The girl didn’t meet Eve’s gaze, her eyes fixed on the words she read. “Are you with the… um… Disciple of the Devouring Flame?”
“You have a message for Wes?”
The girl nodded.
With a gentle smile, Eve pulled a silver piece from her pocket, tipping generously. “Here you go.”
The Messenger Girl practically snatched the coin from Eve’s hand, holding out the letter in exchange. Before Eve could even blink, the girl was gone.
“That’s weird,” Preston muttered. “We only just got here. Who’s writing letters to Wes already?”
Eve flipped the envelope in her hand, her eyes shooting open as she read the lettering on the red wax seal. “Damn,” she muttered, “and I thought my class was going to get attention.” She looked up at Preston. “It’s from the mage’s college.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Haul
“AYLA’S TITS,” WES cursed over the neatly folded parchment.
Eve leaned in. “What’s it say?”
“What do you think it says?” Preston asked. “It’s a job offer.”
“Not just a job offer,” Wes breathed. “An interview.”
“Guess you’re fucked, then,” Eve laughed. “I don’t think making puns counts as work experience.”
“Not that kind of interview,” Wes muttered, his eyes still wide as he ignored Eve’s jape. “They want me to tell them about my class. They’ve never seen it before.”
“Ayla’s tits,” Preston echoed.
“That’s what I said.”
“I know.” Preston blinked. “I was right here.”
“Right.” Wes shook his head, lost in the haze of shock and wonder.
“Um… okay.” Eve lifted an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know,” the Disciple said. “I didn’t even do anything special to earn it, it just kinda… happened.”
“Don’t tell them that,” Preston added. “And don’t sell yourself short. Just because you didn’t sucker punch a fire elemental doesn’t mean you didn’t earn your class.”
“But Eve—”
“Don’t compare yourself to Eve,” the healer snapped. “She’s on a Legendary quest that’s only marginally less insane than she is. You braved the same dungeons, the same monsters that she did, and you’re not made of Mana.”
After a moment’s silence, Wes hesitantly nodded. “So what now?”
“Now?” Preston shrugged. “Did they mention anything about paying you for your class info?”
“‘Membership into our organization and fair payment in gold for the details of your class’,” Wes quoted.
Eve’s jaw dropped. “Gold?”
“Excellent.” A thin smile stretched across Preston’s face. “Don’t take it.”
Wes scowled. “What?”
Eve mirrored his expression. “I agree. What? Wes’s planned to join the mage’s college from the day we left Nowherested.”
Preston held up his hands. “I know, I know. Don’t take the offer yet. If the mage’s college hasn’t seen your magic class yet, I guarantee you the other companies haven’t either.” He pointed to the letter. “The mages got to you first, but I’ll wager there are more of those on their way. You just became a hot commodity.”
Realization flashed in Wes’s eyes. “Shit.”
Eve furrowed her brow at Preston. “How do you know this?”
“How do you not?” Preston scoffed. “What adventurer in their right mind doesn’t research the requirements for the class they want?”
Eve scowled.
“Right, right.” He shook his head. “I keep forgetting you two are from the middle of nowhere. And not in your right minds.”
“Not that it matters,” Wes said. “Apparently we’re both outside the scope of research, anyway.”
“Hold up.” Realization dawned on Eve’s face. “If they’re offering gold to hear about classes they haven’t seen before, what do you think they’ll pay for mine?”
Preston put it simply. “They won’t.”
“It’s literally Unique!” Eve insisted, keeping her voice low as the common room slowly filled with thirsty adventurers. “There’s no way the mercenaries have seen it.”
“That’s the problem.” Wes realized the Caretaker’s line of thinking. “They haven’t seen it. No one has.”
Preston nodded. “Nobody’s interested in the class requirements for Emissary. They already know that one.”
Eve cursed, taking a moment to down the last of her ale. “Gods-damn Appraise weirdness.”
“Can’t you just… show them your class directly?” Wes offered.
Snark crept through Eve’s voice. “I don’t know, Wes.” She leaned in, pulling up her status sheet in an attempt to show its reflection in her eyes. “What do you see?”
“Nothing,” he answered simply. “Your eyes glow brighter than the blue screen.”
She nodded, shutting her eyes for a moment to redirect her Mana. It took a few minutes’ practice to maintain her focus without letting the status screen close, but even when she did Wes again shook his head.
“Still nothing. You’re not glowing bright enough to light up the room, but you’re still glowing.”
Eve glowered, letting her Mana return to its normal flow. “Shit. Can’t prove I’m anything but an Emissary if nobody can Appraise me or read my status.”
“I mean…” Preston offered, “a truth potion would work. Or some advanced telepathy. Or maybe there’s a more powerful version of Appraise out there.”
“Great. So if I get arrested they’ll know my class, but I can’t actually use it to get a job.”
“You can’t use it to get a job as an adventurer,” Wes corrected. “I’m sure King Elric could use an extra Emissary.”
“It’s Queen Elric. The king died five years ago.” Preston sighed at their confused look. “Right, right, backwater village.”
Eve rubbed her temples. “It’s the gods-damned adventurer’s guild all over again. Maybe I’ll get a milestone for being the only tier four to that nobody wants on their team.”
Wes turned up his palms. “On the bright side, you can at least afford your own room this time.”
“Hey, I saved your life at least twice on the way to Lynthia,” she argued. “You owed me.”
“Which is why I haven’t asked you to pay me back.” Wes smiled. “Yet.”
Eve rolled her eyes.
“You can afford more than your own room,” Preston said. “If those griffin claws really have ar-iron in them, you can afford a gods-damned house. You don’t need mercenary companies bidding over your class info. Hells, you probably don’t even need a job.”
“Where’s the fun in that? Besides, I have three quests I still haven’t finished, and I get the impression level fifty isn’t going to be enough for at least a few of them.”
Three sets of eyes turned to subtly glance at Art where the orphaned hatchling seemed to be silently conversing with Reginald.
“You don’t need a mercenary company to keep adventuring,” Preston returned to the conversation. “Sure, the guild doesn’t get high-level requests, but there are still dungeons out there. Or we can just follow Wes on whatever missions he ends up on.”
There was some merit to the idea. Not only could she avoid trying to convince a high-level organization to accept an Emissary, but Preston’s plan would allow the three of them to stick together for the foreseeable future. Sure, it’d pay less than taking her own missions, but money wasn’t exactly a sticking point at the moment. “Maybe,” Eve eventually admitted, still hesitant to give up potential income. “We’ll have to see how much the griffin claws actually go for.”
“And the hide,” Wes added. “And the dungeon cores. And the cultists’ sacrificial dagger.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Eve smiled. “I’ll head out to sell the loot tomorrow morning, while you talk to companies and Preston submits his beastmistress application.”
Prest
on opened his mouth to protest her word choice, but Eve cut him off with a calculated smirk.
“And as for tonight,” she said, rising from the table, “I think the next round is on Wes.”
* * *
Eve awoke early the next morning feeling fresh and well rested and ready to tackle the day.
She cursed.
By all rights she should’ve been hungover, her current state of wellness only serving as a reminder that her unique and powerful race change had robbed her of any adventurer’s favorite pastime: getting drunk. Apparently, her Ethereal Metabolism metabolized alcohol into Mana a little too well.
Feeling downright functional, she rose from her bed and donned a pair of traveling pants, a freshly laundered but still worn and stained blouse, and her pack full of griffin claws before heading downstairs for breakfast.
The first task of the day was to submit a job listing to the guild, searching for a psychic who could teach Art to keep his telepathy under control. Unsure what to offer, she simply listed the pay as ‘negotiable,’ hoping whoever showed up wouldn’t demand too much.
The guild clerk was less than helpful as Eve filled out the required paperwork, but she at least kept her usual snark at bay. Apparently, the hour was too early for rude comments.
Job posted, Eve claimed an empty table and sat back to wolf down a plate of eggs and sausage. The flavors danced across her palate, spices and fat and protein mingling together in a symphony of simplicity that in truth didn’t taste that good but was surely welcome after months of Wes’s cooking.
She noticed, as she ate, a Messenger Boy step into the guild hall, white envelope in hand. She watched him scan the room before joining four others of the same class waiting at a corner table. Eve wondered if they were all for Wes. Preston had been right; he was a hot commodity.
Eve took a moment to curse herself for failing to make a joke about the healer describing Wes as ‘hot’ in the moment. Why did all the best ideas come a day late? She shook her head.
Shoving her empty plate aside, Eve shouldered her pack and stepped out into the sunlit streets of Ilvia’s inner city.
The air was crisp and cool, blowing refreshingly across her skin as she navigated the broad avenues. Though she’d left her club back at the guild hall—a giant bone on her back would draw a bit too much attention—she kept her daggers strapped to her waist. It was to these the blacksmith turned up his nose as Eve stepped into his shop.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the lithe man greeted her as he looked her up and down, “we don’t service homemade weapons.”
“You… what?” She frowned, noting there was not a hint of soot or oil on the blacksmith’s immaculate doublet.
He shook his head. “Adventurers,” he sneered. “Always think they can make a better weapon in a half hour than an artisan who’s honed his craft for decades.” He held up a hand, gesturing to the armaments on display. Each was more intricate than the last, detailed with decorative swirls and sculptures or inlaid with more jewels than Eve could count. They were more works of art than weapons of war.
“I… didn’t make these.” Eve waved at her daggers. “And they’re in perfectly good shape, thank you very much.” She reached for her pack. “I’m here to sell.”
“I can refer you to a smith in the outer city who’ll be happy to purchase your looted weapons and armor, but The Artful Hammer doesn’t deal in used weaponry.” He rattled off the response as if he’d said those exact words a thousand times. Living so close to the adventurer’s guild, he probably had.
“Alright then.” Eve shrugged. “Can this outer-city smith work with ar-iron?”
The man froze, staring at Eve with eyes as wide as saucers. “D-did you say…”
“What’s his name? I’ll be sure to let him know you referred me.” Eve turned as if to take a step towards the exit.
“Stop!” The haughty smith lunged from behind the counter. “Show me the ar-iron. I assure you there is no other smith in all of Ilvia who can do it justice.”
“I don’t give a shit who can do it justice.” Eve pulled her pack from her shoulder, stepping up to the counter. “I care who can give me the best price.”
“I can be more than reasonable,” the man insisted. “Your ar-iron will be far more valuable as a work of art forged for a noble’s hip than as some adventurer’s tool.”
Eve had her qualms about turning the valuable metal into a showpiece instead of something actually useful, but she wasn’t here for a weapon—hers worked well enough. “Alright,” she said, pulling out the brutal talons and lining them up on the smith’s counter, “what’ll you give me for these?”
“Already refined,” the man muttered as he examined a claw, “curious.”
It was Eve’s turn to go pale as the snobby blacksmith picked up one of the valuable talons and, without so much as breaking a sweat, snapped it in half. “Holy shit.”
Ignoring her profanity, the smith gazed deeply into the broken end of the iron claw. “Looks like twenty-two percent iron, fifty-eight point three percent platinum, twelve percent ar-iron, and a few trace minerals to make up the rest.” He looked up at Eve, his eyes still blue with whatever skill he’d used to evaluate the metal.
“Oh yes,” the man said. “I believe you and I can come to quite the profitable deal.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Disk Eye Pull
EVE RUBBED HER thumb across the face of the coin, feeling every bump and trough in the minted gold. She grinned.
She’d never even seen a gold coin before, let alone touched one. This solitary piece of currency would’ve been enough to buy a gods-damned house back in Nowherested. More than enough.
Eve hadn’t expected such a little thing to be so heavy, in both senses of the word. Of course, neither it nor its hundred and thirteen twins in her pack were much of a burden given her superhuman Strength, but that didn’t stop each and every coin from surprising her with its heft.
It was a lot of money. Too much money.
Eve fought the urge to flip the coin she held through the air, knowing full well that the flash of gold would attract the wrong kind of attention, even in the relatively safer inner city. She still refused to stow it away in her pack, keeping it wrapped tight in her palm as she wandered the posh avenues.
She smiled as she passed a pair of guards on patrol, remembering the days she’d thought a hundred-silver fine backbreaking. With the wealth in her bag, she could afford to pay that a thousand times over and still have a veritable fortune to spare. She wondered what she’d do with it.
Eve tried not to think about how eager the snobby blacksmith had been to part with such a sum, nor about how much some nobleman was likely to pay for the ar-iron saber he’d make. As far as she was concerned, the nobles could keep their overpriced and artistically crafted weapons. Beauty served little purpose on the field of battle. Her griffin-bone club was plenty good enough.
Then again, despite what any onlooker might’ve thought, Eve was no Emissary. She knew nothing of the noble field of battle. Perhaps the price tag on the weapon meant as much to them as the sharpness of a blade meant to her. She shook the thought from her head, dismissing the concerns of nobles once and for all as not her problem.
Instead, she turned her attention to the open windows of the various luxury boutiques that lined the streets of inner Ilvia, ogling extravagant dresses and fine jewelry she never would’ve dreamed of affording before that day.
She knew she’d be better served spending her money on potions, enchantments, perhaps a new set of armor better suited to channeling Mana. Adventurers had no use for ballgowns.
Although, Eve mused as she eyed a deep crimson evening dress with glimmering golden stitching, if I’m posing as an Emissary, maybe it’d be worth it to look the part. People treat foreign dignitaries with respect, right?
She recognized the excuse for what it was, forcing herself to turn her gaze forward and continue on her way. She resolved to at least return to the guild hall to di
stribute Wes and Preston’s share of the gold before making any rash purchases.
Her resolve lasted all of twelve steps, eventually done in not by the eye-catching beauty of magnificent luxury, but by a simple smell.
Without spending a single ounce of her Unique class-defining willpower trying to resist the temptation, Eve found herself standing at the counter of Madame So’s Sweet Temptations, counting out silver pieces as she placed her order.
It wasn’t until she was nearly a block away, reveling in the buttery sweetness of the strawberry scone, that Eve realized the shop might’ve sold bread as well. She didn’t turn back. Probably for the best, she reasoned, I wouldn’t want them to burn down or go out of business or something. Not with scones like these.
She pulled another from the box they’d given her, downing the delicious pastry in three bites. “Ayla’s tits, that’s good,” she moaned, eliciting confused stares from a number of passersby. She paid them no heed.
Eve activated Mana Rush as she walked, using the empowering ability to partially drain her nearly full Mana pool just enough so she could afford to eat a third scone without overflowing. Her muscles rippled with enough Strength to shatter stone as she bit down on the fruity confection. Fuck combat, she decided. Ethereal Metabolism and Mana Rush were truly meant for optimal scone consumption.
She was still licking sugary crumbs from her lips when she stepped back into the guild hall common room to find Wes, Preston, and Art sitting around a table.
The young trellac wore a loose pair of pants and oversized shirt, obscuring his feathered arms and avian legs. Were it not for the ruffled feathers surrounding his face and the taloned feet sticking out the legs of the aforementioned pants, Eve might’ve taken him for a human child. The too-long sleeves of his dull-brown cotton shirt even served to hide his clawed hands. He sipped cutely at a glass of milk while Preston talked.
“Are you sure you should be wearing that? We should at least get it evaluated.”
Wes gripped the silver chain around his neck. “Why would anyone send me a cursed amulet? I hardly think cursing me would make me want to join…” He looked down at a piece of paper in front of him. “…the Red Ravens.”
This Class is Bonkers! (This Trilogy is Broken (A Comedy Litrpg Adventure) Book 2) Page 10
