The rotting corpse sitting at the table now looks quite beautiful to Silnarion. With a new haircut, a good bath, and a pair of clothes, they might be the best looking person at the round table. They may already be the smartest. After all, Mr. Bones did not choose to be a part of this gathering. Silnarion is beginning to feel a warm kinship with the sack of bones and rotten flesh on the chair beside them. They pour their skeletal neighbor a cup of tea and set a croissant on the pte before them. Mr. Bones begins to gnaw at the fky pastry with gusto.

  Meanwhile, the other cult members are involved in a bit of a tussle.

  “You just want someone you control to control us!” The mustached man puffs in outrage, his cheeks growing as red as his facial hair.

  A mystique of circus performance quality cannot wait to throw their own objection into the ring. “That’s a Holy Imanjar! What if they turn against us at their Spirit’s bidding!”

  “I’m the Holy Imanjar of a Deity, and that’s the Holy Imanjar of a Spirit. I’m more than enough to control them should they go rogue—“ Magpie begins.

  “Aha! So you admit you are going to control—“ The mustache quibbles again.

  A much smaller yet curlier mustache cuts him off in turn. “Shut it, you plebeian! I am the only one with a title here, I am the one in charge!”

  “How about I show you what real power is, you puffed up peacock!” A chair screeches as it’s pushed back, scraping across the floorboards. A woman brings herself up to her full, impressive height, her scarred face ominously clouded with dark emotion.

  Silnarion elegantly scoots their seat closer to Mr. Bones.

  Magpie’s eye twitches. “Sect Leader, aren’t you going to take control of the situation?”

  Silnarion looks up at Magpie with bnk, silvery eyes. Why bring me into this? seems written across their face.

  Magpie grits his teeth.

  Silnarion wonders if Magpie will have to swallow his food whole like his avian brothers if this keeps up. Out of pity for Magpie’s teeth and love for peace and quiet, Silnarion stands.

  “The Goddess of Death’s messenger requested I become Sect Leader. I accepted this station with the blessing of my master, the Spirit of Lonely Souls.” Silnarion states calmly. “Before me, I see a group of squabbling children, not a Sect.”

  Two mustaches quiver. The curlicue beats the bottlebrush in reaction speed. “I’m not a child, you are!”

  The mercenary woman looks at the noble with disgust and disappointment. The well-fed merchant belonging to the bottlebrush mustache realizes the stupidity of his competitor’s response and wisely chooses to hold back.

  Silnarion approaches the upstart chicken in a peacock’s guise. “I am indeed a Child of my Spirit, young in the ways of the greater world.”

  The mystique nods along. At least the Holy Imanjar would be able to act sage in front of outside forces. Perhaps Magpie chose them to be the troupe’s actor? They did have a strange sense of magnetism. Then Ringleader may be a better title than Sect Leader…

  “But I am well-versed enough in the ws of your nursery to know what needs to be done” A cold light glints in Silnarion’s eyes as a fsh of silver strikes the table. The only sound comes from the noble’s sliver of table crashing to the ground.

  The fxen haired noble knocks over his chair and falls to the ground. “W-what is the meaning of this!! I—“

  “Have a title, yes. I realize. You inherited a name from your ancestors, dirtied it with your incompetence and defiled it with your actions. Perhaps I ought to send you to your ancestors so that they may teach you the error of your ways.”

  Ms. Mercenary whistles under her breath.

  Silnarion crouches down to the noble, reaching out a hand. They whisper “Get up. Do not sully yourself or your family honor any longer.”

  The noble puts his hand in theirs. White lips part to squeak out the only question in his mind: “Where is your sword?”

  Pulling the trembling man to his feet, Silnarion grimly smiles. “My soul is my master’s sword, my body the scabbard.”

  “A sharp mind and a sharp sword pair well together.” Ms. Mercenary nods her head toward Magpie and sits back down at the table.

  The mystique fiddles with their dress. Lion… no… lion tamer…

  Silnarion returns to his seat, leaving behind the noble swaying like a stalk of wheat barely missed by the farmer’s scythe.

  Still trembling, Blondie shakes himself into order and drags away the disconnected sliver of table. He is grateful that the cut is so clean; at least he won’t get any splinters. He gingerly sits in his now upright chair in the manner of a disciplined schoolboy.

  Magpie clears his throat. “Now that the matter of Sect Leader is decided—“

  “— I must gather new recruits, y out a code of conduct, and consolidate our efforts.” Silnarion finishes. Or interrupts, if Magpie’s feelings on the matter are of any import. After Silnarion’s dispy, no one is of any mind to examine Magpie’s innermost thoughts. If anyone had, they would find that his feathers were quite ruffled.

  Ms. Mercenary is the only one with any reaction. For her own part, she too had been pnning on silencing that noble’s drivel. However, that only would have led to Magpie’s increased dominance over the group. She raises an eyebrow, considering the possibility that Magpie is no longer the “sharp mind” running this ragtag team of would-be terrorists. But, if Magpie is out of the picture, does that mean that Silnarion is recognized by the Goddess of Death above her own Holy Imanjar? Her face splits into a bloodthirsty grin. She has a feeling that the following days are going to be fun.