Sitting on the steps of the Church flipping idly through his Quest Log, Peter thought about what Rosie had said. Am I doing it the wrong way? The idea had been lurking in the back of his mind for a while, ever since Danny had suggested it. Screw that guy though, he’s half the reason I dismissed it in the first place.

Not really ‘feeling’ any of the Quests in his log, Peter decided to take advantage of his new position and see if the City Guard had anything more interesting to do. Averton wasn’t the largest town in the world, not that I’ve seen any others yet he thought, about the size of a couple of downtown city blocks in the real world so it didn’t take long to saunter over to the northern gate and flash his new badge at the men on duty and introduce himself.

“Aye, me lad,” the mustachioed Guardsman looked at the presented adornment and then up at Peter’s face. “I’d heard we have a new defender. Well done you.”

“You look familiar,” the much taller opposite number observed. “Did you come through here recently? I could swear I know your voice from somewhere?”

Peter cast his mind back. The last time I came through this gate saying anything was probably when I was riding… “Nope, never been through here before. Just one of those faces I guess,” he muttered, pulling his already high collar higher. Continuing in a slightly deeper, more manly (he hoped) voice, Peter inquired “So, do you have any work for me? Something worthy of my attention?”

The taller of the two guardsmen took off his helmet and scratched his head. ‘Nah, mate. It’s been pretty quiet since you had that barney with the imps the other night. I mean, y’hear stuff about fings goin’ missin’ errey now’n’again, but usually it’s just old folks who’d lose their keys in an empty room, eh?”

The other guardsman pulled on his moustache as the thought about what his partner was saying. “Now, I ain’t sayin’ yer wrong, Steve-o, but you’re still pretty green about here.” He used his pike to gently push Steve’s helmet back in the direction of his head. “Fer starters, we wear head protection fer a reason. See this,” he pointed at a divot taken out of the gate at head height. “That’s where a pixie bolt damn near took me noggin off. Pinged offa me helmet and lodged in the wood there up ter the feathers. As fer stuff goin’ missin, well, tha’s sometimes a sign ye got an infestation of imps. Could be Peter here didn’t get ‘em all that night. Could be they’ve found hole underground to set up a nest in and they’re half-inchin’ materials to make a gate and let their dark mistress bypass the protections that we the guardsmen maintain.” He shrugged, making his armour jingle. “Or, it could be that folks around here couldn’t find their ass with both hands and a map.”

Steve swallowed hard, his adam's apple bobbing up and down. “The protections. Right. That ritual we do at the start of every shift. Ah, Bob, I, um, think I left the stove on in the guard house, I’ll be right back. Nothing to worry about, certainly not.” Steve ran off, sounding for all the world like someone had kicked a box of pots and pans down a flight of stairs.

Peter eyed Bob for a moment. “Bob, is he going to be okay?”

“Steve-o? He’s fine.” Bob shrugged. Constable Steven is still adjusting to life on the force, so sometimes he forgets. That’s why he has a mentor, to ensure things are done right even when he does. He’ll be back in a moment when he sees that the ritual stone is charged. And I’d prefer Corporal Robert, if you don’t mind.”

“I’m sorry Corporal, I will mind that from now on,” Peter apologised. “But if, as you say, imps are nesting in the town, shouldn’t the guard be doing something about it?”

Roberts gave another shrug, leaned his pike against the gate and rubbed his hands together. “Ah, I just said that ter put the wind up Steve-o. He’s a good lad but get the idea tha’ bein’ a guardsman makes ye better than the reg’l’r folks.” Looking out over the fields, the man’s eyes took on the thousand yard stare of one who has seen things they probably shouldn’t have. “Tha’ said. Now that yer a Defender, you’ve got access to the sewers and steam tunnels. Most folks stay out ‘er there cos one stinks and the other’s likely ter scald yer or get yer fingers wedged in the machinery. Ain’t no-one gonna put up a proper quest without proof there’s something down there, but if you’re doing nothing else yer free to look around.”

The sound of abused cookware heralded Constable Steven’s return and Corporal Roberts refused to answer any further questions on the matter. Peter left them discussing the finer points of pike maintenance and the necessity of oil in the process. So, who would know how to get into the tunnels? Peter pondered as he plodded along. His meandering path took him around the village, treading streets both familiar and fresh alike. The approaching twilight turned the friendly features of the homes and businesses fierce and gave him a weird case of jamais vu.

Deciding to head back to his base of operations, Peter turned around and screamed in the face that was suddenly in his. The half dark, half light mask of the tailor glittered in the failing sunlight, the figures outstretched arm grasping at empty air as Peter backpedalled frantically.

“Oh, I do apologise, Peter.” The tailor lowered his arm, then clasped his hands behind his back. “I was out for my evening constitutional when I saw you pass this way deep in thought. I hope I did not frighten you.”

Rubbing his arm in embarrassment, Peter gave a little laugh. “I’m sorry too. I guess I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going. What can I do for you?”

“Well, I was hoping you would have time to drop into the shop tomorrow. Your commission is complete. All you have to do is settle the bill and your weapon holster is all yours.” The man’s voice couldn’t be more robotic, yet Peter was sure he detected a hint of pride. “It has been my finest work so far. I suspect you will have little trouble drawing your weapon in a combat situation after this.” He held out a metallic hand, which Peter took gratefully. “See you tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Peter agreed. He watched the tailor walk off down the road, every step as precise and measured as the last. Is he a man? Or a machine? Is there a difference in this world? He headed back to the tavern, feeling the need for familiar surroundings, but not wanting to be alone.

The tavern was filled with the usual boisterous clientele, as well as the occasional farming family come into the big smoke for a special dinner. Retiring to a booth, Pete pulled DB out of his hood and laid the sleepy ratto on the table. The cornucopia of scents soon roused DB from his nap and he began leaping about the tabletop looking for dinner. Peter flagged down a passing waitress, not Rosie sadly - nor anyone Peter recognised really - and ordered a small bowl of the stew of the day for a handful of copper coins. While they waited, Peter tried to teach DB to shake hands to no real success. If it wasn’t food, DB wasn’t interested, but Peter persisted, reasoning that most of the skills in his list had appeared after making an attempt and achieving success or nearly so. Perhaps Rat Taming would be similar.

When the steaming bowl of mystery meat and boiled-to-death vegetables arrived, DB lost what little interest he had and did his level best to immerse his head. “Hey, manners,” Peter snapped. “You managed it this morning, so behave.” Peter shook his head. I sound like Mum. Oh dang, I so sound like her. Is this what it’s like to be a parent?

Everyone looked up as a caped figure dramatically slammed the door open, then skulked into the bar and imperiously ordered a drink. He, Peter assumed it was a he as the cape they wore covered them very well, obscuring their features effectively, pulled up a stool at the end of the bar furthest from any light source. Peter felt he had seen this cloaked figure before and wracked his brain trying to remember where.

What sort of twerp wears a cape like that? The thought swirled around in Peter’s head until realisation dawned. Nux!

Peter sidled up to the shifty looking patron and rapped a silver coin on the wooden surface of the bar. “I hear your the man who knows things around here,” he whispered.

“I might be,” Nux replied, his voice raspy like he was trying to emulate the local equivalent of Batman. “But that pittance you’re waving about wouldn’t get you directions to the front door.” He took a slug from the mug in front of him, coughing slightly. “If you want to talk, come back with something worth my time. Gold, gems or gathered secrets, boyo.”

Miffed, Peter turned away from the bar and opened his inventory to put away the money. A tattooed hand fell on his arm. “I’ll tell you what,” Nux rasped out without looking a him, “If you find out which Traveller Fjor bestowed the Geas on, I’d consider it worth trading for. Being our town’s new Defender, I’m sure you’re the sort to find things out.”

Peter’s blood ran cold. Why is a Citizen asking this? Is he even a Citizen at all? Eyes scanning the room for a way out, his heart racing, Peter reached into the open inventory and put his hand on the haft of his scythe. He let it linger there until his breathing evened out. “I…

“Or, perhaps,” Nux cut him off, “you already know. Could it be that you’re sworn to secrecy? That too is, shall we say, valuable news?”

Peter took the lifeline he was being offered. “Yes. That’s exactly it. I have met the Traveller in question. Out in the forest. I helped them with their quest and they let slip that it was the Geas. Um. I don’t remember their name,” he stammered. “It was a big guy. Girl. Big girl. She had black armour and a full face helmet. I never saw her face.”

Nux let Peter’s arm go. “So, big gal in black armour that never took off her helmet. Do you remember her weapon? Travellers love their unique weapons.”

“Um, yeah. It was uh,” Peter cast about for inspiration. All he could think of was the movie he’d watched with his parents, for some reason. “It was a glowing sword. It looked like it was made of light. Red light. And she kept on talking about how she was someone's mother. Luke, or maybe Lucy?” At this point Peter didn't think he could stop the verbal diarrhea. “And they had lightning coming out of their fingers. Like, zap, pow.”

“Likely some sort of spellsword or combat caster. Peter, you’ve been more help than you know.” Nux finished his drink and stood up. Well, stood, anyway. If he was trying for the Bruce Wayne look, he would barely have come up to the nipples on the Batsuit. “So, what did you come to ask me?”

Peter swallowed his chuckle. Mystified as to how this little guy had induced such panic now, he spoke what was on his mind. “How would I get into the sewers and steam tunnels?”

Even with the obscuring hood, Peter could tell Nux did a double-take. “Seriously? That’s what you wanted to ask me, the representative of the Shadow Guild? I have information that would topple kings and you want to know where the gate to the steam tunnels is? Something you could have asked literally anyone else in Averton and got the same answer? Ha!”

“Well, yes?”

The smug amusement radiating from within the hood was insufferable. “Fine. A secret for a secret is our way. Behind the smithy is a brick shed. Inside is a ladder to the tunnels that run beneath our town. As a Defender, your badge is the key. Have fun down there.” He gave a dismissive wave to the waitress and sauntered out the door.

“Have fun looking for an imaginary piece of sith,” Peter muttered after the door had shut.