The Purifiers

A

asentia

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Findlay was always unsure of himself, but his doubts nearly tripled as he crept through an alley behind one of the city's most notorious thief dens. It was approaching sunrise so most of the honest folk were still sleeping in their beds and most of the dishonest folk were tucking themselves into bed. Findlay on the other hand was probably about to make one of the biggest mistakes of his life. Thieving from the city's toughest thief lord was no small feat, and the consequences would be dire.

But if he succeeded, Hera promised he would finally learn the secret to achieving perfect glowing skin...

So the vapid Findlay proceeded to slink through the alleyway, his poison at the ready and a shit nearly ready to pop out of his rectum.
 
As she wiped the last of the fecal matter that had struck the fan the night before, Areola turned to watch the first hairs of light peak through the city. She climbed down the squeaky ladder and grabbed Nippie, who meowed in indignation but didn't do anything to stop her. Watching the sunrise became a tradition after some frat boy broke through the window at one of their parties - his ego hit the pavement first and doctors believe its inflated state is what saved his life - and they found out how much a new one would cost.

Somewhere in the shadows of the alley below, Areola saw a figure sneaking past. It was late for the usual gangs and thieves of the night. Some late night creeper maybe? Another wanger banger on the loose?

Who even knows with this city?
 
Carreus welcomed his first appointment into his shop, smiling genially at the heavily pregnant woman. He directed her to sit in the centre of his ritual circle before moving to prepare the tincture. A pinch of dried lavender and oregano went into the mortar along with a generous spoon of a magical looking rainbow powder before it was all mixed together and poured into a vial of shimmering red liquid.

"Come quick now, we must perform the ritual as the sun breaks over the horizon to truly get His blessing."

His smile grew tight as he heard the horrendous squeaking sound that always interrupted his morning rituals. Every day without fail, his neighbour would climb up and down damned ladder ruining his carefully crafted atmosphere.

The woman finally downed the concoction as light began streaming through the stained windows of his shop. With that signal, Carreus began chanting. Carefully hiding his hands in his long sleeves, he reached deep from his bowels for his magic and twisted his fingers. A golden light then engulfed the ritual circle to the amazement of the woman.

Finally it was all over as quickly as it began. Carreus was paid and the woman happily left all the while gushing about gaining the blessing of the Lord of Light for her unborn child. He weighted the money pouch in his hand and smirked, "Sucker."
 
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Wren grinned as she pulled the balled cloak from beneath her shirt. Let that swindler keep the cash - she'd gotten what she came for, something far more valuable than a paltry bag of coins (even if she'd had to force that vile-tasting brew down her throat). Underneath the cloak, digging into the skin of her scarred belly, was the golden diadem she'd swiped while the shopkeeper was grinding up this and that. To think I'd find it in this dingy place, she thought to herself, spinning the crown on her finger.

Hera would be furious, she knew, but really, it's her fault for treating her most important ornament with such negligence. Wren still had one of the goddess's peacocks. But angering the deities was nothing new to her, more of a game than anything. She didn't really want this excessively bejeweled headband. She wanted to see if she could get away with taking it.

The sun was rising, which meant both safety and danger. Wren pulled her cloak across her shoulders and over her head, tucking the diadem back into her waistband. She'd check in on one of her dens, then get to work.

Being the city's toughest thief lord was no easy job.
 
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Ziri detested Solos. It wasn't because of the mounds of shit her ibex was painstakingly avoiding. Nor was it the sudden parting of crowds and suspicious glances that always accompanied her caravan's arrival - it made navigating around the shit easier after all. No, it was the fact that the city was an oven and she a slab of meat being broiled.

"Isgaden, remind me why exactly we came to this sauna?" she groaned. The man behind her snorted.

"If memory serves correctly, it was you who insisted we make a detour. That friend of yours sent that blasted bird after all."

Ziri peeked into her robe. Normally the wren flew alongside the ibexes, encouraging them to go faster through birdsong interspersed with barrages of relentless pecking. Ever since they had crossed into the desert, however, the wren had nestled itself against the icepack she wore around her stomach, though by now it was more of a waterpack.

"I mean, she did say it would be worth our trouble." As soon as the words left her mouth, she could hear Isgaden's eyes roll backwards so far that they did a three-sixty.

"She said that last time, and the time before that. And the time before that we had to help her, quite literally, dive around the treasure room like a certain Cheapskate McGoose, only to come out with gold for our trouble. Since when did we have need for a trifle like gold?"

"You mean when I had to dive around the room while you were off having a good time with the guard," Ziri corrected him. "What was his name again again? Loon?"

"It's Lark." A tall figure emerged from the bazaar shadows, his blond curls, brass knuckles, and arm full of packages wrapped in gold paper glinting in the sun. "And it was a damned good time." He winked and made a step in Isgaden's furiously blushing direction before Ziri grabbed him by the hood.

"First, get my people out of the sun," she commanded. "Then I will give you my blessing to court my scout." She plopped the disgruntled wren into his hood. Sighing dramatically, Lark turned on his heel and, with the hand free of gifts, took Ziri's ibex by the reins and led the caravan towards the thief lord's caverns.
 
Findlay clung to a beam in the rafters, barely cloaked by the fading dark. With every second that passed, the sunlight grew stronger and his shot at finding the cure to the boils on his cheekbones slimmed. That wretched thief lord had yet to appear in her private chambers. Women loved to take their godforsaken time doing everything, and of course Wren was no exception. Findlay sighed and nearly dropped down from the ceiling. His inner thighs were cramping, which would surely impact his sexual performance later that day. Gods. Where was this woman?

Just as the vapid man was about to throw himself out the window that he had entered in, a guttural scream pierced the early morning quiet. A shiver ran down Findlay's spine. That scream sounded familiar...
 
Areola released a huff worthy of the angstiest of teens and turned away from the sky. The hot pink and neon orange were becoming more blinding every day as the overlords continued to refuse to cut back on pollution. She could have even sworn she saw a streak of indigo this time, which could only mean one thing: the Gods are preparing for Armageddon. What with all those chemicals in the air, it's no wonder they'd want to come down, wreak havoc, and finally breathe some clean(ish) air.

"Let's see what's going on," she said to Nippie, turning on the radio, hoping for some happy news (a guilty pleasure she'd rather die than reveal to the world).

"Today, yet another migrant caravan spotted crossing into the city! When will this end, Bonnie? I mean hasn't Overlord Done-ald Trumphet made is crystal clear that this district will not be taking in any more of those nasty, free-loading Me---??"

Areola's finger twitched involuntarily, cutting off the hysterical Clyde's voice with a clean click. She never understood why he was so emotional all the time - something to do with the moon? - and much preferred the rational and even-tempered Bonnie anyway. Maybe men just weren't meant for a profession like journalism.

"NIPPIE," the girl hollered, ready to cuddle up and sleep for the first time since the last war - approximately 96 hours - and closed her eyes. The last thing that she heard before drifting into unconsciousness was a thrilling, ear-piercing, bone-chilling, goose-bump-raising, eye-widening, earth-shattering, physics-defying, fuck-boy-scaring scream.
 
Carreus busied himself with cleaning up his tools and organizing his herbs. The mortar and pestle went back to its rightful home beside his (fake) magic tomes, the potion vials were washed, dried and hung up and all his herbs jars were lined up in a row right infront of his... prized diadem... His prized diadem which should have been sitting pretty right on top of his stack of actual (and highly illegal) magical grimoires.

With a frantic yet resigned air of a student rushing to start an essay due at 12:00 at 11:45, Carreus swept through his shop checking every crevice, corner and false bottomed drawer. He found an old arrow of Artemis', the sandals he swindled from Hermes two years ago and even a bag of old ibex treats that he had forgotten about. Still, there was not a single trace of that blasted crown.

The sudden realization hit him harder than the Overlord hit his wives. He scrambled on his hands and knees searching around the ritual circle begging and praying to the gods (well all the gods but Hera of course) that he would find it . With a triumphant shout he held up a single strand of black hair.

"Even the most incompetment incels can do a simple tracking spell, especially with a strand of fresh hair."

The spell only worked within a 3 km radius and showed notoriously confusing and sometimes contadicting images, but he knew Solos like the back of his hand. And that included all the dingy, hidden alleys favoured by the dishonest folk.

"That rat is going to regret stealing from me," Carreus growled. He snatched up his scrying mirror and threw his traveling cloak over his shoulders.

"Let's go catch me a thief."
 
The sky seemed especially fluorescent that morning, even more unnaturally so than usual. Wren leapt up onto the nearest balcony, and in a few bounds had a clear view of the stirring city below her. A streak of indigo stretched across the horizon, widening by the second. Wren groaned at the prospect of another war just days after the last one. The Gods sure hated Trumphet. Though Wren herself was no fan of the Overlord, she could hardly side with the Gods either when she, y'know, stole from them and such. She and her men would do well to lie low during Armageddon, lest they be attacked on both fronts.

Wren sighed, and lowered her hood to let the morning wind comb through her black hair. She frowned at the bright red streak tucked behind her ear. It was far too conspicuous, a homing beacon for her pursuers. Hair dye, scissors, nothing worked - the glaring scarlet would always come right back. Wren closed her eyes, pretending, just for a moment, that Solos was still the bright, bustling town that once overflowed with hope and laughter, a time that she had never known but remained alive in her mother's stories.

Then she heard the scream.

Instantly alert, Wren fumbled for the pair of binoculars in her bag and scanned through the streets for the source of the cry. When she finally found it, the binoculars nearly fell from her hand as she stifled a scream of her own.

A fallen ibex. An overturned caravan. And fire.
 
One moment Ziri was listening to Lark serenade Isgaden with admittedly decent ballads. Then there was a flash of orange and she slammed into the ground, her ibex bleating weakly in the distance. A man screamed. Hints of saffron and nutmeg snuck into the smokey air as flames licked at the scattered cargo.

Coughing, Ziri staggered to her feet, nearly tumbling over bolts of precious fabric that were scattered across the cobblestones. She pushed aside cargo, taking inventory as she went: thirty bolts of silk from Bati, five gallons of whale oil, silverware made by Lady Lacramioara herself, but no black box to be found.

She surveyed the organized chaos around her. Caravan members were carrying the wounded out of blaze, helped by several shrewd townspeople that were pocketing some of the merchandise as they went. To the gods with it all, there was no way she was going to find the box in this mess. Unless...

"To the Gods with it all indeed," she muttered. Her frown morphed into a wry grin. Reaching beneath her cloak, she pulled out a whalebone whistle that hung from a leather cord around her neck. There was no sound from the series of long blasts that were followed by a succession of short puffs, but her fellow cloaked travellers quickly assembled away from the raging flames.

Armed with a piece of burnt cart, she pressed the blackened tip to the cobblestone as she shuffled around the fiery wreckage, enclosing the caravan and its fallen cargo in a smudged outline. She reached into a pouch and pulled out a small, seemingly empty vial. An elegant H was etched into the crystal. Ziri sighed. She was loathe to use these products, but, on the other hand, they did do good work. So good, in fact, that they had a stranglehold on the luxury cleaning market. She tossed the vial into the flames.

There was a beautiful chime as crystal met cobblestone. Ziri looked around in confusion. Did the high priestess give her a faulty product? Before she could even look at Isgaden, the sound of prepubescent children singing the intro to a popular opera filled the streets and the black ring was engulfed in a brilliant white inferno.

"Tired of all the horse droppings in your home?" A soothing female voice rang out over the sopranos. "Used a slime potion instead of a shine potion on your floors? Caught your deadbeat husband in an affair? Here at Hera we have the finest cleaning products to satisfy even the most evil stepmother. Just draw a shape around the afflicted area, toss in the vial, and watch as everything is cleansed in a lovely, purifying blaze."

The disembodied choir rose in a crescendo. The white flames leapt into the air, a trail of white lazily looping and twirling across the sky to form a familiar tagline: Hera, helping housewives since the end of time. Beneath the elegant scrawl, Ziri could make out a faint notice: Warning, use on living beings may result in death. Ask your alchemist before using it on unknown substances. Always read the label. The voices and white flame vanished, revealing a sparkling cobblestone walk. All that remained of the cargo train was a single, black wooden box. Ziri smiled. Looks like she would make a profit after all. Striding forward, she scooped the box into the safety of her cloak, before turning to face a grumpy Isgaden attempting to evade an overbearing rogue.

"I'm sure you can grope on the go?"

Lark tossed his golden locks out of his eyes and glared.

"I saw his ibex become a charred roast," he shrieked, wrapping Isgaden in an even tighter embrace, "and now he insists that he's fine! Not to mention the thousands of gold lost, minimum!"

Ziri shrugged.

"Your boyfriend's got a hellishly expensive cloak spelled against all matter of inconveniences, and I got insurance. Now, if you can close that beak of yours and get moving, we might make it before midday. It's damn hot out here."
 
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