Fresh sways around, her body drifting through the odd current as the black-water carries her far off and away, off towards some place that is darker, deeper, colder.

She knows that she’s dreaming again, but she isn’t really sure what the purpose of the dream tonight is supposed to be. She isn’t being talked to by the spirit of the fountain, she isn’t seeing any odd, horrible visions or vague prophecies of the future to come. She’s just… floating.

The currents shift, or more aptly said, the stream that she is being carried in comes to a turn as it moves its way around something massive, something immovable, that sits grounded at the bottom of the water.

The water shifts, the ocean receding as Fresh continues to float exactly where she is, as if suspended nonetheless. But now, the space she finds herself in is the air. The ground beneath her, that was just lightless darkness in the depths of the ocean just a moment ago, now comes to form the silhouette of a bright, vivid city beneath herself.

It’s glowing, full of life and prosperity and she alone hovers above it, distant, watching, a thing that does not belong to what lies below, as much as the clouds around her do not belong to the grasses beneath them.

Patala, the man from the thieves’ guild had told her as much. She doesn’t belong here. She’s not a part of this world and its systems and nature. She’s an outsider, a parasite that has drilled its way into a foreign body without invitation, with nothing good to offer except for the gorging of its own sensations. It feeds and takes from the world and gives nothing good in return.

Something grabs her from behind, a strong, metal hand that wraps itself around the back of her neck, as if getting ready to rip her out of the flesh of the body she has attached herself to.

Fresh wakes up, shooting upright in her bed.

Basil lets out an annoyed grumble at her disturbance and flops over, a limp, noodly arm whacking Fresh on her side.

She sighs and rubs her tired eyes. Another bad dream. She’s been having one of these just about every night for the last week and she really doesn’t know why. Things are going well. They’re safe, they’re building a successful, new enterprise, they’re fed and warm.

So what’s the problem?

Fresh lays back down on her bed, wiggling her way out, feeling Basil’s zombie arm slide over her as she scoots down through the foot area of the bed and gets up.

The bed-room is still half-finished. They’ve moved the beds together here in one room, but the walls are little more than timber-framing right now, which still needs to be filled in with insulation and then covered.

The spriggan doesn’t ever seem to need sleep and it’s sitting at the base of the kitchen table, waiting for them to wake up like it does every day, having finally stopped its persistent running after and towards them in the middle of the night.

Fresh shuffles past it in her ‘grandma pajamas’. She and Basil had gotten a matching pair again after Jubilee told them to, saying that they’ll throw up if they have to touch either of their ‘weird, clammy, frog skins’ in the middle of the night one more time.

Fresh of course, understands as much for herself, she’s always cold and a little froggy on her exterior. But Basil is really warm and soft. Jubilee is probably just being Jubilee.

Fresh yawns, patting the spriggan on the head, as she heads to the kitchen to get their morning coughee started. The spiked mush-mushes don’t offer as much ‘tanginess’ to the coughee as their other colored counterparts. But it certainly tastes a lot stronger.

The spriggan taps after her. Fresh wobbles around the kitchen, getting everything ready and setting up a pot of coughee on the table. Turning off the stove, she zombie-shuffles her way downstairs, sighing with every few steps. Taking this many stairs is always really exhausting in the mornings.

Eventually, she reaches the washroom and locks the spriggan out for some privacy, before she falls into the bath and floats there for a while.

“You’re really soft!” notes Basil, rubbing her hands over Fresh’s arm from across the table.

“Yeah,” says Jubilee, sipping their coughee. “Like a fucking lizard.”

Fresh frowns, but then smiles. “I think it’s the mineral water from the bath. It’s really good for our skin,” she notes. “Look.” She lifts a finger, pressing it against Jubilee’s nose and rubbing it up and down. “Even Jubilee is really soft and smooth.”

“What did I say about touching me before breakfast?”

Fresh thinks for a moment, lifting her finger to tap her chin a few times. “I think you said ‘to do it as much as we need to’.”

“Gods, you’re sad.”

Fresh nods. “I am. So let me touch you, Jubilee. So I can feel better,” she remarks, pressing her face sideways against Jubilee’s. They let out an annoyed half-snarl, half-grumble and push her away. Basil moves in from the other side, squishing her cheek against the other half of their head.

“You know…” sighs Jubilee. “I expect it from her. But I’m really surprised at how fast she ruined you,” they remark, looking at Basil out of the sides of their eyes. The priestess who is smushing her face against theirs. Jubilee lifts their coughee, trying to take a sip of it, despite their face being scrunched together from both sides. “Or maybe ‘disappointed’ is the word?”

“Oh, lighten up,” says Basil. “It’s called ‘being alive’, you old sour-puss.”

“If this is what life is,” says Jubilee. “Then I’m done with it.” Jubilee sets their cup down, looking up at Shamrock. “Shamrock, I’ll give you my share of the money if you kill me. Right here. Now.”

Shamrock sits there, the spriggan in his lap. “Money is worth less than you.”

“Fuck,” mutters Jubilee, looking around the room for an escape. “They got you too?” they ask. “I’m gonna be sick…”

Fresh nods, understanding. “That’s because you didn’t have breakfast yet, Jubilee.”

Jubilee points at their coughee. “It’s right here.”

“No, I mean, a real breakfast,” replies Fresh.

“Eating breakfast would imply that I still had a will to live,” replies Jubilee.

Basil bites Jubilee’s cheek and then finishes her attack, so that she can get back to her own breakfast. “On that note, maybe we shouldn’t do business with necromancers?” suggests the priestess.

“Are we doing this again?” asks Jubilee. They point at Shamrock, a follower of the witches’ sect. Then at themselves, a demon and then over to Fresh, the horrible witch.

Basil blinks and then sighs, setting her spoon down. “No, you’re right. Sorry. I get lost in old thoughts sometimes.” She stirs her porridge around. “I guess necromancers just give me the heebie-jeebies, you know?”

Jubilee shrugs. “A paying customer is a paying customer. I don’t care if they’re a minotaur, an undead harpy or the reincarnation of the god of lust,” says Jubilee. “As long as they pay in cash, we’re open for business.”

Basil nods.

“Sorry, Basil,” says Fresh. “I didn’t think that we’d end up with a dead body in our house.”

Jubilee shakes their head. “The dead body walked out of our house all by itself. Everything’s fine in my book.”

Fresh nods. Necromancers are a bit weird, socially. They have powerful magic and are often desired in parties, especially in high-level ones. But at the same time, they’re socially undesirable, given their tendency to defile the corpses of the dead, which really ought to be resting. This often leads to them leading lives of solely work-relationships. The same is true for other taboo magics, such as poison-magic or ash-magic. The fact that most people didn’t choose these gifts, but were rather chosen for them by nature, is of little concern to most.

Didn’t one of the fairies have poison-magic? Fresh thinks for a moment. Liro or Pauli or somebody? She doesn’t remember exactly. There are too many of them and she’s lost track in her mind, honestly.

“I hope the fairies are okay,” she says.

“Well that’s fucking random,” notes Jubilee. “They’re fine. The useless little shits.”

Fresh nods. “You think Veli is okay too?”

“Who the fuck cares?” asks Jubilee.

“I care,” replies Basil. “I think Veli is doing very welli.” Jubilee rolls their eyes.

Shamrock nods, lifting a hand. “I care.”

Jubilee sighs, emptying their cup and setting it down onto the table. “Okay. I think breakfast is over,” they say. “I can’t handle this sad, ‘give me a hug’ bullshit. The sun isn’t even up yet.”

Jubilee gets up and then so do the rest of them, finishing their breakfast and getting ready for another day that is surely to be as peaceful and calm as all the others before it.

Fresh plays with her red-string bracelet as she walks down the stairs, lifting her gaze to the windows of the storefront, where she can see a smear of red on the other side of the glass, waiting for her.