by Ryan DeBruyn
The Adventuring Guild itself is definitely from before The Rise. The roof is black tile, and the brick itself seems to almost shine orange with the way the sun strikes it. Around each window, there is a dark brown brick that accentuates both the curving tops and the flat bottoms. The stairs lead up to an entrance between two square columns, and I glance over to the green clock in the tower as I walk toward the doors. This building isn’t as big as the high-rises around it, but stands out in a way the others couldn’t. I’m not sure why that is, either. It’s like it radiates ceremony. Or power, maybe? It could be all the people down in the square below, clearly congregating here because of the importance of the building. I shrug it off.
I pull open the door and step inside only to be greeted with another pair of glass doors, each with a guard beside it. I jerk to a stop and wait, but neither of the guards addresses me. Slowly, I close the large wooden door and walk to put my hand on the next one. The guards don’t even seem to glance my way. The eeriest part is that they aren’t conversing with each other or moving, which, having lived with mercenaries, sets my teeth on edge. I move through the door and find myself in a large open room with a snaking pair of ropes in the center and far too many raised counters for practical use along the walls.
There is a line of people milling about in between the two red fabric ropes, and taking the hint, I walk to join the line. With nothing better to do, while I wait, I study the room. There are hundreds of attendants sitting behind a raised counter against every wall of the building. The line seems to lead to something or someone that tells the person which counter to move to, as I see people walk in a multitude of directions, but always end up at an empty booth.
The fabric cordons are smooth, and made of a fabric that feels expensive. The smell of the room is of polish and perfume. I think I can even hear faint music coming from high above in the cathedral ceilings. Is that a radio thingy? The mercenaries used to talk about how they missed music, but this soft melody doesn’t seem all that great to me. I shrug, and keep watching.
The attendants behind the counters are dressed in identical black suits, regardless of race or gender. The only differences I can see between them is the choice of strange fabric they wear around necks, or heads. The colors of these may be chosen for their vibrancy, as I don’t see any muted colors here, only vibrant ones.
I blink. I’m at the front, and a flat black screen is flashing “41.” I noticed that each of the counters has a number hanging above it, and this must correlate to one of them. I scan the room and have to turn back around to return to a booth almost next to the entrance. Walking by the line, I do my best not to meet anyone’s eyes, but I realize that many more people have come in and joined it. It doesn’t seem to have shrunk at all; I’m pretty sure that it is still as long as when I joined it. After the first few who lined up behind me, I didn’t notice people entering, I guess.
On my approach, the man at the counter stares down at me, seeming to assess me. This man has chosen to accent his black suit and white shirt with a bright orange piece of fabric around his neck.
“Reason for entering the Guild today?” the man asks, his thickly accented voice sounding almost suave. Or maybe that’s sophistication? I can’t really decide, but I pause before finishing my approach, and I can see him grow aggravated. “Come on, step forward. I don’t have all day.” I take the final two steps in, and at his nod, I try to remember what I am here for.
“Oh, right. I am here to try to become an Adventurer,” I whisper up at the gaunt, pale man above me. He stares down, and I begin fingering my ear through my long hair, which only causes his eyes to narrow. He pushes something on his high table, and suddenly a mechanical door opens up near my shoulders. I look at the strange ball inside—
“Stop playing with your hair and place your hand on the orb!” the man snaps at me, and I can’t help the startled squeak. I reach a shaking hand forward, his irritation causing my heart to pump rapidly. My hand touches the cool glass, and the man at the top exclaims, “F-3?!”
The interviewers and interviewees from the booths to either side of me look over at his outraged cry. I can feel my cheeks flush, and I think my heart stops. The exit is to my left, but I’d have to pass eight or nine booths to get to it. I swallow hard and try to start breathing again. It’s okay, these people don’t really care. Then why are they still looking at me? I massage my ears but a mechanical sound draws my attention back to the orb in front of me. The mechanical doors retract and seal the strange orb from view.
When I glance around me again, no one is paying attention anymore, which allows me to shake off my panic. I slowly turn my eyes back up to the man behind the counter.
“I’m flummoxed, young man. Why would we ever accept you?” the man behind the high counter asks, his cultured voice turning the question into an accusation. If I’m honest, I’ve never heard the word ‘flamox’ before, but I try to infer its meaning.
“I—uhhh—have a subspace—would only—applying as a Bag Carrier for groups,” I whisper weakly.
“I’m sorry, but at the F-rank, even if you had a vault-sized subspace, the Guild can’t insure you as a Sherpa,” the man responds, somehow interrupting what I said. “How old are you? Are you sick?” he follows up, his voice softening further.
“No, sir. My family died, and I am trying to take care of myself,” I whisper, managing the words, because Crash and I rehearsed this part. “Thirteen,” I lie when I recall he asked my age.
“All right, look here, child. I can sign you up for a Guild team if you can reach E-rank. It should be relatively easy. If you need some help, head over to the church, and they can let you use their rooftop and even direct you. They may even let you stay the night if you have nowhere else. . .”
Well, at least the man is now acting sympathetic, but my chances of joining the Adventurer’s Guild wither with each sentence. His new attitude almost makes it worse. I nod my thanks and try my best not to run as I leave the room the same way I came in.
I couldn’t have been inside for more than fifteen minutes, but the square is already looking less full. From my place at the top of the stairs, I manage to spot three groups looking for a Sherpa. I hurry to the cleanest and best geared of them.
“Rank and prior experience?” the leader asks on my approach. When I respond with my rank, the group dismisses me like a pile of trash, and I don’t even get to use my rehearsed sob story. I bite my lip and move on.
The other two groups are the same, and with them, I even blurted out the skill first. They must have heard me with the others or saw me enter and leave the Guild. Regardless, I end up sitting on the stairs watching groups form up and leave. I should probably go back and discuss this with Crash, but that guard said she wouldn’t let me in again if I don’t get a pass or group invite. I recall the feeling of cultivating in the sunlight, and sigh. Am I going to have to give that up?
“You say you’s a Sherpa,” a man slurs out as he walks toward me. As soon as I look at him, he spits on the cobblestones and a few nearby groups give him a dirty look. I blink. Was he listening to me approach other groups? He is dressed in tight leathers with two daggers strapped to his belt. His hair is long and ragged, and his skin is deeply tanned—which is a bit of a shock to my brain. He must be in the sun of the Suburb a lot. All that registers, but my brain fixates on the bloodstained sheaths and wrist cuffs. The man screams danger, and the group that he separated from, clearly his from their watching eyes, isn’t much better.
“I did,” I whisper while staring uncomfortably at the man.
Markus Leech
Rank: E-8
“My group, Ride or Die, runs F-rank dungeons, we don’t offer protection or nuttin’, but weez lookin’ fer a Sherpa.” Markus continues to slur his words, making his speech hard to even understand.
I look back to his group members, who seem to be milling about but at least one of them is always watching the man and me. Their device does claim they are looking for a Sherpa. The
y’re on the outskirts of the other groups, and in a general comparison, don’t visually stack up well. The largest man wears scale mail and carries a shield on his back. A hilt of a second weapon pokes up over his shoulder as well.
The only woman in the group has short hair, and is wearing enough leather armor that she looks almost boxy and stiff. She has a short spear with the butt resting on the ground. Another man carries a spear but casually over his shoulders, with his arms resting on it above his head. The pose is so casual that the man looks to be having a good time despite shifting from foot to foot and clearly waiting to go. The final member of the group is the best dressed and he wears vibrant green flowing robes over a black tunic and brown pants. He carries two weapons on his hips but it’s hard for me to make out what they are from this distance.
Everything about this is the exact opposite of Crash’s coaching sessions. According to the AI, if the team members are in the E-rank, they are also new and less likely to be professionals. In fact, Crash’s instructions were to find the best-geared and most well-spoken members looking for a Bag Boy. Still, all the other groups are already departing, and I wonder if this is my only chance.
“Can we stop by the guard post?” I whisper while pointing up the pathway toward my house. Markus sniffs loudly, looks back in the direction I am pointing and then back to his group on the outskirts of the square. After a moment, he spits on the cobblestones again.
“Sur, wees need t’go for a bit of a walk dan,” the man says, and other than sure, I am not positive I understood the rest. Still, I nod and am brought back to the other four members of his group. “Boyz, this is our Sherpa. Let’s go.” The other members all eye me dubiously.
“Don’t mind Markus. I don’t understand a word he says either,” the giant man that is carrying the shield says. I notice that the hilt on his back is actually for a large club that looks like it weighs as much as me. His accent is similar to Markus’s but not as heavy. “Yous any good at carrying bags? You look like a strong wind will knock ya down.” This man bears a striking resemblance to Markus as well, same dark, messy hair and tanned skin, but where Markus is lean and athletic, this man is muscular and thick.
“I, uhh, have a subspace skill,” I stutter, hoping I understood the fast-speaking new giant. My scrutiny triggers [Identify] again.
Jamie Leech
Rank: E-9
“I’ll save you from these two,” the man in a green robe says while stepping forward and chuckling. Under his breath, he continues, “They are brothers, and we all only understand every second word. Did you say you have a subspace?” This man is pale with well-kept gray hair, and closer up his clothing seems chosen for its dazzling appearance. I’ve never seen gray hair this close before, and find it striking on a man with such a youthful face. He has long, thin hands, and the two weapons I couldn’t make out are small hammers. I finally nod in response.
“Boys, we’ve found a good one. These two are Jamie and Markus. The man with the spear and the topknot in his hair is Boyle. The girl with the half-spear covered head to toe in armor is Esmerelda, and I’m Tin. We will keep running dungeons until that space is full. You okay with that?” Tin says as I try to prompt [Identify] on the other members.
The group surrounds me, and we begin walking out of the square following Markus. I nod to Tin and manage to identify each member without looking like I am staring. Jamie is the strongest of the group at E-9. The others are each in the E-rating with Esmerelda being the lowest at E-2.
I begin to sweat as we near the building I cultivated atop earlier. From there, I know we’re approaching the guard post and fast. After the post, I will be outside of the city, and for some reason, I feel an intense desire to run. Like getting past the guard is not going to be good for me. The way the group surrounds me is oppressive. The members behind me are almost bumping into each other because they are walking so close together.
The stories Leah told me to reinforce not talking to strangers come flooding back to me. Could these people be muggers? Or worse, ‘kidnappers’? I’m not a kid anymore, though, so how would that work?
Chapter 16
August 30th, 151 AR
Jeff Turle
I walk under the curtain of shade, passing from sunlight in a single step, and my heart thuds like a runaway train without rhyme or reason. I look around for possible escape routes, but the group still surrounds me.
Tin breaks off to approach Indica, and speaks with her for a few moments, as I continue to scan around. The gray-haired man even makes a couple gestures my way. Indica nods, marking something on her clipboard. That means they know I left with this group, right? Shouldn’t that keep me safe?
Boyle gives me a tap and I jolt forward as the group moves through the crowd. We continue to pass the shaded Suburb’s houses and I catch a glimpse of the roof of the Training Room house in the distance. I suck in some air, as an idea strikes me.
“Oh, I just realized I forgot my dagger at home. Mind if I run and get it? It will only take a moment,” I comment as offhandedly as I can, gesturing in a direction but not directly at the structure I’m staying in. I don’t want them to know—
“We has plenty of spares,” Markus calls as he casually slides his dagger out of the sheath at his belt. Perhaps it is just meant to be a friendly gesture, but it sends a shiver down my spine. Are those bloodstains under his nails? Probably just from monsters, but to not clean it. That speaks of something primal that chills me further.
“Sounds great. Mind if I borrow one then?” I ask hurriedly, trying to press the issue while still inside the Suburb, if just barely.
“Shar, kid,” Markus says and pulls a sheathed dagger from behind his back. I’m not even sure where it came from, but he tosses it casually to me. I catch it and take a quick glance at the blade inside. Sharp and clean. I’ve wanted a weapon since the day I took the small box reward. To finally hold one, even something as small as this dagger, feels good. The hilt in my hand makes me feel a degree more comfortable, and I begin to follow with a bit less trepidation.
I realize I haven’t tested out the subspace with a weapon and make the item disappear into the storage subspace and then summon it back out a few times, ensuring I can call it at a moment’s notice. The second benefit is that I can summon the hilt directly into my hand, and the blade free of the scabbard if I choose. It takes some concentration, but having the ability to present bare steel in an instant releases even more of my tension. They wouldn’t give me a knife if they had nefarious intentions. That would be illogical.
“Uhh—thanks,” I respond and then look up and around me at the group. Everyone is scanning the horizon for something. I try to follow their gazes but don’t see anything overt. “So, what’s the plan for dungeon runs?” I ask softly, hoping to get a sensible response. “Oh, and what about loot distribution?” I follow up with a question I know is important thanks to the mercenaries. This conversation is one that was also very common with them and I do have to collect a hundred cores to build the shop, after all.
“Sherpas traditionally get five percent at the end of the day,” Esmerelda says as she squints her eyes at my hand. The same hand I made the dagger appear into and out of.
“Not every day we see a subspace! She is trying to cheat you, of course. Normally, it’s ten percent, and the rest is split by us five. However, because of your abysmal cultivation, she is also right. Let’s call it seven and a half percent. Fair?” Tin chuckles and rests a hand on Esmerelda’s shoulder while giving her a look I can’t decipher. My first urge is to shrug because I was fine with five percent, but thanks to those same campfire discussions between mercs, I realize that this is a negotiation, and I shouldn’t be too quick to give away my hand.
I think the typical strategy is to ask for a higher number than what you actually want, and let the other party counter with something in between. According to the mercs, you can make as much as an entire mithril coin extra per day or more by using this tactic. I open my mouth to try
it and notice everyone is looking at me, and so change my mind.
“For the first day, seven and a half is fine,” I concede, but then think of something I can add. “After today, we will talk, deal?” I try to inject a bit of confidence to my statement in hopes of convincing them. The entire group laughs, and I twitch at the sound until I realize it isn’t directed at me in a bad way. Not like some of my other experiences. Somehow this feels inclusive.
“I like this kid,” the spearman, Boyle, states in a booming voice before clapping me on the back. The gesture reminds me of some of the interactions between mercenaries, and I feel what little tension I had left fade. The dour mood I felt earlier is mostly gone, and the group moves through the ruins toward a gray flag waving in the wind. Tin points to it.
“That is the dungeon we will try to clear first unless it’s a goblin, kobold, ant, satyr or skeleton dungeon. Those just aren’t worth the risk for us. We operate by clearing the mobs only and leaving. Again, it’s too risky right now to try the boss portals,” Tin explains. I listen raptly as he answers my question from before the negotiations.
These flags are something Alrick and a few mercenaries have explained to me in the past. Each color represents a rank for the dungeon. Gray is F-rank, green is E, and D is blue. After that, all dungeons are marked with a black flag and assigned to an official adventuring team or guild.
As soon as Tin finishes explaining, and I look off to the flag in question, I notice a huge oddity. I’ve walked the ruins of cities my entire life, but today there is something new. Small blue plaques hang in the air in every direction. They are too small for me to make out and they don’t blow in the wind like a flag, which tells me these are similar to the plaques from my [identity] skill.
