Vim could see the red creeping onto Sir Constance’s face, his flushed cheeks and the vagueness of his gaze, and it reminded him of his own first drink. He had been around twelve. He could still remember the extreme nausea and overwhelming urge to either vomit or pass out. He could imagine that was how Sir Constance was feeling now. Vim was honed in on every word the group exchanged with Constance, making sure the interaction went the way he wanted it. Constance was still struggling to appear in control, which was nothing less than Vim had expected. Though Vim continued to remind himself that this evening of the score was strictly practical, a way of staying safe, he found himself rather glad that the knight hadn’t fallen under the influence of alcohol too quickly. It wouldn’t give Vim quite the same feeling if he didn’t get to watch Constance fight it first. The amused incredulity of the collected group meant Vim didn’t have to do anything but let things play out how they would. Some years ago, this would have been nothing to Vim. He would have done something like this as a palate-cleanser before his real dirty work began. So, really, it could be said that Vim was making great progress. People didn’t simply become saints overnight.

“It is. I’ve never really understood the appeal of drinking - I understand it far less now.” Vim could see by the looks of the people around him that this thought was even more outlandish to them than anything they’d heard so far. They laughed and exclaimed loudly that Constance must be crazy not to like alcohol. Vim hadn’t expected Constance to like alcohol - who in the world did when they first had it? Even if he had, surely the knight wouldn’t have humiliated himself by admitting it.

The group was digging into the food now, and Mercy, apparently in an attempt to be polite, said to Vim, “Aren’t you having any?” Vim murmured something agreeable and reached to the center of the table to grab a piece of pandemain. He watched Constance out of the corner of his eye, seeing him slipping farther and farther from reality. One of Vim’s necklaces with a simple metal band clinked gently against a plate as he leaned forward. “Oh, you have so many necklaces,” said Mercy, reaching out to take one of the symbols between her fingers. “They’re all religious?” Before Vim could reply, she launched into an explanation about her own religious journey. The man next to her groaned and rolled his eyes, as though he’s heard this story one too many times. Vim feigned polite interest, but quite suddenly a voice cut her off.

“Please - everything coming out of your mouth is so mind numbingly dull that even I’m willing to pray to a deity of sound to shut you up.” Mercy stopped mid-sentence, looking greatly offended. The rest of the group roared with laughter, and Creed gave Constance a friendly slap on the back. Constance went on. “Faith isn’t something you go looking for anyway, it’s something that finds you in your darkest hours.” A few of the group scoffed, and Mercy looked even more offended. She glanced at Vim as though hoping he would back her up, but he kept his gaze on Constance. Though he was, at the moment, inclined to disagree with anything Constance said on principle, he was curious if the knight would elaborate. Though he didn’t like to think Sir Constance knew more than him about the subject, it seemed the man had found a religion he really believed in, something Vim had yet to achieve.

Constance, however, went on to talk about the Heroes, and Vim checked his curiosity, bringing himself back to a state of mild interest. His next words were rather worse. Vim didn’t bat an eye, though he felt a prickle of disease. The group laughed, as he had figured they would, but he didn’t think that would be the end of that. Mercy, obviously still miffed at Constance, exclaimed loudly, “Chosen!”

The knight, in a dizzy delay, responded with a drunken scowl. “You think this is a joke?” Constance turned to look at Vim, and Vim prepared himself for whatever Constance was about to ask or demand of him. “Go ahead and tell them Vim - we’re chosen, aren’t we?”

Vim took a sip from his mug, giving himself a moment to overcome his immediate urge to openly disagree with Constance. Oh, he would have loved to do that. But he was still traveling with this man, and he had to stay on his good side. “Yes,” said Vim mollifyingly. “We’re chosen.” He waited until the moment Constance took his eyes off of him, and cast a glance in the direction of the person sitting nearest him, giving a wry look and roll of the eyes that clearly indicated: He’s got a screw loose. The group laughed again, then redoubled their laughter when they realized Constance didn’t know what they were laughing at.

“I’ve got the map to prove it- the map that leads to them. The Heroes.” The group laughed again, but a bit more quietly. A few of them were looking curious. Did he really have a map? They exchanged glances, and the other woman said in a serious voice, “I heard they sent some people from Victory to look for the Heroes. Only I heard there were more.”

“What happened to the others, did they get eaten by a wild goat or something?” Creed joked rather lamely, still looking interested in whatever was about to happen.

Vim knew for a fact that showing them the map was a bad idea. Though nothing had been said about them keeping quiet about this quest, he had taken it to be understood. Vim already had a bad reputation in Victory, and Constance was a High Knight abandoning his post. They were in competition with a group sent by the royals. Even if the king could accept this gross insult to his authority, he might not have the most favorable idea of their intentions. When Vim had set this little scenario up, he hadn’t been expecting Constance to spill all the beans. But he wasn’t panicking just yet. Constance gave Vim an order to get the map, obviously expecting nothing but obedience. Vim gave a quiet “of course,” and stood up. He picked his way through the crowd, having more trouble navigating now that he didn’t have Constance to clear a path for him. He stepped out into the evening air, and made his way towards the stables, where the two horses were waiting patiently. Vim moved in towards Templar, slightly wary. He wasn’t sure this huge, untamed beast was going to let Vim anywhere near it. He sidled closer to the horse, and reached slowly towards the pannier. Though Templar flared his nostrils and snorted, he didn’t make any move to kick, bite, or otherwise injure Vim. Inside the pannier was the map, rolled up neatly with Constance’s other belongings. Vim took it out and made his way with a quick stride towards the road, eyes peeled for any nook or cranny that would serve to protect the map while it was hidden from Sir Constance. He needed somewhere safe, but somewhere where it looked like the map could have fallen while they were riding. Somewhere they’d already passed. Finally Vim found the perfect place and tucked it in, pausing just a moment to second-guess himself. What if something happened to it? What if he couldn’t find it again? Looking around, he saw a small whitish-looking rock and set it near the map to mark the location inconspicuously.

As Vim wended his way back to their table, he could see the group watching his approach with keen interest. He paused for a moment to let a look of worry come over his face. He needed Constance to believe he hadn’t been able to find the map. He could even overdo it slightly - Constance, in this state, was sure not to notice, and the group would think Vim was lying. “Sir Constance,” Vim said in an anxious voice as he drew closer, “I looked for the map everywhere, I can’t find it.”

The group, who had been holding their breath waiting to see this heroic map, let out groans. “Chosen,” Mercy scoffed, giving Constance a patronizing look.

“What a crock!” said Liberty, rolling his eyes.

The group was back to laughing at Constance, and making such a racket now that a few people sitting at neighboring tables were looking over at them. Vim was still standing, waiting to see what Constance would do. He knew this was beyond a “little push in the right direction.” He was lying now, but if it was a choice between lying and revealing their quest to the whole inn, he would absolutely rather do this. He was fine with Constance weaving around drunkenly all night, but this was something else. Something Vim did not want an inebriated Constance dealing with. Now he was doing something Vim was going to be affected by. Which wasn’t the point. It was a matter of principles. But it wasn’t quite as harmless if it put Vim in danger.

He hadn’t intended things to turn out this way, and perhaps they were getting a little dangerous. But that danger was giving Vim an exhilarating thrill. He watched the impact of his words wash over Constance’s face. The corners of Vim's mouth began to curl up, but he quickly stifled his smile. Instead, he furrowed his brow and frowned, looking to Constance as though he expected him to take control of the situation. He wanted that weight of responsibility on Constance’s shoulders, even as the knight's head spun. Even as Vim became more sure that it was him who was in control. The knight laughed at Vim, as though it was a tasteless prank, but Vim kept pushing. “It’s not with Templar, not on the trail, not in the stables. I don’t know where it could be.” All the same, Vim shot a few more side glances at the group, who tittered in amusement. Constance seemed to register the information sluggishly, the cogs of his brain turning slowly.

And then, quite suddenly, the knight slammed his fist on the table and stood, announcing that the map had been stolen. The group screamed with mirth, and as Constance turned his gaze away Vim allowed himself a fleeting smile. But Constance went on, “Someone’s going to die.” The group quieted down, exchanging uncertain glances. Vim stirred in his seat, not yet scared of what Constance was going to do but still curious. The knight was drunk, certainly, but he was still armed, strong, and well-trained - and as much as he was savoring his delightful revenge, Vim didn’t want anyone to get hurt, nor for Constance to wind up in trouble with the local authorities. Constance staggered away from the table. Vim stood, offering a polite nod to the group, who were watching the knight. “Excuse me for a moment,” Vim said to them quickly, and he weaved his way through the crowd towards Constance. He was sure he’d be able to calm the knight down if it was needed.

But before he could reach him, Constance’s loud and commanding voice piped up. “Somebody here stole my map. My. Map. I want it back. Now.” Vim paused, and heard a jeering voice call out in return, and the raucous laughter of the patrons. Vim fell back, amusement playing on his face as Constance shouted at nobody in particular, doing nothing but further entertain the crowd. He was tempted to push through them to get a front-row seat to Constance’s righteous outrage, but he’d already done one reckless thing to land him in danger today. With great difficulty he managed to stay put. He could see Constance’s head as the knight climbed up on a table. The knight’s tirade carried through the room, and people stopped their conversations to look around and join in the tides of glee. Caught up in the fervor of a wildly laughing crowd, any doubt Vim might have had disappeared and he rocked onto his feet. The mob mentality carried him away, yes. But more than that, he reveled in the idea that he had caused all of these people to turn on Constance.

He was almost disappointed when Sir Constance ended his rant and was ousted from his position on the table. Vim was just getting ready to wriggle over there and “save” Constance, just rub salt in the wound, when he saw a large man talking to Constance. They seemed to be arguing, and the man was slowly steering Constance towards the door. Seeing where this was going, Vim watched as the knight was unceremoniously thrown out, still fuming and shouting. Vim paused for a moment, then turned back to their table and made his way to the group. “So sorry you had to see that,” he said lightly, gathering anything they’d left at the table. “Please, feel free to finish up the food. I’d best go after him - before he goes screaming down the street for his map.” They were hearty and in good spirits again, and delighted with Vim’s little joke. He stepped through the door out into the crisp evening air.

Constance was next to his steed, feverishly searching for the map. As soon as he spotted Vim, he hurried over, still letting out a ceaseless string of threats. Vim nodded as if in understanding, peering up into Constance’s eyes with an expression of great concern and even pity. “The miscarriage of justice in this kingdom is staggering,” he said, keeping his voice even and low to counter Constance’s blind anger. “But . . . you don’t suppose the thief has already gotten away?” He maintained eye contact as well as he could with Constance’s frantic energy. “Back doors, side exits - they wouldn’t dare come out here with you, would they? I imagine they’re already running back home with their little treasure. Maybe if we hadn’t given them so much warning, made so much noise about it. But what’s done is done, isn’t it?” His dark eyes gleamed, and he leaned in slightly. “I never would have expected it. Stealing from you, of all people. I certainly wouldn’t have thought they could get away with it so easily. And on your quest, too. After all you’ve done for the Heroes, you were so close to doing the very greatest thing. It’s such a shame about the map. But it’s my fault, really. If I’d known what would happen, I could have intervened. Could have gotten the map back before it was too late.”

He leaned back again, watching Constance with narrowed eyes. As always happened, now that he was out of the lively atmosphere and his little revenge was drawing to a close, the thrill was dwindling and dull reality was setting in. But it wasn’t quite there yet, and Vim could still ignore the little voice buzzing at the back of his brain. As he leaned back, he felt the metallic weight of the Eye of Judgment weighing on his chest, and felt an explosion of irritation and resentment. He glanced down at the symbol, looking up at him in unblinking bronze. He took ahold of it and pulled it back so it was dangling down his back and he could no longer see it. He was saving his own life, he thought viciously, feeling the sudden need to justify himself. He was saving the mission that meant so much. The ends justify the means, right? He took a quiet breath and then looked back at Constance, concern still painted on his face. He craved the man’s response, whatever it was. Vim would get the map, of course. He would only string Constance along for a little longer, and then he would “find” the map, and the only consequence would be perhaps a bit more humility on the knight’s side.