The forest gave way to scrubland as the sun began to set behind the mountains. Hawke soon spotted cleared fields and, out in the distance, a walled settlement. As he approached it, he saw people: men and women in simple woolen garments were lined up in front of the gate. Two men in chain mail and a third wearing blue robes and a cap with a little spike on its top were checking each person before letting them in.
Hawke reached a wide road, marked by two sets of wagon ruts, that separated the tilled fields from the town. As he got closer to the town, people noticed him. The soldiers at the gate called out to someone up on the battlements above them. A moment later, Hawke spotted three crossbowmen looking down from the stone walls surrounding the town. He waved at them, keeping his hands well away from his sheathed sword. Nobody shot him, which he took as a good sign, and he walked to the end of the line.
There were six people ahead of him. His True Sight showed him none of them had a level listed. They each had nine to fifteen Health, Mana and Stamina. They looked at him with worried expressions. Hawke realized he looked like hell, what with the ripped pants, dented armor, and bloodstained and tattered shirt.
“Evening,” he told the people at the rear of the line, a man and a woman.
They looked old and weathered. The man held a staff in one hand; the woman had a large straw basket covered with a checkered piece of cloth. His true sight identified them as Gayo and Justa Petres. The old man nodded at Hawke and muttered “Well met, I suppose,” before turning his back on him. His Charisma didn’t seem to make any impression on the guy.
Very friendly, he thought sarcastically.
No, I guess not.
Hawke noticed that the pair of guards at the gate kept an eye on him as the line moved. He used True Sight on them when he got closer:
Sergeant Marko Clades
Health 18 Mana 15 Endurance 16
Calvo Bastardes
Health 14 Mana 10 Endurance 14
The man in the blue robes was short and portly, with a shaven head and a fringe beard; his hat was also dyed blue except for the yellow spike on top, and held by straps tied under his shaved chin. He had a twisty wooden stick topped by a silver figurine of a bearded man’s head. Hawke could see no weapons or other gear on him. As each villager stepped up, he held the stick over their head and muttered something Hawke couldn’t hear. A yellow glow surrounded every person the robed man examined, after which the guards waved them in. Hawke’s True Sight confirmed his identity:
Patro Daves (Human)
Level 4 Priest (Shining Father)
Health 33 Mana 60 Endurance 33
When Hawke reached the front of the line, the taller of the two guards – Marko – stepped forward.
“Greetings, stranger. Your name and business in Orom.”
“Hawke Lightseeker, Paladin of Lumina. I’m here on a quest.”
“An Adventurer,” Marko said before gesturing at the missing pants’ leg. “Seems like you already had a spot of trouble.”
“Ran into a bear. I climbed a tree but it got me in the leg. I healed myself and waited until it got bored.”
“You’re a lucky man! Old Urso is a mean one. Knows better than to come out of his forest but he’ll kill anybody he meets in his territory. Which as far as he’s concerned is the entire Highlands Forest.”
Hawke hadn’t been lucky at all, but he wanted to keep the whole being killed by a bear and coming back from the dead bit under wraps.
You’re not gonna get much older, you bastard, he mentally promised the bear.
Quest Accepted: Slay Old Urso
You have sworn to slay the deadly bear menacing the Highland Forest.
Rewards: 150 XP. The people of Orom may have further rewards. Speak with a local guard or village leader to learn more.
Penalties for Failure: None.
Sumbitch!
“Everything all right, stranger?”
“Yes. Just thinking about how lucky I was to escape that bear. There wouldn’t be any reward for its head, would there?”
“The Prefect, Felix is his name, has promised a purse of sixty silver denars to whomever brings him the teeth or claws of the beast. Though I must tell you, many good men have tried and managed only to make a meal for Old Urso.”
“Thank you.”
“Now let us make sure you’re not a fiend pretending to be a simple stranger, shall we?”
Marko gestured at Patro and the priest walked up to Hawke. His wand began to glow golden a moment later.
“A Paladin of Lumina, just as you say,” he said. “Where do you come from? The closest Temple of Light is in Akila, far to the east.”
“I’m from, uh, Ohio,” Hawke said. “You’ve probably never heard of it.”
“I was told you might come here. I would speak with you, Paladin,” Patro said. “This town could use your services.”
Hawke nodded. “Of course. I will see you in the morning, if that works for you?”
“That would please me greatly and, more importantly, it would please Shining Father.”
“Very well, Hawke from Ohio,” Marko said. “You may pass. After you pay your entry fee, of course.”
Of course. He hadn’t seen anyone else paying the guards, but he was an outsider, an ideal target for a shakedown. “How much?”
The guard looked him up and down, noting the poor state of his clothing, but also the fancy sword hanging from his belt. “That’ll be two copper dins, if it please you. Or even if it doesn’t.”
Hawke pretended to reach for something behind him and summoned two copper coins from his inventory. It’d probably be best not to show people he could make things appear out of thin air, or they’d probably charge him more.
“Here you go.”
Marko examined the coins briefly before making them disappear into the purse belted at his waist.
“One more thing,” he said. “Your sword needs to be peace-bonded. Calvo, take care of it.”
The other guard produced a length of red twine. Hawke let him use it to tie the sword’s hilt to his belt with an intricate knot at the end. The twine didn’t look very tough; he could break it easily enough, but then everyone would know he’d broken the peace. Outlaws didn’t do well in towns and cities.
“Welcome to Orom, stranger,” Marko said. “Stay out of trouble and you’ll stay out of the stocks.”
Hawke might be a Paladin, but as far as the guard was concerned, he was only a possible source of trouble and perhaps money.
This is no Goldshire, that’s for sure.
Sixteen
Downtown Orom was nothing to write home about.
Beyond the gates was a cleared area with a stable to one side and a longhouse that must be the guards’ barracks; there were a couple more guys in chain mail and helmets loitering around it, their spears and crossbows leaning against a wall. The barracks also held a kitchen or mess hall; Hawke could smell something savory cooking in there. His growling stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast.
Beyond that the main street split into three. The central one led to a hill dominated by a large square building; its stone walls and narrow arrow slits made it a fort or keep. Probably where the Prefect lived. The streets on either side of the hill were fairly wide and paved with stones; narrow twisting side streets sneaked down from those main avenues. Those were little more than mud trails with houses on either side, two or three stories tall, covered with tile or thatch roofs. The fancier buildings were whitewashed or painted in bright colors, but most of them were plain wood and didn’t look very sturdy. Everything was clumped closely together, buildings standing right next to each other or separated by dark and narrow alleys.
Hawke looked around, hoping to spot an inn. Everybody who’d gotten into the village ahead of him had quickly disappeared from
view. He could have asked for directions from the guards but that wasn’t how he rolled. Instead, he walked down the street to the left of the keep, checking every alley he passed for signs of a tavern or coffee house or whatever.
I think they like to call it taxation. Anyway, I figured I’d go along to get along. Speaking of money, though, what’s the exchange rate between copper, silver and gold?
“Thank you.”
His single silver coin was worth about ten bucks and a gold coin was the local equivalent of a Benjamin. The exchange between gold and silver seemed low, although he bet a gold coin weighed a lot less than the silver ones. With twenty-three coppers to his name, he wasn’t destitute, and that didn’t count the gold and silver ingots he’d acquired. He should be able to sell the precious metals along with the Shoddy Tridents he’d lifted off the arachnoid workers and raise his cash reserves. Hawke wished he’d had time to loot the other Arachnoids he had fought, but at the time he’d been dealing with a demon skeleton problem.
The sun was setting; the buildings soon shaded out the last of the sunlight, and he couldn’t see streetlights anywhere. That meant the place would get dark as sin at night. One of the side streets finally revealed what he was looking for: a three-story building with a sign hanging over its door that depicted a metal kettle over a boiling fire. ‘The Copper Kettle’ was written underneath the drawing, for those who preferred words to pictures. Hawke heard muted laughter coming from inside. He’d found his inn or tavern or whatever they called it here.
The smell coming from the tavern was a lot more appetizing than the one from the barracks. It also was strangely familiar. As he approached, the déjà vu feeling became stronger. Cheese. Tomato sauce. Bread. All combined in a baked delight far greater than the sum of its parts.
Pizza.
The door was open. Hawke entered and found himself in a large common room. A bar off to one side tended to half a dozen people sitting on stools; twice as many other patrons sat at one of eight long tables with bleacher-style seats that filled the room. He noticed four female servers, all humans, carrying food and drinks back and forth from a kitchen in an adjoining room, and a tall Dwarven male tending bar. Dwarves in the game description tended to be no taller than five feet in height, although far broader at the shoulder than humans. This one was pushing five four and was nearly as wide. He also had a class and a level:
Dorrham Stern (Dwarf)
Level 6 Legionnaire
Health 188 (94) Mana 112 Endurance 106 (53)
The numbers gave Hawke pause. The bartender had ten times as much Health as most normal people, and he was only sixth level! Except…
Are the stats in parentheses the actual numbers? Hawke asked his sword. He’d noticed that on his own character numbers. He’d figured out that the Attributes in parentheses took into account the bonuses he got from Saturnyx. But in the Dwarf’s case, the numbers were lower.
How about Half-Elves like me?
Unaging, and able to respawn several times before dying for real; Eternals had a sweet deal, which probably meant a lot of people hated them. Envy alone would do that, especially when those advantages made rising to the top of any society pretty easy. Hawke decided to keep his nature to himself. Assuming he could.
Can people tell if I’m an Eternal? I mean, I can see everyone’s level, class, and species. Can they?
Good to know.
Glancing around, he only saw a couple of people with any levels at all; most customers and employees were zero-level normies. And human; other than Dorrham, there were no members of other species around. Hawke didn’t know what his Half-Elven heritage meant socially. If the locals hated non-humans, he might be in trouble. A woman walking by with an honest-to-goodness onion-and-olive pizza on a wooden plate gave him a puzzled look – his torn-up clothes were to blame, probably – but didn’t say anything. Other patrons also watched him with some concern; Hawke noticed their eyes were mostly focused on his sword, although when they saw it had been peace-bonded they relaxed somewhat. Nobody said anything as he made his way over to the bar, though, so they didn’t care enough about his species or appearance to kick him out.
“Welcome to the Copper Kettle, stranger. What’ll ye having?” the Dwarf said. “It’s two dins fer a flagon of beer or mead, six fer a cup of spirits, and if ye be dining, seat yerself down by a table and I’ll be having one of the lasses tend to ye.”
The bartender spoke the local mutated Latin with a thick accent but Hawke got the gist of it. Food sounded like a wonderful idea, so after plunking down two of his dwindling supply of copper coins in exchange for a full beer mug, he sat down by one of the empty tables. Soon enough, the woman who’d given him a funny look showed up.
“Lamb stew or Peet-shah of the day?” she asked him.
“I’ll have the pizza,” he said, figuring out what ‘peet-shah’ meant.
“Two dins.”
He handed her three copper coins and her expression brightened up considerably. Tipping well had always done wonders in his experience.
“It will be a few minutes, darling,” she told him with a friendly grin. “They just put in three flat loaves in the oven.”
She rushed off to tend to the other customers, giving Hawke a chance to think things through and examine his surroundings. The locals kept an eye on him but went back to their dinners or drinking. He discreetly tried to find anyone else with a class and level. He only found another person besides the bartender, out of a crowd of about twenty.
A short but heavily-muscled man in a sleeveless shirt that revealed an impressive set of burn scars on his arms had a table to himself and was working on several pizza slices and a bowl of stew, dipping a slice into the bowl before taking a bite. His gray hair was cut short but he had an impressive mustache and goatee. Put him in a biker outfit and he could be the leader of the local chapter of the Hell’s Angels, although Hawke figured he was a smith of some sort.
His True Sight confirmed his guess:
Katro Gorges
Level 5 Arcane Blacksmith
Health 53 Mana 56 Endurance 71
How do normies become Arcane Whatevers? Hawke asked Saturnyx.
Sounds like a lot of work.
I was an apprentice plumber myself, but there were rules, and people mostly followed them.
The rest of the customers were normies. A man and a woman in colorful robes by the next table over might be merchants; they spoke to each other in low voices while eating stew and sharing a loaf of bread. A group of three men in well-worn traveling clothes – leather outfits thick enough to serve as armor and stout walking boots – sat together at one table; traveling merchants, maybe? The rest appeared to be artisans or prosperous farmers. Nobody looked poor. Hawke figured most people went to cheaper establishments or didn’t eat out at all. If the prices Saturnyx had mentioned were accurate, having a meal and a drink at the Copper Kettle would cost as much as a laborer’s daily pay.
Everyone at the bar seemed well-fed and taller than he’d expected; Hawke remembered Dr. Reich, his favorite history teacher, explaining that most people in the Middle Ages were shorter than average due to the low-protein and often sparse diet they got, especially during childhood. That wouldn’t apply to nobility and the well-to-do, of course. None of the diners would have looked out of place in his world if you put them in regular clothes. A little more tanned and weathered, maybe, but otherwise fairly normal.
His curiosity sated, Hawke nursed his beer and tried to inconspicuously eavesdrop on the locals’ gossip. After a while, snippets of conversation filtered through the background noise that filled the inn.
“… was the third one to vanish into the night,” the merchant was saying. “Kinto’s crazy children found and killed her, or so I’ve been told.”
“You know what that means,” the man’s wife said in a bitter whisper that carried surprisingly well. “He is getting stronger, he in his mountain stronghold, and us with a Prefect too scared to do anything other than bow to him.”
Twilight Templar (The Eternal Journey Book 1) Page 9
