Exhibit 6: "Folk Hero"

Interesting thing about the city of Mistston—I bet some of y'all have known about me since I was a kid.

Mama June took us all on a big trip every year there was enough money. I think I was about ten this time, when my only real friend was Timera. We both freaked the other kids out, so we were two devilborn peas in an infernal pod. Still, during that trip to Mistston, the other kids felt out of their own element enough to let us slip in with 'em. We weren't livin' comfortably at the Orphanage, but the poverty we saw in the lower level was more than we knew existed. People out on the street, dirty, forced to beg, bony kids wrapped in even bonier parents' arms—it wasn't fun, needless to say.

But when the kids saw us marchin' through, they got curious. Thomas and I made friends with a few, formed little bands, fought with stick swords and climbed up buildings. Once Mama June had settled down at Harmony's place, we ran out under the summer sun and got into trouble. One boy named Johan told us about his brother, who got drafted into the Reaping; plucked from his family and trained to be a guard for life, forced to turn on his people and keep them in line for the upper levels' benefit.

I didn't need to ask any more. I suggested a new game, and everyone agreed.

We gathered up the dirty water we could find, climbed a roof overlooking the square, and waited for guards to pass. Timera held back her giggles as one shambled his way nearby, lookin' bored. I waited for the perfect moment, my hands trembling, and dumped the brown sludge onto his head.

He cursed at us as we busted our guts laughing. Thomas knocked the bucket out of my hand and it dinged the poor idiot's helmet, knockin' him on his ass. We scrambled away, but they followed our laughter and cornered us.

I didn't think it through. I never did. There was one easy target with us, and of course they chose her. The fella still covered in shit dragged Timera out into the square by her horns and threw her on the stone ground. Then he picked her up and punched her in the nose. Broke it.

She screamed and cried, and I was in front of that fucker before I knew it. She was weak—she was seven. I was even weaker. I tried to catch his hands, block anything I could, but my body was too damn small. All I managed to do was take the beating.

I barely heard anything over Timera's crying, my own crying, and the blood rushing in my ears as I heaved, but eventually a dull roar overcame that. A crowd had gathered, shoutin' at the guard, cheering me on.

Unbeknownst to me at the time, in that crowd was Keelo Kilderkin.

They were sixteen back then, coming down from the mountains to do some youth charity work, making toys to raise money for families. They lived so far away, but they'd heard about the situation in Mistston and felt called to do something.

Much later, after the maze, the Mistston incident, few other things, Keelo told us they'd also had a friend abducted in childhood. Drest, his name was, led away by a dark-haired woman in the middle of the orchard. I imagine they heard about the Reaping, and that twisted scar in their memory started aching somethin' fierce.

See, that was what I totally ignored about Keelo until we were in forced proximity for months. I mentioned earlier that I suck at writing. After we got back, I started makin' characters to ride the high I got from "fighting" that guard, painting 'em and writing stories. Shawn held on to all the artwork, but the stories went in the bonfire before anyone could read. Keith the Unpreparred, Fortune Hyperion, Phôr'tun—I made a bunch of cooler, more stylish versions of myself to escape back into that fantasy, where I was fighting bad guys and saving people.

Keelo was doing that. They had been most of their life. They'd moved to Solas a few years before the Scythe incident, and they'd always been quiet, polite, unassuming… all things I thought weren't worth anything. I hated guards and jailers and money, but just messed with Daryl and played combat games with Imber and Viola, while Keelo was out saving towns from dragons—no joke. I thought they were lying when they told us about that. I tried to hold off the end of my innocence with escapes, re-reading Lucky Trail and artlessly copying it, while Keelo broke innocents out of jail and convinced Timmy to stop being a cop.

Yeah, I started paying more attention to injustices after Timera and I got matching broken noses, but Keelo fought them. When we escaped the maze and found that yes, the lady wearing the hair covering and blindfold, surrounded by fearful statues and stone gargoyle pets, had snakes writhing on her head, reptilian eyes, and the first Favor around her neck, Keelo got the final blow and cut her head off with eyes of cold fury.

"I was… going to make you a gift," they whispered as the head of Mendax slid off her body from the edge of their greatsword.

At first Keelo frustrated me because they represented what I didn't want to be—a boring villager content with an average life. I thought I was a folk hero. People told me I was. I took a solo trip to Mistston years later, stealing from the rich and giving to the poor. Real Lucky shit. Got some notoriety around there, which restricted me a bit, but it was exciting. I thought I was doing somethin'. But I learned Keelo wasn't boring, they just didn't brag.

When we got to Mistston as a group, we met a little boy named Carver. One of his friends had gotten taken by the Reaping, and I tried to cheer him up, but it didn't really work out. I'm brash, and rude, and unsympathetic, but Keelo, like always, gave him a toy and a listening ear. Even rescued his dog from a butcher shop while the other three of us were getting into trouble.

Then, Keelo frustrated me even more, because I didn't know what I was doing wrong.

I wanted to get there. I wanted to be that strong, that effortless, that genuinely altruistic. This wasn't a pride or jealousy thing—I asked how. They bumbled through an answer that did nothing for me. I wanted to be that way now. All I could do was get beaten up, then learn to do the beating back. I didn't know how to make magic toys, or how to gently laugh with kids while their parents thanked me. I tried, and it was awkward as shit. All I knew how to do was tear things down, not build 'em up. When I couldn't tear 'em down, I ran away and pretended I could.

There are a couple of other gods that'll be important to this story—big ones. Since I'd really rather not invoke their names on a fine weekday evening, I'll call them Light and Dark.

Keelo was a shining heroic archetype. Their greatsword lit their path with divine flame, though they didn't much care for the gods either. Ironic, considering how much of a Light champion they were. I think that must've been the reason they were chosen; it might've been simple proximity, but out of all of us, Keelo was the one to go on the quest for the sole reason of it being the right thing to do. They didn't trust the outsiders, and they were wary of my purpose, but beneath the pretense and the uptightness and the I'm just keeping an eye on you was a big damn hero.

Keeping that in mind, this is my first foray into stained glass. Their face is a little wonky, but I made sure I got the dramatic pose exactly right—stanced up with the flaming sword, little metal raccoon friend poised to pounce at their feet. You might be pleased to know I actually bought these pieces, this beautifully gilded frame. A lot of the principles of composition carry over, but lighting is more complicated.

Imber and Timmy, you'd better outbid these sods, because I have the perfect spot in mind for this one. Either replace the east window or carve out a new place in the wall, because the morning sun needs to shine through it. This is one to be remembered exactly as is.

GALLERY OF FORTUNE SIMPLECREEK—RECEIPT—9/18/1316

EXHIBIT #6: "FOLK HERO" SOLD TO TIMMY EMERITUS (200 GP)