Preparations and Quiet Nights

Morgana strolled down the cobbled street, cloak tugged close against the brisk air. The city felt alive in that particular way it always did toward evening.

Blacksmiths hammering their last pieces for the day, bakers shoving racks of steaming bread through front windows, merchants calling final deals. 

None of that distracted her from the faint, disgusting stain that clung to the seams of her armor. She lifted her left vambrace, grimaced, and muttered under her breath.

“Gods above, still there. I cut down goblins, burned their camp, turned the whole lot into a bonfire, and yet this… this little speck of innards wants to outlast me. Of course it does. Of course the universe wants me to suffer.” She shook her arm. The spot didn’t budge.

It was how she found herself stomping back toward the familiar clang of Dorrik’s smithy. She pushed open the heavy door, the bell overhead giving a half-hearted jingle before being drowned out by the rhythmic strike of hammer on steel.

Dorrik was there, sleeves rolled up, beard tied back in a thick braid, forearms coated in soot and sweat. The man looked like he’d been forged out of iron himself. He glanced up mid-swing, eyes narrowing.

“Ah, lass. Back already, eh? What’s the matter, armor not sittin’ right? Blade givin’ ye lip?” His voice was the same gravelly sing-song she had grown used to, a blend of Irish, Scots, and half a pirate’s swagger.

Morgana stepped forward and held out her arm. “Tell me how the hell I’m supposed to clean this. I’ve been scrubbing all day. Goblin guts don’t come off. It’s like they’re cursed to haunt me forever. And there is no such thing as 'How to clean your armor 101' in schools!”

Dorrik leaned close, squinting. He gave a grunt, then smirked. “Aye, goblins are sticky bastards. Their blood’s half mud, half rot. Soap an’ water won’t cut it.”

“Yeah, thanks for telling me after I ruined my gloves and spend the entire morning struggling with it.”

“Yer fault fer gettin’ so close to the wee monsters. Armor’s meant to keep ye safe, not to go swimmin’ in their insides!” He barked a laugh, then stomped toward the back, returning with a squat clay jar. 

“Here. Smith’s vinegar mix. Eats through grime, eats through blood, eats through about anything it touches. Don’t get it on yer skin unless ye fancy the feel o’ fire.”

Morgana took the jar carefully. “Finally. Someone who actually knows how to handle this nonsense. You could’ve saved me hours of misery.”

Dorrik grunted again, but his eyes twinkled. “Ye’ll live. Ye adventurers, ye think steel’s just for swingin’. But keepin’ it clean’s half the battle. Remember that, lass. Weapon’s yer partner. Armor’s yer lifeline. Treat ‘em well or they’ll turn on ye when ye least expect it.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, Dad.”

He jabbed a thick finger at her. “Don’t sass me, girl. I’ve buried enough would-be heroes who thought polishin’ their blades was beneath ‘em. Ye may be sharp, but sharp gets dull if ye don’t care for it.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll clean it properly.” She tucked the jar under her arm. “Thanks, Dorrik. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Bah. I’m a blacksmith. Lifesaver’s just another word for ‘folk who pay me proper coin.’ Now get outta here before I put ye to work on the bellows.”

Morgana gave him a cheeky salute and stepped back into the street, the warmth of the forge fading behind her.

The rest of her day blurred into a whirlwind of errands. She bartered for dried rations, salted pork, hard cheese, waybread that could double as a building material. 

She stopped at the apothecary for a few wound salves and a bundle of herbs she didn’t recognize but figured might come in handy. A tailor patched a tear in her cloak, muttering about careless adventurers, while she stood there biting her tongue.

Her coin purse thinned fast, but she ignored the sting. Stocked cupboards, a refilled cellar, and fresh linens for her bed were worth the expense. 

A week ago, she’d barely had a roof. Now she had a house and she’d be damned if she lived in it like a vagabond.

By the time the sun began to slip, Morgana felt both satisfied and strangely restless. She stopped outside a vintner’s stall, eyeing the neat rows of bottles. 

The merchant tried to pitch her on subtle fruity notes and vintage years, but Morgana just jabbed a finger toward the strongest red on the rack.

“That one. If it burns, it’s good.”

The man looked scandalized, but coin was coin. She left with the bottle under her arm and a smirk on her lips.

Her home greeted her with the faint smell of polish and vinegar, the remnants of her earlier cleaning spree still lingering. She lit a few candles, settled at her table, and pulled the cork with a pop that echoed in the quiet.

“Well, cheers to me,” she muttered, pouring a generous glass. “The demon in disguise, playing house in a city of humans. If Amelia could see me now…” She snorted. “She’d probably faint. Or cry. Or both.”

The wine was sharp, biting, exactly what she wanted. She leaned back in her chair, stretching her legs. She checked to see if her windows were covered enough before releasing her disguise and flexing her wings.

“Let’s see. Supplies packed. Armor cleaned... mostly. Guild job lined up with Sir Shiny and his merry men. Tomorrow I go play guide while they sniff around for demon breadcrumbs.” 

She swirled the wine again, staring at the crimson liquid. The way it clung to the glass reminded her uncomfortably of blood, thick and heavy, refusing to let go.

“Funny, isn’t it?” she muttered. “Back on Earth, I cried if I nicked my finger chopping vegetables. Now? Now I don’t even blink carving through thirty goblins and their sorry excuse of a leader. Didn’t feel a damn thing. No guilt, no horror. Just… another job.”

She set the glass down, resting her chin in her hand.

“Is that me? Or is that her? This body. These instincts. Whatever the hell I’ve turned into.” She let out a bitter laugh. 

“No one’s handing out a guidebook for, ‘Congratulations, you’re a demon in disguise, here’s how not to get stabbed when the paladin notices.’”

Her gaze drifted to the window, the faint glow of city lanterns flickering beyond. “Humans would burn me if they knew. Demons… what would demons do? Would they even accept me? Or would they just use me until I break? I don’t belong anywhere, do I?”

She poured herself another glass, slower this time, fingers tapping against the wood. “So what do I do? Lie low, play the adventurer, keep my little secret until it explodes in my face? Or go looking for demons and see if they’d take me in? Like hell...”

She laughed, sharp and humorless, before sighing. The thought twisted in her gut. The part that should’ve recoiled… didn’t. It just felt like weighing options. Like flipping a coin.

“Gods, Amelia,” she whispered. “What would you say if you saw me now? Would you even recognize me?”

The silence answered back.

Morgana knocked back the last of her glass and slammed it down, shaking her head. “Doesn’t matter. Amelia’s dead. Morgana’s all that’s left. And Morgana doesn’t get to cry about it.”

She sat for a long while, staring at the dying candle flame, until at last she blew it out and let the house sink into darkness.