Both heads of Banst and Marlo cocked sideways, staring at the nearly charred mannequin possessed by Durehn’s soul. They had nearly lost it to a fire.
“Perhaps a fiery forge is ill-fit for a wooden puppet to handle,” Banst suggested.
“You state the obvious, Adventurer,” Marlo retorted, his mouth pressed in a thin line.
“You call it obvious, yet you failed to foresee the outcome enough to stop it.”
“Well, I already have a solution!”
Armor pieces of iron were soon gathered by the dwarf scrounging about the smithy and were clasped onto the mannequin, covering it completely. If anyone were to see the puppet, they would perceive a well-defended armored fighter.
“That’s better,” Marlo remarked with a curt nod. No longer would he fear his future income in the form of a tireless mannequin slave being in danger of destruction. The armor would protect it.
Next to the dwarf, Banst stood in quiet contemplation, with the armored mannequin capturing all of his attention. An idea birthed within him, further enhanced by his foreign memories, but it was all quelled by words from Marlo.
“I’m going to close up shop for the day in preparation for hiding away the puppet from prying eyes,” Marlo informed, a clear signal that it was time for Banst to depart.
I can’t leave now,” Banst worried. “I’m to be hunted! Those noble Adventurers who killed your master have made me their fox and would, as certain as the day is bright, send ill greetings to me with their servant hounds as soon as I leave here!”
“This is neither a foxhole nor an inn, Adventurer Banst,” Marlo argued, side-eyeing the panicked young man.
“Have a heart, blacksmith. If not that, have gratitude. I’ve gifted you the golden goose, and you turn your back on me as soon as it is secured in your home. Simply allow me to sleep here for a single night, for honor’s sake!”
Dwarves weren’t known for their sense of honor. In fact, they were considered too mercantile and savvy in dealings, to the point of being called miserly by most. Yet, luckily for Banst, dwarves hated being in debt. Marlo was such a dwarf, in no need of debt, whether it be financial or owing reciprocity.
Scratching his scraggly red beard, the dwarf agreed, “Fine. You will stay but only for the night, and I get the big bed!”
The tone in Marlo’s voice seemed ill-fitting for the conversation, and that was because he had never been able to sleep in a proper bed for a little over half a decade.
Banst understood the cause of the dwarf's odd behavior when he realized he'd be sleeping on a bed too small even for a dwarf, let alone a human, within a room the size of a cupboard. The very bed that Durehn had imposed upon Marlo would now be Banst's place of rest.
He awoke the next day feeling misshapen on the bed, and his bones cracked when he rose. Dawn had yet to break, meaning it would be the proper time for him to sneak back home. Silent darkness awaited him on the cobbled street outside. All life seemed to have fled the land in this dark hour, even cricket song and wandering cats were absent.
Hildew City was greeted by the sun when it breached the horizon line as Banst found himself at the transition between the upper and lower districts. The scenery around him shifted from solid buildings and clean streets to one of crumbling structures and a landscape filled with trash. Vagrants, like animals, scurried in the growing light, fleeing into shadows to lessen the burden from the sun’s oncoming heat.
Everything was as it had been since Banst had grown up, witnessing the impoverished environment move in accordance with habits, as if it were a beast of itself, following the patterns of its nature. However, something moved not in sync with the decrepit neighborhoods’ ebbs and flows. A man in black, tunic, pants, and all, walked as if he didn’t belong, with proper balance and posture that a schoolmarm would swoon over.
As Banst passed broken glass, he looked into its reflection and saw the man locked onto him. The distance between them would be comfortable for anyone but Banst. He knew predators when he saw them. Growing up in the Drenching District - the slums - and adventuring on monster quests, he understood the style and mannerisms of a hunting creature.
He approached shady characters clinging to shadows, their eyes glinting like lupine stares in the light. There was no work for them today, unless it meant cutting coin purses from belts. Banst approached, and they became excited at the sight of emaciated, weak prey. Yet, they held back. They recognized an Adventurer when they saw one. No one was foolish enough to bother guild members; otherwise, the guild would retaliate, no matter how weak or unimportant the ambushed Adventurer might be. The guild had a reputation to protect.
The scruffy-looking men returned to their business but had to look back when Banst started walking through their group like a lion stepping unafraid through a pack of jackals.
“Don’t press your luck, Adventurer,” one of the men hissed, a single tooth the color of corn, his face seeming already worn out despite it being the beginning of the day. “We can only hold back so much!” Grunts of agreement grew from his compatriots.
An Adventurer badge soon confronted the dirty faces of these wretches, causing them to wince like vampires at the sun, while Banst held it out toward them like a crucifix.
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When Banst finally passed, one of them growled, “Damned Adventurers think they’re so powerful because of their guild…!”
Feeling defeated and with less energy, the others agreed with quiet grunts again. That was when the man in black appeared, following Banst not too long after.
“Get lost,” one of the scoundrels threatened him, “We’re already in a bad mood.”
The man scoffed, prompting the group of shady men to bristle.
“Is he an Adventurer?” one of them wondered, making sure they would not get into trouble if they hounded the clean-looking stranger.
The man in black kept moving, no badge nor sign indicating he was protected like Banst was. He growled as soon as the men surrounding him began to attack, “You dare lay a hand on me?” They swarmed him like hyenas upon a meaty carcass.
Hearing the sounds of fighting, Banst continued through the Drenching District with relief. He had avoided a hound of Gerard and Herek. Today was already looking to be a good day.
“I’m kicking you out,” his landlord croaked.
In a dilapidated hallway where mold crept across the walls, two distinct figures stood. Banst, dressed in stained linen and patched cloth pants, had left his armor behind with Marlo for repairs. The other figure was an old woman in a colorful dress that starkly contrasted with the permanent scowl etched onto her wrinkled face. A round hump poked from her back, causing her to hunch over.
Banst stood in stark disbelief at the news, the old landlord before him with an indifferent gaze upon her old, ragged features. Clarice Habberbatch - owner of the Habberbatch House, Banst’s dwelling for the past five years. When his inheritance began to run dry, he was forced to stay in this crumbling, dripping, falling-apart-at-the-seams slum house.
His time here was up, it seemed.
“I can pay rent!” Banst declared, fighting the need to fall to his knees to beg.
Clarice sucked at her gray teeth, her wrinkled, veined eyes filling with impatience. “You spoke the same way last month. It’s only ever words with you, Banst. Never is it coin.”
“One more month! I can get all the rent I owe you in one month!” A promise Banst could not keep. He needed a place to live, so he lied. Not his proudest moment, though certainly not his most shameful. The life of a poor, weak Adventurer is not without its embarrassing failings in terms of making ends meet.
It only helped his conscience that he would try his best, though that hardly bore enough fruit. There was none else he could do, and he wasn’t about to give up.
“One week,” Clarice rasped, her jowls jiggling with finality. “If no copper or silver is in my hand by next week, you will no longer be welcomed into my lovely home.” She then shuffled away, her feet incapable of lifting off the ground at her age.
“Thank you, thank you!” Banst rejoiced as if his life had been saved. As soon as the old bag had disappeared down the hall, he spat, “She dares call this place ‘lovely’…”
The door to Banst’s room creaked open, revealing a floor sunken in at various places like a bumpy road. Wet mold clung to the walls and the single window that couldn’t open without breaking it. A lone red chair stood in the nearly empty room, a straw mattress lying in a corner. Two chests, one with a lock, the other without, stood at the back wall, filled with the few things Banst owned.
Such squalor was a typical sight in this part of the city. Humble means couldn’t begin to describe the state of this Habberbatch room. Though an Adventurer of the renowned Adventurers Guild, Banst did not have the means to gain more decent lodgings.
“I can’t stay for long,” Banst grumbled, leaving right away and closing the door. “Coin won’t show up in my hand by itself…”
Back on the street, Banst could see the man in black, somewhat disheveled, searching every broken building and shabby shack for him. Banst needed a way to avoid him.
Just then, a man caked in dirt from farming was riding his cart of radishes into town, the donkey pulling him along seemingly upbeat and joyous as if something fantastic had happened to him lately.
“Old man,” Banst called out, “Mind if I ride with you?”
“Sure thing,” the old man agreed, seeing the sword at Banst’s hip, “always a good thing to have Adventurers around.” All in human lands agreed with the sentiment. Adventurers were monster slayers. To get in their good graces was never a bad thing.
Banst crawled into the pile of vegetables at the back, and they drove past the man in black without alerting him.
Durehn’s soul puppet had worked tirelessly overnight and had completed repairs on Banst’s armor just as he walked back into the smithy. Once again armored, Banst traveled back to the heart of Hildew City where the Adventurers Guild lay. An exhilarating hum resonated in waves throughout the guild's lobby, anticipation bubbling like the onset of an adventure. Armors glinted in the sunlight streaming through expansive windows that composed part of the walls. Faces, flushed with eagerness for their chance at a quest, bore smiles and brimmed with giddiness.
A long line of Adventurers stretched out from the receptionist desk. Despite the size of the city, there were still many who felt the call of adventure, and what better place for it than the Adventurers Guild.
Banst finally made it to the front of a line. The scent of perfume wafted through the air, and his sight filled with the clean faces of the receptionists. They wore black formal wear, crisp and impeccable, with their hair groomed with precision. Banst found himself facing a young receptionist. She had strawberry blonde hair and seemed new to the Adventurers Guild. Neither Banst nor the receptionist gave any indication of recognizing each other, a surprising occurrence given Banst's ten years of experience as an Adventurer. She also possessed a memorable face—attractive, delicate, adorned with the lingering, rosy blush of youth.
However, what Banst hadn’t realized was that she did know him.
A cold gleam ran across her bright blue eyes before her expression withdrew into indifference. “How may I be of service, Adventurer?”
“I need a quest,” Banst nearly begged, “a short one and preferably nearby.” Banst didn’t have time for prolonged quests and needed to complete as many as he could before next week, unless he lost his room in the Habberbatch House. “I’m Rabbit-Ranked, Support Role.” Once he proclaimed to be a Slayer, but that was until it was found out he couldn’t kill a single goblin alone.
The receptionist barely moved, flipping absentmindedly through parchments and logs before returning with an answer, “I’m sorry. There don’t seem to be any quests available.” Though she was sitting, it appeared she was looking down upon him.
“How is that possible? I know for certain the lower-ranked quests have been backed up for months. There must be a mistake. Check again.”
Once again, the strawberry-blonde woman simply displayed busyness, fiddling with this and that, only to repeat the same denial of no quests being available. What was truly transpiring was a feigned attempt at servicing Banst—she didn’t want to help him.
“There’s something amiss here…” Banst muttered, his gaze closely examining the receptionist.
“No one will want to team up with a coward,” declared a cold voice from a young, handsome man leaning against the desk, a bycocket hat perched atop his blond head, his athletic build clad in forest green leather.