LOST

Wiz had stayed in motels Friday, Saturday and Sunday night but after seeing his mug shot behind the counter at a Super 8 on Monday, he decided the street was his safest bet. He woke up at seven o’clock, about fifteen minutes after sunrise. A barrel fire was already burning in the abandoned lot where he chose to spend the night. His neighbors—the barrel lighters—were those homeless waiting until it got a little colder before trying to fight for a bed at the shelter. Goose, who was laying beside Wiz, had just woken up himself, and didn’t mind sleeping outside in the cold. Winters here in America were nothing compared to those back home in Thórsholr.

Wiz looked over at the men standing around the barrels warming their hands. “They look hungry. Don’t they, Goose?” In reply, Goose whimpered, as if to say he were hungry, too. Wiz cupped his hands and a white ball of fire grew inside them. A moment later, when the light was gone, in its place were several links of smoked sausage. “Squirrel sausage is a bit on the greasy side, but… I don’t think they’ll complain.” He stood up, sausage in hand, as Goose sprang up and licked his chops, and walked over to the men. Goose drooled but faithfully stood watch over their small camp.

“Good morning,” Wiz said. He heard one ‘good morning’ in return but mostly just grunts. “I thought you guys might want some breakfast.” He held out the sausage and saw six jaws nearly hit the dirt beneath them. They invited Wiz, and Goose, to join them for breakfast, sharing their coffee and their stories for a solid hour. Afterwards, the six men dispersed to their various activities—asking for money, looking for work, simply surviving another day. Wiz sat on his conjured, wooden camp chair, next to his conjured, wool sleeping bag, with Goose satisfied and sleeping at his feet.

He reached into his bag and pulled out the dagger. He set it on his lap and just looked at it, studied it, turning it over in his fingers. It had strange markings on it, sigils, as you would see engraved on a talisman. He closed his eyes and wrapped his palm around the blade to see if the metal would reveal its history, and as he did so he heard a soft fluttering of wings.

“Oooh… what’s that?” Regan said, sounding like a four-year old.

“It’s called a kris. I think Zachary was planning to put it through Xamn’s heart.”

“Does he know you have it?”

“I don’t think so. But I’m sure he’s missing it. This isn’t something you lose and just forget about. He’ll be looking for it.”

“Should we hide it?”

“No. It will stay in my bag and my bag will not leave my side. I’m not sure what he’s capable of. I don’t know what tier of immortal he is. I didn’t even know he was still alive. But… if I see him again and I’m given the opportunity, I just might put the dagger through his heart.”

“Will that kill him?”

“I don’t know, Regan. I don’t know. I need to find out what these sigils mean.”

“So, how long are you going to stay here?”

“Until I don’t have to anymore.”