The gnoll's sword swung through empty air, and then Allana was behind it, her dagger prodding it in the unarmored fur of its lower legs.

The monster yipped at the sharp pain and spun around, but Allana was already gone, a combination of swift strides, dancing leaps, and flickering Trick Steps bringing her behind another of her foes. Too distracted by the illumination of her Compelling Pattern, the outsider didn't even have the chance to respond as Allana reached around its broad shoulders and cut its throat.

More sounds of rage came at the death of another gnoll–the fourth so far. Allana had started the fight outnumbered a dozen-to-one, but she had already winnoweddown a third of the bestial outsiders without taking so much as a wound, and now she was turning a corner in the fight.

The first three gnolls she had attacked had only been poked with her daggers, but those light wounds were enough, and now, several minutes into the fight, the resilience poison she had afflicted them with was taking its toll. The wraith threw up a cloud of awareness poison over the three, further disorienting them, and within a minute, there was no activity left in the obscuring smoke.

Seven down.

Now the remaining gnolls were backing off, the tactical instincts drilled into them by the hags finally overruling their anger and frustration at Allana so easily handling them. Two threw their crude javelins in long casts while the others turned–and ran right into another Compelling Pattern floating in the air. Distracted as they were, two more gnolls fell to the villagers that had been carefully waiting downtrail from the fight. Pitchforks and scythes weren't particularly effective weapons, but when your foes weren't even trying to defend themselves, they certainly did the job.

Allana, meanwhile, had effortlessly brushed the two thrown weapons out of the air and closed the distance on the last two gnolls. Witchglass swords came out, and Allana met the two outsider soldiers in a blur of bright steel and purple skin that soon left the last of the invaders bleeding on the ground.

[Gift of the Trickster] experience gained

Experience: 96%

Close. Very close.

Allana had been in Valley Hearth for nearly a month now, and as winter reached its deepest and coldest days, she had been kept busy. Nearly every day brought a fight of some kind, either against the numerous natural beasts that were spawned by the rampant and wild magic of the dead season, or against the leftovers of the raiding army the rot hag had brought with her, as had been the case with these gnolls.

The gift of the trickster didn't necessarily need combat to gain experience, but Allana was more than willing to use the opportunities being presented to her. Her new fighting style had been honed more and more with each passing day, a style built on feints and deceit, distractions and tricks, and that fighting style was enough to pump experience into her gift, slowly but surely.

Of course, that left her with a difficult question, one that was becoming more and more pressing with each passing day.

#

That night, Allana sat alone in her room, fiddling, as she so often did, with the collection of bits and bobs and spare junk that she had steadily accumulated into three large, fat jars.

When she was younger, making her ornaments, crude jewelry and simple decorations and the like, had been an escape from her everyday existence. Life in Emeston had been hard, especially for a street orphan, and after long days spent slitting purses and picking pockets, sitting by herself and making something became a sacred act to her. A chance for her to put something back into a world she had to steal from just to survive. She had even, for a little while, left her ornaments in place of the money and precious objects she stole, an act of insignificant recompense.

That had stopped when Telik had caught on. The crimelord was convinced that it was Allana's way of trying to leave a calling card, a signature mark of her robberies, a way to build her reputation–and a habit that Telik had been sure would get her caught.

So he beat her. Beatings weren't uncommon in her time with Telik, particularly when she was younger. Sometimes they were to teach her a lesson, or to drive home a point, or to punish her for a mistake, while other times, they were merely to "harden her," or so the crimelord had claimed.

That was when Allana had begun to keep her trinkets to herself. It was also, she only now realized, when she had started to truly hate Telik, even if she hadn't known it at the time.

Allana reached down, and idly toyed with the dangling charms on her bracelet–the first thing she had made for herself in years, a physical embodiment of the connections she had forged. The band was little more than wire tarnished to a slight purple hue, the charms trash discarded by everyone else, but to Allana, it was important. It was a symbol of her having moved on from the shell of a girl that Emeston had nearly reduced her to.

The blue gem, the red and white marble, the silvery scrap metal, the knotted white cloth, the counterfeit coin. They were her friends, and they were important–and apparently, Allana wasn't the only one who felt that way.

In recognition of your creativity and sincerity, the Adventurer has offered you [the Gift of the Tinkerer].

You cannot accept a third gift at this time. Reach Initiate with both of your gifts to open up your third gift slot.

In the aftermath of the Battle of Keystone, Allana had been kept busy, enough so that she had avoided the question of the Adventurer's gift. But now, with Initiate level just days away, she couldn't afford to push the question off anymore. Soon, she'd need to make her decision and choose her third gift, and once she did, there would be no going back.

The Mendicant, at least, had heard of the gift of the tinkerer, even if they hadn't seen its like in many years. Although granted by the Adventurer, it was mechanically similar to the gifts of the Artisan. It would allow Allana the chance to imbue her little trinkets with magic. Though less potent and varied than the powerful magical items that could be created by master smiths and the like, it would give a depth and meaning to what was really little more than an idle hobby (as she often insisted to herself).

The problem was, Allana was unsure if that was the right choice. After all, her crafting was enjoyable, and relaxing, but it was just something she did. It wasn't who she was.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

She was, like it or not, a killer. A dagger in the dark, a specter of looming death. And, apparently, she wasn't the only one to think that.

In recognition of your skill in battle, the Veteran has offered you [the Gift of the Slayer].

You cannot accept a third gift at this time. Reach Initiate with both of your gifts to open up your third gift slot.

The slayer was a more straight-forwrd gift, as would be expected of the archetype associated with sentinels and dedicated battle-gifted. It would offer her the special attacks she desperately needed, and give her an array of tricks against even the most dangerous of outsiders. It was, objectively, the correct choice.

All she had to do was accept who and what she was, and make the decision she had been putting off since she left Emeston.

A noise of wordless frustration slipped from the girl's lips, and she threw the junk she was fiddling with aside. Her crafting wasn't bringing her any solace, not tonight.

Allana turned towards the door–then paused. She knew her friends would be downstairs even now, talking and drinking and flirting and sharing stories of that day's encounters. Maybe, if she joined them, she could distract herself from the looming decision for a time.

But she couldn't afford to do that, could she?

Allana turned around instead, her eyes moving to the window–and the vague form of a tree in the distance. She took a breath–and then she was there, standing on a tree branch, breathing in the quiet night air.

#

"Not in the mood to hang out?"

Allana blinked, the voice jarring her out of a reverie she hadn't realized she had slipped into. Around her, the night had grown deep and quiet, and overhead, the moon hung massive in the air, stars twinkling around it, illuminating Keystone with a dim light that the snow reflected a million times over into a flat, diffuse illumination.

It took her a second to find the source of the voice, leaning against the tree trunk fifteen feet or so below her. "Aton?" she asked.

"Guilty."

Allana felt her lips curl into a small smile. "In more ways than one."

"Ouch," the sellsword said, feigning hurt. "Look who's talking."

Allana rolled her eyes–and then she slid off of the branch she was sitting on. She fell silently to the snow covered ground, landing in a crouch, and stood up to give the eclipsed man a smile.

Unlike Oli, Aton hadn't done anything to physically transition. Instead, he had simply cut his dark gold hair short and wore rough, masculine clothing. Still, there was something in his bearing, his demeanor–no one with a working mind would mistake Aton for a woman, any more than they could call the bright moon overhead the sun.

"So," Aton asked, unperturbed by Allana's sudden descent, "what's got you all sullen and lonesome?"

Allana rolled her eyes. "Nothing."

"Wrong. Try again."

Allana arched a violet brow at the man. "And what's it to you?"

Aton shrugged, not moving from his casual, lounging posture. "I think you've been conflicted for a little while now," he told her. "I've noticed it ever since I got here. And I think you need someone to talk about it with."

Allana frowned at him. "I've talked about it plenty, trust me. I'm all set."

"Yeah–you talked about it with your friends. Tenebres, and Cadence, maybe even the knights. But they didn't really say anything you needed to hear, did they?"

Allana crossed her arms, giving the man a level look–but she didn't try to claim he was wrong.

When she didn't interrupt him, Aton nodded and continued, "See, we've got a little bit in common. A past that the rest of them can't really get their heads around."

"You were a noble that ran out on your family," Allana reminded him. "I was a street orphan. I don't know how much we have in common, Aton."

The swordsman sighed. "Don't be stupid, Allana. I don't mean where we came from–not all the way to the beginning, at least. But we both spent some time doing things the rest of them in there haven't. You did it on the street, and I did it on the road, but at the end of the day, the only difference between a thief and a bandit is timing and location."

"What's your point?"

Aton returned her look, his burnished gold eyes direct. "Tell me if I'm close. You're tearing yourself up because you don't know who you are. You're trying to be an adventurer or whatever, but deep down inside, you're convinced you're still that girl who stole and scraped and killed to survive. And now, you're trying to choose your third gift–and you don't know who it is you're supposed to be, and which gift reflects that person best."

Allana swallowed, her throat suddenly tight, and Aton nodded, apparently having gotten all the confirmation he needed from her expression. "Yeah. And all your friends, even that little boy who spent some time with you in Emeston, they've been trying to reassure you you're not that person anymore, that you can grow, and be someone new and different, and you want to believe them, but no matter how much you try, you just can't."

Aton pushed himself off of the tree, and he looked up at the big round, moon overhead, his eyes distant. "I'm not going to stand here and tell you you're a different person, Allana. I don't know you very well now, and I certainly didn't know the old you. But I'll tell you this much–people can change. We can become more than who we used to be."

"How do you know?" Allana hated how weak, how desperate, her voice came out.

Aton, as if sensing that she wouldn't appreciate physical comfort from him, just shrugged, eyes still cast upwards. "I have to believe that, Allana. It's the only way I can keep going. If I think that I will always be that selfish, cowardly, arrogant asshole that met Oli and Cadence in that raid all those months ago, then I might as well go inside and ask Farris to execute me now, before I can hurt anyone else. Instead… Instead, I'm trying to be better, trying to grow. And you are too." The swordsman blew out a long, long breath. "At the end of the day, I think that's all we can do. Being a better person isn't just a switch you can flip–it's a series of decisions, choices that you make every single day.

"And yeah, it's hard. It's so, so fucking hard. And yeah, sometimes I fuck up, and I fall back into old habits–and when I do, I'm lucky enough to have someone standing there behind me, to remind me that I need to get better." Aton turned around and started walking, back in the direction of Keystone and their inn. "I find that, when it comes right down to it, it's all pretty simple, Allana. I know the right choices. That doesn't make it easy. But it does make it simple. And I bet, if you push all your self-pity and shitty memories aside, you know what the right answer is."

Allana didn't follow Aton. She watched him go, watched him open the door and return to the warm light of the inn, to the arms of the person who pushed him to be better than he was, to the girl he loved.

"He's right, you know."

Allana smiled at Tenebres, as he slipped around the tree trunk, unsurprised by his presence, even if Aton hadn't seemed to notice him. The slender boy was bundled in at least three layers of cloaks against the cold, lacking the resilience that let Allana ignore it.

"I know," Allana said.

The choice wasn't easy–but it was simple. Allana wanted to be better than she was. She didn't want to be defined by death. Maybe, one day, killing could be what she did, rather than who she was.

And if she wanted to keep walking towards that future, she knew exactly what the next step was.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.