The fire crackled, and the wind whistled through the frigid air. Each man sat in silence, staring into the flames. A log shifted and fell, breaking the silence and sending sparks flying into the air.

"Alright then," Cross grunted, "Yoran start. We'll go 'round the circle after you."

Quill looked to the intimidating figure seated two spots to his left. He hadn't spoken to Yoran since his first night here, but was eager to add the Fjorlander's words to his journal. The blond, bearded giant stood, his hulking mass casting a long shadow behind him. 

Yoran grunted, then launched into a tale of violence and glory. His speech was broken and hard to follow at times, but Quill made sure to jot down his every word. He spoke of his time on the islands of the Fjorlan, of the first battle he ever fought. He gave no details as to the numbers, the tactics, or even where the battle took place. He simply spoke of the men he slaughtered and wounds he'd earned, proudly pointing to different scars for each one. More than anything, Quill could tell that this was a man who simply enjoyed the fight. The Fjorlan Wars had ended years ago and now Yoran had found a new war to fight.

When he was done, Yoran sat back down and let out a tired sigh. Quill had never heard the man talk so long and doubted he ever would again.

Next was Trevin. He seemed hesitant, both hands scratching nervously at his neck.

"Come on, Twitch," Slim said. "Give us a tale."

The little man stood, began his habit of tapping his fingers together, and started to pace in a small circle a away from the firelight.

"I d-don't have many good stories to tell," Trevin began. He mumbled something under his breath, still pacing. Then he stopped abruptly, holding up one index finger as though he just solved a riddle. Scrambling back to his spot, he rummaged in his pack. He produced a small, square piece of cloth. Once blue it had almost completely faded to a gray, like a distant memory on the verge of being forgotten altogether.

"M-my mother made this for m-me when I was little." Trevin's tics seemed to calm as he held the cloth, he almost seemed calm. "Lots of other k-kids would make fun of me when I was l-little. They would say I talked f-funny or push me around 'c-cause I was so small. I a-always came home with dirt on my face or a bloody n-nose. M-mom would clean me up every time and she m-made me this for me."

He held up the cloth.

"We didn't have m-much. She would always be giving up her meals so I c-could have something."

He paused, a sad smile on his face

"Once, while she w-was cleaning me up, she s-smiled and said 'No matter what happens to you, I'll be there to clean you up.'"

His smile faded.

"The n-next day I came home after s-some kids had b-beat me real bad and she was...," he swallowed, "I found her d-dead at the front door, and she had t-this," he held up the handkerchief, "in h-her hand. I can't remember her f-face anymore. Just her smile... and this."

Quill stopped writing for a moment, eyes fixed to the fire again. He hadn't thought about his mother in a long time. She'd died giving birth to him. He'd never known her, but wondered if she would have been that kind.

Trevin sat clutching the handkerchief to his chest. His hands shook, eyes flicking nervously around the circle.

"I g-guess it wasn't a very g-good story after all."

No one responded. No comfort. No jest.

 Slim stood next, cleared his throat, and licked the scar on his lip.

"Before I joined up I was... well, guess you coulda called me a bounty hunter."

He tugged at his ear, chewing the words in his mouth.

"I killed a lot of people. Lot more than I care to count. Now, they were people that the law deemed as necessary fat to cut from society, but that don't mean much, I s'pose. Anyway, there was this one time I was tracking down this thief. Shot a shop keep with a crossbow and taken all the silver he could carry. He wasn't a professional, not like some of the bastards I hunted. Just some kid from outside Svorsik. Bounty wasn't worth much, but I figured it'd be easy money."

Slim rubbed his chin, scratching at his beard.

"Didn't take long to find him. He was holed up in a shithole tavern in some backwater town. He was already dead drunk when I walked in. I sat down at his table and he seemed to understand who I was. 'I ain't mean to do it mister. I ain't never used a crossbow before. The trigger was busted, I swear.' He was blubbering and confessing before I even got the chance to say anything. Gave all the same excuses I'd heard a thousand times. But as he's sitting there, crying and snotting into his cup, he asked me 'Why I gotta die for making a mistake? What good's it gonna do anybody now?' I'd heard it plenty of times before, but for some reason, looking at that kid, I couldn't help but feel bad for him. Yeah he'd made a terrible choice, gotten someone killed, but did he deserve death?"

Slim took a deep breath and shook his head.

"I killed a lot of people who probably had it coming. But most had been just like this kid. Just one bad call and I was there to tie their noose. What good was I doing with that? I never really wanted to be a killer, but it was the only damn thing I knew. Made money. Killed bad guys. Enough to tell myself I was doing right. Now, I killed that boy. Don't get it twisted, I wasn't soft enough to be swayed that easily. But from then on his final pleas always stuck with me. Could never shake the idea that I could be doing something better... something where I didn't have to watch so many cry and beg for their lives over a mistake."

Slim nodded and sat down, "Guess that's why I'm here."

"I am next!" Stevan leapt up, clapping his hands in excitement.

"In my home, Pesapeli, I train with spear for many years. From when I was a boy, I spend all day sparring, running, preparing. When I was ready I fight in front of the crowds whose numbers you could not fathom. I win and win and win. No man in all of Pesapeli, no all of Liravel, could match my spear." 

He was moving now, miming thrusts, parries, dodges as if he had a spear in hand. 

"Once they put three men in front of me, each a master of their weapon. But their weapon was not the spear. I jab, step, spin. They cannot match my speed, they cannot overwhelm me. They are slow of foot and weak of mind. One by one they fall to my swift spear. The crowd cheers are so loud I do not hear the final man return to his feet."

He paused for dramatic effect, enjoying his own story more than anyone else.

"GAH! A blade in the back! Is this the end of the great Stevan. NO! I swirl like pool of whirl. Sweeping legs and planting spear into his chest. I grab the sword and lick my own blood off the blade. The crowd has never seen so fierce a warrior. Stevan stands alone, no comrades, no rivals... no one to hold him back."

At the final sentence, Stevan lost his smile. Quill saw it then, a crack in the facade.

"Why'd you leave then?" Quill asked.

Stevan forced a grin back onto his face. "There was no more to do there, no more to prove. There is a man here they say is greater than even Stevan with a spear."

"Who?"

Cross answered, "One of the Bloodletters, the one they call Spear."

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

Slim chimed in, voice low, "The Bloodletters are the strongest we've got. The Order literally breeds them for killing Hallowbound. They aren't men anymore, just weapons."

Stevan hesitated, then laughed, "I have not yet seen this 'Spear', but I pray I will soon, for people speak as though he is from another world."

Stevan continued with another story of how he bested a man while blindfolded but his jovial tone from before had dimmed When he finally sat, he did not smile for the rest of the night.

Deckard rose to his feet next, taking one last puff of his Kindleroot before reciting what sounded like a memorized story.

"There were once three brothers, each named Halder. They were born by farmers, but each brother took a different path in life. The oldest quickly left home, taking his inheritance and started a trading company. He became wealthy beyond his wildest dreams. Every desire he had, money could buy. He was happy for a while, but soon it became impossible to outdo himself. He spent every waking moment desperately chasing more and more. His greed consumed him. His happiness short lived as he lost everything he had built. The middle brother left home later, choosing to become a warrior. He took his inheritance and bought a sword and armor. He fought bravely in many battles, won duels and tourneys. He drank, whored, and killed as he pleased. Succumbing to all the temptations of the flesh. But in the end, as it is with all men like him, he lost. A mortal wound inflicted upon him. It took three days for him to die. Not a single soul came to his deathbed. Except..."

Deckard held a hand in the air as he paused, locking eyes with Quill.

"The youngest brother had never left home. Instead he took over the farm from his father. He watched his parents grow old and die. He used his inheritance to give them peace in their final years. Every day, he went to bed exhausted and woke the next morning sore. But every day, he worked. He worked so his village could have food. So his family could survive. He did the work his brothers wanted so desperately to avoid. On his deathbed, the middle brother told the younger that he wished he had stayed on the farm."

"Did the younger brother have a happy ending, then?" Quill asked.

"Who's to say," Deckard shrugged. "The younger brother lived a hard strenuous life. If he had any dreams of his own he set them aside to do what he thought was necessary. That's all."

"That more of your Iacred shite?" Vardok asked.

Cross shot him a hard look, another log shifted in the fire. "Vardok."

Vardok raised his hands, "I ain't judgin'. Just the way I say things, Sarge."

Deckard nodded. "It's a tale my teacher told me, many years ago. I only heard it the once, but it's stayed with me."

A long moment of silence followed. Cross stood and tossed another log onto the fire, sending sparks into the air and fading into the darkness. Another gust of wind blew in, but Quill felt strangely warm beside the fire. He smoked his pipe and continued writing in his journal as the next man spoke.

"I ain't got no lessons to teach," Vardok began, "or any sad tales to tell. Not much 'bout my life you'd wanna hear."

He rubbed his scalp and sucked his teeth.

"So I'll just tell you all the shite then. I weren't no paladin or knight. Just a big bastard from a little town down south, by the border. Worked at the butcher shop, got a girl, did what everyone else did. But I was a drinker and my girl, well... she weren't no saint neither. I was drunk one night and found her with another guy from town. I was so bleedin' mad, I didn't even want an explanation. I was glad to get the chance to kill that fucker."

Quill's eyes widened. He looked around to see if anyone else would react to this confession of cold blooded murder. None did.

"They tossed me in a cell. Let me choose to meet the hangman or join the banners. Not much of a choice really. Soldiered for a little while. Did my share of wadin' through the blood and the mud. Finally had enough and deserted. Not much for a man like me to do on the run. Started robbin' on the roads. Killin' and stealin' to survive. Joined a crew for a while. Went sideways. Don't know if any of 'em are still alive. Joined The Order just before the last Crusade. 'Bout eight years ago now..."

He trailed off, eyes glued to the fire.

"I ain't no good man. Never will be. Could argue I shoulda gone to meet the hangman way back when. But here I am. Still breathin'. Still wadin' through the shit. Just waitin' out my sentence, like the rest of you."

On that final note the man sat and recovered his pipe like nothing had happened. Quill's hands shook. He knew these were hard men, but didn't expect a full fledged outlaw to be amongst them. 

There will be no judgment for any man

Quill remembered the Sergeant's words from the previous night. No one shook their head at the brigand, or pulled away from him. Whatever was said at this fire, no one would hold against you. It was a time to confess, preach, or simply reminisce. He understood now. This wasn't a social gathering, but a place for your final words. How many of these men would survive the Crusade? 

Will I?

The thought crept into Quill's mind before he rebuffed himself.

"I will not perish," he muttered quietly enough to not be heard over the crackling fire.

Wil looked to Quill as he came to his feet.

"I told you I'd tell you how I came to be here. I suppose now is as good a time as any."

Quill forced a smile, but instinctively touched the place where Wil's blade nearly had cut his story short.

"I was born to the noble family of Fontel. I grew up wealthy, not like many of you here. Anything I needed was delivered to me on a silver platter. But I had a duty to fulfil. The life I led carried a price, same as anyone's. I spent years training to become a knight. Not just one in name or rank. I was meant to lead armies for the king. And I did... for a time."

His eyes focused on Quill once more.

"I spent more time among the nobility and the royalty of Storovan. I participated in their tourneys. Attended their feasts. Stood guard as the king held court. And when the war with the Sutherlands came, I marched to battle like any loyal soldier. My father had always told me it was a great and noble honor to become a knight of the king. That my life would serve a great purpose. He was mistaken. I was lauded as a fine military commander as I sent common folk to meet their demise. I watched good men turn to feral beasts as they pillaged a fallen city."

He clenched his teeth now, spitting the next words with vitriol.

"I watched as the lords and ladies of the land I served, whined about their drink and the toll the war had taken on them. I watched them commit evil atrocities to serve their own deplorable desires. Anyone without a family name was not even human to them. Not something worth fretting over. And they all loved me. I was exactly who they wanted me to be in my position. A tool who felled their foes and asked for nothing in return. A man who sat idly by as they did whatever they pleased to the people they lorded over."

Wil shook his head, tongue poking into his cheek.

"Unfortunately I was a coward. I couldn't stop them. Couldn't stand up for the people or kill the most vile of their tormentors. I ran. I wanted to do something more. I spent my whole life chasing that great purpose my father had told me about. I didn't even believe in the Hallowbound before I came here. But once I clapped eyes upon one of those vile creatures, I knew. I knew that ridding the world of these monsters would give me the purpose I'd longed for. So I sit here among you by choice, and I swear unto you all here around this fire: I will spend whatever life I have left to see these Hallowbound to their doom."

He was breathing heavily. His final sentences rising nearly to a shout. He cleared his throat, calming himself and took a seat. He looked to Quill one more time.

"Get all that down?"

Quill simply nodded.

Again, there was silence. Each man sat with Wil's story for a time, just as they had done for each tale told this night. Quill realized he was next. His heart raced. He'd been so focused on the others' stories that he was wholly unprepared when his turn came.

Cross broke the silence. "You're up, scribbler."

Quill set his journal aside and stood. They all looked to him now. He cleared his throat and rubbed his hands together, nerves betraying him.

"I... don't have any tales quite like yours. You've all lived more life than I, perhaps, ever will."

He looked at each of them. They all stared back, expectant. They wouldn't let him off without sharing something. 

"Well, I had a rather bland childhood. Born to a family of insignificant nobility. I never knew my mother... she died during my birth. I think my father always blamed me for that. I have one older brother. He was a mean spirited boy, always roughed me up when we were young. As we grew, I took to books and stories. He took the soldier's path."

Quill didn't know where this tale was goin. But the night—the fire—seemed to be drawing it out of him.

"I did learn to fence though. I was quite good. I was never the strongest man in a contest, but I was coordinated, had good instincts. Got close to winning a touney a few years back. Didn't have many friends."

Why tell them that?

"I wasn't exactly an outcast. But I wasn't really needed either, I guess. My brother was the heir and my father seemed to only see my mother's death when he looked at me. Always a slight frown when I saw him. Before I left, he arranged a marriage for me—some woman from another noble house, just as inconsequential as ours."

I should stop, I know where this ends.

"I didn't want to, though. I wanted my own life. I wanted to write stories like the ones I spent all my time reading. But I couldn't. I was too much of a coward to actually disobey my father, too scared of losing the life I hated to chase the one I actually wanted."

Stop.

"The night before the wedding I went to get as drunk as I possibly could. Found the seediest tavern I could and began my dive in the depths of oblivion. There were men there. Just... normal men."

Quill couldn't stop now, his eyes fixed on the flickering flame. He'd sworn to never think of that night again, yet here he was, spilling everything to men he hadn't known but for a handful of days.

"I had only finished one mug when one of them approached me so the ale hadn't dulled my senses yet. He said that he recognized me, that he worked for my father. He was happy, said my father paid him well. Put a hand on my shoulder. Asked to share a drink. Smiling all the while. I don't know why I did it. I was just so angry. Couldn't even tell you why. My troubles weren't his fault."

A man kinder to me than my own family ever was.

"I swung my mug at his head and when he fell, he hit the counter at a bad angle. I killed him. And that night, I ran. And here I am."

He finally broke free of the fire's spell and raised his eyes. They all looked at him, or at the fire, not a trace of judgment in their eyes. They responded with the same silence everyone else had received. Quill sat back down. But he did not reopen his journal.

Sergeant Cross was the final man to speak. He didn't stand like the rest, he just sat there, smoking his pipe.

"You know, I don't sleep much anymore. And when I do sleep, I dream. I don't know if you'd call it a nightmare, but it's always the same. Every time. I don't know where I am, just in some void. But I'm on a ladder. Climbing. I don't know why, but I must reach the top. Above me, there are endless people, hanging on desperately. Clinging to the ladder, just to survive. Trying to avoid the fall that always comes."

He exhaled a puff of smoke.

"So, I tear them down. Each rung another man. Another familiar face. Another fallen comrade. Some I recognize. Some I can't quite place. But ever higher I climb. Their screams fill the void below me as they fall, each one adding to the ceaseless cacophony. I get so damn tired—climbing and climbing and climbing. My hands are slick with sweat. My arms and legs ache from exhaustion. But up I go. Soon, the men above turn to Hallowbound. Creatures I've fought and slain... some I haven't. They go down all the same. Each time I dream it feels like weeks pass. Like the ladder never ends. Like the only way out is to simply let go and fall into the void."

His face didn't change, but he shook his head.

"I can't fall. I must reach the top. So I grab the next rung… then the next… then the next And finally—I reach it. I hoist my body over the edge, limp and barely breathing."

"What do you see?" Quill asked, unable to help himself. "At the top?"

Cross met his gaze. "I see a set of stairs. And then I wake up."