Jestriff’s main market square bustled with activity as the lunching hour melted into the steady rush of the afternoon. The structure of this economic gathering was similar in nature to the one they had passed through in Crestvigil, only much grander in scale and variety. Every breed of your classic barnyard animal was in attendance, segmented in pens that took up nearly an entire quarter of the space. Once again, foodstuffs made up the lion’s share of the stalls. However, the ample golden produce seen in Auserre had been replaced by much hardier, earthy-looking plants that could survive the harsher winters common to the north of Rillestia. As if to make up for this lack of variety, the artisanal market had greatly expanded with stalls hawking sweet and savoury treats of all shapes, sizes and colours. An overwhelming, mouth-watering wave of sights and scents so tempting that it made any decision of what to sample an impossible task. Further towards the centre were the tradesmen. From cheap and cheerful Old Dave Scroggins with his little table of carved wooden ducks, to Monsieur Dominique du Fancyarse and his menagerie of masterwork silver and golden statuettes capable of convincing any gullible distant relative that you’d been turned to precious metal while on holiday in Magaluf. This was merely one of the rows, Alter dreaded to think how many more had been squeezed in.

  The four men ambled between these myriad enterprises, weaving and slaloming between other groups of patrons like a game of Snake in slow motion. They had kept to locally styled clothes in order to blend in as best they could, although it was clear that this plan was not entirely successful as multiple curious glances, punctuated by the odd inquisitive child, followed their progress. They were too new, too clean and uniform, their heights noticeably higher than the average person. The presence of their radios, earpieces and sidearms strapped snugly to their hips only added to the feeling that they were out of place here, though not unwelcomely so.

  “You wouldn’t think there was a crisis on their doorstep, would you?” Boozehound commented as they picked their way through a gaggle of chattering, bickering ladies.

  “This is probably one of the few places where they can forget about it for a while.” Alter replied lightly as he danced between members of a pack of children charging around their nattering mothers.

  “Nah, the tension is here, lurking in the undercurrents of conversation. You just need to listen for it.” Vangroover chimed in with a pessimistic tone.

  “Can’t say I’d noticed that.” Whim responded, a hefty hint of scepticism in his voice.

  Vangroover shrugged but made no further comment nor attempted any additional explanation as the group reached the end of their chosen row and re-entered the salvation ring-road of freshly cooked food.

  “There.” Boozehound suddenly perked up and pointed, not towards a stall but rather a set of ornate looking buildings whose steep-sided roofs poked out above the sea of brightly coloured canvas coverings.

  “I see them, what am I looking at?” Alter asked.

  “Temples, to the Four. My research project for the day.” The Frenchman announced with a sense of triumphant satisfaction.

  “Fair enough, you’re not wandering off by yourself though.” Alter cautioned.

  “I’ll go with him, make sure he doesn’t become a monk while no one's looking.” Vangroover volunteered with a wry grin.

  Alter nodded. “Alright, Whim and I will keep looking around here. It looks like there’s a blacksmithing section ahead; you never know if some idiot might be trying to sell weapons from the shipment in there.

  “Excellent, we’ll catch up with you later.” Boozehound was too eager to get moving and immediately meandered away towards his destination with Vangroover, the last few words of his departing statement lost to the milling crowds.

  Alter watched them go with a mixture of hope and nerves, the possibilities and implications of a successful temple visit would certainly throw the cat amongst the pigeons. His moment of sombreness was quickly cut short by the realisation that he was alone. However, a swift inspection of his immediate surroundings soon revealed Whim accepting something for a nearby cooking stall.

  “What’ve you got there?” Alter leaned in to examine his friend’s delicacy of choice.

  Whim offered him a child-like smile and held up a piece of steaming red meat in between slices of thick crusted bread. “Slab-a-lamb.”

  “Please tell me that’s its real name.” The man’s enthusiasm bled into Alter’s response.

  Whim took a large bite as he indicated the painted wooden sign that indeed confirmed the name.

  “Aaasassafassaashashah.” His moment of ecstasy turned to horror as the meat proved too hot for his mouth to handle.

  “Serves you right, you bottomless pit.” Alter teased smugly.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  “Ish good though.” Whim retorted as he battled the remnants of the spiteful sandwich.

  “Must you insist on being a permanent source of embarrassment for me? I hope it didn’t cost you too much.”

  “Two F, but it looks like you can get a lot of different, smaller things for only one. You know, it’s weirdly nice to be in a society where the lowest value of currency can still get you things instead of just taking up space in your wallet.” Whim chatted merrily between more measured bites of his prize.

  “I guess I see what you’re saying. Is that a good thing or a bad thing, economics-wise?”

  “I don’t know enough about the subject, but I’d guess it's good.” Whim supposed.

  The two men fell into comfortable silence as they dove into the next set of market stands. The cost of displayed products ratcheted upward at concerning speed as they walked. Soon enough they found themselves surrounded by ceremonial armour pieces, gem-studded swords and scabbards, everything an aspiring nobleman would need in a future precious heirloom. Alter frowned as he examined the ostentatious displays, his mind drawn back to Huntmaster Raymond and how he was about to risk his men’s lives in order to retrieve such vulgar items. Finally, they broke through into the collections of the honest blacksmith’s trade. The arrays of conflict were certainly impressive, Alter was confident that a warrior of any build or style could find exactly what they needed here. While he wouldn’t make any purchases, safe in knowledge that he didn’t know enough to make an educated decision, it was still enlightening to enquire about prices and timeframes with the various workers that seemed willing to chat. There was no evidence of any freshly arrived weapons bearing the mark of the Royal Djarel Foundry, a fact that Alter greeted with disappointment mixed with a hidden dose of relief. Still, though, there was plenty of real-estate to cover yet. Their progress was halted, however, by the sudden crackling in their ears as the radio sprang to life and a worried voice

  “One, this is Eight, erm. Three is kind of having a moment here.” Vangroover reported.

  The two men looked at each other in confusion. “What do you mean, ‘moment’?” Alter keyed his radio and asked.

  “A ‘fall to your knees and become unresponsive’ kind of moment.”

  “Where are you?” Alter spun on his heel and began cutting a path towards the distant temple spires.

  “Kalaton’s, rear left.”

  “Please tell me you’re alone.” He pleaded, neatly bisecting a pair of men about to come to blows over a chipped vase.

  “There’s no one else here, to be honest it doesn’t seem like this place gets many visitors. Want me to block the door?” The sound of something heavy scraping along stone was carried across the wavelengths.

  “Position yourself in the doorway if you feel it necessary, no need to barricade yourself in though. We’re en route, standby. Anyone back at base picking this up?” He asked hopefully, but the lack of response from anyone remaining in the Hall quickly dashed that hope.

  Alter and Whim powered their way through the remaining ranks of the market square and out into a large, well-kept street with small trees growing down its centre. Situated on either side of this road were four imposing structures of zealous mortar. The two closer to the square were considerably larger than their more distant brethren, and commanded a steady stream of travellers and devotees that filed in and out of their doors like lines of ants. From their iconography, and the increased scale, Alter reasoned that these were the temples of Sirrithae and Nerrothyll. At the rear right, a much more sober and discreet looking structure bore a quiet but heavy presence. The Mullisvar temple received a mere fraction of the foot traffic that the previous two enjoyed, however there were still a handful of grim looking individuals that stepped across the ominous threshold. Finally, an equally less imposing building marked with stone carvings of the sun and moon had no visitors coming or going. However, its doors were open and, leaning against the cool stonework of the entryway, Vangroover could be seen keeping his tense vigil.

  The relief on the Canadians face was quite palpable as he caught sight of their approach. With sharp beckoning gestures he ushered them inside and closed the door behind them. The space inside Kalaton’s temple was curiously plain, and even though there were no apparent doorways or corridors to other parts of the building the room seemed barely half the total size of the structure itself. Simple wooden pew-like benches lined the room in a traditional church setup. At the far end a carved stone altar stood on a raised dais, atop which were two large ceremonial plates. One was made of silver, the other gold, together they gazed across the room with an uncanny sense of omnipotence. Boozehound was sitting on his knees at the bottom of the dais, his arms hanging limply at his sides.

  With quiet steps, Alter moved forward until he stood just behind and to the side of the Frenchman. The man gave no response to his approach, choosing instead to simply stare up at the twin-disc eyes with a look of fear and wonder etched upon his face. Slowly, unsteadily, he blinked twice before tear-damp eyes turned upward towards his newly arrived companion.

  “We are in the presence of something much, much greater.” Boozehound whispered.

  “I’ll be honest with you, Marcus. The last thing I need is my medic turning into a religious nutcase on, as far as I can tell, a Thursday afternoon.” Alter folded his arms and glowered down at the kneeling man.

  Boozehound did not rise to the provocation. “Just wait.” He smiled.

  Alter growled to himself and levered himself down to the floor. If his friend was going to have a world-shattering episode then he’d at least have someone he knew nearby and in eyeshot. All was quiet for a couple of minutes, save for the awkward shuffling of Whim and Vangroover towards the back of the room. All of a sudden, a strange buzzing sensation caused Alter’s eyes to widen, and he found his gaze inescapably drawn to the altar and the twin plates. Dimly he was aware of a soft chuckle coming from Boozehound’s direction as once again white text began to appear in the centre of his vision.

  MISSION STATUS // 8Hkio4374”@dfEE0 / UNDEFINED / ONGOING

  CURRENT LOCATION // 2843 3857 / CITY OF JESTRIFF / NORTHERN RILLESTIA

  CURRENT OBJECTIVES //

  -Secure the Masserlind Succession

  -?????

  WELCOME TO SITE-17 // INACTIVE / DORMANT

  REQUESTS UNAVAILABLE AT THIS TIME // REACTIVATION / REQUIREMENTS UNMET