Breakfast was a delicious combination of pita bread and goat yogourt with a smattering of sausages and an apple. Apples on Erd tasted a little different, a bit sweeter and a little less tart. They reminded me of Gala apples with vim. The sausages were a spiced goat affair, and really needed the yogourt.

Rosie and Darrel were still over the moon, and Darrel was using his elementals for just about anything he could think of. He could summon two of them with the basic [Generate] Ability, and they were constantly whizzing about overhead. Unfortunately, the buggers were awesome at cleaning and carrying and steaming, but not much else. As evidenced by my burnt sausages.

“I’m real sorry, like.” Darrel said, clinging his apron in his hands. “I didn’t know they were burnin’ yer food. I can git you a new one if’n you’d prefer.”

I waved my hand and crunched into some crunchy sausage. “Eh, it’s fine. I like it crispy.”

“Well, glad ya like it. Don’t want ta waste food, none.”

Everyone had woken up at roughly the same time, so the inn was full to bursting. The gnomish contingent had trekked down sometimes right before bed, and one of the elementals was currently pushing steaming water out of its mouth-hole into tea cups as fast as it could. Human Pete would have been worried about the cleanliness of elemental mouth water, but dwarf Pete just figured – eh.

Darrel sat on the edge of a picnic bench across from me, and stretched mightily. “When’re ya headin’ out?”

“About an hour or so. We’re hoping to make Kinshasa by at least the end of the week.”

“Well, Luck o’ Barck to ya! There’s some tough competition in Kinshasa, but yer brews have been somethin’ special! They may spit in tha’ face of tha’ Sacred Brew, but they’re damn tasty!”

I winced at that.. generous description. “How is the competition?”

Darrel scratched at his beard in thought. “Hmmm, you’ll be wantin’ ta keep an eye out fer Riverside Brewery. They’re tha biggest in Kinshasa, and they’re real good. They won tha Kinshasa Octamillenial Brewin’ Contest. I haven’t been able ta get any, but I hear it’s great.”

I pulled out my notebook and wrote down the name. “And do people actually like our brews? Aside from tha whole spittin’ in the face of the Sacred Brew thing. There was a lot of initial opposition in Minnova.”

“Phsaw. Gemena may be a bit insular, but we’re a caravan town; we’re used ta new things and folk passin’ through. The miners are all hard bitten, so anything that lightens their life a bit is hunky-dory. Yer Ass-Blaster was a hit!”

“And the rest?”

“Hmm… yer barista brew sells more as a pick-me-up than a regular drink. It’s practically a second potion fer tha Highwatch at this point. Tha glass bottle is an issue though. Lotta them dump it inta their canteens.”

Huh. There was an interesting problem to have. Maybe I would need to institute cans sooner than planned. “And tha’ new brew and liquid gold?”

“Ain’t got yer new brew through. Maybe it didn’t take off? There’s a few what swears by liquid gold.”

“But overall, everyone’s fine with it?”

“Coupla hardliners. Those with [Brewers] in their family, or from bigger clans. The ones that don’t like splittin’ bedrock, ya know? But most’re just happy ta drink after a hard days work, and don’t care none where it came from.”

That made me happy to hear. One thing that I’d been worried about was that without my (and Berry’s) direct influence, our beer would never make it out of Minnova or Kinshasa. This laid that to rest, and I offered a silent thank you to Drum (wherever he was) for giving me the idea to pitch Barista Brew to the Highwatch. That alone would be enough to carry us far and wide.

“I’ll let ya get back to yer eatin’.” Darrel said, standing and wiping off his apron.

“Thanks Darrel.”

I scooped a creamy heap of yogourt onto a tiny pita and closed my eyes as I chewed. I distinctly did not moan, but it was a near thing. All it really needed was some olives.

The morning was otherwise uneventful, barring a brew-curious miner who dropped by to get some brewing tips. I left him star-struck with a greatly-simplified copy of my Earth brewing journal. Honestly, any mixture of herbs he used for his bittering agents to make a gruit would be better than what the Sacred Brew actually used, but I still made him promise to check with an alchemist or anyone with an evolved [Check Quality] before drinking it.

Our caravan began packing as soon as it was fully morning, with light streaming through the Great Crack above us once more. Everyone was bright and chipper, both from a full night's sleep for the first time in a long time, and from the large supply of barista brew we were carrying.

Annie stood on top of one of the shacks hiding the entrances to Gemena, and shouted orders down as we moved in new supplies from the general store, hooked goats up to wagons, and followed our startup checklist.

I made sure to pet Penelope before heading into the wagon. Copperpot’s caravan guards had volunteered to watch over everyone’s goods, and had stayed up above while we all partied in the inn overnight. The only thing they had to report was that Penelope had ‘disappeared’ for twenty minutes sometime halfway through the evening. I’d been ready to be incensed, but they’d found her later simply trotting around in the goat pen.

They must have been blind to miss such a charming creature.

“Who’s a good girl? Who’s working really hard and deserves a beer later tonight?” I murmured, ruffling her ears.

Penelope leaned her head into the scritches. *Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah* [Translated from Prima Donna Goat] “Yes, praise me more, peasant!”

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

When Annie’s yelling reached a specific pitch that I recognized from years of the married life, I went to help Richter load the last of our supplies into the rear of our wagon. With that done, and Whistlemop starting to get antsy from the delays, I hopped up the steps.

And smacked directly into Bando Digger.

He gave me a brilliant smile, “Lookin’ forward to travelin’ with ya, pardner!”

Sunnovanannygoat. Annie wasn’t supposed to say yes!

—

Eight days later, we finally arrived on a crisp early morning.

There was a lot that happened over that week. Annie became the queen of a pack of rockhounds. Richter discovered forbidden magic and wiped out an entire town. Johnsson fell in love with a gnomish princess and swore himself to her service. And Kirk was attacked by miniature lilliputians every night before bed.

Which is to say nothing actually happened at all. I was freaking BORED.

So by the eighth day, I was overjoyed to see our destination approaching in the distance. It was a sheer cliff face rising all the way up into the darkness above us, and the light spilling out of the crack above us stopped there. What we were looking at was the end of the geographical wonder that was the Great Crack, and while It wasn’t visible yet, beneath that cliff lay Kinsahsa and its walls!

I’d spent a lot of time the past few days talking to Bando about our new home. He was adamant that it was the most incredible city any of us had ever or would ever see. I seriously doubted that. I’d been to Paris and there was no way Kinshasa could disappoint me as incredibly as Paris.

There was even a term for how much it disappointed people: Paris Syndrome.

According to Bando, Kinshasa didn’t have one outer wall like Minnova. Instead, it had several rings of walls leading up to the end of the Crack. The original city was contained within the cliff-face itself – the White Wall – and wound through the Erd much like Gemena. Over the years the ancient dwarven capital had spilled out and filled the space beyond the White Wall. In order to protect all the new housing, walls had been erected. Then the city had spilled out again, and more walls had been built. In total, Kinshasa had 4 walls, plus the White Wall towering behind it.

A whole mess of the enormous floating lanterns hung in the air, bathing this section of Crack with incandescent light. The White Wall reflected the light in a silver halo that made it look like we were approaching some kind of underground heaven.

Somewhere deep within the old-city there was a dangerous route to the world above. Occasionally a merchant or adventurer like Kirk braved the trail, but it was foolhardy at best and deadly at worst.

I pointed at the incredible sight. “The White Wall literally white?”

Bando nodded vigorously. “Yep. When tha Gods struck them there dragons into tha ground, it created Crack. It was then that the dragon’s fires scorched the stones here white.”

I continued to stare wide eyed at the scintillating stone that stretched up and up and up. “Huh.”

The number of travelers slowly increased the closer we got to Kinshasa. Side-roads and crossroads and in-roads wound over the barren flat rocky landscape, and brought with them new and exciting sights to see.

There were contingents of the Highwatch with glistening weapons and sharp gazes. They marched solidly forward ignoring everyone else, but were more than pleased to stop when we offered to refill their hip flasks of Barista Brew.

Herds of unigoats bleated and baahed alongside flocks of sheep, while their herders argued over grazing rights. Grazing for what I couldn’t tell, but there had to be something green out there somewhere, right?

Next came carts and wagons belonging to merchant families, some in gaudy gnomish colours, and others emblazoned with the clan crests of powerful dwarven nobles. They kept to themselves and either let us get ahead or tried to follow closely behind to find safety under our wing.

Soon adventurers came into view. Those peacocks of Erd, each wearing whatever enchanted gear they could afford in a hodgepodge mess of the functional but unfashionable. I swear I saw a [Berserker] in nothing but a set of hiked up pants and a bowtie. Johnson and I made Balin promise to never, ever, wear anything even remotely similar. He said not to worry, because he’d always be in his golden armour, but I had my doubts…

Then the first wall came into view. It was massive, at least twice the height of Minnova’s and made of yellow granite. Much like Minnova, the only thing we could see over it were a few bell-towers and plumes of smoke.

“That’s tha Yellow Wall.” Bando announced as we all sat squished on the front bench.

“The Yellow Brick Wall? Do we follow, follow, follow it?” I asked.

“Nah. You’ll get robbed if’n ya ain’t careful. Tha Yellow Wall is where the poor and desperate are. Outta sight, outta mind fer tha nobs.” Bando spat, his loogie spacking onto the ground where it was promptly churned beneath our wheels.

“What’s your plan?” Aqua asked, giving a nod towards Bando.

“Annie said I could stay until tha Goat is settled in. I’ll be a–helpin’ with unloadin’ and setup, though nunnova brewery stuff.” Bando actually looked nervous for the first time on this trip, likely thinking of what it would mean to be living alone in the big city.

I still couldn’t believe Annie had let us basically steal Bando from his parents. While she and Bando had refused to tell Rosie and Darrel about it before we’d left, I’d forced her to write a letter that we’d sent back with a passing merchant that same day. Ever since the time Jeremiah had spoiled our brew for the Brewer’s Guild, she’d had serious issues with freedom and overbearing parents. I could see why Bando’s plight had swayed her, but his family had to be worried sick, and they were good people. She’d acquiesced to the letter, but it looked like we were stuck with him for the near future.

In some ways though, Bando was actually handy to have along. He taught us all a lot about Kinshasa that Richter couldn’t learn from his books, and he knew the ins and outs as a local’ish’. For example, when the Yellow Wall was still far in the distance we reached a huge line for entry to the city. We found out from fellow travelers that it could be days getting in, but Bando had warned us about it ahead of time, and said he knew how to expedite our entry. With a salute he dashed off and was soon lost in the milieu.

An hour later, he sauntered back alongside a city [Guard] who happily invited “The Champions of Minnova!” into Kinshasa. We got our wagons rounded up, and were soon passing by the angry gazes of merchants, tourists, and refugees. And by all the Gods, there were a lot of them.

As we approached the city, makeshift shacks and decrepit tents began to dot the landscape, until we were walking through a miniature shanty town. Moustached children ran about playing hitball while their parents watched us with hungry eyes. It looked like Kinshasa would soon need another wall. It looked strikingly similar to the outside of Minnova, complete with the angry yelling.

The guards to the city were not Highwatch, and it showed. Our escort was chatty, but spent too much time admiring Aqua’s beard and not enough checking our cargo. The guards at the special checkpoint we entered were the same. They were just a little less alert, just a little too used to days filled with nothing more terrible than haughty nobles.

And just like that, we entered through the Yellow Wall and into the outermost district of the Capital of the Dwarves.

And wouldn’t you know it?

It smelled just like cat piss.

Friggin’ felines. THEY WERE EVERYWHERE DOWN HERE.