Fifth Brotherhood

	There is no right or wrong, there is no good or bad; just actions, and how you view them.
	“Get out of my shop you little demon!” bellowed a tall, thin man. His grey hair was disheveled and a large patch above his left ear was burnt, the skin bright red. His arms were rather long, and flopped wildly like noodles in the wind; his face tall and thin, his cheekbones protruding rather oddly from his face, his lips thin and white.
	Mickey Drodd stumbled down the short flight of dark grey stone stairs to the street, his short blonde hair still smoking slightly, the whole right arm of his white shirt was gone, leaving a dark, singed ring around his shoulder, the whole arms was red and singed slightly. As he hit the street, he stumbled and almost fell to the cobbles, catching himself, he launched himself away, dashing down the thin, cramped alley. The tall, dark buildings loomed above on either side; filth overflowed in the gutters while dirty people pedaled stolen or worthless good, most pushing thin rickety carts.
	After running for a while, Mickey slowed down, hunching over to put his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. A passerby paused while pushing a cart full of dirty carrots, watching the tears fall from the panting boy’s face to the street.
	Mickey was only seventeen, he had taken care of his mother and little brother since he was fifteen when his father; a war hero, was killed in the battlefield. He’d gone through dozens of jobs, not holding any for more than a week or two. He was too weak to hold down a job at the docks or in a storehouse, where most boys his age were working. His strengths lay, however, in his fleet feet and knowledge of plant life. He’d been fascinated since he was little with the processes of plants and had learned everything he could on the subject, learning how they grew and functioned, and later, how they mixed and what they could create. He could cure most comment diseases and sicknesses; but no herbalist would take him as an apprentice because of his strange appearance.
	Mickey was thin and tall, six foot two, his hair was short, but not short enough to keep it from sticking off in all directions. His eyes were a shocking ice blue, a thin black band ringing the iris. It was this feature in his eyes that people were afraid of, thinking him a demon or monster. In this last job as an assistant to an expert Herbalist, Mickey had corrected a mixture made by the elder man; to this, the man had overcompensated, dumping far too much of the wrong substance into the mixture. This had resulted in a large fireball; and the man blaming Mickey for the mistake.
	“Can I interest you in a cloth?” Asked a voice near Mickey’s left ear.
	“I don’t want any of your wares,” The boy replied, straightening up and wiping his face with his good sleeve; he didn’t bother turning and started away, trudging slowly up the long, twisted street.
	“Come now my boy, I’m not trying to sell you anything,” The voice persisted. Mickey spun around, ready to yell at whoever was pestering him; but just as he opened his mouth, he froze. Before him stood a short, elderly fellow; his hair was long and white, but well cleaned and brushed back, his face wrinkled and kind, his white smile crinkling the corners of his sparkling, deep blue eyes. He stood with his hand outstretched toward Mickey, a blood red cloth loose in his grip.
	“I’m sorry, I’m just having a bad day,” Mickey said, taking the cloth from the man with a nod, before wiping his face with it, he gave it a sniff, making sure that there weren’t any of the usual poisons on it. He dabbed his eyes and handed it back to the man, who didn’t take it.
	“Keep it, it has always brought me luck,” the man said, and turned to walk away; but paused, “What’s your name, boy?” he asked, turning back, ignoring a filthy woman trying to sell him dirty carrots.
	“Mickey, Mickey Drodd,” Mickey replied, watching as the man’s eyebrows lifted slightly.
	“As in, Michael Drodd Junior?” he asked, walking slowly back to Mickey.
	“Yessir, my father’s name was Michael,” Mickey nodded, his father’s kind face springing to the front of his mind.
	“And what is the son of a famous war hero doing crying in the street, missing, an arm from his shirt?” the man asked, glancing at Mickey’s bare arm.
	“My father died before we could be paid for his services, and so the King saw no reason for paying us. I was just fired from my second job this month,” Mickey explained as the man motioned to sit on some stairs leading to a rundown tailor shop.
	“And what is it your skillset young Master Drodd?” The man asked, scratching some short stubble on his chin, “Craftsman? Cobbler? Possibly a tailor?”
	“I am a herbalist and a healer, sir,” Mickey replied, watching the man’s expression change from one of curious sadness, to one of curious excitement.
	“A healer you say?” He asked, standing up swiftly.
	“Yessir, I know more about plants and healing than most herbalists or doctors in this city,” Mickey said, curiously watching as the man began pacing.
	“I am in need of your assistance Young Master Drodd, in desperate need,” the old man said, stopping in front of the boy, “My arm, you see,” he said, drawing his sleeve back to show a long cut running from his wrist, all the way to the crook of his arm. The edges were purple and bubbled out, an odd yellow puss oozing from the half healed line of cut skin. A man standing nearby lurched away at the sight of the wound, staggering to the other side of his small cart. Mickey didn’t move, instead, he glanced the wound up and down.
	“This wound had plagued me for the last four months, and its not gotten any better,” The man said, slowly lowering his sleeve back over the slice. Mickey watched the man, a smile slowly growing over his face, “I will pay for your services, of course,” the man said hurriedly.
	“Meet me at the Old Square tomorrow at noon, I’ll patch you right up,” Mickey said, jumping up, “I need to get the supplies,” The man smiled and straightened up, he nodded briskly and turned and walked away. Mickey grinned the whole walk home, to an at one time shoe shop. His small family and three others had taken it over, lumping together their savings and bought the place. Mickey’s mother and brother weren’t there during the day, they would go out and plant or dig up potatoes for a small share of the crop; the other three families however were lazy and hung around the small building all day, eating the food that the Drodd family brought back and dirtying the shared space.
	Mickey shoved his way inside, throwing an overweight woman, who was leaning against the doorframe, out of the way and onto the floor.
	“The matter with you ya little,” she started, rolling over awkwardly to glare up at Mickey. She froze, seeing who it was. The ice blue stare shut her up instantly because, like most of the people in the city, Fat Alba believed the almost white eyes to be the mark of the devil.
	“The hell you doing back so soon, get fired again, demon,” she said in a low voice, struggling over her girth to right herself.
	“Actually, a new job opportunity has opened itself up in front of me,” Mickey said cheerfully, walking past the woman to the small door leading to the back room, the only room besides the front. He’d claimed it as his family’s when they moved in; much to the displeasure of the other occupants, who’d all had their hearts set on it. ‘Why do you get the room?’ they’d whined, glaring at Mickey, ‘Because I paid half of the price for this dump,’ Mickey had retorted, shutting the others up instantly. He’d paid for half of the building, the other three families of four each split the cost of the remaining half.
	As Mickey entered, four kids, all about twelve, dashed out past him, knocking a chair and a wooden box over in their haste.
	“I’ve told you runts to stay out of here!” Mickey bellowed, catching one of them in the backside with a swift kick, launching the boy out through the door. Mickey sighed loudly and picked up the belongings scattered across the floor, placed there by the hoodlums as they rummaged through the three large boxes. One contained his family’s clothes, one contained a few personal belongings, and the third and smallest contained a collection of plant life, a few books, and a leather backpack. Grabbing the backpack, he ignored the other stuff and left the room, heading straight for the door.
	He stepped over several blankets and a sleeping man, the other occupants of the building were all against the walls, either talking with one another, or eating something.
	Vile pigs, Mickey thought as he left the room, glaring at what circumstance had forced on him. As swiftly as he could, Mickey made his way out of the city, the outer city where he lived was nothing more than a maze of alleyways and dead ends made to confuse and stall invaders; it was just one convoluted mass of interconnecting stone, wood, and cloth. This made for a long walk to the gate leading out into the burned siege plains surrounding the massive city castle.
	It was this expanse of scorched earth and charred wooden remains that fascinated Mickey. While the plant life seemed to be all but extinct in the area, bulbs and roots still remained living and thriving just under the surface. Mickey wandered for almost a mile away from the city until he came to the edge of the wood, a peninsula of green and brown that jutted out into the plains. It was in these woods, the Twilight Wood, that creatures roamed, creatures unknown to any living man, woman, or child. It was in these woods that hundreds of people had gone missing, it was there that an entire invading army had taken refuge and vanished over the course of a single night. The trees were tall and dark, their limbs long and claw like. The name of the Twilight forest had been given due to its constant dimness, almost the same as twilight, and at night, from the rooftops of the Outer City, a faint glow could be seen inside of the wood, alighting it with a ghostly golden glow.
	Mickey shivered as he knelt down, dropping his pack from his shoulder and onto the ground. He flicked the top flap open and grabbed a small hand shovel consisting of a shoulder plate from a suit of armor and a pair of fire tongs half tied, half melted to it for a handle. Slowly and carefully, Mickey dug six inches into the charred earth until he hit a layer of damp dirt. Still slowly, he dug up several shovel-fulls of this muddy earth and placed them on the ground next to the pack. In the dark brown dirt could be seen hundreds of small green bulbs, millions of thin, white roots extending away from them, holding the earth together.
	From the bag, Mickey drew a small tin cup and set to picking the small green bulbs from the lumps of dirt. The bulbs, he’d found, when boiled would give off a rich smelling steam that when contained and returned to liquid state, were a strong painkiller, if breathed, the steam would knock you out for hours. He’d discovered this the hard way. After the bulbs had been boiled down, they could be mashed into a paste, which when applied to a skin, would numb it and kill most bacteria and germs on or in a wound.
	After almost three hours of picking through the dirt, Mickey had gathered almost a full cup of the little green bulbs. Smiling, he took a cloth bag from his backpack and dumped the bulbs into it before tying it off and tossing it back into the bag. With a deep breath, he stood up and turn to the forest. The man’s wound would need stitching, for which he’d need thread. Mickey was extremely particular about his material and refused to use thread or cloth. Instead, he’d gather hundreds of hair thin fibers from Deadoak roots. And to find Deadoak, you had to venture into the Twilight Wood.
	“Come on now! You’ve been in there a hundred times, its not that bad,” he told himself aloud, walking calmly past the first line of trees. He’d only ventured a hundred or so feet into the forest in the past, and that was as far as he wanted to go. The cries of strange creatures could be heard deeper in the forest, screams, growls, screeches and groaning. Hurrying, Mickey made his way to a tall tree, its bark as dark as a starless night, the leaves a navy blue, strange yellowed moss running along its massive gnarled roots and trunk.
	“May the great trees of the Twilight Forest forgive my intrusion and heal the wound inflicted by me this day through the requirements of necessity,” Mickey whispered, praying forgiveness as he drew a long, curved knife from his backpack, he moved it smoothly and cleanly, slicing a foot long shred of wood from the Deadoak’s root. Before leaving, he collected a pile of dry leaves from the ground and mixed them with mud from the earth and water from his canteen. Gently, he rubbed the paste onto the wound he’d inflicted.
	“Heal fast and grow tall,” he whispered before packing his canteen away and retreating from the forest. The sun was nearing the horizon at an alarming pace, and once the gates closed for the night, you did not enter. Half walking, half running, Mickey made it back into the city just as the sun disappeared. As he hurried along the long, almost pitch black streets, the true filth of the outer city emerged from the midnight black shadows, creeping along the streets, trading in black wares and banned goods. They would kill for a bite to eat and stole what they could. Mickey passed a tall man in black robes, brass goggles donned his face, underneath which was a silvery metal mask, shaped like a lion’s mouth, open and roaring. His hood shaded most of his face, but the red glass of his goggles seemed to shine out even in the lowest light.
	Mickey shivered as he entered his home, stumbling over the same man in the middle of the floor. Cursing violently, Mickey stumbled to his room. As he entered the pitch black, he could hear his mother and brother sleeping, their slow, deep breathing calm and relaxed. Mickey lay down in the corner, on top of a brown, wool blanket, staring into the dark, not bothering to take his backpack or boots off.
	The morning came far too soon and Mickey was up, sneaking quietly out of the room in the low light of the dawn. No one moved as he walked slowly through the old shoe shop and out the door. He moved silently and quickly through the darkened streets to a square. The buildings seemed to part to allow space for a small fountain, the old, dilapidated statue of some past and long forgotten king spitting water.
	Mickey drew some water into his tin cup and dumped some of the bulbs into it before building a small fire from chunks of old rotting wood scattered about the square. Soon, the water was boiling away. Mickey took the red handkerchief from his pocket and held it over the cup, collecting the steam and saturating the cloth. After a while, he folded the wet cloth carefully and laid it on the stone edge of the fountain. The sun was climbing higher and higher, and Mickey estimated he had about two hours before noon. With a new sense of urgency, he began stripping the slice of Deadoak root, drawing it into a multitude of long, hair width strands. With those, he began to braid them into a three foot long line, smoothing it repeatedly to make sure it wouldn’t catch on skin.
	It was almost noon when he took the cup from the fire and drained the water. The square was always abandoned, even at mid-day, the statue was said to be haunted, and so scared most away from the area. Mickey had just finished mashing the bulbs into a fine paste when footsteps aroused him from his work. The elder gentleman entered the square slowly, walking smoothly and unperturbed to where Mickey sat cross legged.
	“Well how do you do today Young Master Drodd,” He said cheerfully, smiling brightly at Mickey.
	“I’m fine sir, how about yourself?” Mickey said, sitting the small cup onto the edge of the fountain, next to the now cold damp cloth.
	“I’ve had better days, my boy, much better days,” the man chuckled, seating himself on the edge of the fountain to look at what Mickey had set up.
	“I am ready whenever you are sir,” Mickey said, getting straight to the point. The man’s well-tanned face paled and he cleared his throat nervously.
	“Well, that’s what we came for, isn’t it?” he said, giving a nervous chuckle.
	“Don’t worry, it won’t hurt at all, you can even look away if you like,” Mickey said, smiling reassuringly at the older man. He nodded and looked away, rolling up his sleeve gently, trying not to disturb the wound. It looked the same as it had the day before and Mickey set about wiping the excess puss off of the wound before laying the damp red cloth over the whole wound and pressing down gently, letting the drugged water soak into the wound. The man sighed heavily, his whole body relaxing as the painkiller took effect, easing whatever aches he’d had in his body.
	Mickey worked quickly, slicing the deadened and rotting skin off, letting it fall to the street. Then he stitched the wound shut, his hand made thread staying strong and smooth. His needle was dull and caused a bit of tugging, but the man didn’t seem to mind in the least. At last, he smeared the wet grey paste over the wound.
	“There, all fixed,” He said, wiping his hands off, the blood and mucus from the wound staining his fingers and palms. The man looked down at his arm and smiled at the neatly stitched cut, “Just try not to use that arm for a few days, and at night, apply some of this,” Mickey instructed, taking the remaining paste and knocking it onto a thin white cloth produced from his bag. He wrapped it up tightly and handed it to the man. The paste would last for a few weeks like that and became slightly more potent with age.
	“Now for the matter of money,” The man said, standing up and rolling his sleeve down over the cut, “How much do you charge for such a service?” he reached into his pocket and drew out a small pouch of coins. Mickey paused in wiping his hands off, he’d never thought about how much to charge, “I can see you aren’t used to setting your own prices,” the man chucked and drew two gold coins from the pouch and tossed them to Mickey, who caught them breathlessly.
	“Sir, this is,” Mickey started, staring down at the sparkling golden coins.
	“That is well earned money,” The man interrupted, his face turning serious. Mickey looked up at him, his face frozen in a shocked expression. A myriad of thoughts shot through his mind.
	Why is he lurking in the outer city if he has such money? Why doesn’t he simply go to a doctor in the upper district? How did he get the wound that he doesn’t want it shown in the wealthier and more heavily guarded areas? And finally, who is he?
	Shoving the thoughts to the side, Mickey pocketed the money and set to cleaning up the area, packing his belongings back into his pack and washing away the blood from the small operation. Just as he was tossing his pack onto his back, he saw something that made his neck prickle. Standing just off of the square were three tall figures, all about Mickey’s height, all dressed in black hooded robes, their black clothes underneath barely visible. Each wore a set of red goggles, all had a silver mask over their nose and mouth in the molding of a lion’s mouth. The older man hadn’t noticed them, and Mickey wondered how long they’d been watching.
	“Well my boy, I must be off, is there anywhere I can find you should I need your assistance again?” The man asked, brushing some dust from the seat of his pants.
	“No sir, I’ve no steady residence,” Mickey said, wrenching his gaze away from the men in the shadows.
	“Well then, I should hope we meet again, and a good life to you,” He said, smiling as he shook Mickey’s hand heartily. Mickey nodded and smiled and watched the man walk away, whistling some strange tune.
	As soon as he was out of sight, Mickey grabbed his back and turned and walked briskly in the opposite direction of the hooded figures. He moved fast and quietly, making his way through the crowded midday streets back to his abode. As he entered, he glanced around, finding only half of the usual residence in the main room. Scowling, he shoved his room’s door open to find the remaining occupants digging through the crates, his family’s crates, the only thing they had left in this world. One of the younger men held a short sword, its golden hilt glinting in the lanternlight, the thin silver blade glistening with the pain and death it could, and had inflicted.
	“Mighty fine, innit?” the man said, he was short and pudgy, one of Alba’s children, his black hair, long and greasy, hung down in his acne ridden face, “Waddaya recon we could get sellin’,” he froze as he turned, coming to face Mickey, who stood in absolute shock in the doorway. At the man’s sudden silence, the rest of the group stopped and spun to face the door, one thin, mousey woman pocketing a silver necklace before coming to face Mickey.
	“What do you rotten pieces of pond scum think you’re doing it here?” Mickey said, his voice low, the words spat out through clenched teeth.
	“We’re tired of you and yours hogging this room, and obviously some treasure ‘ere and not sharing with the rest of us,” The man holding the sword said, his voice high and whiney.
	“Treasure?” Mickey barked, lowering his pack to the floor, “These belonging are all that are left of my life! Of my family! You think you have any right to this, you lazy grease filled sacks of blubber?” Mickey screamed, snatching the sword from the man’s hand, he felt it cut skin as he drew it away, the man’s thumb seeming to fall off and to the floor. The fool had been holding it by the blade, and that was what he got. The man screamed and made to run for the door, but Mickey raised the sword, pointing it straight at his heart, an implied ‘stay’.
	“My mother and I have worked all day, every day, to get our food, to get our money; and you pigs lay around and eat our food growing fat like so many maggots. And I’ve noticed the bits of change missing from my pack; don’t think you got away with that either!” He yelled, swinging the sword to impale the wall.
	“You’ve hoarded your money and useless trinkets, you and your family are the gluttons!” The thin woman who’d taken the necklace yelled back, “We eat filth while you have things like that sword in here, things that could sell for ten gold pieces!”
	“You eat the food provided by me and my mother, the filth you eat is not even your filth; and yet you seem to feel you have the right to complain,” Mickey said, his voice low and dangerous now, “You will get out of this room, and you will leave anything you thought wise to take; and should I find anything missing, every one of you will suffer the consequences,” At that, the clinking of old jewelry and thunk of sellable items hitting the floor filled the room, followed quickly as the people rushed out of the room.
	Reverently, Mickey picked up the belongings and returned them to the boxes. Slowly, he lowered himself onto his blanket in the corner and drew his small wooden box from under the straw stuffed pillow. Inside were five bronze pieces, two silver, and a single gold piece, a piece given to him by his father, just before he set out on his final mission. Smiling, he tucked the box into his backpack after adding his two new gold pieces.
	“Get out! This is our home!” Fat Alba’s voice carried into the room, a panicked tone reaching her high, annoying pitch. Mickey stood up slowly and exited the room, carrying his pack with him. The door wasn’t half open when he froze. Standing in the center of the shop floor were three tall men, all dressed in black with silver masks and red lensed goggles, not a spec of skin could be seen. One held Alba against the wall by her throat while another held a small device in his hand, pointing it at the others, who cowered in the corners. The final man stood closest to Mickey, staring at him.
	“Are you Michael Drodd?” He asked, his voice surprisingly cheery.
	“Yes, I am,” Mickey said, glancing at the other two tall figures.
	“Excellent! Would you mind coming with us?” He asked, motioning toward the door.
	“One, uhm, moment,” Mickey said, returning to the room; quickly, he strapped the shortsword sheath to his waist and slid the blade into it. He also grabbed to small clay jars, both small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. He slipped these into a pocket on the side of his pack where he could reach them easily and exited the room to find the three standing next to the door.
	“Are you ready Master Drodd?” The cheery one asked.
	“Mind if I ask what this is about?” Mickey asked, walking past them and onto the street where they soon followed.
	“As we understand, you have a bit of a reputation,” The man said, coming to walk next to Mickey, the other two hanging behind as they strolled down the street.
	“For being a hellspawn and witch, yeah,” Mickey said, disgust clear in his tone.
	“Yes, actually, that reputation,” He continued, obviously smiling under his mask.
	“I am not a demon, and I am not a witch,” Mickey spat, stopping and turning to the man.
	“No, of course not!” The man said, his tone quite taken aback, “It was however, you who helped the man with the infected blade wound in the Old Square, correct?”
	“Yes, that was me,” Mickey said as they resumed walking.
	“Do you know what else your reputation tells of?” the man asked, his tone back to happy go lucky.
	“What?” Mickey asked, he was tired of this back and forth, if they would just tell him what they wanted.
	“You are quite the herbalist,” he stated.
	“How do you get to that conclusion?” Mickey asked, glancing over at the man.
	“We’ve spoken to your previous employers, and all would agree that you are quite impressive in the field,” the man replied, they had just exited the main gate and now stood on the black dirt road, leading off to a small farming village.
	“They didn’t seem impressed when they fired me,” Mickey retorted as they came to a stop.
	“No, I suppose not,” The man’s voice took a slightly pensive tone, “But I have an offer for you,”
	“Get on with it?” Mickey said, glancing at the two figures standing slightly behind them.
	“But first,” he said, his voice returning to the happy, playful tone, “Do you know who we are?” He gestured broadly, and at that moment, Mickey realized there were five more of the robed men standing about, all seeming to materialize out of shadow. He turned slowly, taking the sight in. Four of the newcomers wore masks shaped like those of plague doctors, though more birdlike and well crafted. The other wore a mask of an open snake mouth, its fangs razor sharp.
	“Where did,” Mickey stuttered, turning to face the happy man.
	“We are the Fifth Brotherhood,” He said calmly. The name popped instantly in Mickey’s mind.
	“You mean, the Fifth Brotherhood responsible for,” He started.
	“Responsible for destroying the entire army of Deo Maltruz as they marched to assault this city, for plaguing the Delruge horde and completely annihilating their grasp on Dragonhead Pinnacle, for curing the Red Spot Plague and the Roach Infestation,” The man interrupted, “And many more feats,” he had become serious now.
	“And what is it that the Fifth Brotherhood wants with me?” Mickey asked, glancing at the men around him.
	“That’s just it, Master Drodd, we want you,” he said, his voice low. Mickey felt like he’d been punched in the chest, his breath was gone and his ears rang.
	“You, you mean you want,” he stuttered, a man from behind putting a hand on his shoulder to steady him.
	“We sent that man to you to test your healing ability before we came before you,” the man behind explained.
	“That explains why he let a complete stranger treat him,” Mickey reasoned, “But what makes you think you can trust me?”
	“Well, so far you’ve not told any one of the secret recipe for Master Heimel’s flame coating from when you worked for him,” the snake masked man piped up, his voice deeper than the other two, “A recipe an enemy kingdom would pay handsomely for,”
	“So what do you want me for? You can’t just come up and say ‘Ohey! We want you to join us for no reason at all!’” Mickey said stalely.
	“You are a new talent to this world, you know more than most of our numbers combined, and without teaching, you learn from experience and experiment. You are proficient in herbal healing and medical treatment as well as in poison mixing and creating chemical weapons,” The snake masked man said, “You also gather your own materials and know much of the world’s living organisms,”
	“I take it you’ve been watching me for a while,” Mickey said, glancing around at the men.
	“For almost a year now, since you were hired at and fired from Heimel’s shop,” A much younger voice piped up from one of the plague doctor looking men.
	“We know that this is a lot to take in at once, so you can think about it over,” The happy toned man started, but Mickey held up a hand to silence him.
	“You have been watching me for long enough to know what my life is like, what I go through every day, what I have to handle, I don’t need any time to think,” Mickey said, watching the men as a few clapped their gloved hands together, obviously happy with the answer.
	“In that case, Michael, we will begin your teaching tomorrow; return home, sleep and prepare, we’ll meet at the Old Square at first light” The snake masked man said as the group turned as one to reenter the city. Mickey nodded and waited for them to vanish into the shadows before making his way back home. As he entered the old shop, the sun had set completely, and only a candle in the middle of the floor lit the room. The shadowed faces of the three other families were clear in the dark, their glares withering. Mickey made his way into the back room to find his mother awake, reading from one of his old plant life books, his little brother asleep next to her.
	“Hey Mickey,” She said softly, smiling at him. He smiled back and lay down in his corner, taking his pack off as well as the sword, “How was your day, sweetie?” his mother asked, closing the book and laying it gently on top of the box next to the small bed.
	“It was alright, Mom, but I can tell you right now, things are about to get better,” he replied, smiling at her. She was much shorter than him, her long blonde hair hung down to the small of her back when she was standing. She had high cheekbones and a soft, kind face. She could be mistaken for nobility should she dress in something finer than the rags she and her sons could barely afford. She smiled and closed the lantern shade, plunging the room into darkness.
	The next morning, Mickey was up before his brother and mother awoke, he slipped out quietly, his pack on his back, his father’s sword strapped to his waist. He also took the few dried plants he had stored away in his box, rare herbs that he’d only found a few of. One was used to make a delicious tea that heightened the sense of smell and taste, making the finest of food taste even better; though he’d only ever tried some with a sugar biscuit.
	He walked quickly to the Old Square, the statue of the forgotten king staring down on him as he sat down and waited for first light. It came faster than he’d anticipated, his nerves seeming to speed up time.
	“I see you like to be early,” said a familiar cheerful voice. Mickey jumped up, spinning on his heel to face the man with the lion mask, who stood only a few feet away.
	“I couldn’t sleep, too nervous,” Mickey explained, looking down to fiddle with his fingers.
	“Well, better a little early, than a little late,” the man said, nodding briskly before walking away, motioning for Mickey to follow. Grabbing his bag, he did exactly that, hurrying after the shadowy figure who led him to an alley and to a small wooden door at the end, set into a think stone wall.
	“Burn,” the man whispered to the door, and it swung open slowly, another man on the inside peeking out, he wore the hood, but his goggles were on top of his head, and his bird like mask was hung loosely around his neck. The lion masked man entered and dropped his hood, moving his goggles on top of his head before loosening his mask. His face was kind, his brow slightly short with short black hair and some stubble accenting his wide chin. He had strangely purple eyes that shone in the low lantern light of the long stone hallway.
	“You can call me Bernard,” the man said, shaking Mickey’s hand before turning to walk down the hall. He led Mickey into a large, round room, hallways shooting off in all directions, in the center was a large, round table, the wood a dark grey, almost black.
	“Deadoak,” Mickey whispered, stroking its smooth surface.
	“Yep, harvested from the Twilight wood before it became known as the twilight wood,” Bernard said happily as he walked off down a hallway to the left. Mickey followed quickly, glancing at the dark wooden doors lining the hall, each with a lantern hanging above it. At the end of the corridor was another large, round room. This one was filled with racks, some with the dark Brotherhood robes hanging neatly on them, others had the black garments worn under the robes, and a few were weapon racks with strange weaponry leaned against or hanging off of them. Bernard grabbed a robe and a set of the black underclothes and handed them reverently to Mickey.
	“These are the garb of the Founder, and so are treated with as much respect as possible,” he said softly, stroking the smooth surface of the robes, “I pray that you feel as honored as I to wear such robes,” Mickey nodded and quickly stripped and dressed in his new clothes. After he’d put it all on, he found that the undergarments were surprisingly heavy, metal chain male had been sewn into the fabric around the stomach, elbows, knees, and across the back of the gloves.
	“And these, are your tools,” Bernard said loudly from the other side of the room, throwing a wad of items over the racks to Mickey, who caught them with a grunt. It was a thick black belt with a collection of clips, each wrapped in cloth to keep them from clinking. Pair of the odd red goggles was attached to one, a plain silver mask to another, a pair of strange little devices to another and a dagger to the last occupied clip. There were several more empty rings as well.
	“What are these?” Mickey asked, taking the two devices in hand. They were a pair of small pistols seemingly attached to the inside of a pair of heavy metal cuffs; he recognized them as the same thing one of the lion masked people had been brandishing at the occupants of the old shoe shop.
	“They are ‘guns’,” Bernard said, strolling over and holding up his hand. The gun slipped up from inside of his sleeve and to his hand where it fit perfectly.
	“What are these, guns, for?” Mickey asked, turning the cuffs over to examine them.
	“They fire a projectile, like a bow, only the projectile is smaller and easier to carry around than a full quiver,” Bernard explained, drawing the clip from the handle of his gun, “You’ll get a few spare clips and ammunition in the armory,” Mickey nodded and slipped the cuffs on, fastening them firmly to his arms.
	On the short walk to the armory, Bernard showed Mickey the hand motion that released the gun to your hand, a quick flick of the wrist that was difficult to do accidentally. After a few tries, Mickey could do it quickly, if not a bit awkwardly. They entered what was obviously the armory, judging from the collection of cases containing all sorts of weaponry. Bernard handed Mickey a small leather pouch that he explained clipped onto the clips on the belt. Inside of it were spaces for four extra clips and some loops of stretchy cloth for something else. Bernard helped Mickey load the clips and slide them into the guns before letting him load his extra clips.
	“And what would a Fifth be without a little herb magic?” Bernard asked as they left the armory.
	“What do you mean?” Mickey asked in return, glancing over at the slightly older man.
	“We use the chemistry that you know so much about as a weapon to aid us in any mission we might have,” Bernard explained, drawing a small round clay jar from his own pouch, identical to the pair in Mickey’s backpack.
	“What do they do?” Mickey asked, watching the clay ball, almost transfixed.
	“The ones with the red corks are something to do with fire,” Bernard replied, turning the jar to show the red cork, “The yellow corks show some sort of paralyzing substance or knock out agent, blue is deadly poison, and green are smoke bombs,” Mickey reached back and drew his own from his pack.
	“Mine are firebombs,” he said, the liquid inside of the brown jars sloshing gently.
	“I suggest you put them in that pouch, unless the castle wall collapses on you, they won’t get crushed in there,” Bernard said, returning his own bomb to its place in his own pouch. Mickey placed his own bombs in his pouch, looping the stretchy fabric loops around them to hold them in place.
	“And here we are,” Bernard said as they entered a new room, round like the last two, but this one contained a group of tables with short stools around them, this room was also inhabited, five other young men sat around a table, eating and talking.
	“So, what do I do now?” Mickey asked as the pair took seats at a table in the corner.
	“Now, you watch and learn,” Bernard said, waving at a man that just walked in the door. The heavier set man shambled over and deposited two mugs of fresh water before Mickey and Bernard as well as a plate of dry white biscuits, “At the start of each day, you will be handed a sheet with a list of duties, you make your mark next to whatever duty you’d like to take responsibility for and pass it along,” At that, a piece of paper and a charcoal stick were placed on the table by the husky man. On it were printed several lines.
	“What if they’re all taken?” Mickey asked, looking over the list.
	“Then you go out on patrol, thankfully today however, it looks like we’re the first to the list,” Bernard replied reading the list over.
	Observe and report on Deatel Tiller (War Master Golith)
	Run letter to Adrea Caskall in Carbondale (Master Wren)
	End Troy Diller (Grandmaster Leman)
	Find the Fifth Patrol of the King’s Order and escort them back to Brumont (Master Wren)
	Run Defense Patrol (Master Clemens)
	“What are the names after the list items?” Mickey asked, looking over the list again.
	“The names are of the masters who assigned the missions,” Bernard explained.
	“And who are the masters?” Mickey looked up from the parchment.
	“War Master Golith is our head combat trainer and strategist he’s one rank less than Master Wren, who is the right hand to Grandmaster Leman; who is the big dog of the Fifth Brotherhood.  Then Master Clemens is the charming, handsome poison and plant expert, the fourth highest ranking body in the Brotherhood,” He grinned at the last name.
	“Bernard Clemens,” Mickey said, smiling at the sophistication of the name.
	“At your service young master Drodd,” He stood, bowing with a sweeping arm gesture, as Mickey had seen the nobility do.
	“So which one do I choose?” Mickey asked, returning his gaze to the list.
	“You are not of high enough rank to go out on mail runs or kill missions, and since you are extremely new to the Brotherhood, I suggest reporting on Tiller,” Bernard said, sitting back down in his chair.
	“Okay, and what do I do?” Mickey asked, signing a ‘M D’ next to the list item.
	“Well, you report to Master Golith, he’ll give you details of previous reports and locations and such, then you go find the guy, watch him and memorize what he does, then return here and write out a report,” Bernard explained, watching Mickey’s excitement grow. He was going out on a mission, the first day there, and with no training, they were letting him out to do something.
	“And I don’t need training or anything before I go on a mission?” Mickey asked, glancing over at Bernard.
	“Not for simple missions like this, but in the next week, you will be combat and speed tested,” Bernard said, drawing his dagger and began to sharpen it.
	“And where is Master Golith?” Mickey asked, standing up and grabbing a biscuit.
	“If you can’t figure that out, then this mission is doomed from the start,” Bernard said, putting his goggles over his eyes and smiling brightly at Mickey; who frowned and turned to leave.
	He spent almost half an hour wandering the halls of the Brotherhood’s building until he ran into a massive troll of a man. He took up half of the six foot wide corridor and had to stoop to avoid scraping his brain out. He wore the same black robes as the others, but without sleeves to show off his tree trunk arms.
	“Excuse me, are you by any chance War Master Golith?” Mickey asked as he passed, watching in sheer terror as the man turned slowly, towering over the tall boy.
	“That I am boy, what do you need,” he rumbled, his frown not leaving his face, but his voice seemed friendly enough.
	“I need the briefing on the surveillance on Tiller,” Mickey said, rushing his words slightly.
	“Ahh, right, I was wondering when someone would accept that,” the man chuckled and turned to a door in the wall. Roughly, he shoved it open and stepped inside. The room was round, like all of the past; it also had a desk in the center with a chair large enough to fit the massive man.
	“I take it you’re Bernard’s new recruit?” he rumbled, taking some papers out of a drawer.
	“Yessir,” Mickey said, straightening up slightly.
	“Well, I’ve got some advice for you boy,” the man looked up, his grey gaze withering, “Berns might seem the laid back, casual type, but mark my words; he is more skilled than the most elite master of all the Brotherhoods. He turned down the position of Grandmaster of three different Brotherhoods, and the position of the Elite Grandmaster over all Brotherhoods, just to stay in action. He feels you’re worth his time to train and teach, prove him right, his time is not something that should be wasted,” With those words, the man handed a small stack of papers to Mickey and gestured for the door. Mickey nodded somberly and exited, moving quickly to retrace his steps to the main entrance of the building. Waiting there was Bernard.
	“Took you long enough, Drodd,” he said, standing up, his white smile flashing brightly.
	“I’m sorry, it was a bit,” Mickey started to reply, but Bernard held up a hand.
	“You actually found him three hours faster than my last apprentice,” he chuckled, sliding his lion’s mouth mask over his face and sliding his goggles down, “Now, Droddy, your first lesson. Never leave the guild unless you’ve got your mask on, ever,” he said, his voice slightly muffled, but still bright and cheery. Mickey nodded and slid his plain metal mask up over his mouth and nose and lowered the goggles over his eyes. His first reaction was amazement as he realized how much the goggles increased his vision in the low light.
	“Hood up, and lets move out,” Bernard said, flicking his hood up before stepping outside. Mickey nodded and put his own up before following. They moved quickly through the busy city, not drawing a single glance from passersby.
	“When finding your observation target, always scan the list of frequented places,” Bernard said, pulling Mickey off of the main road and into a small alcove. Quickly, Mickey shuffled through the papers until he found one labeled ‘Frequents’. He read off the list and soon had a map of the man’s daily routine in his head.
	“He’ll be at the tailor, dropping off dresses or finery from the merchant stands he visits after breakfast,” Mickey deduced, looking up at Bernard.
	“Very nice, and without reading over the daily routine,” the older man joked before moving out of the shadows and up the street. Mickey followed quickly, both of their footsteps lost in the din of the outer city alleys.
	They made it into the Upper City without incident and spent the day lurking about a rich merchant, watching his every move and recording it to memory. At the same time, Bernard explained different methods of observation and blending as well as some mixtures for poisons he liked, he also went over the history of the Brotherhoods and quizzed Mickey hard on it all.
	“The Brotherhoods were founded when the Explorers came to the mainland from The Great Isle lost in the seas; they were originally intended to aid the police and guard, but after much of the guard and police became corrupt, they became the watchmen and cleansed the forces of spies and dirty individuals. After a while, they took on the responsibility of doing the same with the general population, and their numbers grew steadily. Soon they were responsible for starting, ending and preventing wars between the nations that formed, they assassinated those necessary and save the lives of others,” he’d gone over quickly, not naming names or locations, just deeds and generalities.
	At the end of the day, the pair returned to the Brotherhood’s hall and Bernard helped Mickey submit his report, simply listing the activities of the day before handing it over to Golith.
	“After ten mission days, you will be given an official rank in the Brotherhood, from there, you will get your own room and new identity,” Bernard explained as they exited the building, stepping into the night. Mickey stopped short and turned to face the elder man.
	“New, identity?” Mickey asked hesitantly.
	“Once you take a true part in the Brotherhood, you must create a new identity, your old name is dead, and if you do not kill it, it will find you, and end you” He explained gravely, “Young master Troggins died three months ago because he remained in contact with old friends who knew of his association with the Brotherhood. One of them had a bit too much to drink and spilled what he knew about Troggins to a powerful mob lord. They took the poor boy and tortured him to death, trying to find our location and secrets. You see, we have enemies, powerful enemies, and they have ears and eyes everywhere,” Mickey nodded and looked down at his shoes.
	“Will I be able to send money to my family?” he asked, looking back up at Bernard.
	“Of course my boy, you may exchange letters and send money, unfortunately you cannot meet face to face,” Bernard said, a sad tone edging into his voice.
	“Of course,” Mickey said, his mood suddenly fallen.
	“Good night young Master Droddy,” Bernard said, patting him on the shoulder before turning back to the door to return to the Brotherhood hall.
	The next day was spent observing the same man, and the day after that and the day after that. It seemed like a blur to Mickey, almost immediately he was standing before four men; Master Wren, Master Golith, Master Clemens, and Grandmaster Leman. They were in the mess hall and recreational space, the tables had been moved to the sides of the room where other Bodies sat, all of lower rank.
	“You will be tested in Combat by one of us, your master and trainer, from there, three other youthfuls will challenge you to hand to hand combat; you will be judged from these four encounters,”  Grandmaster Leman explained before taking a seat. Everyone in the room wore their masks and goggles, most of them wearing those of the plague doctor, though Bernard and Wren wore the lion masks, Golith wore the snake mask and the Grandmaster wore an intricate rune inscribed mask in the shape of an eagle with its wings spread.
	“The masks mark a Body’s rank and ability, those with the plague doctor mask are low ranked and of low skill. Those with snake masks are of high rank and are strategists, those with lion masks are mission taker of high rank and experts in combat as well as the medical and poison fields. The grandmasters wear intricately crafted masks showing their high rank. The Elite Grandmaster wears a full helm in the shape of a dragon head,” Bernard’s words flew back into Mickey’s head as he looked at his master who stood squared against him in the center of the room.
	“Just remember what little I taught you, and you’ll be fine,” he whispered before moving toward Mickey. A fist came from the left, right at Mickey’s jaw. The boy ducked and responded with a jab toward the thigh, where a hard enough hit in the right place could numb the entire leg. His hand, however, was swatted away and the knee he was aiming for came up to meet his face, sending him in a full backflip to his feet, the left lens of his goggles had been cracked from the impact, but had taken most of the blow. He struggled, trying to land a single blow on Bernard, who simply flicked the attacks away and countered with blazing fast blows that send Mickey sliding away.
	After ten minutes of the slaughter, Bernard stopped, bowed and returned to his place beside the other masters. Another person, of shorter stature took his place and got down into a fighting stance before letting out a blood curdling scream, striking out with his both fists at Mickey’s stomach.
	“Didn’t give me time to get ready,” Mickey growled, stepping back quickly from the easily predictable blow. Reaching out, he grabbed each of the young man’s wrists and pulled hard, throwing him off balance and driving his face toward his knee. Mickey felt the goggles crack as his knee made contact and sent the other combatant to the floor, holding his face. The next opponent came before the last one left, striking out from behind, landing a judo chop on the back of Mickey’s neck, driving him forward in a stumble.
	In the stumble, Mickey glanced down between his legs to see the other man right behind him, ready to strike him again. With a shout, Mickey launched himself up into the air, spinning as it did so, catching the other completely off guard. He caught the other man’s punch, which had been aimed at the back of his head and jerked the fist to the side, spinning the man around and steadying himself as he landed the jump. Reaching out, Mickey grabbed the back of his opponent’s neck and drew him back over his knee to clasp his other hand over the jaw of the man, had he been in real combat, he could have twisted hard, and it would have been over.
	Straightening up, he dropped the other man to the cold stone floor and glanced around for the next challenger. No one stepped forward.
	“It appears your training has slightly frightened the youth,” Grandmaster Leman said quietly to Bernard.
	“Yes, he’s definitely got a knack for it, after he’s been refined a bit, he’ll be another Clemens,” Bernard joked, patting the grandmaster on the back.
	“Come on! Who’s next?” Mickey yelled, turning slowly to look at each of the possibly opponents. He was nervous, he wasn’t confident in the least; he just wanted the trial to be over with. This nervousness combined with his statement must have given the impression of cockiness as a single Body stepped from the crowd and moved quietly and smoothly into the fighting ring.
	“He’s become cocky,” Golith said to Leman.
	“No, he’s just nervous,” Wren corrected, watching Mickey’s every move with a trained and scrutinizing eye.
	The new opponent moved swiftly across the space between them and leapt into the air, trying to deliver a swift kick to Mickey’s chest.
	“Ahh, your apprentice, Wren,” Bernard said at the sight of the flying kick that sent Mickey stumbling away, his forearm taking the brunt of the kick. This one was different, Mickey deduced, watching their smooth and fluid movements. The robes were also a bit different, shorter so that they were a good five inches off of the ground instead of the one inch like all of the others. The goggles were also a tad smaller, and the mask was curved differently. As the other Body made to attack again, Mickey noticed that the clothing under the robes were also a tad tighter, allowing for more fluidity in movement.
	This time, the kick was expected, a false jump and a jolting kick straight for the throat; Mickey stepped smoothly to the side and jabbed hard at their upper thigh through their robe, sending them stumbling away, their leg suddenly weak and unable to support their weight. Mickey grinned and advanced on the person slowly, ready to counter any move. They stood with their left leg held slightly off of the floor, rubbing it furiously to try to regain feeling. Mickey dodged back away from a surprise uppercut and countered with a grab to the opposite shoulder, off balancing the other combatant, spinning, he rammed his elbow into their chest, tossing them easily off of their feet, sending them flying across the room and crashing to the floor.
	“Very nice, Droddy,” Bernard said, walking out to rest a hand on his apprentice’s shoulder. Through his one good lens, Mickey could see Wren standing next to his apprentice, helping them to their feet.
	“How’d I do?” Mickey asked as Bernard showed him to a room set aside for him.
	“You whipped Collin and Caskalls’ apprentices, then you obliterated Wren’s,” Bernard said, a tone of impressed pride set in his voice.
	“That doesn’t mean a lot to me, on a skill level, how’d I do?” Mickey asked, pressing for some sort of ranking.
	“Wren’s apprentice is rank twenty-five in the Fifth Brotherhood out of seventy Bodies,” Bernard said as he exited the small round room, “Now quit with the questions, clean yourself up and rest for a few hours, your weapons and poison trials are in three hours,” Bernard said, closing the door. Groaning, Mickey removed his goggles and loosened his mask to let it hang around his neck. The room was round, what a surprise. A bed lay against the wall opposite the door, the one side curved to match the wall, at the foot of the bed was a chest with a small stool next to it. A lantern hung next to the door, and another rested on the wooden chest. Next to the lantern was another set of clothes.
	Mickey took off his belt and gun cuffs and laid them next to the new set of clothes before removing his mask and robe. He’d just taken his shirt off and was checking his bruises when his door swung open with a groan. Slowly, he turned to find himself standing before Wren’s apprentice. Her hood was down and her goggles and mask were gone. She had long blonde hair that ran down just past her shoulders. Her face was soft and round with kind eyes.
	“You’re a,” Mickey started, completely dumbstruck.
	“Girl, yeah, and I almost kicked your ass,” she said, closing the door behind her as she stepped further into the room, running an eye over the interior before settling on Mickey.
	“I’m sorry, I didn’t,” Mickey stuttered, his mother would have his head if she knew he’d hit a girl.
	“Oh shut up, yes, I’m a girl, but I challenged you as an equal, and you fought me as an equal,” she said, obviously used to his reaction.
	“Uhh, alright, then, uhh, what’re you,” He said, scratching his neck awkwardly under the girl’s stare. She looked into his eyes without flinching. Most people would shy away at the mere sight, much less stare intentionally.
	“I just wanted to say good fight, and I hope to do it again sometime,” she said, holding out a hand. Mickey took it and shook firmly, still feeling a bit awkward, “Get some rest, I intend on challenging you for the weapons trial,” she said, winking before turning and leaving. Mickey noticed she was still limping a bit.
	Mickey fell asleep almost the instant his head hit the pillow. All too soon however, Bernard was tapping him in the middle of the forehead, whispering softly, “Come awake, rise and shine, the world is bright so open your eyes,” With a groan, Mickey rolled out of bed and to the great amusement of Master Clemens. Grudgingly, Mickey dressed and followed Bernard out of the room and back into the recreational hall, a five minute walk away. As they entered, they found another youth being tested at the hand of one of the twenty masters. After a brutal beating, he was handed off to the other apprentices. The first two got several good hits on him, but he held up against them, blocking and countering at the same frequency as they did. On the third person, however, Wren’s apprentice appeared, her limp completely gone.
	She lunged forward, striking the boy in the stomach three times before he even got his hand up to counter, by that time, she’d hopped back and flung her leg up over his weak, late block and planted her shoe to the side of his head, sending him stumbling away. Smoothly and fluidly, she moved down on him, striking him repeatedly until he gave up staggering away and fell to the ground in a heap. Slowly, she turned away from her victim and returned to her place at the side of the room, saluting with two fingers at Mickey as she passed.
	“You’re up Mullet,” she said, obviously grinning behind her mask. Bernard almost keeled over laughing at the remark. Mickey however, scowled and grumbled as he stepped back into the center ring.
	“Mullet, this time you’ll be dueling only one peer, and this time, using a wooden staff in the length of a sword, staff, or knife; first to strike the other five times in the body are counted to win,” Bernard explained, adopting the new nickname, “And because you did so well against the last group of your peers, we’ll allow you to choose your opponent for this round,” Mickey nodded and glanced around the room, his eyes hovering on Wren’s apprentice for a moment, she was standing, leaned against the wall next to the door, waving enthusiastically. Grumbling, he pointed to her.
	“Really,” Master Wren whispered under his breath, watching as his apprentice grabbed a sword sized pole from the rack to the side of the room. Mickey grabbed the full length staff.
	“On your go,” Bernard said, taking his seat, his smiling voice clear and ringing in the large room. The girl didn’t hesitate in her attack, striking forward with a downward slash, which Mickey batted to the side; spinning, she swung around and planted the fake sword in Mickey’s ribs, staggering him away, as she went for a stab, he parried and danced away.
	“That’s right Mullet, dance,” she hissed, she was obviously having fun.
	“The hell did you name me that?” Mickey growled, striking out with a downward swipe, followed quickly with an upward swing from the opposite end of the staff before dancing back, avoiding a blindingly fast cut across the chest.
	“Your slippery and hard to catch,” She said, stabbing repeatedly in a quick, fencing fashion, Mickey sidestepped each of them and struck out again, this time delivering a hard stab to the girl’s stomach and a blow across her chest before she righted herself and blocked, backing away. Almost instantly though, she was back, slashing wildly, but precisely, slamming the staff out of the way to deliver three hard blows to Mickey’s stomach before he shoved her away, gasping for air. She actually paused and let him catch his lost breath before striking again. She spun hard to the left before diving to the right, swinging mid dive to try to catch Mickey off guard, he blocked however, and retaliated as she slipped in her landing, hitting her twice, but as he went to skip back, she lunged forward and stabbed him in the center of the chest, right in the bruise where she’d kicked him in their first encounter.
	“Gotcha,” she said, watching as he stumbled back, almost slipped and barely regained balance. With a dejected, heavy feeling in his heart, Mickey turned to face the masters, all of whom were applauding, Bernard and Wren seemingly trying to outdo each other in volume. Mickey stumbled as an arm was thrown around his shoulder and his head was pulled down a bit, “Good fight Mullet,” Wren’s apprentice whispered before patting him heavily on the back and letting go.
	“Well, that was eventful,” Bernard said happily, watching the girl pace back to her spot next to the door, “Now, one last test, but it’ll be child’s play compared to those last two tests,” He walked forward, guiding Mickey out the door and down the corridor.
	“I’m sorry,” Mickey said soberly, staring at the floor.
	“For what? That was the best fight I’ve seen in months!” Bernard said loudly, directing Mickey into a smaller room, a single table with two chairs sat in the center; the walls were lined with shelves containing various herbs and plants.
	“I had her, I should have seen that jab coming,” Mickey said, looking back on his fight.
	“Drodd, she’s been with the Brotherhood for six months now, you’ve been here for eleven days, you gave her a good fight, and actually kept her on her toes, you should be proud of that performance,” Bernard said with a reassuring pat on the back, “Now just get through this last test, and you can go to bed,” he said, taking a seat at the table.
	Over the next hour, Bernard showed Mickey an array of different plant life from all over the continent; all but five were a breeze for the self-taught herbalist. As they finished, a messenger ran in and whispered something to Bernard who stood abruptly.
	“Unfortunately, this is where we part paths for now,” he said, his tone serious, “Head on back to your room, sleep up, and get on with your missions,” he said, turning and walking briskly out of the room, “I can’t be sure when I’ll be back, so keep your nose out of shit,” he winked before lowering his goggles to his face and departing quickly.
	With a slow, tired stroll, Mickey walked back to his room, getting lost in the maze of hallways twice on the short journey. He was just pushing the heavy wooden door open when someone cleared their throat behind him. Turning around, he found himself before two people, Wren’s apprentice and a short-ish man with jet black hair and a pencil mustache. He was obviously French and wore a red silk robe with floral designs sewn into it. The girl was still dressed in her full gear, minus the goggles and mask. The man was smiling at him but didn’t say anything for a moment.
	“Mister Drodd?” he asked, knowing exactly who he was.
	“Yessir, you found him,” Mickey replied, nodding.
	“From now on, you’ll be known as Ardrose Mullet,” He said, and the girl bursting out laughing.
	“Mullet, really?” Mickey asked, scowling down at the white piece of paper extended to him by the odd Frenchman.
	“Madame Wren thought it suitable,” he said, nodding at the girl, who was still in fits of giggles.
	“Well, if it’s decided, I guess I’m Ardrose Mullet, aren’t I?” Mickey said, smiling at the shorter man.
	“That you are,” he turned to go when something clicked in his mind and he turned back, “Ahh, right, I was just given news that Bernard has been taken away on business; and since you are now our newest Body to the Brotherhood, I thought it wise to have you assigned a partner, or well, you have been assigned as a partner,” His tone had grown serious. Mickey nodded, pocketing the paper with his name change written on it, “Madame Wren it seems has taken a shine to you, and volunteered to take you on a few missions before you are comfortable enough to take a mission solo,” With that, he turned and walked smoothly away.
	“Madame Wren, as in daughter of Master Wren?” Mickey asked, turning on the smiling girl.
	“You could say I’ve got a little pull in the higher ranks,” she said, grinning widely at him, “Dori Wren’s my name, and that’s Master Dori Wren to you!” she said, turning to go.
	“Wait,” Mickey said, reaching out, but stopping himself before grabbing her shoulder.
	“Yes?” she asked, spinning on her heel to face him.
	“Were you playing with me during the weapon training?” He asked, remembering her moves and how easily she’d struck three blows before retreating, when she could have easily struck another time; then again when she finished the match, her stumble seemed intentional, and then the ease with which she jabbed forward as he retreated.
	“Maybe a tad,” she said, smiling and walking away down the hall. Mickey scowled and turned back to his room, tossing the paper onto the bed.
	“Guess I’m Ardrose Mullet now,” he sighed. This meant he hadn’t said his last goodbyes to his mother, he’d thought it just another usual day, not the testing. As the world dimmed in his fatigue, Ardrose could feel the thrill of being a part of such an elite group of people, just before he slipped off to sleep.
	“Rise and shine Mullet,” The high, happy voice of Dori Wren rang through Ardrose’s head. With a groan, he stepped out of bed and dressed quickly, ignoring the girl standing in the open doorway.
	“What’s the mission?” Ardrose asked, following Dori down the halls toward the exit instead of the mess hall.
	“We’ll be wrapping up the Observation of Tiller,” she said, shoving the portal open and stepping out into the dim early morning street.
	“Wrapping up?” Ardrose asked, glancing up and down the street before following Dori.
	“It’s a kill mission, Mullet,” she said, turning to face him.
	“So all of that observing, just to kill him?” Ardrose asked, cocking his head slightly.
	“That observing gave us what we needed to select the perfect time to strike,” She said, resuming her walk toward the upper city.
	“So when is that time?” Ardrose asked, selecting several places in his mind from when he’d observed the daily routine of the merchant.
	“I don’t know! I was told that you helped with the recon missions on him!” she said, spinning to face him.
	“I did, and I know exactly when I would strike,” He said grimly, understanding that this was the life if a man they were talking about. He was a horrible, treacherous beast of a man, but he was alive all the same.
	“Then after your lead,” she said, gesturing for him to take the lead. He nodded and moved ahead, walking quickly to the Upper City and to the bathhouse where the man came every morning. He paused outside of the door, there were three guards in the square in front of the bathhouse, thankfully, none looked over as the pair of black robed Bodies slipped into the bathhouse. The massive stone room was filled with steam the single pool of water in the center heated by hot coals underneath the stone floor.
	“What’s your plan?” Dori asked, glancing around the mist filled room.
	“This,” he reached down into his pouch and withdrew a small clay jar.
	“What’s this?” she asked, pacing around the room.
	“He’s always the first man in here because he’s very self-conscious, so this is a firebomb,” Ardrose replied, placing the small jar in the fold of the first towel laying on the heating stone,  then drew a vial from his sleeve and emptied the contents into the pool, “Come,” he said, in full mission mode now as he slipped out of the bathhouse and into a butcher’s shop next to it. Silently, they moved onto the roof where Ardrose perched himself on the stone lip, staring down at the empty square, motionless.
	“I don’t get it, what’s your plan?” Dori asked, leaning on the stone rail next to Ardrose.
	“Just wait and see,” Ardrose replied, watching as the target, draped in fine silk night robes, walked slowly across the square. Almost twenty minutes after he entered the bathhouse, Dori was becoming impatient.
	“Whatever your plan was, it failed, I say we walk in there before more people show up and put a bullet in his head,” She complained, pacing back and forth. Ardrose was still in his same crouched position on the stone rail.
	“He’s out of the bath, time to get down,” Ardrose said suddenly, standing and hopping down next to Dori.
	“Get down? What?” she asked, glancing around.
	“From the building, time to go,” He said, pushing her back to the back of the building where it connected to several others. Breaking from his walk into a run, he dashed across the rooftops, stumbling once over a slanted portion; after a few minutes of running, he slowed down, Dori almost ramming into him.
	“What the hell is,” she started when a rumble in the air silenced her. From back where they’d just come, the entire bathhouse erupted, fire spraying high into the air, casting stone and wood debris in all direction, annihilating half of each building next to it. But the rumble continued as the entire square caved in, dropping the fountain and well laid cobbles down into the earth’s open maw. The cloud of dust rocketed high into the sky, followed quickly by a jet of flame and torrent of smoke.
	“What have you done?” Dori asked, staring in awe at the destruction Ardrose had caused.
	“I completed our mission,” Ardrose responded, walking calmly away, finding a set of stairs leading to the street below.
	“That was incredible!” Dori yelled, running after him, catching her fingers on the rail of the stairs to swing herself around and launch herself down after Ardrose. The pair moved slowly and casually through the city and back to the Brotherhood Halls, it was still morning, though the streets were now bustling with activity, people trying to sell all manner of things as they passed them by.
	“Wren, Mullet,” the gate guard said as he let the pair into the building, he flashed a grin at them as they passed, his white teeth bright in the low lantern light of the corridor.
	“So, not bad for a first kill mission?” Ardrose asked as he sat down in the mess hall, Dori flopping into a chair opposite him.
	“For sure, Mullet,” she said, grabbing a sandwich from the plate in the center of the table, “I was wondering if you’d actually done anything when we were waiting on the roof, but that explosion, wow,” She leaned back and stared at the ceiling, taking a bite of her sandwich.
	“I take it you’ll be writing the report then,” said a gruff, heavy voice. Ardrose turned slowly around to look up at War Master Golith, who towered over him, a few papers in his monster hand.
	“Uhh, yes, sir,” Ardrose said slowly, the man looked angry, but he gently laid the papers down and walked away, “Does he always look like he’s in a bad mood?” Ardrose asked after the man was out of earshot.
	“Pretty well, he’s having a good day today though,” Dori replied, polishing off her food. Shrugging, Ardrose turned back to the table and grabbed the report.
	“Manner of execution,” he read, tapping the charcoal stick on the table.
	“Incineration?” Dori offered reaching for a new sandwich.
	“Alright, and weapon or material used,” Ardrose read, “That would be a firebomb and fermented incendiary root,” He set to scribbling down his answers and didn’t notice the Frenchman walking up.
	“My, my Ardrose, you’ve given yourself quite the name on your first kill mission,” He said, making the boy jump and spin around.
	“So the word spreads that fast,” Ardrose replied nervously.
	“When someone blows up the upper city bathhouse, it tends to be talked about,” The Frenchman said, patting the boy on the back, “It appears that one of the hot water lines became clogged and backed up the entire system, thankfully though, only a single casualty came of it, some wealthy merchant,” he glanced down at the paper, “But I see that the inspector is incorrect,” he looked back at Ardrose’s face, a bit confused, “Such a boom from a bit of fermented incendiary root?”
	“I added it to the water, the heat in the bathwater distributed it and some turned to steam, then I placed a firebomb in the man’s towel, when he picked the towel up, the bomb fell and brust, lighting the steam and water, which incinerated him instantly, from there, the fire travelled through the lines until it made it to the fire room, where it took all of the charcoal and wood with it,” Ardrose explained, the man watching him in fascination.
	“Well, it seems you’ve earned the rank Bernard gave you,” the man said, straightening up.
	“What rank is that?” Ardrose asked, his heart suddenly in his throat.
	“You’re rank thirty two as of last night,” the man replied before taking his leave.