To the seasoned traveler, Daymare was a lonesome desert backwater, an unpleasant but brief stop on the way to the great metropolises of the western empire– to Sunscorch, with its minarets and rose-colored walls, or else to mild, sunny, temperate Port Sunrise on the southern coast.<br/><br/>The villagers were not seasoned travelers.<br/><br/>They walked on the periphery of the main road through Daymare, as if afraid that to claim the median was to invite dangerous attention. All the way as the pair of them went beneath the withering glare of the summer sun, they gawked– at the travel-worn merchant in the green-and-red of the Traders Guild headed for the bazaar, patiently leading two donkeys laden with goods from across the empire; at the troop of Pantazian soldiers on patrol, swaggering but professional, a common sight in the towns and cities of the desert but virtually alien to the backcountry; at the Wanderer sitting with her back against the sandstone wall of an abandoned shop, plucking away at the strings of a lute and singing in a low mournful voice about loss and longing; at her disciple, sitting beside her, boiling tea on a small fire. Down the other way, a band of frontier roughs came guffawing at some cruel joke, pushing and shoving each other, spoiling for a fight.<br/><br/>The younger of the two– a boy on the cusp of adulthood, anxious with the heady thrill of his first journey away from home– nudged his elder with an elbow. “What about them, Veret?” he murmured, nodding towards the gang of delinquents as they passed. “They look like they can handle themselves.” Even before he’d finished speaking, the roughs had spotted the imperial soldiers; in the blink of an eye, they fell silent, passing sullenly beneath the watchful eye of the red-and-black.<br/><br/>“They can handle shaking money out of a beggar’s pockets,” Veret snorted– once they were safely out of earshot, of course. She put an arm around the boy, hand resting on the back of the pack in which he carried some of their travel supplies, and hurried him along. “They won’t be any use to us. Come on, we’ll find someplace to stay and look for help after.”<br/><br/>Further along the road, the Daymare bazaar came into view the way heat haze emerges on the desert horizon, almost indiscernible at first. Gradually, the sandstone homes and ramshackle storefronts gave way to stalls and the villagers found themselves bit by bit submerged in a sea of colors– the bright, enticing hues of fresh fruits on the racks, green pricklepears and red sunberries and cool blue skyseed; the darker, warmer shades of fabrics, headscarves and cloaks and the ornate, ankle-length cotton robe known by the denizens of the Great Rose Desert as a<em>halkhram</em>; towering pyramids of vibrant spices, so neatly arranged one might have mistaken them for painted plaster molds if not for the vendors scooping into them to fill a pouch for a customer. The Wanderer’s song faded into a cacophony of voices bartering and bargaining and calling out prices, and the thick summer air was suffused with the aroma of spiced meats. The villagers walked as if in a trance, surrounded by sights and sounds and smells that, if they had experienced them before, certainly they had never experienced to this degree.<br/><br/>The trance was rudely broken. “Jewelry from the coast, my friends!” a merchant all but bellowed in Pantazian at the villagers as they passed, gesturing to a table carpeted with shimmering gemstones. “Handmade by the finest craftsmen in Port Sunrise.”<br/><br/>The boy flinched as if he’d been lashed at, and he made to scurry past, but Veret paused. “They are beautiful pieces, friend,” she answered, also in Pantazian, the words flattened and drawn out by a strong rural desert accent. “Tell me, where might we find a place to rest for the night?”<br/><br/>The merchant frowned, clearly disappointed that a sale was not forthcoming; nevertheless, he pointed down the road and said, “Walk another minute or two– the old tavern’s on the left. Not the nicest spot in Daymare, and I’d be careful, but there’s always room.” Veret nodded her thanks, but before she and the boy could continue, the merchant added, “If I may– you’re from out in the backcountry, aren’t you?”<br/><br/>“Yes,” Veret said simply. The merchant was silent for a moment, seemed almost to size them up, and Veret visibly tensed– unsure of the customs, the unspoken rules in a town like this.<br/><br/>Finally, the merchant glanced down at his wares and picked up a small necklace bejeweled with gemstones the color of the ocean at sunset. “Would you allow me to welcome you to our town with a gift?” he asked.<br/><br/>Veret raised an eyebrow. Suddenly, it seemed they were speaking the same language, reading from the same script. “You’re much too kind,” she said, a faint but warm smile creasing the corners of her thin lips. “We couldn’t possibly accept something so precious.”<br/><br/>“We get so few visitors from the backcountry– please permit me to give you something.” The merchant set the bracelet down, looked across the table again, and grabbed a pair of pearl earrings. “Hardly a fitting gift for a guest,” he admitted, holding them out. Veret hesitated, and then reached out, taking the earrings.<br/><br/>“Thank you for your generosity,” she said, slipping them into one of the pockets of her shawl. “You’ve truly made us feel welcome in Daymare.” The merchant merely nodded, and Veret turned to leave, her companion scurrying to keep up. Behind them, before so much as a second had passed, the merchant was hollering at passing townsfolk.<br/><br/>Veret glanced at the boy beside her, and smiled ruefully. “I should have known better,” she said. “Desert customs don’t change– not in the backcountry, not in the towns, maybe not even in Sunscorch.” The boy frowned, confused, and she patted the pocket where the earrings now sat. “These will help us hire someone to take care of our problem,” she said. “And if it doesn’t, at least it’ll help pay for a few nights in town.” She left it at that, and they went in silence until– sure enough– they spotted the old wooden sign, peeking out between stalls, pointing down towards the doorway of the tavern.<br/><br/>Veret suspected they’d made a mistake the moment she opened the door and heard glass shattering. She became convinced of it a second later when she spotted three figures with fists raised– two of them like herself, desert people, one of them standing head and shoulders above them, with mottled green skin and two tusks emerging like mountain peaks from her lower lip. An orc, Veret thought in silent awe. She’d never seen one before.<br/><br/>Across from them, sprawled against the bar with shards of glass all around her, was a tall, broad-shouldered woman whose wide grin belied the fact that she had clearly just been hurled across the tavern. She got back on her feet, and Veret saw blood streaming from her nose, saw the telltale red marks of bruises-to-be on her face. What Veret didn’t see was so much as a hint of pain or hesitation as the woman raised her fists to her three foes and called out, “Aw, c’mon, you can do worse than that!”<br/><br/>The orc scowled. “Give it up, for Velo’s sake,” she snarled, advancing on the woman. “You can’t win.”<br/><br/>“I know!” the woman laughed, ducking as one of the brawlers lunged at her. “But you can’t stop me getting back up,” she added, aiming a hefty blow to the brawler’s gut that left him reeling. “And in the end, isn’t that the same thing as winning?”<br/><br/>“No, it’s not,” the orc growled. She swatted the woman’s fist aside and engulfed her in a bear-hug, pinning her arms at the side. The other brawler– the one who wasn’t doubled over clutching his stomach– rounded on her, punching the woman hard in the midsection once, twice, and then a third time before the orc lifted her up and smashed her into the bar again. The woman hit the bar and then hit the floor behind the bar with a thud.<br/><br/>“Give up,” the orc said again. “Accept you’ve lost and move on.”<br/><br/>For just a second, Veret didn’t think there’d be any response from behind the bar. Then she saw a single hand clutch the edge of the bar, then another, and she saw the woman hoist herself back up to her feet. She swayed for just a moment, steadied herself against the bar, and brushed her lion’s mane of black curls out of her face to reveal a fresh gash above her brow and an undimmed grin.<br/><br/>“What’s the matter?” she jeered. “Getting tired?”<br/><br/>The orc all but went red with anger, and she took a step towards the bar, but one of the other brawlers put a hand on her massive arm. “Forget it, Talor,” he said. “This isn’t even fun anymore. Let’s go.” The orc glanced back at the woman, seemed to ponder the pros and cons of beating her up a little more, and then turned away, shaking her head.<br/><br/>“You’re crazy. I don’t know how you’ve managed to live this long.”<br/><br/>The three made to leave, and Veret was quick to scamper out of the orc’s way before she plowed past her, through the door, and out into the bazaar. The woman, for her part, vaulted her way over the bar– wincing a little as she landed on the other side– and made for a man Veret presumed to be the tavern owner. They fell to talking, and Veret turned to the boy beside her. He was still looking at the door, eyes wide as a dinner plate. “What was– who was that?” he asked breathlessly. “Was that an<em>orc</em>?”<br/><br/>“Never mind that,” Veret said, patting him on the shoulder with an inscrutable smile. “Let’s get ourselves a room. I think I know where we can start.”<br/><br/>.<br/><br/>.<br/><br/>.<br/><br/>That evening, after a conversation with the tavern owner and a modest dinner of bread, cheese, and fruits, the two villagers came knocking on the woman’s door.<br/><br/>They waited for a moment, heard the sound of movement and rustling through the door, and then a voice calling out in Pantazian, “It’s open!”<br/><br/>The first thing Veret saw when she pushed the door open was the woman standing in the center of the room, feet planted in a wide stance, hand resting on the pommel of a longsword at her side. The angry red marks on her face were already beginning to blacken into bruises, and the gash above her brow was haphazardly bandaged.<br/><br/>Veret and the boy stepped into the room, and the woman raised an eyebrow, and her hand fell to her side. “I thought that orc might be back for round two,” she said, now in Common, and then her lips curled into that familiar daring grin from before. “Shoulda known she’d know better. Anyway, who’re you?” She gestured to the small wooden table– aside from the bed and a small chest, it and its four chairs were the sole furnishing in the room– and the three of them sat, Veret setting down her backpack by the door, laden with camping and travel supplies.<br/><br/>“My name is Veret,” the villager woman said. “The youngster is Eled. We’re from a small village ten miles to the north, and we need your help.”<br/><br/>In an instant, the woman’s eyes lit up, and she leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Let me guess– a young desert dragon eager to prove its worth is threatening your village,” she said. “No– an ancient curse, long thought broken, is back to haunt your people! Or a necromancer has defiled the village cemetery with his black magics, turning your fallen neighbors against you.”<br/><br/>The woman paused to take a breath, and Veret jumped in before she could think of any other increasingly absurd scenarios. “No, none of that. Bandits. We’ve got bandits.”<br/><br/>“Hm.” The woman nodded gravely, leaning back in her chair. “The scourge of the desert. After a legendary treasure said to be buried near your village, no doubt.”<br/><br/>“We don’t know what they want,” Veret said sharply, the thin, taut line of her mouth betraying her withering patience. “We’re a poor village– we produce just enough for our people to get by from day to day, and sometimes not even that. They came for the first time just days ago and killed half a dozen of our people– we managed to drive them off, but we think it was a feint to test our strength. We think they’ll be back soon to finish whatever it is they’re doing. Our village won’t survive a serious attack– we’re not warriors, all we know is how to squeeze the barest of crops out of the desert soil. We need people who can fight, but we don’t know where to find them. That’s why we need your help.”<br/><br/>For the first time since Veret had first seen the woman, she saw her hesitate, saw the bravado fade just a little. “Why not go to the imperial garrison here in Daymare?” she asked quietly.<br/><br/>“The Pantazians don’t want to send troops out to the middle of nowhere,” Veret said. “To wait for who knows how long for some bandits to show up. Their interest is in keeping the order in the towns– the backcountry’s not their concern.”<br/><br/>“What about the Sandspears? They eat bandits for breakfast.”<br/><br/>“Not bandits like these– at least two dozen, maybe more, heavily armed and well-trained.” The woman gave a low whistle, and Veret added, “And I told you, we’re a poor village. We don’t have the money to hire the Sandspears. All we have, we brought with us.” She reached into one of the pockets of her shawl and took out a small cloth pouch. She emptied it out onto the table– a handful of bronze and silver coins and two delicate pearl earrings. “Every coin we could find in the village. It wouldn’t even suffice to hire a single Sandspear for a day.”<br/><br/>The woman tapped her chin thoughtfully. “So then,” she said slowly. “Why me?”<br/><br/>“Because you’re not afraid of going against the odds,” Veret said. “We can’t afford the kinds of people who make a living risking life and limb for jobs like this, and we’ll never make it on our own. We need people like you– people who don’t turn and run when defeat seems certain.” She paused, seemed to mull her words for a moment, and then added, “And, well, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, people who won’t turn their noses up when they see how little we can pay.”<br/><br/>The woman didn’t seem to mind that. If anything, whatever brief twinge of doubt had polluted the woman’s sense of self-certainty, it seemed to have crawled back into its hole by the time Veret finished speaking. The brash smile was back, and so was the forward lean, eager, hungry. “In other words,” the woman said in an almost conspiratorial whisper. “What you need is some big damn heroes.”<br/><br/>And then, before Veret could say another word, the woman stood up and slapped the table with the palm of her hand, all but scaring poor Eled out of his skin. “I’ll do it,” she declared. “I’ll find you your heroes. Give me a day. Go sell these earrings tomorrow morning, they’ll get you some extra coin.”<br/><br/>Veret blinked, torn between gratitude and bafflement, and stood up as well, Eled following suit. “Well– thank you,” she said, collecting the coins and the earrings and stuffing the pouch back in her pocket. “Do you really think it’ll take only a day?”<br/><br/>“A town like this is full of people looking for what you’re selling, miss– whether it’s adventure, a chance to do some good, or a little money to see them to another day. Maybe all three at the same time.” The woman flashed that reckless grin of hers and slung her heavy arms over her two visitors’ shoulders, guiding them towards the door. “Come back here tomorrow morning. That’s when we’ll put this thing in motion. I’ve already got a hundred ideas.”<br/><br/>“Wait a minute–” Veret managed to get out before being ushered out the door. The woman paused and blinked, as if she didn’t understand why Veret wasn’t moving a mile a minute already. She was a little overwhelming, and Veret felt practically out of breath just being around her. “Your name,” she finally said. “What’s your name?”<br/><br/>“My name?” The woman stuck a thumb in her chest, and proceeded to say, in a tone that implied the name was known far and wide, a name Veret had never heard and would have struggled simply to pronounce.<br/><br/>“It’s Qasval.<em>Captain </em>Qasval.”<br/><br/>.<br/><br/>.<br/><br/>.<br/><br/>The next morning, it seemed the entire tavern– indeed, all the seedier parts of Daymare– was abuzz with talk of a job put out by a certain captain. It wasn’t just the job posting on the tavern bulletin; somehow, Qasval had managed to get word out to all the familiar haunts frequented by adventurers, mercenaries, swashbucklers, and passing heroes-for-hire that a little village to the north was looking to hire half a dozen for protection from a band of suspiciously well-armed, well-trained bandits. The vast majority, suffice it to say, lost interest the moment they saw the pittance being offered as payment– but for those who weren’t so easily put off, as the bulletin and word on the street went, the captain would be hosting any and all interested parties in the old tavern at noon the following day.<br/><br/>There, they would find her at the bar, entertaining Eled and a couple of other tavern customers by balancing a small drinking glass on her nose. Veret sat beside her, looking thoroughly unsure of the life choices that had led her to this point.