by Pirateaba
Ryoka blinked at Ceria as the mage blushed. It didn’t even seem possible a ham would fit inside the Half-Elf’s smaller body.
“Aren’t your…people vegetarian?”
Instantly Ceria’s face turned wary.
“Not all of us. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but we eat all the food Humans eat.”
“Oh, of course. Sorry.”
Mentally Ryoka kicked herself. She was really tired, to be making mistakes like that. But at least she hadn’t started talking about Tolkien elves or any of the other stereotypes. Come to that, she didn’t know much about Half-Elves either. She wasn’t a big fantasy fan.
Changing the subject, Ceria fiddled with her wand and pointed to Ryoka.
“You should probably get your first level in the [Mage] class as soon as you take a nap. Hopefully it’ll come with a Skill or a spell, but don’t worry if it doesn’t. After that you can start thinking about what field of magic you’d want to specialize in.”
“Oh. Levels.”
Another problem. Ryoka sighed.
“Is—is leveling necessary to learn magic? Couldn’t I learn magic without gaining a…a class?”
Ceria looked surprised and had to think about that question for a moment.
“Of course you don’t need levels to learn spells. But it makes everything so much faster. For instance – when I reached Level 18 in my [Elementalist] class I learned the spell [Fireball]. It would have taken me a month of study and the right scrolls to even begin casting that spell otherwise.”
She eyed Ryoka somewhat suspiciously.
“Why? You aren’t one of those types who believes in the Limit, do you?”
“Limit?”
“A limit to our levels. Some people—they claim that we all have a set amount of levels in us. If we gain too many levels in a bunch of different classes we’ll eventually run out. Never heard of them?”
“No. And I don’t believe in that either. I just wanted to know if I could study by myself or if I had to—to wait until I leveled to learn more spells.”
“Oh. Well, that’s a common misconception. Mages level from casting spells, but we gain a lot of experience from studying magic. You can’t just go around throwing fireballs and expect to level up quickly.”
And there was another thing. As Ryoka kept talking with Ceria, lightly speculating about what magic she might like to learn, her mind was racing.
Level limits? That sounded like a game to her. But people were treating it like some kind of superstition. How much did they really know about levels anyways?
In Ryoka’s sleep-deprived state, parts of her mind were firing off with questions, but she deliberately did not ask Ceria any of them. She liked and even trusted the Half-Elf, but some things were better left unasked. At least, for the moment.
“You look beat. I’d offer you my bed, but all the other adventurers are waking up. They’ll be thumping around soon enough.”
Ryoka was pretty sure she could sleep underneath a railroad at the moment, but she still declined Ceria’s offer.
“I’d like to talk some more about magic, and look around the Adventurer’s Guild if that’s okay.”
“Of course. I’m free until Calruz finishes meeting with the other Silver-rank leaders. And besides, it’s breakfast and everyone should be downstairs. We can meet them and eat at the same time.”
Ceria didn’t notice the brief look of distaste that flicked across Ryoka’s face. The other girl didn’t want to go down and socialize, but she had no choice. Reluctantly, she followed Ceria down the stairs.
—-
Damn. I hate talking to people. No—that’s not exactly right. I hate talking to people in groups. Individuals are fine. Ceria’s fine, Garia’s fine…Sostrom is fine…
…That’s about it. I’d be absolutely happy to talk to any one of them, but everyone else can go to hell rather than bother me. But instead I get to follow Ceria down and socialize.
I hate that. But I do owe Ceria, not least because she’s helped me learn magic. Me. Learn magic*.
*If I weren’t so tired I think I’d be running around waving my arms and screaming in a high-pitched voice**.
**Probably not. But I’m really, really excited. It’s magic! Magic! I wonder what spells I can learn and—damnit, here come the people.
I follow Ceria down into the main section of the Adventurer’s Guild. The ground floor has an open lobby for people to either submit requests for assistance to the guild or adventurers to turn in bounties and collect rewards like the Runner’s Guild, but it also has more sections designed to cater to the adventuring lifestyle.
A small shop staffed by employees of the city’s guild is the last stop in the small corridor before we reached what I can only describe as a cafeteria. It’s a mess hall, but the way it’s set up immediately screams school cafeteria at me. And this is not a pleasant association.
The cafeteria is essential one far wall with a noisy kitchen partially exposed to the room and a long counter where adventurers can pay for food without having to make their way to an inn. The Adventurer’s Guild in Esthelm is even big enough to have quite a few rooms for rent like the one Ceria was staying in. I suppose it all makes sense—you can earn even more money feeding the people who kill monsters for you.
As soon as Ceria and I step into the room people turn and look. I guess it’s an adventurer thing—and a Runner thing come to think of it—not to want to be caught off-guard.
But the truth of it is that Ceria and I would probably attract attention anywhere we go. Ceria is Ceria—half immortal and beautiful. And I’m…me. I’ve got bare feet and I’m taller than a lot of the guys here. Plus, I look Asian and this is a very Anglo-Saxon type of place*.
*Seriously. What’s up with that? Is it just a rule that white people are always the colonists who screw over the indigenous groups? I know humans aren’t native to this continent, but does that also mean white—excuse me—caucasian** groups are the dominant ethnic group in this world? Or…is it mirroring our world somehow? Hm.
**Technically speaking, caucasian is also not politically correct since it implies someone who’s descended from the Caucasus region which isn’t necessarily true. Plus, the word literally means white people, just without saying the word white overtly. The correct term here would be European-American, except that it doesn’t apply to people here since there is no America or Europe, which means that white people is the best damn word there is and stop thinking about this—
“Ryoka Griffin!”
I’m cut off from my incoherent musings at the voice. A familiar voice, but that doesn’t mean I’m too happy to hear it. Still, I’ve got to play nice. And I do owe these people, even if it seems like half of them are a bit too interested in me as a member of the opposite sex.
So I smile, turn, and clasp hands with Gerial, Sostrom and the other Horns of Hammerad as they get up from their seats. There are several people I don’t recognize, and they nod to me as Ceria and Gerial introduce them.
‘Hey Ryoka, this is blah blah or someone someone who’s here to hit things or shoot people with arrows.’ I really don’t care, especially since I’m still hungry, tired, and grumpy at having to meet people. But I do owe the Horns so I shake hands and smile and pretend I like them, which is not my strong suit.
I’m just tired. It was a mistake to say I wanted to check out the Adventurer’s Guild to Ceria. What I really should have said is that I want to look around really quickly, talk with her for three more hours, and then go to sleep for the rest of the day before doing anything else.
Instead I’m stuck. And guess what? I forgot that people still hadn’t heard about me going through the High Passes, which means suddenly a bunch of annoying people want me to tell them exactly what happened.
“I ran into a bunch of Goblins, some wolves, some goats, and then some gargoyles. I just kept running and then I got to my destination.”
Gerial made a polite sound of disbelief while Ceria eyes me as she bring
s us some more food. Cafeteria food for adventurers. Lovely.
To be fair, it’s sausage, barley bread, and some vegetable soup steaming in a bowl. And some weak, minty drink people around here love. And that’s great cooking by medieval standards. A far higher standard of living than what poor people would have eaten all the time*.
*Barley. Barley bread, barley pizza, barley pancakes, barley soup…yeah. They didn’t have many options back then.
I eat it while they pester me with questions. The Horns of Hammerad have their own table, but it seems like a bunch of adventurers just happen to be standing around listening too.
“There’s got to be more than that. What kind of wolves were they? Normal kinds or were they actual monsters?”
I glance up at Gerial. He’s still smiling and trying to be Mr. Nice Guy. Okay, maybe he genuinely is nice, but I still don’t like him as easily as I do Ceria. Probably because he’s a guy and even he can’t resist staring at my breasts once or twice*.
*My eyes are up here. Not that I really want people to stare into my eyes. Over my shoulder is nice, but I’m used to them looking at my feet, too. And at least Gerial doesn’t stare much and stops when he realizes he is. That’s the sign of a semi-decent guy, as opposed to the other guy sitting next to him who can’t stop looking at them.
Okay, I realize what the problem is. I uncross my arms and stop leaning back in my chair. If you’ve got it, don’t flaunt it unless you want people to think about touching it. Or something.
“I don’t know. They were a lot bigger than normal wolves. And they had red fur.”
And bodies like iron. Gerial looks around. One of the mages sitting next to Sostrom nods.
“Carn Wolves.”
“Got to be.”
Several of the nearby adventurers whistle and Ceria looks pained. Oh yeah, she was really guilty about giving me those mana potions by accident. I told her it all worked out but—
“They were pretty bad. They ate up the Goblins that ambushed me and then got torn to shreds by the Gargoyles and goats.”
The adventurers murmur again and look at each other. Gerial shakes his head and leans forwards, this time meeting my eyes.
“See, Gargoyles I understand. They’re terrifying monsters when you find one holed up in a cave or terrorizing a village. But goats? What do you mean, ‘goats’?”
“Probably the flesh-eating goats, the kind with sharp teeth that can tear even Carn Wolves apart.”
This comes from a guy standing among the other adventurers. He’s got a scar over one side of his face and he’s wearing a longsword at his belt. Which means he’s pretty sparsely equipped compared to the rest of the adventurers who’re walking around in chainmail or wearing leather armor even while they eat.
He nods at me as Gerial and the other Horns turn in their seats.
“Hendric, Silver-rank adventurer. You must be the famous barefoot Runner. Were those the kind of goats you saw?”
I eye him. Despite the crowd now forming around our table, this guy is getting a bit of space and he’s not being shoved. Clearly he’s important.
“Yeah. I guess. They had sharp teeth. And they scream.”
The scarred guy nods grimly.
“That’s them alright. Those goats hunt in packs and can climb anything. They’re village killing monsters. Whenever they leave the High Passes they eat everything edible in their wake for miles around. If you outran them Miss Runner, consider yourself lucky.”
All of the adventurers seem impressed at this. The scarred man seems to have fought the damned goats more than once, and Gerial and the others start asking him questions about them.
I lean over to Ceria.
“Who’s he?”
She pauses, swallows, and glances at the scarred guy who’s busy talking about how to behead the goats properly.
“He’s Hendric, captain of the Swordlock Dogs. A Silver-rank team, more known up north. He was supposed to be talking to Calruz and the others but—”
“Okay, okay. You got through the monsters, but what was waiting for you at the other end?”
Ceria breaks off as one of the newer members of the Horns of Hammerad interrupts our conversation. Rude asshole. He’s also the youngest guy with scruffy brownish hair. He stares at me and demands to know who I met.
“Who was he? Some rich hermit? A mage living in retirement? A shadowy figure?”
Like hell I’m going to tell him, or anyone for that matter. The mystery possibly-elf archmage Teriarch might annoy me, but he’s my mystery.
“No one special.”
While I may not like people, I am good at keeping a straight face while I tell lies*. And at least here I can play the Runner’s confidentiality card so I don’t have to answer any more questions about him at least.
*Lies like ‘oh, I’m so sorry your stupid hamster died’, or ‘I just cannot believe your stupid inbred boyfriend dumped you! How terrible!’ And so on.
“But Gargoyles? I’ve never seen one up close. What were they like?”
“Big. Stone. They spit rocks and try to eat you.”
What the hell do they want from me, a hand-drawn portrait with anatomical references? …Hell, I’d buy a monster bestiary if they had one around here. But all these adventurers want to know is how to kill one, and I’m definitely not the person to ask for that.
“I barely got out alive. It was sheer luck that I got away.”
“I happen to disagree with that. Anyone who can outrun a hoard of Gargoyles is clearly not merely lucky.”
This time the clear voice comes from behind the other adventurers. People turn, and stand aside as they do as three adventurers walk forwards. That probably also has to do with one of them being Calruz. No one gets in his way.
Calruz, a guy holding a huge longbow as tall as he is, and a woman in silvery armor walk to the table I’m sitting at. Great. More people, and these ones also look like captains. The woman with long flowing blonde hair smiles down at me and offers a gauntleted hand.
“Yvlon Byres, Silver-rank adventurer. I’m Captain of the Silver Spears, and I wanted to make your acquaintance.”
My god does she look like something out of a movie. I stare up at her with crumbs on my face and then take her hand. One firm handshake later and somehow she and the other captains are sitting at the table.
Great. As if my trials weren’t enough. Now I’ve got Calruz sitting next to me, and a giant, hairy Minotaur is not my preferred seatmate. And now there are four Silver-rank adventuring captains sitting around me, nicely blocking me off from Ceria while a bunch of people stare at me like I’m some kind of amazingly interesting piece of crap*.
*Or something else. Honestly, I could be a golden poodle for all I care. I hate being stared at when I’m not running, and even then it’s not exactly a blast. But at least then I can outrun the eyes.
“Getting through the High Passes alive is something that hasn’t been done in years. Not that many Runners have tried it, but it takes a special kind of someone to do that.”
Calruz snorted and the other adventurers nodded as Yvlon, the fabulously armored and beautiful captain continues lavishing praise on me. It’s actually getting to be more annoying than the questions.
“It was a request. I got it done—half-done. I just need to finish my delivery and it’ll be over.”
“Really?”
This time everyone is interested. One of the adventurers tries to look casual.
“Where to? Whom to?”
“Confidential.”
Their faces fall. But I don’t think any of them were really expecting to get the truth out of me anyways. But at the mention of the delivery, the ring and letter I’ve been given burn in my mind. I left them in the pack in Ceria’s room. Damn. I should have been more careful with them. I’ve got to deliver—
I blink, unfocused for a second. The spell. For a moment I was about to get up and start running. That stupid mage—
“Ryoka?”
I look up. Eve
ryone’s staring at me. I must have not been paying attention. I try not to turn red, fail, and look at Yvlon.
“Sorry, what?”
This is why I hate talking to people. But she smiles as if nothing happened and asks me again.
“I was just wondering if you had any levels in a fighting class, or whether you only had levels as a Runner. Did you enter into any other classes before this?”
Now that is a loaded question that I’m not prepared to answer. I scramble—give up.
“Why do you want to know?”
Yeah, that’s right. I’m about as blunt as a hammer to the face. But Yvlon only smiles.
“Simple curiosity. I’d like to see how well you’d do in a fight. I’m told you’re quite the pugilist despite being a Runner.”
Pugilist? Who the hell uses that term? Oh, right. ‘Boxer’ probably hasn’t been invented yet.
Gerial looks blank. He and the other adventurers at the table exchange a glance.
“What’s a ‘pugilist’?”
Ceria sighed and supplied the answer.
“Boxer.”
All the adventurers nod in sudden understanding. Okay, maybe boxing does exist in this world and Yvlon’s just a prat. Or someone who appreciates literature. I could respect that*.
*But I won’t. I’m too tired. And pugilist is a stupid word, anyways.
“Who’d you hear that from?”
Word can’t have spread about me laying the beat down on that stupid adventurer in Celum. No way. I literally outran rumor. So how does this woman know who I am and that I can fight?
“I heard it from my aunt twice-removed. She lets me know about interesting people and she told me it would be worth seeking you out.”
All the adventurers seem to understand this, and look at me curiously. But I’m still out of the loop.
“Who’s the aunt? Do I know her?”
