A group of guards shuffled into a worn tavern. The straw roof sagged in the middle, but a steady fire burned, and stew only cost a copper bit. The men had just been relieved by The sergeant of the night crew and his men. They ordered a round and settled into their table.

Someone leaned into the middle of the table and asked, “Did any of you hear about Tarnahill?” Most everyone shook their head while waiting for their brews to be delivered. An overworked boy scampered from table to table, sloshing ale as he went. “Graneling’s church fell. A mob murdered the guard and tore it apart.”

“Why would anyone do that? Everyone knows Graneling is a peaceful god. Not one to trouble the masses,” Captain Hamish said as he accepted a mug of ale. The other men nodded along, usual business for anything he said.

The man who asked, Twill, shook his head. “Wasn’t a mob from the city. It was that nest cult,” he paused to shiver. “They tore Graneling’s church apart to make it into some enormous nest for that birdman they follow.”

“Enough of this, Twill. I won’t have you scaring the rest of the men about fake bird cultists and giant nests. Finish your drink and head home. I’m sure Leila and the kids are missing you.” Twill pursed his lips before nodding. Arguing with Captain Hamish led to nothing but extra shifts and less pay.

“Wait, someone say something about a cult following a Coric?” someone said from the next table. Captain Hamish turned to look at a road-worn merchant. The bright colors of his silks were dampened by dust, permanent red tinting his fair complexion. He didn’t have the same bronze as the other Rania citizens. Hamish gave a slow nod at the man to continue. “Your man’s right. That Nestisim is spreading— can’t believe it’s made it to Tarnahill already. They tore through Temari, coming from the West. I don’t know the bird’s name, but the man leading them is named ‘Scabbs Six-Fingers,’ I pray you never meet him.”

“Pah, fanatics, Corics, and some named cripple? Sounds like you need to lay off the ale as well,” Hamish waved to dismiss the man.

“You were there, weren’t you?” Twill said, ignoring the captain. Lorn and Price inched away from Twill. “You were at Tarnahill!”

“Not Tarnahill, at Bledden. I hope I never see anything like it again. Those animals murdered the children first. It’s madness.”

“Someone will stop them,” Callum said, a young guard who had pulled a double with Dunny earlier in the week. He cast hopeful eyes around the battered group. Hope didn’t live in the hearts of poor merchants or guardsman, whatever did could be called grey pragmatism at best, “They have to, right"?”

A pregnant silence filled the air. Hamish filled the clay cups on the table with strong spirits from a slim flask in his overcoat, “Long live House Tarnahill,” he said pushing the cups towards the men. After a second, he filled one more and passed it to the merchant.

“Long live House Tarnahill,” the rest of the men mumbled as they choked down the brown vapors. The merchant joined them before making for the door. Twill followed after, Hamish making no move to follow. Callum and the rest of the men stared into their cups as a thinly plucked lute filled the tavern. In the smokey haze of a bottom-rung establishment, the last sparks of hope gutted out as men imagined deranged fanatics bursting through the gates.