...But You Can't Pick Your Friends... Wait, What?
2052 Words
Samuel took a deep breath as he stood facing what he figured should be a simple task, one that was still making him nervous despite the apparent ease…
Walking into his first town.
He’d spent the better part of a day wandering around the countryside before he stumbled across a dirt path. Not being able to think of which path to take, he’d decided to merely flip one of the heavy silver coins to decide. Thankfully, fate had been kind enough to guide him to the settlement before him.
Not that it was much of a settlement.
He’d played way too many games in his life. One thing that all the fantasy ones always stuck with was that every town was visually stunning, generally filled with interesting characters for him to interact with.
Looking at the dilapidated hamlet before him, with thatched roofs and warped wooden walls sloped from years of neglect, he felt that this dream was doing its best to disenfranchise him with this genre. The various villagers he’d passed on the way here had been haggard and worn, covered in scars and sores from what he hoped were non-contagious diseases.
They’d barely paid him a glance, save one worn old woman that had given him a glare as she’d limped by with a massive bundle of sticks strapped to her back. She’d shaken her head at him as he’d stopped just outside the crumbling low wall surrounding the collection of huts that made up the outer reaches of the tiny town. Why she’d done this, he had no clue as she’d staggered off when he was about to ask her a question.
Letting the breath out, he slapped his sunken cheeks before straightening his back (fighting the urge to scratch due to his uncomfortable robes) before taking his first steps into the village proper.
The town seemed designed by someone with only the loosest grasp city planning. Wooden bridges wide enough for a cart to rattle over stretched over slow-moving creeks that split through the town, visible… waste sluicing through. He tried not to wince at the sight of a group of young mothers washing clothes on the shores of said creek, small children dancing about in the puddles barefoot as they scrubbed and chatted.
“Note to self: look up a skill to help my immune system,” he muttered, stepping over the first of the bridges. He idly itched at his armpit, the wool getting uncomfortably warm despite the cool nip in air. “And maybe an under shirt…”
Walking down the side road, he kept his eyes out for the first sign of a tavern. Video games like this always either had an wise man give out quests, or you found them in a bar.
Turning the corner past what smelled like a shop that sold moldering testicles, he let out a whistle in happiness.
There it was, the town tavern. You could tell, as it was the only place with a visible stables, along with the only example of a window since he’d woken up. Dirty, smudged windows stained yellow from smoke they were, but it gave him hope he might find somewhere where he could get something to eat that might not give him dysentery.
He sped up, his stomach grumbling despite this all being a dream. The streets, if you could call packed earth paths layered in what he prayed was dark mud, weren’t terribly crowded. Samuel assumed that most of the villagers were out tending to fields or whittling or whatever… there seemed to be a smaller population of men than what he would assume this place would have.
As he neared his destination, he heard a clatter in the alleyway leading to the tavern. Stopping to peer down the narrow, shaded street, he spied a stack of barrels half toppled, a slim figure sprawled amidst the garbage they’d held.
He stepped into the alley, jogging to get closer. “Are you okay?” He asked, concerned both over whether the person was injured and the reason this person was back here.
The person, for what it was worth, scrambled to their feet fast enough that they couldn’t be injured. Though the fact they whipped a short iron knife from their boot in the process and were now brandishing it in a well-trained manner didn’t make Samuel feel any better.
“Back off!” They snarled, their face obscured by a wrap of dirty rags beneath a hooded garment. They looked dirty, and their eyes were a muted orange, tired yet wary. They twirled the knife in their hand dramatically. “I don’t want any trouble!”
“Ditto!” Samuel squeaked, hands raised as if in surrender.
The person paused, eyes narrowed in… was that confusion? “I am not Ditto.”
“What… oh, um, never mind.” Samuel chuckled nervously, eyebrows lowering as he felt slightly safer. The person wasn’t attacking him and seemed more afraid of him than he had any right to be. “Um, I… I don’t want to hurt you, j-just wanted to m-make sure you were okay.”
Their eyes remained narrow, an angry glint rising in the hazy orange slits. “I am fine. I did not mean to bother you.”
“You… didn’t?” Samuel replied, confused. Her kind-of apology was rather matter-of-fact, but he tried to smile at it. “L-like I said, just checking on you.”
The figure didn’t respond with words, instead a low and long growl echoed from their slim stomach, covered by the layered grey ponchos. He did his best not to snicker at the person’s sudden panicked look, eyes wide in obvious embarrassment.
He spoke up before they could say anything, jerking his thumb towards the tavern. “They serve food this time of day?”
The figure nodded slowly, eyes still wide.
“Cool, let’s grab something.” He said, turning and waving them to follow him. “My treat.”
They followed, racing to keep up as Samuel walked up to the opened doorway and into the warm tavern.
It was stereotypical in a reassuring manner. A long bar took up a third of the room, a wall composed of stacked barrels of what had to be beer or something behind it. The other two-thirds was dominated by a set of large tables, with sturdy stools stacked along the far wall. There were a few people, older men most of them, sitting around with tankards of something and plates of food between them. The bartender, an old man with skinny legs and low hung gut, was kneeling behind the bar working on something.
Samuel walked in, doing his best not to gather any attention. That venture died the second he walked into the room. The patrons stared with rheumy eyes, blinking blearily as they watched Samuel, dressed in woolen robes, slip into the bar and take an open table. He winced as he noticed the foul looks he was getting, and bit back a groan when the first of the whispers started.
I dream of a fantasy world where I can be a freaking wizard and my screwed up psyche threw in the bullying here too? Jesus Christ, what is my malfunction?”
He looked over at the person from the alley as they took a seat next to him. They were slunked low and seemed unhappy to be here.
Must be starving… Samuel thought, frowning. I’ll grab us some stuff, chow down and then run before the locals riot. Least I can do is get this poor guy a meal.
Samuel turned and waved at the bartender. “Hey Sam, what you got to eat?”
The bartender stood, rubbing his back as he looked over to take in who was asking. He frowned after studying him and grunted out. “Fer ya’ll? Couple bowls o’ stew and stale bread. Nah wastin’ good food on the likes o’ ya’ll.”
“Oh,” Samuel said, taken dread intensifying. “H-how much for two.”
The bartender frowned before answering. “Five silver, six if you want drinks.”
“What do you have?” Samuel asked, slightly hopeful.
His dad liked a variety of beers for whenever he was home and had a mood to drink and never kept track of how many of what he was supposed to have. Samuel had, occasionally, taken advantage of this.
“Fer ya’ll? Water or Malri Malt,” the man replied. “Nah wastin’ good drink on the likes o’ ya’ll.”
“Er, right… um,” he looked at his companion, the person’s eyes neutral. “two of the malt, I guess?”
The bartender snorted and set about filling the order, stepping through a side door to what he guessed was a kitchen. Samuel turned and heaved a sigh of relief, though he could still feel the angry eyes from the various patrons on him. “Jesus Christ, this is intense…” he spared a nervous glance at the person. “Don’t worry, we’ll get out of here soon. Just wanted to make sure you got some food in you.”
The person didn’t give any motion to show that they heard him, but he just kept talking. “S-so, since’ I’m buying the food, could you tell me where I am right now? Like, name of this town, for instance?”
The person shifted slightly in their seat, before speaking for the first time since they sat down. “Tarnuw, in the Iron Hills.” Their voice was soft and light. It sounded worried.
Clearing his throat, he frowned. “Oh… okay, thanks.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes before the bartender brought over the bowls of stew, and a platter with half a loaf of what Samuel would call French Bread. He could tell his new friend was hungry as their eyes widened. He couldn’t blame them, the stew looked amazing.
“‘Ere, take ‘em,” he said, straightening his back with a mighty pop. His bald head and thick red beard combined with his great height made him look like a viking of old.
Samuel gave a nervous smile and held up the requested coins. “Thanks. Um, any kind of, like, job board in here?”
The bartender grunted. “Yeah, back in tha kitchen. Business shouldn’t be round food.”
“Ah,” he said, shrugging. “Okay, I guess… thanks.”
He said nothing else, just took his payment and stalked back to the bar. “Thank you.” His friend said, before lowering their face wrappings.
Samuel gasped when he saw that his new friend was actually a rather stunning woman. Her slim features were pale, a smattering of freckles over their cheeks. Their hair, wavy and red, peeked out from under their hood. She broke off a large chunk of bread and began scarfing down the food.
“Huh…” He said, surprised. “Didn’t realize you were a girl.”
She glanced up, eyes surprisingly hard. “That a problem?”
“No,” he replied a little too quickly. “Not at all, just… all the other women here are kind of, um… well, never mind.”
“You mean they look like old turnips?” She asked, the first sign of warmth spreading as a wry grin. “Yeah, well you know how Torkram are. Tough as old leather boot and just as sexy.”
He snorted into his drink, laughing as he sputtered back. “Damn, that’s horrible!”
She laughed, holding a hand up in mock surrender. “Hey, no worries. I’m Indri… a Half-Elf.”
"Oh! I’m sorry, kind of new to… this.” He said, trailing off.
She raised an eyebrow. “To a race? You a sheltered apprentice or something?”
“Huh?” He asked, before glancing down at his robes. “Oh. Oh! Yeah, I’m a, I’m a Clockwork Caster.”
“Neat. Never heard of that… I’m just a Skirmisher. You know, knives and urban travel?” She said, patting her left bracer where he noted her knife was tucked. “If you’d gotten aggressive, I’d have to cut you up.”
“Ah, well… no, don’t worry. No need to cut me up.”
“Good.” She said, slurping down the last of the stew. “You want yours?”
He shook his head, allowing her to take the bowl. “Go for it. I ate last night.”
“Lucky you…” she grumbled as she dug into his meal.
“Hey, no worries, you got this meal at least.” He offered with a wane smile.
She shrugged. “Like I said, thanks. I mean it too, nobody else has been that nice.”
“Well, you called them old boots.”
“If they didn’t make me flinch when I looked at them I wouldn’t complain, but here we are.” She rolled her eyes. “But seriously, you’ll want to finish your drink and leave soon, they’re going to get angry soon.”
“Yeah, I can tell. Didn’t know wizards were so hated here.”
“Wizards?” She said with a sad chuckle. “No dear, they don’t hate you. They hate me.”
“DAMN RIGHT WE DO!” One of the patrons bellowed, standing up with a drawn axe. “NOW GET OUT OF HERE BEFORE I DULL THIS BLADE!”
- Writer
