The feathers bends, its soft form giving way to the pressure of the warm wind that leaves Fresh’s lips. Its body sways from side to side, the bristles of its single strands splaying and coming apart along the edges.

She watches it, watching as it slowly rises back up between her fingers, as her breath leaves it, as she runs out of air in her lungs. The feather returns to its former stiff position in her grasp, but it’s different now. The edges are different now. They’re frayed apart and unable to be put back together again.

She inhales again, blowing against the feather a second time.

Jubilee is sitting upstairs at the library table, having found a quiet working space for their tailoring there, together with Shamrock who does his writing there. The workshop in the basement is mostly Fresh’s and Basil’s, but Basil only comes down there to make her potions, as most of her work takes place in the secret-farm. So she’s alone now, down in the dark basement.

The feather bends, the bristles of its gestalt shaking and moving as her breath presses against it once more.

- She’s never going to go back.

To that old world of hers, to that person who she used to be, she’s never going to go back. She knows that the old world itself wasn’t the problem, it was her. She could have been just as happy in that old place as she is here. Though, she prefers it now, given her family.

It’s just that back then, in that place she was at, the person who she was couldn’t see that.

So it’s for the best.

- She’s never going to go back.

Her breath runs out and Fresh takes a moment to breathe again, before pursing her lips a third time.

In a sense, the man from the thieves’ guild, Patala, may be right about her. She doesn’t belong. Not by any standards of natural law, at least. She is a thing that is out of place, a drop of oil in a place made up out of water.

She blows again, the feather frays apart, coming undone on every end.

Her air leaves her a third time. This time, the feather seems to be losing its springiness. It doesn’t seem to bounce back like it had done the first time, or the second. It’s frayed on the sides.

The witch, Perchta, was here in this world before and was forced to leave it once, being killed by the hero back then, those ten years ago. But if Shamrock is to be believed, which he is, that person, that witch, is her.

But how does that make sense?

She remembers being someone else, living somewhere else before she became ‘Fresh’. But if it is true, if somehow, she is the untimely reincarnation of the witch, Perchta, then Fresh understands that this feeling that she feels is the same thing that Perchta must’ve felt in that bygone era. Perchta, who found a way to get back, quicker, faster.

“I’m not going back,” repeats Fresh to herself, dropping the feather into the cauldron. Not the cauldron of transmutation, but rather, the new cauldron of rebirth she had Shamrock help her set up today, using normal water. They need the money from offering repairs again, after all.

Waiting a second, she fishes out the harpy’s feather, before it can float too long.

She looks at it, spinning it around in her fingers. It looks brand new, like nothing had ever happened. It looks… fresh.

She sets it down and gets up. She’s going to the dungeon again tonight, after the others are asleep.

…Right?

Fresh stops, not having managed to get upstairs after all. Didn’t she go through this all before? Didn’t she have this same exact problem back in the north, just on a minor scale, but with Jubilee?

Jubilee who had forgiven her for sneaking around their home. Jubilee who was also…

Fresh lifts her gaze towards the ceiling.

- Jubilee who, ten years ago according to what they had told Basil the morning after the reveal of their truth, underwent their demonic transformation.

Shamrock was there. When the witches left. He had said as much. Was Jubilee there, when the witch, Perchta died? Did Jubilee know Perchta? Fresh lowers her gaze, looking back towards the flowers that are sprouting out of the basement walls. Friends have secrets sometimes.

But not this one. She’s come too far as a person, she’s come too far as a woman, as a friend, as someone who cares and who feels and has love, not only for herself, which is something that had never happened before, but for those around her too, which is also something that has never happened before.

Fresh grabs the cursed dagger, carefully carrying it with herself as she goes upstairs to tell her friends the truth.

Because she isn’t going to go back. Nobody is going to make her.

Fresh grips the dagger tightly, the grip groaning from the pressure of her fingers wrapping around it.

- She’ll kill them if they try.

“I’m not sorry,” finishes Fresh, standing there in front of the dinner table, having finished her explanation of the situation to her friends. She had gathered them all here to explain her entire emotional journey to this point, in slow detail, telling them about her troubles and her worries and her ‘solution’ to the problem. “I know it’s not great for me to use my curses, but we’re out of places to go,” she argues. “I won’t waste a chance to protect us anymore because we’re scared of using it,” states Fresh, closing her case and getting ready for Jubilee to yell at her and for Basil to make a disappointed face.

Jubilee, Basil and Shamrock don’t exchange a look this time, rather, they all seem to be lost in their own thoughts for a while.

“I didn’t realize you were so worried,” remarks Basil. She turns her head towards Fresh, grabbing her hand. “Thank you for telling us,” says the priestess. Fresh blinks. Basil is kind and compassionate about these sorts of fears, but she still didn’t expect her to take it so well.

“I’ve been scared too,” admits Basil, turning back to the others. “But everyone seemed so ‘normal’ that I didn’t want to say anything.” She turns back towards the others. “I’ve been thinking about changing my class,” says the priestess. “I don’t feel useful most of the time.”

“Basil…” gasps Fresh. She knows that the woman is devoted to her faith far more than any of them could understand. This is a big thing. Besides, she recalls Jubilee telling her about class changes, back in the north. They’re expensive beyond belief and so are very rare coinsurances outside of the central-city. “You’re super useful!”

Basil shrugs. “I don’t know about that sometimes. I couldn’t even heal my own leg,” she says, rubbing her scarred thigh.

Fresh frowns, looking at the other two who still haven’t said anything.

“The fucking dragon was a scam,” remarks Jubilee. “We got duped like a bunch of fucking goons,” they remark. Fresh nods, she had figured as much out herself. “The outside is fucked. It’s probably our fault.”

“Yeah…” remarks Basil, lowering her gaze towards the table. Fresh now understands the problem that the priestess has. It might not even be about her feeling useful or not, it might simply be a conflict of the results of the actions she helped bring about and the tenets of what she holds faith in.

They turn their gaze towards Shamrock, the last one who hasn’t spoken.

“You better not make a fucking joke, Shamrock,” warns Jubilee.

The man just shakes his head. “For better or for worse, the world is lighter,” he says. “The moon is closer than ever before.”

The room is quiet.

“…Fucking hell,” sighs Jubilee. “You never talk and then when you do, you either recite a shitty joke or what sounds like a sad poem. Fuck,” sighs Jubilee, shaking their head.

Shamrock turns his head to look at Jubilee. “You have beautiful eyes.”

“Right?!” asks Fresh excitedly.

Jubilee rolls their, objectively beautiful, eyes. “There’s something new that we’re just going to leave as is and never speak about again.” They shake their head again. “Anyways. Does anyone have any grim secrets left to share with the room, or can we move on?”

“…Actually -” starts Basil, lifting her hand.

“- Fuck off, Basil!” snaps Jubilee. “Keep that one inside of yourself until you die. Don’t shit where you, and the rest of us, eat.”

Basil frowns, lowering her hand again. “…You’re such a disgusting creature,” she says.

“Apparently. But I have great eyes though,” replies Jubilee, tapping against the table. “We’ll talk later, okay? Moving on.” They point at Fresh who is still standing there. “Sit down. We’re having a talk.”

“Yes, Jubilee,” says Fresh, sitting down like a scolded child.

“What the fuck are we doing here people?” asks Jubilee, looking around the table. “The world is ending and we’re playing house.”

Fresh lifts a hand. “I’m not playing. I’m really enjoying myself, actually.”

“Be that as it may,” says Jubilee, staring at her. “Can we maybe not ignore the ‘world is ending’ part?”

“It’s comfortable to ignore,” says Basil. “Since it’s our fault.”

“Yeah, no shit,” says Jubilee. “Look, what’s the end result going to be here though?” they ask. “Either the shield falls and everyone outside is dead. Which is… okay, fine, I guess. I can work with that. We’ll just retire here.” Fresh nods. That’s a good plan. “But what if the shield doesn’t fall? What if that’s why we’re inside of it?” asks Jubilee.

“The dragon was green,” says Shamrock.

“The dragon is a make-believe fantasy pushed into our heads to keep us busy and scratching our asses so we don’t ask any uncomfortable questions,” says Jubilee. They point at Fresh. “’Black-fountain’, clearly fucking evil. I told you from day one.”

Fresh thinks for a moment. “I think it was like… day twenty-something, Jubilee,” she says. “It took a while until I got my class.”

Jubilee lifts a hand, stopping her. “I’m ignoring you now and that statement.” Fresh gasps. They look towards Basil and Shamrock. “We’re here, we’re comfortable because this is only ending one way.” They look at Shamrock. “I know you’re on board because you’re a creepy fuck who wants to end the world,” says Jubilee. Shamrock shrugs. “But what about you?” they ask, turning to Basil. “I doubt you’re here because of your unwavering loyalty to the, clearly fucking evil, black-fountain.”

“I’m here because I want to be with you all, you know that,” remarks Basil, looking to the side. “Ass,” swears the priestess. “That’s why I want to change my class. Nothing else has changed,” says the priestess. “But you know that. You’re just being a bully.”

“Yes,” says Jubilee. “We’re killing people and ending the world. A little bullying is the least of your problems.”

The room is quiet for a moment.

Jubilee picks up the cursed dagger, looking at it. They turn their hand around and prick their finger.

They slide the dagger across the table towards Basil who catches it, looking at the curved, twisted and wrong thing for a moment before picking it up and doing the same. She slides the dagger to Shamrock.

(Basil) has been cut for {1} self-inflicted DMG

The man takes off a gauntlet and scrapes off a chunk of his slime, throwing it off over his shoulder before sliding the sizzling dagger towards Fresh, who catches it, looking down at the thrice-stained blade.

She picks it up and pricks her finger too, holding her hand into the circle that has already been formed by the others, who are just waiting on her.

“Go team,” says Jubilee.

“Go team,” nods Basil.

“Go team,” says Shamrock.

Fresh cries, holding onto the warm, wet hands that hang there, dripping onto their table. She cries for the person who she has left behind as her past self, she cries for the person who she was dreaming of becoming in this new life, who will never come to fully blossom in the kind, warm place she had envisioned in her deepest heart, she cries for the people who have suffered because of her insatiable greed and she cries for the people who will suffer still for her and her friends’ yearning for life, for each other, for family, for love.

They’re all going to die. If the fountain gets what it wants, then this much is inevitable. Not just them. Everyone. But if through that, if somehow that means that she gets to keep her friends with herself forevermore, to keep this source of warmth and abundance with herself, forevermore, then she will take each and every soul to the black-water kicking and screaming.

“Go team,” says Fresh, her voice breaking as she fortifies her resolve, as she promises with blood, that no matter what, that she, that the others, that they will never, ever, ever, go back again.

(Fresh) has been cut for {1} self-inflicted DMG