Valstadt Averus was in the throes of the worst combination of adjectives a person could experience: hungry, and penniless, at the same time.<br/><br/>The sights and smells of the Daymare bazaar tantalized him, as an open wound taunts a blood-starved vampire– the piquant scent of meats grilling, the sight of foreign spices piled high in all colors of the rainbow, even the occasional sound of a passerby crunching into an apple or a stallkeeper calling out the foods they were selling. He was beginning to suspect the grumbling of his famished belly could be heard even over the din of the bazaar– and, for that matter, the enormous backpack slung over his shoulders seemed to get a little heavier every time he saw some delicious-looking Pantazian pastry or a bushel of fruit sitting on a stall and calling out to be bought and devoured.<em>Any one of these hucksters would shell out a bag full of gold for a fraction of what you’ve got in that pack</em>, they seemed to be saying.<em>You could dine like an emperor tonight.</em><br/><br/>He ignored the weight and walked on. He’d already had to sell one of his books to pay for room and board back in Sunscorch, and it’d felt like selling his own child into servitude. The only thought more contemptible, more unacceptable at this point was the prospect of returning home to Red Moss Bog with nothing to show for his travels– no great discoveries, no legendary exploits, nothing but a backpack with his old Academy robes and a little library of books, now sans one.<br/><br/>“Here’s hoping the tavern could use a magical helping hand,” he grumbled under his breath (a bad habit gleaned back at the Academy, where it was often said that it was perfectly fine to talk to the books, so long as they didn’t talk back). “Or a physical helping hand. I’m not sure I have the privilege of being picky anymore.” A passing Pantazian soldier shot him a watchful glance, but seemed to think better of hassling what was clearly a mildly deranged but otherwise harmless orc traveler. On he went.<br/><br/>He knew he’d reached the tavern when he saw the wooden sign over the doorway– and when he saw the small throng of people gathered around the entrance. As he approached, he saw them walk away one by one, some of them laughing, others shaking their heads ruefully, until he saw what they’d been gathered around– the tavern’s bulletin board, with one lone posting taking center stage, as if it had muscled all the competition off the board in its zeal to get attention. It didn’t take long to figure out why the crowd had so quickly dissipated; Valstadt’s eyebrows all but disappeared into his hairline when he saw the pittance that was being offered. “And I’m supposed to sit in a village for who knows how long fighting off bandits for that?” He snorted and shook his head ruefully, turning away. “Forget it. Let’s stick with the plan and ask the tav–”<br/><br/>Mid-sentence, his stomach unleashed a bellow so cavernous Valstadt thought he saw passersby look to the skies in search of dragons. Frowning, he glanced back at the job posting, and almost felt as though it were grinning back at him, daring him to take it.<br/><br/>“... fine,” he conceded. “You’re my backup plan. You’re not my main plan. Just the backup plan.”<br/><br/>.<br/><br/>.<br/><br/>.<br/><br/>The following day, the backup plan became the main plan.<br/><br/>By the time Valstadt arrived at the tavern, he’d managed to fill his stomach with two apples and a handful of berries– the fruits (no pun intended) of an hour spent grudgingly entertaining children and their parents the night before. Still, it was lunchtime, and the hunger was back in full force to remind him just why he was here.<br/><br/>He wasn’t, as it turned out, the only one.<br/><br/>Indeed, Captain Qasval couldn’t help but feel that her cup had run over. “Hardly any of these people are here to help us,” Veret muttered.<br/><br/>“To the contrary,” Qasval said with a grin, effortlessly allowing the drinking glass to fall from her nose into her hand. “They just don’t know it yet.” And then, setting the glass on the bar, she swept out of her seat, and made a beeline for the elf with the deer slung over her shoulders.<br/><br/>“That’s a hell of a way to make an entrance,” she said. “I’m not the owner, but I think I can do you one better– if, that is, you’re looking for an opportunity to do some good.”<br/><br/>Meanwhile, Veret was nonplussed to find herself faced with a woman in Pantazian livery– and yet, she was somehow certain, anything but a standard Rose Army grunt. The woman had siddled up to her and Eled, offering a drink in redress for nearly murdering the two of them with a twig. Veret recognized the first half of the couplet the woman had quoted– an old piece of desert folklore, maybe as old as the desert itself– and hesitated a moment. She glanced about for the captain, saw her some distance away chatting with the woman with the deer over her shoulders, and decided she didn’t need the captain just now.<br/><br/>“Words may be but wind to me,” she said slowly. “But a stranger’s kindness is a wellspring. We need help. Perhaps you can give it.”<br/><br/>By then, a man in brigandine had stepped up to the bar. “I heard tell of a captain putting together some fighters," he said loudly. "Know where I can find this intrepid fellow?"<br/><br/>“Uh, begging your pardon,” a tall, lanky orc with a neatly trimmed beard and long black hair pulled back into a ponytail interjected. “That’s why I’m here as well.”<br/><br/>“Then look no further!” came the captain’s booming voice. She vaulted her way up onto the bar, chest puffed out and duster billowing behind her like a cloak, and would have resembled a statue of some prideful, mighty deity if not for the fact that the rest of the bar was not so much worshiping her as it was watching her with a mixture of confusion, irritation, and vague interest.<br/><br/>“I’m Captain Qasval,” she said, sticking a thumb into her chest. “And you’re all here because, even as we speak, evil and injustice are running rampant through the land, and we refuse to believe we can’t do anything about it. We refuse to believe the world is, at its core, a corrupt and sinful place. And we refuse to believe that we don’t have the power to fight evil, and banish it from our world.”<br/><br/>She gestured with a hand to Veret and Eled, both of whom looked unbelievably uncomfortable at the theater unfolding before them. “A small, defenseless village reaches out a trembling hand for help. How easy would it be to simply say no– to look away and reason that it’s just the way of the world? We refuse. We will not look away. We reach back out with both hands, to comfort the bereaved, to protect the helpless, to vanquish the unjust. That’s why we’re answering the call, to defend a desert village from the ravages of banditry– that’s why we’re here. To be<em>big. Damn. Heroes</em>.” She placed one hand on her hip, rested the other on the pommel of her sword, and with a broad grin, finished, “Who’s with me?”<br/><br/>A moment of silence took hold over the bar. A small voice from some dusty corner of the tavern asked, “Uh, how much did you say the job pays?”<br/><br/>“I will not be taking questions at this time,” Qasval announced without the faintest change in expression. “Anyway, who’s with me?”