Bounty Hunters of Fabernum
The town jail of Fabernum stood firm, stone and iron replacing the old wooden doors that once creaked beneath the weight of lawlessness. A new era had dawned, and inside, the air was thick with the scent of ink and sweat. The bounty boards were no longer a half-forgotten ledger at the tavern, passed from one drunkard to another in slurred whispers. No, now they hung in the heart of the law itself, nailed to a solid oak wall behind a counter where the lawmen gathered. The voices here weren’t drowned in ale; they were sharp, tempered steel.
Malachai Ashburn leaned against the heavy wooden desk, idly flipping through a handful of fresh bounty sheets. They no longer read like jokes—these were worth more than the parchment they were scrawled upon. A real bounty system at last. The law had finally caught up to the outlaws.
He let out a low whistle, exhaling a thin stream of pungent smoke from the dark-leafed cheroot clamped between his teeth. “Jolly Jack Vance,” said Ashburn, emphasizing each name as if they were three separate people. “Lazy ‘Lucky’ Bob, and Sturgis the Sly,” he added, as though suddenly realizing he'd just put a piece of rolled horse dung in his mouth instead of his cheroot. With a grimace, he plucked it from his lips, studying it as if expecting it to have transformed in his fingers. Tossing the three sheets onto the desk for the others to see, he finished with a scowl. Seems they think the law’s a game they can walk away from.” He planted both fists on the desk, his glare cutting through the room like a blade. “Time to remind them it’s not.
Beside him, Reuben Holt, a wiry man with a smirk that never quite left his lips, picked up the sheets and gave them a cursory glance. To anyone else, it might’ve seemed careless, but Holt’s mind was already at work—every name, every face, every detail etching itself into his memory like a brand. He was a bloodhound, and once he caught the scent, there was no shaking him loose. Once he looked at a bounty sheet, he was on the scent like a singularly relentless bloodhound. “They’re riding for Rash’Kel. Heard they're talking about it openly in their settlement.” He scoffed. “Figures. When a pack of rats gets flushed out, they don’t stop being rats. They just find another hole.”
Malachai smirked, but his eyes were cold. He thumbed the worn leather of his belt. “Aye, Clam Gardener bought one of their houses. Wasn't too happy having to freely give even more gold to those scoundrels. But until we actually hunt ‘em, catch ‘em, law says they’re fine upstanding citizens, entitled to sell their real estate just like anyone else.” He spat, flicking the stub of his cheroot into the cold hearth in the corner. “Still, things are a damn sight better than they were before, when they could just waltz into Fabernum like they owned the place and sell their loot, still covered in gore.” He exhaled sharply. “They think Rash’Kel will crown ‘em kings. I think it’s about time someone taught ‘em the difference between a throne and a coffin.”
With a sudden grin, Malachai turned, reaching for a low drawer in the desk. The wood groaned as he wrenched it open, revealing a stack of yellowed bounty sheets, edges curling with age. He lifted them out, blew a thick cloud of dust from their surface, then let them slap down onto the desk atop the newer bounties. “And speaking of walking away from the law…” He tapped the pile with two fingers. “Some of Jack’s boys have been trying to play at being fine, honest folk again.” He smirked. “Paid their dues, settled with a fixer, or spent their time breaking rocks on Prison Island. Blue as the summer sky, walking about Tindrem like they never spilled a drop of blood.”
Reuben raised a brow. “And?”
Malachai leaned forward, fingers splayed across the desk. “And these?” He drummed on the stack of old warrants. “They don’t give a damn about how ‘blue’ a man is today. Once a bounty is stamped, it sticks. These boys are still marked, still fair game. Lucky Bob could be tithing at a temple, swearing he’s turned over a new leaf—doesn’t matter. If a hunter’s got his name, he’s still red to him.”
Reuben let out a low chuckle. “Poor bastards won’t even see it coming.”
Across the room, the prisoners in their cells stirred, their murmurs and grumbles barely audible over the low hum of lawmen discussing their next move. Some were petty thieves, others killers who had been caught one step short of freedom. None of them had names worth remembering.
Except the ones on those bounty sheets.
Gideon Thrace, a broad-shouldered bruiser with a long scar across his jaw, leaned over to read the list. “They used to be a damn sight quicker about scrubbing those murder counts, didn’t they?” he mused. “Back when you could knife a man in the gut and be a blue again by supper.”
“Not anymore,” Malachai said. He slapped the desk. “Now, a murder count sticks until it’s paid in full. No more running out the clock. No more hiding in some hole and waiting to be clean again. Sure, they can pay their dues, line the pockets of a fixer, even break their backs on Vaul Moro splitting stones—but we all know justice ain’t measured in coin and sweat. Justice is paid in blood, and we’re the collectors, ain't we, boys?" No more running out the clock. No more hiding in some hole and waiting to be clean again. And that means these men?” He jabbed a finger at the list. “These men are ours.”
The others nodded. No more fleeting justice. No more pardons given by time’s indifference. The guilty would pay in silver, or they’d pay in blood.
Malachai narrowed his eyes. That wasn’t standard procedure. Usually, bounties were passed through the proper channels—received, transcribed, and stamped before ever reaching his hands. The hunter felt like a shadow passed through the room, then he turned on his heel, strode past the counter, through the cold stone halls of the jail, and out into the morning light. Reuben and Gideon followed, boots heavy against the dirt-packed streets.
The priest’s house stood not far from the main square—a low, unassuming structure, its wooden eaves carved with the quiet sigils of the divine cycle. A place of welcoming for the lost, and reckoning for the wicked.
Inside, the air was thick with the acrid scent of burnt herbs and old parchment. Tallow candles flickered in iron sconces, their glow barely reaching the dark corners of the room. Against the back wall, beside an altar blackened with centuries of whispered prayers, a young priest sat hunched over his desk.
The novice’s hands trembled as he ran his fingertips across a freshly treated vellum sheet, eyes locked on it as though examining an open and particularly grievous wound. A deep furrow lined his brow, his mouth tight, his face pallid as wax. He had the look of a man who had seen something he should never have had to see.
Malachai stopped just short of the desk, studying him. “That bad?”
The novice priest barely seemed to register the words. His fingers hovered over the parchment, not yet finishing the last strokes of the ritual. The waxen imprint of a murder cried out for justice, but its scribe hesitated.
“It came from…” His voice faltered. He swallowed, trying again. “She came back from… the Bakti outskirts.”
Malachai’s expression darkened. Bakti. Too far for comfort. That meant the spirit had traveled a long way—too long. A man cut down in an instant returned quickly. A man who suffered… his return took longer.
The priest exhaled unsteadily. His voice was thin but steady now. “She was tortured first.”
Reuben let out a low whistle, rubbing his jaw. Gideon’s mouth twisted in distaste.
Malachai didn’t move, but his jaw ticked slightly, the only outward sign of his displeasure. “Who?”
The novice finally lifted his eyes. “They called her Mirelle. A healer.” His gaze flickered to the parchment. “The spirit was… afraid. Even after death.”
A rare thing.
Priests spoke of two kinds of return—those whose souls departed in rage or defiance, and those who came back touched by the shadow of what was done to them.
This was the latter.
The parchment lay bare upon the desk, yet to normal eyes, it was blank—no name, no face, no crime. But beneath the priest’s trembling hands, the inkless fibers pulsed with the unseen mark of the killer.
Malachai reached forward and picked it up. The parchment was smooth to the touch—unmarked by quill or stain—but the moment it met his fingers, a strange cold prickled the skin of his palm.
Something had been left behind.
The novice swallowed hard, staring at the parchment as though it might burn through his fingers. His voice was hushed, brittle, as if speaking it aloud might make it worse.
“She was… taken apart, piece by piece.” He swallowed again, his throat bobbing. “Didn’t die fast. Didn’t die clean. She begged.”
The room seemed to contract, the flickering candlelight suddenly dimmer.
Gideon muttered a curse under his breath. Reuben rubbed his jaw, his usual smirk nowhere in sight.
Even Malachai paused, then he took a slow step forward. “Justice will be done, but who did it?”
The novice clenched his teeth. His breath hitched—once, twice—before finally, in a whisper ragged with horror, he forced the name out.
"Buttercup."
Reuben blinked. "You’re joking."
The novice shook his head violently, fingers gripping the edges of the desk as if to steady himself. "That’s what the spirit called her." He exhaled shakily. "That’s the name I saw."
The town jail of Fabernum stood firm, stone and iron replacing the old wooden doors that once creaked beneath the weight of lawlessness. A new era had dawned, and inside, the air was thick with the scent of ink and sweat. The bounty boards were no longer a half-forgotten ledger at the tavern, passed from one drunkard to another in slurred whispers. No, now they hung in the heart of the law itself, nailed to a solid oak wall behind a counter where the lawmen gathered. The voices here weren’t drowned in ale; they were sharp, tempered steel.
Malachai Ashburn leaned against the heavy wooden desk, idly flipping through a handful of fresh bounty sheets. They no longer read like jokes—these were worth more than the parchment they were scrawled upon. A real bounty system at last. The law had finally caught up to the outlaws.
He let out a low whistle, exhaling a thin stream of pungent smoke from the dark-leafed cheroot clamped between his teeth. “Jolly Jack Vance,” said Ashburn, emphasizing each name as if they were three separate people. “Lazy ‘Lucky’ Bob, and Sturgis the Sly,” he added, as though suddenly realizing he'd just put a piece of rolled horse dung in his mouth instead of his cheroot. With a grimace, he plucked it from his lips, studying it as if expecting it to have transformed in his fingers. Tossing the three sheets onto the desk for the others to see, he finished with a scowl. Seems they think the law’s a game they can walk away from.” He planted both fists on the desk, his glare cutting through the room like a blade. “Time to remind them it’s not.
Beside him, Reuben Holt, a wiry man with a smirk that never quite left his lips, picked up the sheets and gave them a cursory glance. To anyone else, it might’ve seemed careless, but Holt’s mind was already at work—every name, every face, every detail etching itself into his memory like a brand. He was a bloodhound, and once he caught the scent, there was no shaking him loose. Once he looked at a bounty sheet, he was on the scent like a singularly relentless bloodhound. “They’re riding for Rash’Kel. Heard they're talking about it openly in their settlement.” He scoffed. “Figures. When a pack of rats gets flushed out, they don’t stop being rats. They just find another hole.”
Malachai smirked, but his eyes were cold. He thumbed the worn leather of his belt. “Aye, Clam Gardener bought one of their houses. Wasn't too happy having to freely give even more gold to those scoundrels. But until we actually hunt ‘em, catch ‘em, law says they’re fine upstanding citizens, entitled to sell their real estate just like anyone else.” He spat, flicking the stub of his cheroot into the cold hearth in the corner. “Still, things are a damn sight better than they were before, when they could just waltz into Fabernum like they owned the place and sell their loot, still covered in gore.” He exhaled sharply. “They think Rash’Kel will crown ‘em kings. I think it’s about time someone taught ‘em the difference between a throne and a coffin.”
With a sudden grin, Malachai turned, reaching for a low drawer in the desk. The wood groaned as he wrenched it open, revealing a stack of yellowed bounty sheets, edges curling with age. He lifted them out, blew a thick cloud of dust from their surface, then let them slap down onto the desk atop the newer bounties. “And speaking of walking away from the law…” He tapped the pile with two fingers. “Some of Jack’s boys have been trying to play at being fine, honest folk again.” He smirked. “Paid their dues, settled with a fixer, or spent their time breaking rocks on Prison Island. Blue as the summer sky, walking about Tindrem like they never spilled a drop of blood.”
Reuben raised a brow. “And?”
Malachai leaned forward, fingers splayed across the desk. “And these?” He drummed on the stack of old warrants. “They don’t give a damn about how ‘blue’ a man is today. Once a bounty is stamped, it sticks. These boys are still marked, still fair game. Lucky Bob could be tithing at a temple, swearing he’s turned over a new leaf—doesn’t matter. If a hunter’s got his name, he’s still red to him.”
Reuben let out a low chuckle. “Poor bastards won’t even see it coming.”
Across the room, the prisoners in their cells stirred, their murmurs and grumbles barely audible over the low hum of lawmen discussing their next move. Some were petty thieves, others killers who had been caught one step short of freedom. None of them had names worth remembering.
Except the ones on those bounty sheets.
Gideon Thrace, a broad-shouldered bruiser with a long scar across his jaw, leaned over to read the list. “They used to be a damn sight quicker about scrubbing those murder counts, didn’t they?” he mused. “Back when you could knife a man in the gut and be a blue again by supper.”
“Not anymore,” Malachai said. He slapped the desk. “Now, a murder count sticks until it’s paid in full. No more running out the clock. No more hiding in some hole and waiting to be clean again. Sure, they can pay their dues, line the pockets of a fixer, even break their backs on Vaul Moro splitting stones—but we all know justice ain’t measured in coin and sweat. Justice is paid in blood, and we’re the collectors, ain't we, boys?" No more running out the clock. No more hiding in some hole and waiting to be clean again. And that means these men?” He jabbed a finger at the list. “These men are ours.”
The others nodded. No more fleeting justice. No more pardons given by time’s indifference. The guilty would pay in silver, or they’d pay in blood.
The Priest’s House – A Crime That Stains the Soul
The bounty master strode in from the sunlit doorway, shaking the dust from his coat. His eyes were grim as he met Malachai’s gaze. “A new one’s just come in. Fresh from the priest’s hands. You’d best go see him yourself.”Malachai narrowed his eyes. That wasn’t standard procedure. Usually, bounties were passed through the proper channels—received, transcribed, and stamped before ever reaching his hands. The hunter felt like a shadow passed through the room, then he turned on his heel, strode past the counter, through the cold stone halls of the jail, and out into the morning light. Reuben and Gideon followed, boots heavy against the dirt-packed streets.
The priest’s house stood not far from the main square—a low, unassuming structure, its wooden eaves carved with the quiet sigils of the divine cycle. A place of welcoming for the lost, and reckoning for the wicked.
Inside, the air was thick with the acrid scent of burnt herbs and old parchment. Tallow candles flickered in iron sconces, their glow barely reaching the dark corners of the room. Against the back wall, beside an altar blackened with centuries of whispered prayers, a young priest sat hunched over his desk.
The novice’s hands trembled as he ran his fingertips across a freshly treated vellum sheet, eyes locked on it as though examining an open and particularly grievous wound. A deep furrow lined his brow, his mouth tight, his face pallid as wax. He had the look of a man who had seen something he should never have had to see.
Malachai stopped just short of the desk, studying him. “That bad?”
The novice priest barely seemed to register the words. His fingers hovered over the parchment, not yet finishing the last strokes of the ritual. The waxen imprint of a murder cried out for justice, but its scribe hesitated.
“It came from…” His voice faltered. He swallowed, trying again. “She came back from… the Bakti outskirts.”
Malachai’s expression darkened. Bakti. Too far for comfort. That meant the spirit had traveled a long way—too long. A man cut down in an instant returned quickly. A man who suffered… his return took longer.
The priest exhaled unsteadily. His voice was thin but steady now. “She was tortured first.”
Reuben let out a low whistle, rubbing his jaw. Gideon’s mouth twisted in distaste.
Malachai didn’t move, but his jaw ticked slightly, the only outward sign of his displeasure. “Who?”
The novice finally lifted his eyes. “They called her Mirelle. A healer.” His gaze flickered to the parchment. “The spirit was… afraid. Even after death.”
A rare thing.
Priests spoke of two kinds of return—those whose souls departed in rage or defiance, and those who came back touched by the shadow of what was done to them.
This was the latter.
The parchment lay bare upon the desk, yet to normal eyes, it was blank—no name, no face, no crime. But beneath the priest’s trembling hands, the inkless fibers pulsed with the unseen mark of the killer.
Malachai reached forward and picked it up. The parchment was smooth to the touch—unmarked by quill or stain—but the moment it met his fingers, a strange cold prickled the skin of his palm.
Something had been left behind.
The novice swallowed hard, staring at the parchment as though it might burn through his fingers. His voice was hushed, brittle, as if speaking it aloud might make it worse.
“She was… taken apart, piece by piece.” He swallowed again, his throat bobbing. “Didn’t die fast. Didn’t die clean. She begged.”
The room seemed to contract, the flickering candlelight suddenly dimmer.
Gideon muttered a curse under his breath. Reuben rubbed his jaw, his usual smirk nowhere in sight.
Even Malachai paused, then he took a slow step forward. “Justice will be done, but who did it?”
The novice clenched his teeth. His breath hitched—once, twice—before finally, in a whisper ragged with horror, he forced the name out.
"Buttercup."
Reuben blinked. "You’re joking."
The novice shook his head violently, fingers gripping the edges of the desk as if to steady himself. "That’s what the spirit called her." He exhaled shakily. "That’s the name I saw."