How to Be an Adventurer- World of Gimmok

by Damien Hanson

  “We were all seeking something else when the book found us,” Bern Sandros explained. “And, so, where we were going, we will never get to. Yeah?”

  They all nodded in affirmation, waiting to see where he was going with this.

  “And, so, I say that we have all gone wayward, in that we are lost, and that we are travelers because we all thought we had a specific place to go? Right?”

  The rest of them all looked at each other, and then at him, and shrugged an affirmative.

  “Then it is quite simple, mates. We are the Wayward Travelers, and damned if I know if we’ll ever find our way.”

  ***

  All that lay between them and the city was a ragged line of travelers, subdued in the gloomy weather. Oh, and guards of course, armor polished and faces weary, checking papers, asking questions, and taking coins.

  “So, guys,” Yenrab asked, his chest bared and steaming into the joyless sky. “Now that we are all adventurers, what do we do first?”

  “Did you check the book?” asked Tracy with a smile. “That thing knows everything. It told me that you are a snoop!”

  Yenrab laughed and shook his head, throwing water off of his topknot in a circle about him. Tracy, a woman again, flipped out her own long hair and did the same.

  “Gods above, yes, so it does,” Yenrab admitted. “I was a snoop. Just one time though.”

  “Mates, I’ll tell you what we do. We throw down some coins, dredge up some meat, rally around some beers, and we make merry!” Bern yelled out immediately, already feeling the greasy meat between his teeth and the amber liquid pour down his throat.

  “Sounds like a dream come true, Bern,” Carric announced.

  “We’ll need to meet some ladies as well,” he added.

  Tracy looked confused. “I can . . .”

  “NO!” they all yelled at him. The travelers in front of them peeked back with fearful eyes.

  “It’s alright!” Tracy consoled them. “We’re heroes!”

  The travelers gave them all a good long look and then left the line, restarting at its back.

  “Huh,” stated Tracy, even more confused. “Why—”

  Carric cut him off. “Tracy asked a good question, and I think we all kind of cut you off there, Yenrab. So, mate, did you read the book on this?”

  “Yeah, ya know, I did do just that. There’s a new chapter, ‘How to be an Adventurer—Large Cities and You.’ It kinda goes on and on, but it said big cities are their own adventure and also a place to find other adventures and, oh, be careful because they can be dangerous too.”

  “Damn right, they can be,” added Bern Sandros.

  “So,” Yenrab continued, “that’s what we do. We go adventure in Gennopolis unless we find something better.”

  “Yeah. Yeah! The Weeping Widow!” Carric gushed. “Oh my gods!”

  “Meh?” Yenrab sounded. Comprehension, though, dawned in the eyes of one Bern Sandros.

  “That’s here? Hells yes, we are going to the Weeping Widow. Gods alive, that’s the place where all the good ones get their go, isn’t it?”

  “So the ballads always say,” hedged Carric, now a bit suspicious as to some of the veracity of these tales. Still, he couldn’t help but feel excited.

  “Yeah? Alright, to the Weeping Widow we go.”

  Yenrab looked once at Tracy to seek the wild mage’s vote, but she seemed very excited overseeing Carric and Bern get excited, and well, that just wasn’t something he was going to wade into.

  ***

  The guards at the gate were well-armed and armored, but their faces were young, and their demeanor was both bored and tired. The line through those formidably large double doors progressed quickly.

  Yenrab nodded with satisfaction. The soldiers were not at all happy to be out here in this weather, and all they were doing was taking the coins necessary for entry and waving people through. Weapons were not checked in at the gate as they had been the last time he had come, so long ago, on the trade mission from his tribe. Things had changed.

  When their turn finally arrived, neither of the guards even glanced at them.

  “Name?”

  Bern, who had well taken in the whole situation, flashed a hilarious look of disdain at the rest of them, and then spoke up in a deep and mighty voice.

  “I am Yenros Yendros, a half-orc barbarian.”

  “And your friends?” the man asked, still simply watching Bern’s feet mush mud, while the other paged through a tome, seeming to study something.

  “They are my children.”

  The guard finally looked up at them. Tracy tapped her breasts, and they sank into her body, as a goatee sprouted. He frowned.

  “I think I am going to ask you to contribute an extra gold piece to the ‘I just didn’t see that’ fund,” the guard said in a confused and lower voice.

  “Here’s one and one more, my friend,” Bern said in whispered but jovial demeanor. Then, out loud, he said, “Let’s go, kids.”

  Tracy watched the other guard until he finally fell out of sight. He never did look up from the parchments in his hands.

  ***

  It took some weaving through the crowded streets of this rapidly expanding city, some dodging of waste flung from upper windows, and some harsh words at dirty pickpockets always ready to lighten one’s load, but they found it.

  The Weeping Widow! A stone and thatch establishment of renown and glory. Some of the best parties had started there. The last greats of Freehold had stayed there! The antics of Bardos the Gnomish Wizard, a man of powerful constitution who flew and threw fireballs, all started here when he fell asleep at the bar and woke up in a wagon. Alongside him was Alain, the rambunctious, often murderish, ranger, whose legendary flask of rice wine never ran out and constantly put him into harm’s way. Cain, the split personality wild mage/rogue, who often stole from himself and once accidentally wild-magicked Alain’s rice wine into a shower of piss while he was drinking it mid battle, had his start with them here as well. That particular tale was a chortle and then some, after the retching passed.

  And so many others, not of the realm, had passed through. Tinkers, bards, rogues, warlocks, mages . . . this was a place of portent. A place that meant something. A place that adventurers, real heroes, were known to frequent. A place where they could sign contracts, brag about their victories, and drink the hardest of alcohols with the best of them. Bards sang songs of the Weeping Widow, within whose halls so many a fortune was begun. Carric looked about it eagerly—yep, sure enough, birds nested within the thatched roof of this adventurers’ abode just like he had heard in the songs back in college. The others simply whistled, while Tracy looked on in wide-eyed amazement, a tourist finding himself in a place that he once thought fictional.

  Marching up in awe, wonderstruck and gaping, the party looked on in growing excitement as they realized that some special event was taking place. Outside of the bar, in this damp and dreary weather, a ring had been constructed. Hunks of particle board, pasted together from shavings and tar, were nailed up like sign posts. Then a man with deep-dark ink, the kind of ink so black that it stained your soul to look at, would brush names up in the letters of the Nemedian alphabet.

  Tracy seemed very confused.

  “Why would the people of Freehold use Nemedian common as their language? Why not make something else?”

  The rest of the party looked at him with the peculiar what-are-you-talking-about face that people sometimes have. Their eyes were mystified, mouths partially open, and hands half-raised as if to ward themselves from some infectious sort of stupidity.

  Yenrab started first.

  “Tracy, why would they change languages? And what would they change it to? Orcish? Ya know, it isn’t as easy as it sounds.”

  “Ya, I get that. Guys, I’m not stupid. But the Freeholder’s Republic finished a long and hard war of independence against the Nemeds just a couple of decades ago. They broke free from the Nemedian empire. Why not make up a new language and be d
one with them?” Heat coursed through his face a little as the passion of politics felt its way through his skin.

  “Woah, relax,” Carric smoothed. “No one is calling you stupid. It is just a very different opinion from what we hear in our cultures.”

  “That is an understatement,” Bern snorted.

  “Well, maybe they should. Growing up, we used to play a game called blabble. The Grand Sorcan would get everyone who wanted to play into a big mob, and then he’d change all of our languages, and we’d have to hobble together a new one so we could all figure out how to finish some project he set out for us. And the effects wore off, but they didn’t have to. The Freeholders could do it,” the half-elf said in a bit of defiance.

  Bern looked thoughtful as the half-elf said it.

  “We’d have to figure it out all over again. That wouldn’t be a bad thing, really, in the long run, would it? Mates, maybe it is better if we go back every now and again and make things from the bottom up again but, I dunno, just make them better this time?”

  Yenrab traced equations through the air as Bern talked. Everyone took note of it and just stopped, watching him. When he concluded, they were all quite expectant.

  “So?” asked Carric eagerly.

  “What? Oh. Yeah, ya know, I kinda lost track of thought and started figuring out who is really and truly the best animal friend a sentient could have.”

  Everyone was a little disappointed, but also intrigued.

  “So what is it then?” Carric asked, prodding his thoughts along.

  “Cats, for sure. Most everything else is a slave. Cats stay only if they want to stay. Man, I wish I could be a cat, for that matter. Or a tiger!”

  “The Grand Sorcan sometimes let us younglings be an animal for a day,” Tracy informed them. “It was purrfect!”

  Chapter 17: The Fall of Yenrab Atsittab

  After talking with one of the laborers, the party realized that a tournament was to be fought. It was a gold piece to enter, and all the gold pieces would go to the victor. Quite a few adventurers were here for the event, as well-evidenced by their expensive gear and rugged demeanors, as well as the stink of dungeons that wafted from their bodies. They had stripped down to win glory and to pay the rent, since breeches served as the only armor in this combat.

  A man in broken top hat and faded, once colorful, clothes swung about a cane in a way that dizzied the eyes and well attracted their attention.

  “Come hither and thither, friends of mettle, for soon we have a score to settle. Be it thug, rogue, or man of rage, the skills of many shall grace this stage. A battle fierce with a win to one, and a fortune made when the battle is done.”

  “Come, one and all,” he shouted. “Adventurers, townsfolk, jilted husbands, and cheated spinsters. Do you have what it takes? Prove your mettle in this test of skill. Honor and glory await the winner. Don’t hesitate, because, if you do, you’ll miss that one amazing shot you always find yourself asking for. The one shot that you say you need to make it rich. Heyo! Eyes to here, eyes to here!!”

  The man called and advertised the sound of his poetry and the rhythm of his words, laced with the promise of money and popularity. His long baritone echoed off of rooftops and through alleyways, drawing in people here and there, more to watch than battle, which seemed to suit the promoter just fine. A sizable crowd was growing and milling about.

  “This might well be it here,” the promoter stated in a loud, but nuanced bellow, thick with charm. “We’ve got your shot at fame, glory, and fortune, all in the space of a few ticks. You don’t want to lose this chance!”

  Yenrab’s eyes widened and lit up. He stopped and shoved two thick, dirt-laden fingers into his mouth, whistling to get the rest of their eyes upon him.

  “Guys, I have, just, this tremendous, stupendous, plan. We are all about to get rich.”

  The half-human shifted a little, looking about himself slyly. It looked a bit silly on the man.

  “Now, I’ve been planning it out and this, well, it feels right. Okay, listen, I’m going to fight.”

  “Mate, it costs a gold piece! That is more than most make in a month! Do you really think you can win? I’d hate to waste a gold piece like that,” grumbled Bern.

  “No, no. No, no, no,” stated the half-orc with unshakeable confidence. “Better than that. I’m going to lose!”

  “What? Are you out of your mind?” asked Carric, his face suddenly nervous.

  “Look and listen, my friends. See all of those patrons betting on the sidelines?” continued Yenrab. “You put everything we have on whomever I need to fight. Spread it out as much as you have to, but get that money out there. I’ll put on a little bit of a show, get tired, and bam, he’ll take me to the ground. You scoop the cash, and we’ll have a hell of a night on the town and then some.”

  Carric was skeptical. “Won’t they see that we’re friends and come after us? I am not a fan of angry mobs.”

  “No worries, buddy. We can just drink somewhere else after we’re rich. Heck, just to make sure, I’ll loop around and come to the tavern from a different angle, so they don’t see us come in together. Eh? Eh?!” Yenrab said confidently. “I even made a name for the idea. Operation Bit O’ Coin . . . get it?”

  “Sounds killer,” Bern said with a grin.

  “Yeah. I’m in,” Tracy said with a smile.

  “Bitcoin?” Carric frowned, getting the expression wrong. “As in we all get a bit of coin? Ha ha ha, very funny, but let’s be honest. This idea will never take off.”

  “You’d be surprised, Carric,” the barbarian said with a beaming smile and wide-eyed interest. “You guys, scout out a block of bettors and saturate them with money. We’ll make a chain of those bettors that, when I lose, will give you the money quick-like. And then we can scram.”

  “Oh gods. Let me guess. You call that part of the plan a blockchain?” the bard asked, rolling his eyes.

  “You are a smart man, friend. A real gentleman and a scholar,” Yenrab stated, still beaming, with a wink. “So, do you want to help us mine the masses?”

  “This really feels like a cryptic way in which to retrieve currency,” Carric protested.

  “Aren’t you listening?” asked Bern with a deceptively deadpan face. “He’s simply giving us a lode to mine from, like any lucky man in the mountains. Bro, he’s asking us to do the Bit O’ coin by mining your so-called cryptic currency by means of an established blockchain.”

  “Somehow that doesn’t seem right. The terms and methods you describe just don’t really fit . . .” Tracy said, but was interrupted.

  “Pishposh, guys, this is big money fast. Just say yes. Tell me that you are all ready to invest into Bit O’ Coin!” Yenrab thundered enthusiastically.

  “Alright, I guess. Tyranny of the majority and all that. Count me in. Do your double-back, and let’s make some money!” mumbled Carric with that sort of forced enthusiasm that comes to people who are in no way convinced but do not want to go up against the majority opinion. “But, honestly, this better work because I don’t think it is a very sound idea. If this doesn’t work, then everything we just won might well be gone.”

  “It’ll work,” said Bern, with a lopsided grin full of expectance. “It is trick plays like these that make the world turn.”

  ***

  The fights were impressive. Some of them were completely one-sided, but tremendous fun to watch, as experienced veterans used the wisdom of their experience to thrash unprepared and woefully idealistic young men from the city. Other matches lasted a full five-round draw, with brawny and able-bodied competitors giving and taking masterful blows and, at the end, shaking hands and complementing each other on their skill and acumen. Bodies were pummeled, stretched, kicked, and belted, showing red welts and styes, but also showing the oft-forgotten endurability inherent to the humanoid form. Arms wheeled, grappled, smashed, hammered, and even made hay. The occasional young upstart won with a sneaky uppercut, or a chance blow, to the tremendous applause of the audienc
e around their ring. When Yenrab was finally up, he made a brief show of things, raising his arms up in victory, flexing his body here and there, and trying to show that he was the big man on campus. The barbarian knew the drill—bouts like these were a Sunday regular back in the tribe.

  He strode to the ring with a great show of confidence, raising his arms and bellowing. Coins clinked and changed hands. In the skies, there was a peal of thunder, as if the gods greatly approved. More coins made their rounds. In the air, the sky stank of fate.

  He felt a bit of nervous tension flicker through his body.

  This isn’t me. I’m not the kind of guy who likes to battle.

  His mind was cast back to his life in the tribe. The fights. He was challenged often. He was the biggest and strongest in the tribe, and also the most pacifist. He often preached to them about how much better it would be if they just all got along with the settlers. And they didn’t like that. They thought it made him weak. And so they challenged. Every week. And he won.

  Ya know, I don’t know how to lose. This is going to be a new experience for me. Maybe a good one?

  He felt that spark of adrenaline and momentary dread course through his veins, while his philosophical mind theorized that every fighter, bloodthirsty or not, feels that same spark before the bout. It was an interesting thought well worth pursuing at a later time.

  But, with greater dread, he realized something else. Not only was he going to lose, but he had to do so in a way that convinced everyone else.

  How in the seven hells am I going to do this?

  His opponent stood in his corner, having arrived first, and was skinny with large biceps and calves but, overall, not a largely muscled build. He hopped about with vigor and enthusiasm.

  Oh, man, he looks a lot like those city kids who tried it out earlier.

  The only one of them who had done any damage was the one who shocked the barbarian he faced by screaming like he was terrified, and then sprinting in and punching him in the face. He hadn’t done much, but at least he’d hit.

  Great Bear, give me weakness, for I know not what to do.

  Still, he postured and bellowed and made signs of his might to the crowd as he got into the ring and pranced about. The mixed-race crowd of dirty farmers, rowdy adventurers, and drunken city folk hooted and hollered, showering the big man with appreciation.