The second trip to the Spin and Rinse, in as many days, was just as wonderful as the first time. Theodore and Duncan were as cocky as before—maybe more so.

  Once freshened up, the group went to Medium Al’s Blacksmithing. The building was rectangular and very long. It had a dirt floor, but the walls appeared to be drywall that hadn’t been painted. The combination of modern and medieval construction on the buildings in Fiddler’s Green was strange. Did every town have multiple influences? Barrels stocked full of shoddy axes, swords, daggers, and spears were set in random spots. There was also a section of shelves dedicated to gardening tools, which were of a higher quality build. A forge was near the back of the room. The heat made Peregrine wish he could roll up his suit sleeves. He wondered how Wendell felt in his turtleneck sweater.

  The blacksmith’s owner left a lot to be desired.

  [Al]

  [Level 1 Blacksmith]

  In Al’s previous life, he ripped copper lines out of houses, and air conditioning units, to make spending money. You can fill in the blanks.

  Al was tall and skinny. He wore a flat cap that was on backwards. There was no shirt under his overalls. A few of his teeth were missing. Al’s appearance easily met the expectations of multiple stereotypes. Most surprising, though, was that the town’s blacksmith, who created all the weapons, was only level 1.

  “What brings you in? Business? Or …” Al scratched absently at his arm.

  “We’d like to see about upgrading our weapons. Please.” Wendell pulled his shield from his inventory and propped it up in front of Al.

  Al stepped out from behind a workbench and tried lifting the shield. He had the same luck that Peregrine had had when he tried the same thing, but the blacksmith played it off like he was just running his hands across it, smoothing out the wrinkles. “Can’t do upgrades. My level ain’t high enough to know how.”

  “If you don’t mind me saying,” Wendell started, putting his shield back in his inventory, “I would think you’d be in the thirties, at least, considering you made all the weapons used in the werewolf fight.”

  “Nah. I didn’t make them.” Al picked up an axe and unintentionally hooked his overalls, undoing the buckle of the one strap that was over his shoulder. He fumbled the axe while he tried to hold his overalls up. Unable to juggle both things at once, the axe dropped, landing on his barefoot, sharpside. He squealed in pain.

  All three party members winced, complete with “Ohhs” and “Owws.”

  Peregrine reached out to help, but Al swatted him away. The blacksmith hobbled to his workstation. He yanked the axe out with a grunt, blood oozing all over his toes. On his desk was a small container with the lid already off. He dipped his hand inside and scooped out a mound of salve, rubbing it on his wound. A few seconds later, the gash was healed. Dried blood crusted on his foot was the only remaining evidence of an injury. With the container being opened already, and how the healing item was easily accessible, it seemed Al had gone through a similar scenario many times. He sighed with relief.

  “My bad,” Al said. He grabbed a wet rag and cleaned the blood off his foot. Washing his feet didn’t matter much since the shop had a dirt floor. Peregrine found himself wishing Al would at least put on a pair of sandals. “All this junk was already in here when I inherited the place a week ago. Sounds like blacksmiths die a lot in this town. I guess when they die, they shove the new guy in, change the name, and slap on a fresh coat of pain. It’s like throwing someone to the wolves. Damn, that sounds wild when you hear it out loud.” He laughed at himself.

  Alissa shot Peregrine a raised eyebrow and a head shake. Then she said, “Listen, meth head. Simple—”

  “Hey! You don’t know that.”

  “—question. Can you make us new weapons, or not?”

  Al frowned and threw his hands up in exasperation. “Hell no I can’t make you new weapons. Do I look like I know how to do that shit? I could take them apart for scraps. That I could do. I only chose this class because it was the first thing that goth bitch suggested. First chance I get, I’m booking it to someplace else. I’m not stupid enough to wait around for those monsters to come back.”

  “You don’t have anything that might be of use to us?” Wendell asked.

  Al sighed. “No, man. I haven’t seen any shields.” He looked at Peregrine’s quill. “I don’t know what the hell that is.” Checking out Alissa, he asked, “What’s your weapon?”

  “A sword.”

  Al’s face changed from dopey to a grimy, dim lightbulb being turned on for the first time in years. He bent behind his work station and metal pieces started clashing as he shuffled them around. Finally, he stood and unceremoniously dropped a sword on the bench.

  This sword looked different from her current one, Exaltation of the Fallen. It was a bright blue color with splashes of red mixed in. It appeared to be a standard length, but was very thin to the point it looked like it could be snapped easily with a strong grip.

  “I’m guessing one of the guys who worked here before me left this behind,” Al said. “She looks good, huh? Interested?”

  Peregrine focused on the sword. The hilt looked plain compared to Alissa’s other weapon. But the stats on this one were quite nice.

  [Crimson Leaker]

  Made by the hands of a medium-leveled blacksmith over the course of many nights. This thing may look frail … it’s anything but. Its colors pop, just like the veins of your enemies when you slice them. The Crimson Leaker has high slash damage that promotes BLEED. This skill is useful against enemies with soft skin. BLEED causes your enemies to slowly lose their life blood internally and externally. Their health bars will continuously deplete until they can deplete no longer. Take it. You’ll be tickled red. Adds +3 to Attack.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Peregrine glanced at Alissa. “Did you read the info?”

  “Hell yeah,” she replied. “I’m taking this bad mother.” She reached for the sword, but Al slapped both of his hands on top of it.

  “It’s gonna cost you.” Al’s eyes twinkled and a twisted smile spread over his face. A barely audible, mischievous chuckle escaped through his missing teeth. “How much you got in your pockets?” He slowly lifted the sword, like he was prepared to use it.

  “Is he trying to rob us?” Wendell asked, genuinely concerned.

  “Why yes, Wendell,” Alissa said, her voice trending toward condescending. She leaned over the work station, coming face-to-face with Al. “Mush mouth here thinks he’s tough shit. You do realize nobody in this town has any money. Right? Probably rings true for the whole realm. I’m guessing you're somewhat familiar with classes. Yes?” Al nodded, not taking his eyes off her. “Then I’m sure you noticed that I’m an Attack class. My stats are for dealing obscene amounts of damage to others. You ever seen the aftermath of a car wreck, Al?” Al shook his head. “It’s horrifying. Lives with you forever. When the jolly residents of Fiddler’s Green find you with your eyes pushed to the back of your skull and a sword speared perfectly into your asshole, they’re gonna think you were in a car wreck.” She lowered her voice. “Now, do me a solid and slide your hand off the sword. We don’t want to start something you can’t come back from. Do we?”

  Al shook his head one more time, eyes as big as a planet. He carefully put the sword back on the bench and took a few steps back. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple.

  Alissa snatched the sword. “Thanks, guv’nor,” she said in a poor attempt at an accent. She practiced swinging the weapon, as usual not paying attention to her surroundings. Peregrine and Wendell had to jump back to avoid being test subjects for BLEED.

  Peregrine kept an eye on Al, who was frozen behind his work station. A wet spot had formed on the crotch of the blacksmith’s pants. It was better than the alternative.

  “C’mon, fellas,” Alissa called. “Things to do. Fools to kill.”

  Wendell moseyed up to the station and snagged the can of salve. “W-we’re taking this, as well.” He hightailed it after Alissa.

  Peregrine felt bad for Al. The guy had been doing his own thing without trouble before they walked in. “Hey. No hard feelings. She wouldn’t have actually done those things to you. She has a tendency to run her mouth a bit. I think she just enjoys watching people squirm. Stick around town, though. We have a plan to kill The Fool, and his werewolves, so this place can be freed from this nightmare. But we’re going to need your help to do it.” He went to shake Al’s hand, but the guy was still too spooked to return the gesture, so he left the copper-stealing-blacksmith to his own devices.

  After intimidating the blacksmith, the group went to the Mirth Tavern for a bite to eat. Heads turned to greet them, before returning to their plates of hot food. Sandra ran from table to table, taking empty dishes, and topping off mugs. It was surprising to see her working. If she had taken some time off, or closed indefinitely, it would’ve been expected. Instead, she was keeping busy like she hadn’t just experienced the worst tragedy of her life. Maybe it was her way of grieving.

  They found an empty table to sit at, quietly waiting to see if she’d approach them. From a distance, Peregrine caught her staring at them, her face a blank slate. The million dollar question? Did the slate say “I’ll tolerate you,” or did it say “I’ll murder you where you stand?”

  Sandra made her way to the table, still not giving away her disposition. “What’ll it be?”

  Nobody seemed eager to speak first.

  Wendell finally broke the tension by asking, “Do you have any more of that mushroom stew you made last time? It was delicious.”

  Peregrine wished that Wendell hadn’t sounded so chipper, since Sandra blamed him for her daughter’s death.

  “Nope. It’s only for werewolf nights.” She didn’t even look at Wendell when she answered, fixated instead on the nearby wall.

  “Can we get some—”

  “You can all have a helping of lasagne. It’s the special for today. No stat boosts, but you’ll be full and on your way.” She about-faced, heading straight to the kitchen.

  “Gee, you think she hates us?” Alissa asked.

  “I got that impression,” Wendell said. “Can you blame her?”

  “I don’t have a problem doing that.” Alissa kicked back in her chair.

  Sandra returned a moment later carrying three large plates on a platter, each filled with a heaping serving of lasagne. Red sauce dribbled over the plates and onto the floor from the motion of her steps. She was rather rough when she distributed the dishes, letting them drop instead of placing them gently. Two of the forks fell to the floor.

  Peregrine didn’t know what to say to comfort Sandra. He just knew he wanted to. The thing with words, though, is they can’t turn back time. They can’t foresee the future and prevent something awful from happening in the past. As she turned to leave, he reached out and grabbed her wrist. It took her a second to process that he had a hold of her. His grip held firm when she pulled away. She whipped around, arm poised like it was ready to strike.

  For a second, neither of them did anything. Peregrine had no words to choke out, but he gave her wrist a light squeeze, and ever-so-slightly nodded, before letting her go.

  Sandra didn’t storm right off. Her chin quivered, lips twisted, like she was holding back a well of emotion. Was she waiting for him to speak? She shot a quick dagger at the other two. Wendell pretended his lasagne needed attending to. Intimidation wasn’t on Alissa’s list. She returned the icy gaze with one of her own.

  “I need to ask you for a favor,” Peregrine said in a calm tone, not wanting to set the loose cannon—and her new sword—off. “Do you have a way to organize everyone? Call a town meeting, or something along those lines?”

  The staring contest between the two hot heads continued until Sandra broke away to address Peregrine. “Yes. I can do something like that. Why?” Her voice was stern.

  “Good. Because there’s not going to be another full moon massacre. Us three are in agreement that we're going to do The Morrigan’s bidding. We’re going to The Fool’s castle and putting an end to it. But I expect him to have a lot of firepower with the werewolves. Strength in numbers will be the only way. If Fiddler’s Green wants to be saved, it’s going to have to help us.”

  Sandra fiddled with the serving tray, tapping her fingers against it. “If I do this for you. If the town agrees with your cause. I will hold you to your word. If you die, there’s obviously nothing I can do for you. If you fail and get more innocent people killed, I will do the same to you.” She let this linger for a moment. “Be at the bandstand at sunset. You’ll have your audience.”

  “Thank you,” Peregrine said, believing her threat. Though, a small voice in the back of his head assured him not to fret because there was nothing she could do to harm him, for he was far more powerful than she could ever dream of being.

  With Sandra agreeing to help, Peregrine joined Alissa, and Wendell, who were already halfway through their meal.