told you so. I’m starting to think about becoming a [Hermit] because anything else leaves me open to getting tormented by the very stories you think aren’t so bad.”

  I expected him to act like plenty of others would. I expected the same, ‘It’s not that bad,’ he had already given me. Everyone seemed to be willing to give advice, but none of it seemed to help.

  Instead, he seemed to get to speak and then not, his words stopping before he even opened his mouth. He did open his mouth, but only after a few moments of thought.

  “I see I am not, as it were, walking a mile in your shoes. I can’t say I can understand your struggle… But if you can do what you think you can do, you may have just helped everyone affected by this tragedy. Improve your story, spread it far and wide and let it be your shield. I don’t mind doing my part in helping spread it to the ears of others. Who knows, maybe you’ll find yourself spawning a cult.”

  “You say that like a cult isn’t something I would get stoned for,” I told him.

  “Of all the [Saints] on record, many of them form a cult. The divine have their own aids, but a [Saint] doesn’t need a church; they need helpers, people who cover their day-to-day needs. You have things to do; haggling with a [Baker] isn’t on that list.” He told me, “Just… Make sure they don’t wear black? That would be very unfortunate.”

  It would be.

  “I don’t want to be deified, I don’t think. That might just be worse than the rest of this nightmare,” I sighed.

  He shrugged. “Such is the way of being a [Saint]. You have no control over the thoughts of others, only how you interact with them. A formal cult is the best way to deal with it; when the alternative is letting them act in your name in whatever way they see fit, interaction is important. Think of a cult as a society. The bad kind exists, formed around shady figures, but the Gods have cults too.”

  Great.

  Fantastic.

  “Super. I’m sure that I can explain that to a guard when they stumble in on us. Oh me? I have a cult, don’t you know? Nah, not like a bad one, one of the good ones, you know, like the gods have. Why, yes, am I comparing myself to a God? Why are you taking out your manacles?” I told him with a sigh.

  “There you go. Now you're joking. Much better. Now… If you’re done lamenting your every happening, I do have things to attend to? You have your fresh urns; go find them. The [Scribe] on duty should have a log of everything.” He told me, shoeing me away with a wiggling of his fingers before he turned and stalked off.

  Huh.

  Wait a minute.

  I sighed. That sly dog had gotten me talking so he could leave in a way that would make it rude to stop him from leaving him be. That rat bastard. I now had more on my plate, and I wasted my time.

  Fantastic.

  I felt a moment of peak at that. And I had a sudden urge to punch something, but I contained that urge. It would solve nothing and waste more time.

  Instead, I took my feelings and put them together. “If I start a cult, I’ll dress in black all I want. Because why not? If it's mine, I get to set the dress code. I’m tired of feeling like I’m stepping on eggshells because I have to moderate myself for a bunch of idiots. So fuck it. Why should I care? I’m fighting uphill already. I don’t need to do what I’m doing for them, and I don’t need to step on eggshells,” I said to no one in particular.

  The [Priest] was right about a few things; I couldn’t control what others thought. I could spend all my time spinning a story, and maybe that would work, but quite frankly, I wasn’t much of a [Storyteller]. So fuck it. If I could either stay hunched to take the blows and not stand out or stand tall and put myself above others, I would stand tall. Besides Anna, I didn't much care what people thought, I just didn't want their ire. I didn't care if I was loved or feared, I wasn't a ruler playing the long game.

  If I let the average Human to drag me down to their level, I wouldn’t get anything done. My goal didn't truly have anything to do with them. I wanted to save the valley. If the Humans who ruined it didn't like how I did it, that was none of my concern. It was more of a bonus that it kept people alive.

  It's not like when I traded my life for others I got anything positive out of risking myself. The only time I had gotten something was from being strong enough to have not died at all.

  "I don't need to do it for them. I’ll do it for myself, and if they don’t like it, they can go pound sand," I murmured.

  There had to come a point where you had to stand up for your beliefs, or yourself, or another. There came a point where either you let the world act on you or acted on the world, and if this wasn’t a good enough time to stand up and put on my big girl clothes, then it would be too late to do it. So I walked back out into the dark like I was ready to break the world's kneecaps. I had to find those urns, and Gods help me if someone had taken them because I was just about ready to kick the snot out of them.

  The Gods, apparently, had a funny sense of humour because the stars aligned on my revelation. The urns weren’t magically there when I got back. Someone had stolen my urns, and I got to blow off some steam.

  Just say No, The masses don't care about you, and Idiots like Mud fighting.