Simon had been in Ordanvale for more than half a decade when he saw someone he was sure was part of the Unspoken for the first time. He was hardly the first stranger. There had been so many travelers and peddlers that Simon could hardly hope to count all of them. There had been tax collectors and nobles, too, and now that the town had a little wealth, a traveling circus came through twice a year.

It was a shabby thing with a few jugglers, a couple of acrobats, and a dancing bear, but the residents seemed to enjoy the show, so Simon never tried to run them out of town or discourage them from coming again. Instead, he sketched them and tried to capture their garish colors with his limited variety of paints.

That wasn't true of everyone else. Simon had made several ne'er-do-wells disappear in his time here. Some of those he'd paid to leave. Others he'd banished on threat of death; he'd only actually killed the two that had tried to kill him first. Simon held no position of authority here, but unofficially, his research had become more of a part-time occupation compared to his full-time task of making his community a better place.

Everyone else was focused on their profession or their family. Simon had neither; he just had a few hobbies he worked on every night, and his share of the profits from half a dozen illicit mining operations scattered throughout the nearby mountains. So, he used those profits to make everyone's life better.

He kept telling himself that this wasn't permanent. If I don't plan on doing more demon summoning, then I don't really need to stick around any longer, but he kept ignoring that advice as he found other things to spend his time on.

In some small way, he'd adopted this place and enjoyed watching the town flourish as much as the people in it. To him, it had become a sort of bonsai tree, or model railroad set. He would often just walk through town and help the first person he saw who needed it. In that way, he made the world better, one small piece at a time, even though he never quite managed to bridge that distance.

Every year, he worked on his own magical projects, but also worked on larger things that made the place more pleasing to the eye, and he imagined that he'd keep doing just that until the time came to move south to Ionar. One year, he financed the construction of a new cobblestone main street, and then the next, he personally planted slender elm trees along it at regular intervals to make it that much more picturesque.

What he wanted to do next was streetlights of some sort, but he knew that magical lights would get him hanged. Besides, even if he could figure out how to pipe out methane gas from a nearby coal bed he sometimes exploited for his forge, he was reasonably sure that would have been seen as witchcraft as well.

The unspoken certainly would. They weren't big fans of change, and in Simon's time in their library, he'd seen evidence that they'd oppressed various inventions and ideas because they considered them to be witchcraft adjacent. While Simon hadn't seen them burn a movable type printing press or anything, he expected that they would if they found one. Even little things like better ways to create paper or certain types of medicines had found their way into the White Cloak's Black Library.

While the man who had introduced himself as a sell sword named Jakob hadn't been wearing a literal white cloak, Simon had recognized the amulet around the man's neck. In another lifetime, he might have made it himself. It was a simple blazing heart motif that almost certainly used fire magic to power an aura of protection around the wearer.

None of that information made it any easier to decide what to do with him. Simon had a deep paranoia about that particular cult, but he wasn't really in the mood to execute people who hadn't given him cause, either. Simon hadn't even cast a spell in over a year. Almost anything he needed to do magically, these days he'd created some implement or artifact for, making his unassuming little home a magical trove more powerful than anything to this side of Ice Fang's hoard.

Simon wore something similar to the man's broach these days, though his was much more complicated. It didn't just try to protect him from the energies unleashed by a word of power, though. It warned him of its use, and between the two functions, that was certainly the more useful.

He didn't fear being killed by a warlock or a Magi; he was more worried about them getting the drop on him. Much like an old west movie, the person who drew first almost always won. Magic was so powerful that it was like using bazookas at twenty paces.

In this battle, he didn't have to fear magic, only discovery, and Jakob seemed abnormally interested in Simon, for reasons that he couldn't quite discern. The stranger didn't try to talk to Simon directly, except on their first encounter, where he'd shaken Simon's hand, but he sure talked about him often enough. Several people, including the headman himself, had asked Simon why that might be the case, but he had nothing to tell any of them.

"Could be an old grudge?" Simon lied. "I don't remember a Jakob, but maybe I met them on some battlefield before now, who can say?"

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While Simon couldn't say why the man was interested in him, he'd certainly like to know. His experience was at -52,166 now, which was a trend that was only accelerating thanks to his good deeds as much as his abstention from magic and murder. He was on track to be in the positives by the time he returned to Ionar to resolve it once and for all.

It's not my aura that makes him so interested in me, Simon told himself, certain that there was more to it. Do I still have the stink of sulfur on me after all this time?

Simon wondered about that as he watched the man. Even if he was somehow tainted by his brush with evil, he didn't see how that would draw the man to this place.

At first, the White Cloak had merely been content to ask around after anyone who might be looking for work. Then, a few nights in the bar, Simon overheard him asking one of the farmers, "But I thought this whole area had a goblin problem?"

"It did," the man agreed. "Past tense. Ain't seen one of them critters around here in years!"

"What happened to them?" the sellsword asked.

I used them to fuel dozens of experiments and a decade of life, practically making them an endangered species in this part of the Arpanian Range, Simon thought to himself as he took a drink from his mug.

"Who can say?" the other man answered with a shrug. "Eventually, we just killed them until they stopped coming. I'm sure if it's goblin killing you want, they can still be found elsewhere if that's what you're huntin' for."

That made Simon smile. Though most towns were fairly suspicious of outsiders in this part of the world, Simon had made this Ordanvale all but impenetrable, thanks to his tax dodging schemes for his mines. The people of this community knew where their wealth came from, and did their best to make sure that no one else did.

The Earl had made his job that much easier in that regard when he'd nailed proclamations to every town in his domain, letting everyone know that 'Attempting to deny the crown its rightful tribute would be met with consequences both swift and severe!'

Given that the notices had been put up just after he'd executed his own tax collector, no one needed to be told what swift or severe meant. Simon had enjoyed that little bit of the noble's self-sabotage and had kept one of the notices, framing it before mounting it on his wall as the piece of art it was.

For a few days, Simon was content to pretend to ignore the man's nosing around. All that came to an abrupt end one night when he came home and found the Unspoken trying to pry open one of Simon's shutters.

"Do you mind telling me what you're doing?" Simon asked, putting his hand on his hilt as he walked up behind the man.

He didn't usually wear a sword these days, but with a White Cloak in town he made sure never to be without one, and the one though he was a touch out of practice, the blade that he wore today had several surprises that could even the playing field against even the most cautious opponent.

"I didn't expect you to come home so soon," Jakob said, turning and drawing his blade. "Your habits seemed pretty set."

"Well, I make it a point to keep an eye on strangers," Simon said, not yet matching his opponent. "And I think it's time that you left town, before I have to make you."

"I can't do that," the White Cloak said, his expression becoming more serious, as whatever act he'd been hiding behind up until now faded. "Not without answers."

"Well, I'm not in the business of giving men answers at sword point," Simon answered with a shrug. "If you'd come at me honestly, then we could have had this discussion over tea, but as it is—"

"You're not a warlock, I think," Jakob answered, ignoring him. "There's not much taint about you, but still… Everything points to you. What are you? A demon? A god?"

"Now you're just being dramatic," Simon smirked. "Just because I make friends and run a number of businesses doesn't mean I'm any of those things."

"I'm not talking about your connections," the fanatic said, circling him, "Or even your home. I'm talking about you."

"No, you're not making any sense, is what you're doing," Simon answered, finally drawing his sword. "And I'm starting to get sick of it."

More than anything, he wanted to ask the man what he was talking about, but he couldn't think of a way to do that without tipping his hand, so instead he feigned complete ignorance, hoping the White Cloak would let something slip.

Unfortunately, after that, the only thing he said was, "I might not understand what this is, but I know you're too dangerous to be allowed to live."

He came at Simon then with a hammering series of blows. Bringing them down over and over again in an effort to batter Simon's guard out of the way and end things with a quick blow to the head, but Simon didn't allow it.

While he wasn't in peak form, he was hardly in poor shape in this life. He was as young and as strong as he'd ever been, plus this time, he had an ace up his sleeve. He shifted his grip slightly, covering the contact points that activated the strength runes that he'd etched deep in this weapon, and they instantly sprang to life, making him twice as strong as he'd ever been.

After that, he didn't parry so much as halt the forward motion of his opponent's weapon. That seemed to shake the man, but before Simon responded by delivering a blow that would surely be fatal, he said, "You're making it harder and harder to justify sparing your life."

"As if I'd allow it," the other man spat. "Do you really think I'd break under torture? I'll tell you nothing."

"While that's an option," Simon agreed, "It's bad for my karma. I'd feel better about that than ripping the answers out of your soul after you are dead… The choice is yours, really."

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