A Gamer's Guide 388 (Patreon)

The room had fallen silent. 

“Well?” the Archjudge asked. “What will it be?”

Hadn’t he seen it? Was he blind? Or just stupid?

Mouth still slacking open, Rafiloe raised one trembling finger and pointed it towards the window. The Archjudge, mildly annoyed, followed the direction of the finger to peer out of the window. The dragon was still visible, flying leisurely, very clearly approaching. And if it had only been a dragon, it would have been cause for panic. Even if it had been a four-winged dragon, it would only have led to panic, then followed by sensible evacuations, the silver line being that their besiegers would also escape.

But this wasn’t just a dragon, or even a mere four-winged dragon. 

This was that dragon.

The Archjudge rose to his feet. The realization of what exactly he was looking at soon left the Archduke as pale as though he’d just witnessed a mushroom cloud on the horizon. Terror and shock duked it out and in the end despair was the victor as the Archduke sank into his seat with such listlessness that Rafiloe briefly thought he might have been poisoned. “It’s over,” he muttered. “The city will burn like Acheron and Oran. Bring me—” Rising a little, the Archjudge turned to the member of the verdite tasked with refilling his cup. “The Charmenion White from sixty-two… Bring it. I wish to have it as my final drink. I do not want to die aware.”

Rafiloe watched the window and the dragon approaching. A heavy weight, like an invisible twenty-kilo blanket, sank slowly over her shoulders. She supposed this was the feeling of karmic justice, not that she’d ever believed in it before.

She had a very good reason to feel this way. 

Blankly, moving only on routine instinct, as many tend to do in times of traumatic stress, she brought up the group chat and began typing.

<Status—Community—Top>

<:3 In the Court of the Kitty Princess :3>

<LaundryArrest[F49]: he did NOT friggn do

that I checked with Ipso and Meow-Mewo was literally

not in purgatory at that point so it isnt possible shut up shut up sh>

<SaltManJoe[F58]: ugh kk fine whvr i dont care anymor

anywys im in oran now n this place sucks disease all gone

bt still nbody here to interview boringgggg>

<MagicalMurderStar[F51]: ??? why tf u go to oran??

THE ONLY ONE who like survived that shii was lterally 

the apostle of cruelty n shes at multum rn for that

synagogue thing so oran is litery useless four researche smhmh>

<LaundryArrest[F49]: don’t forget moleman>

<MagicalMurderStar[F51]: oh yeah n moleman LOL poor fuckin guy>

She blinked at the stream of messages. 

<GeckomancerOfYore[F50]: maggie why are you writing here

arent you supposed to be at work if honey catches you youre dead>

<MagicalMurderStar[F51]: gecko I could say the exact same thing

cuz GIRL y arent u taking to the archjudge dude??>

It was an excellent question. A sinking feeling in her chest told Rafiloe the answer.

<GeckomancerOfYore[F50]: ok listen i dont have time to explain

but some stuff is about to like godown n i just wanted to say that

i really wanted to tell yall this before … actually no i was hoping

to avoid it fourever but whatever now its here so uhhh yeah

sorry but um … i actually kinda know meow-meow like 

personally. irl. forreal>

<SaltManJoe[F58]: ?? whut>

<LaundryArrest[F49]: Maggie I think Gecko mightve gone cucko

plz check in on her since you’re close>

<SalmonRomantic[F56]: I go away for two days to interview

a judge and I come back to Gecko having an Episode. Wow. 

The peak of anthropology right here, guys.>

<SaltManJoe[F58]: holy **** sal i thght u wuz dead???>

<SalmonRomantic[F56]: I wish. Sadly won’t be kicking it

before the whole “god-of-hope” thing is cleared up.>

<LaundryArrest[F49]: FOR FUGS SAKE ITS A FUDGING 

JOKE HOW TF WOULD MEOW-MEOW EVEN BCOM

A GOD ITS SO FUGHIN STUPID SHUT UPPPPPPP>

Rafiloe put down the group chat, turned towards the Archjudge deep-throating a bottle of whatever-he-called-it, and allowed the situation to settle in her stomach. It battled briefly with her overwhelming, nauseous anxiety, but eventually won out because if he was going to act his age, then she couldn’t afford to. “Your Honor,” she said, trying her darndest to exhude a competent-secretary sort of aura, “would you please allow me to borrow some of your men?”

Between heaving gulps, the Archjudge turned to her and slurred, “Whatever for?”

“We need to lower the gates,” she said, “and announce a complete surrender.”

“Oh?” The Archjudge chuckled. “Well, alright. Go right ahead! As a matter of fact—let the whole verdite present know that it was your decision to do this! Let us be another Bramtown instead of another Acheron. Who cares whether the fire is from a dragon or a man? Lower the gates, lower the flags, and bring my proxy should anyone dare to question your orders.”

“Thank you, your Honor,” she said, and then she bowed, because that is what Tilly or Bouillé would have done. Hot molten gold was running through her veins now. She knew exactly what to do, almost as though by divine vision. It was all so clear and evident and obvious. 

As long as she didn’t think about who exactly was at the gates, she could keep moving. 

She could keep acting, if only for a moment, as though she wasn’t on the cusp of a mental breakdown.

Standing, she turned to Prop and said, with genuine intoxicating authority in her voice, “Let’s go.”

And they did.