In a world of faith, what does it mean to wander?

  To Nethasel, that was all they ever knew. They were never fond of any of the people of Bitrect or their values, so they simply lived without a home.

  Well, they had a home once, when they were a child. Actually, technically it was two homes. Their mother was a Sor warrior, and their father was a Bower inn-and-tavern keeper. Such a relationship could never work out, aside from the single night it took to have a child together. The only thing Nethasel really remembered from their childhood was the journey between their parents’ houses, mainly because it was… painful. They still had a scar on their cheek from when some Sor bandits jumped them and their mom. That was the last time she came with them, saying that it was never worth it and now she finally had her excuse to not waste her time anymore. Travelling through the Bower region was treacherous too. When they were young, Nethasel had been trampled by a few too many drunk tavern-goers to say that they would enjoy sharing in such a lifestyle.

  So they didn’t. They spent some time among the Pokian craftsmiths, who taught them some useful skills to know when training their magic, but Nethasel found their faith put too much emphasis on unexplained luck, saying that random acts of inspiration come ‘from Pok himself.’ To Nethasel, it always sounded like nonsense when someone praised someone they had never, or could never, meet. Not to say that the Gods weren’t real; of course they were, it’s just that very few of them actually cared about individual citizens. It was hard for Nethasel to put their faith in someone who didn’t even know they existed.

  Although, in reality, very few people knew Nethasel existed, especially not the Gods. Not staying in one place for long tended to have that effect. By the time they returned, most would have forgotten them.

  Most, except for their father. It had been decades since they had last seen each other, but now that Nethasel was back in Bower territory, it wouldn’t hurt to get a free room and board.

  Their father hugged them tightly when they entered the inn. He recognized them without needing their introduction; at least he could do one thing right, even if he is a few years too late.

  As he showed Nethasel around, he kept saying that he’s trying to improve. From what he had done so far, Nethasel would have been rather convinced. Yet he didn’t even know Nethasel’s mother passed away a couple of years ago. If he didn’t care about her, how could Nethasel ever believe he cared about them?

  As soon as their father left them in a room– one of his smallest, he said, since he’s supposedly “super busy” right now– Nethasel plopped onto the bed and began plotting their map above them.

  The magical illustration floated within arms’ reach, and Nethasel worked at it with their hands, allowing the mana to flow in intricate, detailed ways. During their travels, this map of all of Bitrect was their primary focus, having found nothing else to interest them. But, it was a rather difficult process. All they did was draw with the magical energy; all it did was remember what they had drawn before. In order to shape it just like the buildings, roads, and even place a few people to complete the image, Nethasel had to do all of that painstaking detailwork themselves. Each intricate detail was handcrafted in miniature scale, and Nethasel found a lot of pride in seeing just how much of the plane they had already mapped. They learned most of their crafting skills from their time with the Pokians, whose expertise in intricate detail-craft made them the obvious advisor on such a goal. If only they didn’t credit their own effort to their God’s grace, they may have been less insufferable.

  To Nethasel, their map was the only thing they knew they could trust. Each building, alleyway, detail was something they had seen with their own eyes, meaning that the map was both entirely accurate, and entirely their own.

  “Perfect,” they would regularly call it after finishing the day’s section, a practice which had persisted long from their childhood, when they would hear their mother training diligently at every form and attack she could master. Nethasel admired their mother for the hard work she put into the things she loved. They’ve gotten used to the fact that they were not one of those things.

  Nethasel’s father called for them as he knocked on their door. If only he hadn’t used their old name.

  He took them down into the inn’s tavern basement. The stairs were just as rocky as they had always been, but the walls were a little more grey than Nethasel remembered. The biggest change was how busy it was, or rather, how empty it was now. Before Nethasel left, the tavern was regularly boasting a full house, but now there were a countable four guests, all Bowers, drinking in silence. A small lizard-person was at the bar, a pile of drinks’ corpses alongside them which the bartender was both adding to and taking away from. Sat in the corner, a large loxodon glared at Nethasel and their father as they descended; Nethasel instinctively flipped on their hood. The other two, a pair of humans, were engaged in what was clearly a telepathic conversation. One of them glanced up as Nethasel and their father came down, but he quickly went back to their discussion.

  Nethasel knew the bartender, who waved at them and their father as they came to the bar. He had had grey hairs in his moustache before Nethasel left, and now those same hairs had taken over the top of his head. Nethasel’s father must pay him well for him to stay for this many years. His smile was also the same, although it was never more than a perfectly-crafted con.

  Their father asked for a drink. Nethasel politely abstained.

  Trying his obvious best to make small-talk, the first thing their father commented on was their clothes. Of course it was. It was the first thing anyone commented on when they saw Nethasel. The muted, neutral color and the frayed, dirty edges of their cloak made anyone question which God they followed, if any at all. No self-respecting follower would sully the image of their God, let alone quash their pride for wearing such a visage, for anyone should be honored they get to share in their iconography with a God. So why doesn’t Nethasel dress like everyone else? It was the same question every time, yet their father specifically had normalized asking hurtful questions in an insensitive way. Nethasel wanted to get out of there, and they almost did, but they decided they would be better off if they had a clean bed tonight, and it wouldn’t be a good idea to challenge that. Instead, they steeled themselves and gave the response they always gave. If people ask the same questions, they were going to give the same answers.

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  “I don’t want to.”

  That answer would be good enough for most people, for most people don’t pry into the lives of strangers. But to their father, Nethasel wasn’t a stranger, and he had always been one to pry.

  Nethasel had gotten used to the new normal they lived for their adult years (and a few before that). The constant changing was pretty consistent, and they found enjoyment in it. What their father said next was far from normal or consistent. Well, to someone else it might have been expected, since their father was getting old himself. Most family businesses get passed down to their children, but Nethasel never thought they would qualify for such a thing. That was why their father asked about their outfit; he was asking if Nethasel had chosen to follow Bow yet, and thus, whether they would be able to stay and look after the tavern so that he could retire. He didn’t say all of that, of course, and he definitely didn’t line it up so neatly, but Nethasel learned early how to understand people like him, even when he was already drunk. Not that he was being subtle about it, though, since the other five people in the tavern could hear them.

  The large loxodon trumpeted their protest for Nethasel’s father to discharge the tavern, and the lizardfolk slid right up to Nethasel and rolled their eyes up and down, inspecting them. The flat edge and handle of a small dagger under their robe pressed into Nethasel’s side as the lizardfolk reached their face closer together, though Nethasel was more concerned with how much booze this person had consumed today: their breath stunk and their eyes were red and their hands were unnaturally sticky. The bartender smiled as he put away more of the mountain of glasses this lizardfolk had emptied.

  As their father assured the loxodon that the exchange wasn’t confirmed, and that it especially wasn’t happening anytime soon, Nethasel shifted away from the clingy drunk asking to see the inside of their mouth. Nethasel didn’t mind people getting drunk per se, but when they start to make zero sense is when Nethasel usually ends whatever conversation had started. They asked the lizardfolk to politely back off. Of course, drunk people don’t listen. When they grabbed Nethasel’s jaw is when Nethasel got up and left the tavern completely. Their father muttered something as they went past, but Nethasel didn’t want to stay any more than they already had.

  In their small room, Nethasel summoned their map again. They poked and prodded at a few more spots that needed some attention, but it didn’t prove to be a good distraction; their mind kept drifting back to their father’s new proposal. They scrubbed away their illusory map. Such a request is not necessarily alien, but Nethasel of all people should have no part in a thing like that. They didn’t want to run a tavern, and their father especially shouldn’t be giving it to them. Nethasel had already committed to wandering across Bitrect. That was what they wanted to do. They gave up their family a long time ago, and their father was supposed to give up on them.

  No.

  He did give up on them. Of course he did. He was just using them now the same way he always had.

  When their mother would drop them off, Nethasel would spend at least the rest of the day (and most times the night, too) being shown off to the taverngoers. Their father was so proud to have a child– an heir, they realize now– that he wanted everyone to know. He threw away his relationship with their mother easily. Nethasel wondered what he did when they disappeared.

  This time, it seems, he came up and knocked on the door again.

  Nethasel answered the door while they put on as realistic of a smile as they could muster. Their father stared at them, his eyes blurry and his cheeks red. He didn’t say anything.

  “I’m not taking over for you,” Nethasel started. They realized that this was the first time they had talked to their father since they left all those years ago. There was so much that went unsaid between them because of that: Nethasel had cultivated a life separate from either of their parents, or any of the Gods, and they were proud of that. They had an ambitious goal that drove them to go further beyond anything they thought possible. They were finally content, all without him.

  They wanted to say all of this to their father, but they couldn’t find the words. In their stutter, their father seemed to be staring straight past them, or maybe he was seeing them for the first time, truly understanding everything they were–

  Their father revealed just how drunk he was by tumbling them to the floor. Not an attack, more so that he fell while standing still. It was honestly pathetic, but it wasn’t the first time Nethasel hit the ground under someone with too much alcohol in their system. Unfortunately, getting out from under them was more difficult; they were far from a warrior like their mother was. They pushed off their father with as much effort as they could muster. He was completely asleep by now. Nethasel wasn’t a lightweight themselves, for as much as they didn’t enjoy alcohol, but that must have come from their mother. You would expect a tavernkeeper to handle his booze better.

  Nethasel dragged the literal-deadweight father out into the hall. They were tempted to just leave him there on the floor. He had left them alone in precarious spots before, so it would only be fair. But, they decided against it: morals were something all the Gods held in different regards, and it was a key point most followers agreed with. To Nethasel, they didn’t like any of the Gods, and they didn’t want to follow their sentiments, either. But, they still had a sense of ethics themselves, and that was the code that they followed. They didn’t need a God to tell them what’s right and what’s wrong. Their parents had, and either the morals weren’t right, or they didn’t follow them.

  Nethasel knew which room was their father’s. It had been the same their whole life. When they were a child, they were never allowed inside, but things were different now. Everything was different. After lifting their father into his bed, Nethasel finally said what they wanted to tell him. They knew who they wanted to be and what they wanted to do, and that their father was not a good man, and that they didn’t need him to achieve their goals. They spoke their truth aloud for the first time, even though nobody could hear it.

  Faithless.End.