Chapter 2: Slimes? No, I have 150 kilograms of meat!

 Augustine: Song weaver, self-proclaimed Life Skiller. A brainwashing imp. 

 After the breakfast, I go back home. The pie was a big success. The crust was the right among of crunchy, and just golden enough to be on the verge of being well-done.

The meat was juicy and tender, and had that lovely wild game taste, that fresh elk meat has. The potatoes melted on the tongue. Did I mention that the butter was something I made myself, from milk I milked myself, from my own cow, that I keep in the community farm? Yes, I pulled no stops with that breakfast. 

That didn't get me out of meeting with this Vincent. You know, the archer that is afraid of slimes. I have three images about him, in my head. 

Image number one: Pimple ridden teen, too lanky for words, with hair that gets in his face. He will have the need to talk to me about himself, and I will want to throw him off a cliff within the hour. There is a lovely cliff on the way to the slime dungeon. Many adventurers have been thrown off it. Not by me, but there must be a first time for everything, right?

Image number two: Pimple ridden, and too fat for words. Short cropped hair, that he keeps short so that it won't cover his eyes. He will have the insecurities of someone in their midlife crisis, and demand that I walk before him.

I have partied with people like that. Not that I have anything against fat people. I admire how they rebel against their weight, and take up the adventuring life. It is just a drag protecting them. 

Image number three: No pimples, but old enough to be my grandfather. An old failed adventurer, who never managed to break out of his mediocrity, and now wants to "conquer" a dungeon, even if it kills him. I shot those down, on principle.

I can heal, yes, but I don't want to have to face someone's grandchildren, and tell them that I couldn't get to their grandpa in time because I fought through a mobbing, while he threw out his back by trying to make a move that was not possible in his age group. 

Well, this Vincent is an archer, so, chances are, he will demand that I take point. This would suck, normally, but not in the slime dungeon. People let their five-year-old children in there to play.

 Slimes are harmless, unless provoked. Even then, they are too slow to do any harm. It never sat well with me, attacking such harmless creatures. 

Still, what can I do? The people my mother sets me up with, always want to test me in a safe environment. I mean, I am a bit of an oddity. Normal Song weavers can only attack, and buff.

Those like me, that can heal, are rare. Yes, there are plenty of opportunities for people like me to rise, but what for? With such unbalanced abilities, it is dangerous to put yourself out there. Not to mention that hunting and cooking is by far more fun. 

The logistic of it all. I have my weeks planned in advanced. I go hunting in the evenings. There is something magical about falling asleep in a hunting lodge, is it not? Anyway, I near my house, and I see someone already waiting for me. I squint my eyes, to try and get a good look. 

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Lean, with a runner's built. A bow on his back. Modest clothing. But his hair. Why, his hair is like nothing I have ever seen. It is silver-blonde, and shining in the sunlight. I can already imagine how soft it is. When I near him, he looks me up and down. The boyish smile he gives me, makes my knees go weak. 

Oh, mother, you are tricky. 

She knows how to butter me up. My mother knows for a fact, that if she pairs me up with a pretty face, I might go on a second quest with them. What she never bothers to check is, if they are gay. Yes, more than one of my parties has ended because I came onto a hetero guy. 

"Hello, my name is Vincent Parsons. You are Augustine, right? You made the cake for cousin Alice," he offers his hand, and I go and shake it. Ah, here it comes again. A tribe of butterflies, that I keep under lock and key, flutters their wings, and demand their freedom. I decide to change my routine, and do something that I have never done before. 

"Vincent, do you have anything against gays?" I ask him. He blinks at me. 
"Why should I? I mean, I like both men and women," he says, and the butterflies brake off from their chains, and fill my stomach with their fluttering. 

 I have a chance!

I feel an itch, to take off my harp, and play something joyful. Still, I have a second question to ask him. 

"Ok, that is good. Look, Vincent, I know I promised that I will help out with your slime quest, but I have 150 kilograms worth of elk meat, and a hide that I have to cure. Do you think that you can wait, until I have turned the meat into pies and pot roasts?" I ask. He blinks again. 

"Do you want me to help?" He asks me, and the butterflies begin to twirl in my belly. There is no chaining them back now. 

"If you don't mind," I say. He smiles, and goes behind me. Ah, I was right that he would want for me to take the lead. 

I invite him into my house, and make a beeline for my kitchen. My kitchen is my temple. Everything is ordered in a way that makes sense only to me. Chaos in order, that is my motto, when it comes to cooking. I dump the meat, or, at least, 5 kilograms of it, on the worktable, and look at him. 

"Ok, it is marinated. The only thing you will need to do is fry it until it becomes golden. I will get working on the dough," I roll-up my sleeves, and we get to work. I take my harp, and begin playing a telekinesis tune, to get the dough mixed up in large quantities, as he begins to fry the elk meat. We get to work in a comfortable pace, as the time flies by us.