Date: Seventh of January, year 810 Post Seminal War (810 PSW)

... --- ...

Job shrugged his pack higher on his back, set Nibbles in the hood of his tunic, and set off towards the fairgrounds. The Fire Dance that gave the festival its name wouldn’t be until the following day, but the early stalls were up, and both food and ale were starting to flow. Job knew many of the merchants by association, having grown up scavenging the fairgrounds for extra food during the winters. A few words, a few uses of Prestidigitation to clean, and Mending to repair stalls got steeply discounted food and drink. It wasn’t free, but it cost no more to buy then it cost the merchant to make. Job spent a silver coin for lunch, for which he received five coppers in change.

Belly full of fried dough, his fingers (and Nibbles’ whiskers) coated in powdered sugar, and with a disposable wax-paper ‘mug’ of ale in hand, Job set out to enjoy the falling dusk. Already the small stages were set up and the entertainers were strutting their stuff. Acrobats and fire-eaters drew the most eyes, but Job knew from his time at the Mage Academy that their acts were often boosted by cantrips or small illusions. They still put a smile on his face, even if he knew that the elf spitting purple fire was really just acting it out for the crowd.

Job also knew that pickpockets worked the crowds, and more than one hand found itself meeting a knifepoint instead of a purse when they tried their craft on him. Two urchins he sent running with a glower, old Drunnil got a thwack across his knuckles, and Sly Malon simply nodded her respect and moved on without trying her luck. Job knew from Sly Malon’s nod that the Sirens would be leaving him alone, his small displays proved he was no longer an easy mark to hit up for a few silver.

The snake-eyed man who went by the name of Oswald Konwinski popped up on a street corner, and Job gave an inward groan. “ ‘lo Oswald.”

“Jobbie lad, so quick with yer fingers! Where you been the past few years eh? Finally fell ‘foul of the Guard eh?”

“You know that ain’t the case Oswald, get to the point.”

“Well lad, ye got your skills honed some, and ye got a pack like yer leaving town. Thinking of runnin’ with the Sirens eh? We could get you outa here an’ in some prime ‘untin’ grounds for a man with yer fingers.”

“Told you before Oswald, that ain’t happening, and I ain’t interested.”

“One of these days Jobbie ye’ll run outta luck. Run with the Sirens, we can help ye out.”

“Like you helped Sly out?”

“That’s a low blow Job, a low blow.”

“I told you Konwinski, I’m not interested in joining the Sirens.”

“Where'd you learn ta talk like that Jobbie? ‘S like you washed the street outta yer mouth alluva sudden.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know Konwinski. Piss off, before I make you piss off.” Job bared his teeth slightly in a cocky grin, daring Oswald to either take the bait or cut his line and his losses.

Oswald cut his line, “aight Jobbie lad, ye got some spine. I ain’t gonna press ya, but I’ll be waiting if ye wanna come callin’. Ye know how ta’ find us I reckon.”

“When the seven hells freeze over and thaw back out again.” Job shook his head, glad that his bluff had worked. He could have probably taken Oswald in a fight, but the Guard would have taken a dim view of a street brawl in the middle of the Fire Dance, and an even dimmer one if an errant Fire Bolt had started a fire.

“Ssst. Job.”

Job didn’t have to look, he knew the voice too well. “Ease up Sly, I turned your boss down, why would I take your offer?”

“Because I want out.” The last word was whispered, almost too soft to hear. And for good reason: the only two ways out of the Sirens that Job knew of were dead or in the ranks of the Ironbark Regiment.

“What in the seven hells?”

“Not here. Two blocks down, behind the stall with the purple and orange awning.”

Job noded, and drifted to the indicated spot. He dumped his ale in the dirt and tossed the ‘mug’ into a trash pile, wanting to keep his head clear and his hands free if he needed them. Nine minutes later Sly joined him. “What’s on fire Sly?”

“Oswald won’t admit it, but the Guard has the Sirens on the ropes. I want out before the hammer comes down.”

“Ironbark Regiment recruiter’s stall is four blocks thataway. The Royal Army likes taking on people who know how to fight dirty, and don’t care about where you come from."

“Cut the shit Job Arseoth. You know I wouldn’t last six minutes in a real fight, much less a battle. Besides, I know where you've been the last four years. Oswald doesn’t. You have a lead, a way out of this town. I don’t.”

“Not for the next two days I don’t, and perhaps not even then. I’d have to ask some questions, possibly get lucky.”

“End of the Fire Dance eh? I can do that. It would take me about that long to get my shit together anyway. Nibbles still with you?”

Nibbles poked his nose over your shoulder and wiggled his whiskers.

“Right. Meet you back at the door to your old dorm at noon, three days from now?”

“I guess. Don’t get yourself killed Sly.”

“Enjoy your birthday Job.”

“Now that you dropped this load of bricks on me?” Job shook his head as Sly melted back into the crowd. His old friend was in trouble, and had managed to drag him back into it once again. Job didn’t know how she managed it, just that she did.