Chapter 9: 9

Fresh stands in the large market square of the entryway plaza, feeling the sun land on her back, together with the occasional glance of a curious passerby. She fidgets, somewhat nervously, wishing that she had at least a scarf or something else to cover her bare shoulders with. Even if it is a warm, bright day. This outfit is a huge change of pace for herself, in comparison with the old jeans or baggy, frame-obscuring hoodies that she would wear all the time. But she at least has to admit that the robe is comfortable, more-so than jeans would have been under the hot sun, as the fabric reaching her ankles is very loose and flowy and billows in the gentle, early-year breeze.

“Adventurers’ guild… adventurers’ guild…” she mumbles to herself, looking around the city, as she stands in the center of the market-square. Stalls and vendors line the roads, all of which are bustling with the busy commerce of the new day, as hundreds of adventurers and also some more ‘normal’ looking people go every which way, their excited voices turning the city into a buzzing hive of activity and life. She feels inexplicably happy, hearing them all around herself, even if she can’t distinguish any words in specific. It just feels so alive. It makes her feel so alive to just be here, surrounded by it all. It’s nice to be outside, to be around people, even if nobody is talking to her. After her long seclusion, she had missed this in a way that she had never realized before just now.

“Looking for something?” asks a loud, booming voice from behind her. Somewhat startled, Fresh half jumps and half turns to look at the giant man, standing behind a small wooden stall, covered in baked goods. She stares at him for a second, somewhat panicked and lost for words.

“Ah! Uh…! I’m looking for the adventurers’ guild…?” she asks with uncertainty in her voice, as if perhaps this could have been something absurd to say.

The giant man leans forward to look at her, appearing somewhat perplexed. But then he pulls back upright, crossing his huge arms and laughs jovially. “It’s right over there!” he says, pointing with a single finger that is the size of two of her own. Following the direction with her eyes, Fresh looks at the building nested behind a large sign that’ swings from two chains above it. The sign plainly and obviously reads - ‘ADVENTURERS’ GUILD’.

Laughing meekly, somewhat embarrassed, she thanks the man who simply nods back to her. Sparing one, somewhat tense glance, she looks at the sign above a small loaf of bread adorning his stall. It’s ten Obols. Wincing, she waves goodbye to the man and walks towards the guild. Well, it’s no surprise. It was just one tiny, little mushroom monster. If each cap is worth three, then she’d have to kill at least three more Mr. Mushroom’s to be able to afford a single loaf of bread. Then again, she wouldn’t need the bread if she just ate them instead. Although, maybe eating monsters is sort of a lowbrow thing to do? She is unsure, as she stands before the door to the guild. The loud buzzing ambiance of the hive behind herself is an all-encompassing noise that accompanies her thoughts and seems to drown them out entirely.

As she stands before the door, Fresh feels nervous, uncertain. Her heart begins to beat a little faster than it should and her hand becomes a little shakier than it should be, as she grasps the iron ring handle. She was never good at stuff like this. Taking one deep breath in and then exhaling it out slowly, she pulls it open and steps inside.

This is it.

Immediately, there is a change of atmosphere as she steps inside of the somewhat darker building. There is an intense shade in here, as if the sun itself couldn’t quite manage to reach through the hazy, yellowed windows. Nor can the buzzing candor of the outside world. She shuts the heavy door behind herself, feeling almost as if she had dove underwater.

It’s quiet. The noise of the city is cut-off entirely, as if it never was. All except for the single haunting voice that now makes itself heard all around herself. Enveloping her, as if it were the sound of a rushing current while she is pressed beneath a baptizing river. It sounds like the singing of a lamenting woman, high toned but somber. The crystal clear voice rings out throughout the room and Fresh looks around herself for the source. Is there some kind of entertainment? A band? There are dozens of people here. But there is nobody here that is singing, at least nobody that she can see. Directly in front of herself is a row of thick, wooden tables on both sides of the room, as if she had stepped into a restaurant or a tavern. Seated at each and every one of them are adventurers of all types and builds. Humans, elves and other strange things that she isn’t able to recognize right away. All wearing their various, colorful, or sometimes less ornate, equipment. All of them look down somberly into their heavy mugs filled with amber and crimson liquids, as they all sit in quiet contemplation, listening to the eerily nostalgic voice crying around them; spellbound, as if they are all lost to the allure of its call.

Some eyes rise to meet the girl as she enters, not out of curiosity, but seemingly more out of agitation, because her quiet incursion had interrupted their equally silent lamentations. What is this? This is the adventurers’ guild? It feels more like she has walked into a funeral. The pressure in the air is heavy and tense. Her heart beats faster again, was this a mistake? Is she in the wrong place? Did she make a fool of herself already, like she knew that she would? Straight ahead, down past the rows of tables is a bar. Its keeper stands behind it, polishing a crystal glass with closed eyes, as she too listens to the doleful aria that has no clearly definable source.

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Fresh clenches her fists, uncertain. But it’s too late to turn back now. Quietly gulping, she takes a step forward and walks towards the barkeeper, not sparing more than a passing glance at the very detailed sign, hanging to the left of the door. She considers reading it for a moment, but the pressure of being watched is too much for her to endure just standing here awkwardly. The eyes of the people around her now turn back away, as she steps further inside, their gazes returning to the reflections that they see in their cups, which they hold before themselves as if puzzlingly staring into vacant mirrors. The elfish woman behind the bar, oddly enough, wears what Fresh would have expected a high-class barkeeper to wear in her own old life. Simple black trousers with a leather belt showing above them, a tucked in, white-cuffed button-up with rolled up sleeves and a tightly closed black vest over it. Her hair is a dull, dusty blond that is pulled back into a loose, short tail on the back of her head. Two long bangs hang before her face, which has large patches of burn scarring beneath one eye and on her cheeks. She is hardly much larger than Fresh herself is.

As the girl nervously steps before the bar, the keeper’s eyes open and move up towards her. Not agitated like the others, but just blank. Expressionless, not filled with any particular sorrow or happiness. She’s just blank. The look on her face almost reminds Fresh of that of an old bureaucrat, whose spirit has been painted gray by the repeated monotony of their daily life. Fresh opens her mouth to ask her where the guild is, or if she’s even in the right place. But then she closes it a second later, as no words come out. It’s hard to explain for herself, but apart from the singing voice, there is no sound to be heard other than the odd shuffle of a boot or a gulp from a nearly empty mug. It seems wrong for her to break the silence and so she stops herself from speaking.

The elf looks at her, her expression changing to one of unusual curiosity. But as Fresh closes her mouth again, the woman nods as if understanding her present dilemma. Assuming this was a nod of greeting, Fresh nods back. Turning around, the barkeeper grabs a shot-glass and a bottle filled with a thick, black, gooey liquid and pours it inside, before sliding it across the bar to Fresh.

She looks at it uncertainly, she can’t afford this. She doesn’t even want it. Sweat beads on her forehead as her heart begins to flutter. Something is going wrong. Raising a hand, she softly waves ‘no’ and quietly shows the woman the three tiny coins that she has. The keeper’s expression doesn’t change, she looks back to Fresh and slides the glass further towards her a second time with a single finger, teetering it on the edge of the bar. The black-liquid inside barely moves as the glass shifts. Its consistency is thick, like a heavy oil.

What is this? What should she do? Her under-arms are feeling a tinge of wet as well now, as her legs become wobbly beneath herself. She never drank much before. Why is the woman offering her this? Fresh takes a step back, unaware of herself doing it. The singing voice calls out around her, never stopping to take a breath, never breaking its mourning. Its calming, numbing presence does little to alleviate this new angst that cuts through her like a sharp knife.

Something nudges her, dully pressing into her waist. Surprised, Fresh looks down towards it.

The small, hooded person with the mask, from the day before, stands next to her, also looking at the barkeeper, who prepares a second shot and slides it towards them as well. The childlike figure whose head reaches to about her stomach reaches up to the top of the bar and grabs it, subtly pressing an elbow into Fresh’s leg again, as they rise up to the tips of their toes. What’s going on? What has she gotten herself into?

Fresh’s hand takes the tiny shot glass and she looks at it uncertainly, before looking down at the small person accompanying her, who lifts the fully-obscuring, white, wooden mask only an inch from their face. They hold their tiny glass out towards her for a toast. Fresh, unsure of what else to do, feeling the weight of the stranger’s and the keeper’s eyes pressing down on herself, takes her own glass and quietly hits it against the out-held shot, before downing the black liquid all at once.

*+-~ ??? ~-+*

Fresh

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