Gareth stopped to resupply in the small rivertown of Harrow’s End. Okay, not to resupply, if he was being honest with himself. He just desperately wanted to sleep in a bed for a while. It was so stressful travelling alone, with no one to keep watch while he slept, that he honestly considered whether he didn't want to travel with a caravan next time. Yet Guanji and Oliver had been so insistent that he travel this specific route because, “It is part of your training.”
“Fucken bullshit excuse,” he muttered under his breath as he stepped into the misty streetlamp-lit town.
The gate guard had let him pass easily with just a flash of his ID badge. Rain gently pattered on the stone slate roofs, and crickets chirped quietly. He would occasionally hear laughter from the houses he passed, giving the place a homey vibe that hit Gareth pretty hard in the feels. It reminded him of his fucked family, who had scarcely had a warm family meal around a table, nevermind anything resembling laughter or enjoyment. Yet, in that moment, he was also reminded of the time he had spent with Guanji and Margrave's small family. They had made him feel welcome, had given him clear and concise instructions, and had spoken to him like a person. From smokes on the stoep to tea-time at the mansion - they had given him something he'd never had in an environment: stability, routine, a home. Therefore, as Gareth walked past warmly lit windows, his grief was replaced with gratitude.
His boots might have been splashing through puddles as he walked, but nothing could rain on his private parade as he walked up to the three-story Neighing Hippo Inn. He heard the friendly chatter of people from outside and decided to head in. The gentle strumming of a lyre called to his nerdiness in a way that had him veritably stomping up the 6 wooden steps to the door.
“Holy shit, they have legit tavern music!” He walked inside to find a short two-person-wide corridor. The entire corridor was devoted to shelves housing all the patrons' shoes. Taking their cue, Gareth decided to likewise take off his muddy boots at the door and put on the complementary slippers. "Nice place," he quietly muttered to himself.
Now, there is one thing to clarify, and that is how Gareth senses the tiers of others. Each path of cultivation has its own method, but Body cultivators did so through their enhanced senses: sight, sound, taste, smell...and touch. He saw higher-tiered mages as having an iridescent sheen glowing beneath their skin as mana raced through their meridians, its colour dependent on their chosen elements. He smelled the presence of Body cultivators, each person having their own unique brand of scent depending on their bloodlines. He could strangely taste the presence of spiritual cultivators in the air. The only one he'd ever encountered tasted like strawberries. Qi cultivators, he heard as a low hum applying pressure to his inner ear. The higher tiered a person was, the more extreme the accompanying sensory input would be. Which is why levels are hard to gauge, while a person's general tier is not. He could dampen the sensory input to some extent, if he wanted, but Gareth had been on high alert out in the wilds, and didn't think about 'sensory inputs' or 'dampening'. All he heard was a cool instrument, all he saw was a warm light, and all he could think was, "Oh-my-god-oh-my-god-oh-my-god, I'm finally gonna be warm and dry!"
When Gareth walked into the somewhat packed tavern, senses taking in as much as he could, the raw amount of input in the room nearly made him have an aneurism. There was so much buzzing that he could barely hear himself think. The smells were so overwhelming that he instantly got a headache and a blocked nose. His instincts were luckily to close his eyes under the barrage of inputs, so he spared himself that pain as he quickly did the mental exercises necessary to dampen the inputs. When he could once more control himself, he sniffled quietly and timidly looked around the open-floor bar area to his right. He was once again reminded that he was a very small fish, in a very big pond. He recalled Oliver's lesson on the wall, about how people that are capable enough to live outside the city's walls were dangerous enough to fend off all the scary critters kafoofling around.
Old instincts kicking in, he tried to draw as little attention to himself as possible as he made his way down the short hallway to the reception desk at its end. The right side of the hallway opened up to reveal a more more formal restaurant vibe, and he immediately decided that he would rather sit there than at the bar area. Social anxiety was one thing, but those people could make mincemeat of any tier 1, and he wasn't about to voluntarily walk into a den of tigers.
"Greetings, honoured guest," the lady at reception smiled politely and bowed slightly, "Welcome to the Neighing Hippo Inn. Would you like to book a room?"
"Yes please. Though, do you mind if I have a meal at the restaurant first?" He gestured his head towards the much quieter atmosphere of the other room.
"Of course! All I need is your ID badge, a security deposit for the room, and your night's fare. Then you may find a seat at our prestigious Hungry Hippo!" They quickly sorted the bill, Gareth having enough money to pay, but hating every copper of it, as he'd not earned it himself.
With a sour taste in his mouth, metaphorically, he found a comfortable booth to sit at. He lay on his arms for a sec, sighed an exhausted sigh, and sat up again to cradle his heavy head. He wanted to eat before he slept, that was a must. Then he had to ask about a bath. That would be heavenly.
Gareth thoroughly enjoyed the noodles with broth, meat, and vegetables. The meal itself was simple but the broth was complex with many layers of flavour.
It was as he was spooning delicious broth into his watering mouth that he realised: I haven't practiced my sword forms in days! Guanji is going to kill me!
He groaned loudly, “Well, I know our food is good but not that good.” The server laughed as she sauntered over to his table.
He smirked tiredly, “I can tell that it was made with love.” Not that smooth, but oh well, he was tired.
She indulged him with a laugh, "What's got you so beaten down, traveller?”
“Hopefully you? Later tonight?” He looked her dead in the eye, trying his hardest to keep eye contact and pretend he wasn't dying of exhaustion.
Her brows raised in surprise or incredulity, his foggy brain couldn't tell which, and then she laughed harder than was probably necessary.
Now, he could be prissy and let his ego take offense, or he could be a chill guy and just roll with it. He settled on a hot medium, “Yeah, that's fair. You know where I can get a bath around here?” He asked, trying not to sound as relieved as he felt. The half hearted attempt at flirting had been him trying to flex old muscles, but he was out of practice.
She took pity on him at last, “I can have a bath brought up to your room, though it will cost 5 coppers.”
He happily handed over the copper and asked for a place where he could train with a sword.
She raised her brow and looked him up and down, reassessing his worthiness perhaps?
“You can train behind the inn, near the stables, but no mana techniques or anything.” She said sternly.
He nodded, finished up his meal, and when he went up to his room, he found a lovely bath waiting for him…which he had to deny. It would only be a waste for him to bathe, get clean, go train, get dirty, and then have a cold dirty bath. But by the time he came back the water would be cold anyway. Dilemmas dilemmas.
He decided to have a bath, and after the heavenly warmth that seemed to soak up the day's tension and stress, he went to the back of the building. He couldn't see anyone, and felt no one's hostile gaze, so he set to work doing his katas.
Of course he didn't just jump into his most advanced moves.
“The tallest towers have the strongest foundations,” Master Guanji always said.
He drew his longsword and main-gauche and settled into his first form. He then slowly, meticulously, moved through each step of the form, then reset and started with his second form.
When he'd finished all ten forms, he restarted, but this time increased his speed slightly.
When he got to the end he would restart again, but increased the speed even further. The next round he removed all breaks between movements, seeking to move fluidly from one movement to the next. On his fifth round, instead of restarting with form one, he did the forms in reverse order.
He then increased his speed even more, seeking to be faster than air, smoother than water, more explosive than fire and steadier than rock. He hadn't quite grasped exactly what that meant, but Guanji said it was something to strive for, so who was he to judge? Guanji had been alive longer than most ancient Terran civilisations and likely knew better. Yet, even as he went through his forms, he could tell that something was off with the moves. They felt smooth and he knew that he could pick up the speed even more, but each time he tried the weight of the sword would throw him off. It was too light to counterbalance his slight lean to the right as he swung to get the blade into its next position. It was by no means slowing him down…for now, but soon it would force his body into bad habits.
I can’t get that sword made soon enough.
Twenty sets of his first form, a feat that would have been impossible a year ago, just left him winded. Insane.
It almost felt like a cheat.
Athletes worked their bodies to the bone, followed specialised diets, even took performance enhancing drugs, then trained for years to become half as strong as Gareth now felt. It felt unfair because all he had to do was sit in a room and spread some mana through his body for a few days. Sure, it had been incredibly painful a few times as his body developed a deadly mutation. Of course, he'd trained his body into the ground to get to this point, but he couldn't help but feel he'd cheated to get this fit. The worst part was that he wasn't even that strong compared to the general population. A mediocre tier 3 could wipe the floor with him.
The soft fog that seemed to cling to this town felt refreshingly cool on his heated face. Combined with the fog, the everpresent Volun rain made the air feel threateningly full of moisture, as if each breath could drown him. Fortunately it wasn't that bad. Having done more than his part, he decided to rest for a bit and maintain his weapons.
“I wonder if my water lung is going to struggle in the desert?” Gareth wondered as he oiled and sharpened his sword on a whetstone, while sitting under the overhang of the back door. He calmly sat on an upturned wooden bucket as he lost himself in the meticulous focus which the task needed.
“Perfect the angle of the grind,” Guanji’s voice played in his mind, “and you shall perfect the cut. Swordsmanship is an art of precision, control, and fluidity. From the most profound sword art…” his master scraped his blade almost lovingly across his wet-stone, “to the simple act of sharpening your sword.”
It reminded Gareth that he had time. Something he'd lacked while rushing from one job to another, desperately scraping together enough creddies for food. More importantly, he had the time to enjoy his time. The fact that he could spend the next few days at this inn, just if he wanted to, gave him a sense of freedom from responsibility that seemed insane... The fact that restfulness had become so foreign to him, nearly brought him to tears in that moment. Here he was, first being upset with himself that he was cheating by getting that strong, then lamenting the fact that he wasn't strong enough. Now he was glad that he was free, even though he hadn't bought anything with his own money.
He stopped sharpening long enough to heave a heavy sigh; his conflicting emotions weighing him down.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
"Fuck it." He quietly said and looked out at the street lit by lantern light barely visible through the fog. He didn't know what thought or feeling should go fuck itself. He didn't know what he should feel, nor whether he was doing the right thing, but he was done feeling this shity, so he might as well move on.
Deciding he’d done enough sharpening for today, Gareth stowed his equipment, as Guanji said, “An artist must know when to leave a perfect piece. Too much attention could ruin it just as much as too little. The secret is balance.”
He didn't spend the next few days at the inn, as he’d been tempted to do, but got back on the path. It wasn't actually as dangerous as he’d thought it would be.
-
Three days later, the everpresent rain stopped and only became an occasional drizzle. It was still very cloudy, but if Gareth thought he would be happy with the change then he was dead wrong. Moist, wet rain was replaced by humid and stuffy silence throughout the jungle. Beasts still roared through their battles for territory, but it became utterly horrifying when the entire jungle went silent. The rain could no longer cover for the silences, which meant he was painfully aware each time a beast strong enough to silence a jungle prowled nearby.
Silent fear combined with thick humid air made him feel claustrophobic, and hunted but he persevered. A few eventful weeks later, he beheld a new fortress peaking above the treetops.
The fort was surrounded by a wall of stone 54 yards high, and had an intimidating iron portcullis protecting its intimidating iron-braced doors. Vormire Dungeon Fortress wasn't exactly bustling, but there were enough people walking around that it felt busy.
Gareth’s badge was scanned at the gate, then he made his way to the central castle to ask about getting a tent set up. A large space lay packed with tents between the fort and the stone wall. He guessed it served as cheap forms of housing as the adventurers delved. Many scarred veterans could be seen lounging with beers in their hands as they waited for their turn in the dungeon. Others were suiting up in their various armours. Still more were doing stretches or sitting cross legged and meditating. There was the occasional person strumming an instrument, not for a profession (judging by the quality) but because they were bored and had nothing better to do. Some people smoked, others drank, some braaied, and others made pots of stew over a small fire.
It was a vibe.
A helpful young squire at the fortress reception told him that his first delve into the dungeon would be free, but each subsequent trip would cost 50 copper. The materials he found in the dungeon could be sold to the fort, for a ‘fair price’.
Pssh, as if 'The Man' would ever give you a fair price, Gareth thought as the squire explained that if he didn't want to sell his spoils to the fort, then he would be free to leave with everything...after paying a small 5% tax.
And they tax me!? Was his initial reaction, but then realised that someone had to pay for upkeep of the gorgeous stone monstrosity that was Fort Vormire.
Tents could be rented at the quartermaster for a rate of 3 silver per week. If you wanted to eat meat and couldn't afford a room in the fort itself, then you had to hunt for your own food.
“Though everything you hunt has to be checked before you can bring it into the fortress, to avoid the old parasite and such.” The 20-something attendant explained as he was stacking plates in the dining hall. Gareth found that talking to down-to-earth waiters – or in this world, servants – was a lot easier than trying to talk with some posh lordling. Which meant he grabbed the first guy with a drinks tray and started following him, berating him with questions. With love, of course.
He thanked the squire, tipped him with a copper, and found the quartermaster due to the squire's happy directions.
Three silver lighter, he found tent number twenty and settled in happily. He unrolled his bedroll, peeled off his soggy socks, pried off wet and sticky armour and clothes, and took a much deserved sleep.
The next morning, he woke up and went back into the fort to check when he could get a slot.
The dungeon entrance looked, for all intents and purposes, like a tropical themed arcade. A natural-seeming cave mouth disappeared into the ground with grass, lichen, vines, and draping plants covering arching cave stone. Fire torches, instead of the usual mage lamp, illuminated a pitted and scarred colossal barrier. Yet, instead of heading to the giant 40 foot gates, he made his way to the tiny side door where Gareth saw an attendant.
The attendant, at his little wooden booth, informed him that he would have to wait until that afternoon for a delve slot, and he only got priority because it was his first delve. He was only allowed to go as deep as the first floor.
He went back to the tent and…sat down?
What do you even do with free time if you didn't have a movie to watch or reels to scroll through? He looked around the spacious tent and tapped his legs for a while. I didn't pack any books, did I? Nope. Next time I would.
Well, he had some energy and time to burn, but couldn't exhaust himself because he would have to fight in the dungeon later. Damn…
He decided to don his armour so that he could be ready when the time came, then left the tent in to go to the dining hall, where the waiter guy had been stacking plates earlier.
He found that the main hall doubled as a mess-hall of some size. Adventurers, delvers, veterans and newbies all sat along long tables, eating the food that the kitchen served at the side of the hall. He found a short line, paid 2 silver - a fuckton of money - for a meal with some tea, and sat down a little way away from anyone else to listen in on people’s conversations.
“Ser George, you hail from the Wavestrider clans. What legends do your people believe in?” A young guy down the table asked a clean shaven man in half-plate armour.
Ser George lifted one corner of his mouth and leaned forward, “The sea is a mysterious place, lad. It holds many mysteries and legends. Many think that the ocean is only dangerous come Night, but remembe~r, only a few metres below the surface… eternal darkness dwells. It is only in the clearest of waters, at the shallowest of shores, where one can tread water safely. But if it is a legend ye be looking fer, well, I've got one fer ya.”
The old man took a deep sip from his flagon to quench his suddenly dry throat, and likely buy some time to come up with a half-baked story for the teen who had asked.
At length, he fixed his eyes on the young man with a gravitas only master storytellers could bring to bear.
“Many tides ago… long before even the most strident Wavestrider walked the shores, a scourge haunted the waves. So ancient was this scourge that they simply called it…” his voice changed to a whisper. “The Nameless One!”
The four teenagers listening to the old man recoiled, their eyes wide with fear. “A creature of Darkness from another plane of existence. It consumed all within reach of its hooked tentacles, flayed flesh from bone and dragged sailors to their deaths... Even the Mermen, born of the sea, were nearly hunted to within an inch of extinction by the Nameless One’s hordes of undead abominations. For it would not just consume, but turn the bodies of its meals back into corrupted undead! Hellbent on the destruction of the living. Megalodons, leviathans, sea serpents, and even the great dragon turtles were not safe from its corruption.” The Wavestrider took another long gulp of his drink, obviously enjoying the young men’s expectant stares.
Finally, one of them couldn't hold himself back anymore and asked, “What happened to it? Is The Nameless One still alive?”
“Can something that was never truly alive to begin with, truly die?” The Wavestrider shot back with wild eyes, to the young man’s shocked gasp. “Aye, it still haunts these waters, but it is much weakened since its last clash with its arch nemesis.”
“Someone dares to fight against it?” The young man asked with hope.
“Aye.” He nodded solemnly, “The world requires balance, and where there is evil, good shall soon rise. Though its foe is not a hero as you might imagine. We know not where they came from, only that we are thankful they came at all. Krill, by the billions, their bodies somehow able to purge the corruption within the undead armies of The Nameless One. They fed on that corruption, growing stronger, more numerous, even as the armies of The Nameless One fell. Until finally…the scourge seemed to disappear, never to be seen again...Some say that on a quiet Night, when the waves are still, and the water crystal clear, one can still see swarms of glowing blue krill being carried along ocean currents; on their way to fight the Nameless One once more…”
While Gareth could appreciate the story; he’d grown up with braindance horrors that would place you in the middle of gut-wrenching gore, insidious demonic possessions, and psychological thrillers that shattered your faith in humanity. He could see that these kids, for as gullible as they were, possessed an innocence of which he was envious. He might not be as naive as these boys, but could he truly say that he was better off? Were people meant to see such carnage at such a young age? By his standards these country bumpkins had barely any exposure to the horrors that the world could hold, because they didn't have social media. Were they being spared from a cruel world by being ignorant?
No. The world would be cruel regardless. Gareth had learned those hard lessons. He'd seen the worst of the world. He'd seen the worst that two worlds had to offer. He envied their ignorance, but he did not envy their blindness.
On Gareth's other side, an old man was talking to his apprentice, “-heard that they didn't even question it. The dragon chose him immediately.”
“No!” The apprentice said with a disbelieving exclamation.
“Cover me in honey and slap me thrice if I'm mistaken, because those were his exact words.” The guy Gareth’s age nodded sagely at his buddy.
“But that means it's a true bond!”
“Indeed…or it could be a conspiracy to make them seem stronger than they actually are. With the state of the realm being what it is, I wouldn't put it past the Brekleyans to make up stories. Try and bolster their reputation.” He shrugged.
“But a true dragon rider? Isn't that a bit of a stretch. We haven't seen one in centuries, if not more.”
“I know the chances are low, young one,” he said to the guy who was literally the same tier and age as the other, “they always were, but at least now there might be some hope for Brekley.”
Gareth made a mental note to ask Ellisandra about the differences between a true dragon rider, and just a normal one. They had covered the Brekleyans in their political lessons, especially when Gareth learned that they rode actual dragons. What guy didn't want to ride a dragon? She had promised him they would pay them a visit one day.
A few tables over, a big orc man slammed his fist on the table, “So the goblin asks, ‘How do you break a curse?’ And I says, ‘Easy. Break the witch!’” he laughed uproariously as the Krepinfay sitting across from him also guffawed.
Gareth sat up and put down the bird leg he was chewing on as a particularly beautiful chick walked into the dining hall. She was in the company of three serious-looking, heavily armed and armoured men.
In Volun culture, or any culture really, a full suit of armour was a sign of wealth, power, and prestige. It took a lot of resources, skills, and expertise to create a custom suit. Even more so to keep it up to date with the wearer's cultivation. The shiny thunking-clinking effect was inspiring, nevermind the pure intimidation factor that a full plate suit gave off, and these guys? They looked like they could storm the gates of hell and actually take it.
Just like Oliver's, their suits didn't clink. Unlike his, their weight was felt with each footfall as the ground thudded under each step. They cut in front of everyone in the food line, grabbed their food, threw some gold on the counter. Then sat at a quiet spot to eat. Everyone else in the hall watched them from the corner's of their eyes, all conversation dying out suddenly, no-one brave enough to actually stare. The silent group huddled together and erected a privacy screen, cutting off all prying ears.
Gareth slightly opened his senses, and just before they activated their screen Gareth was surprised that they barely had any presence at all. As if they had somehow concealed their true cultivation tier.
He tuned back into the conversation of the old Wavestrider man, “-don't see it often. Must be powerful to conceal their cultivation and to have a full squad of armoured Sers.”
“But Ser George, don't you have a set of plate armour too?”
“Bah! What need do I have for such heavy equipment; it would only drag you into the depths. Any heavily armoured man worth his salt knows this. The land dwellers love their heavy armour a lot more than we Wavestriders.”
“Who do you think they are?” The young squire asked in a stage whisper.
“Oh, they could be travelling through and just using the town as a stopping point. But my Shells are betting that they're here to challenge the dungeon.” He leaned in close, “Vormire is an old dungeon with an unknown number of floors. They are likely going for the deeper levels and the treasures it holds.”
“Then we better stay out of their way, huh?”
“Aye, lad.” The previously jovial Wavestrider looked deeply into his flagon of mead, and swirled it around, his eyes troubled, “When gods walk the land, one had best move aside...or get stepped on.”
