Garrett takes a large bite of the leftover bread. It’s stale and dry in his mouth, and he washes it down with a swig of ale. Then he lets out a shout, “Martha, I’ll be heading out now!”
A moment later and footsteps can be heard coming down the stairs. A woman with brown hair peeks her head out, offering her husband a smile. In her arms is a small child, a little more than a year old. “Take care of yourself, Garrett,” she says.
Garrett moves over, giving his wife a quick peck on the cheek. Then he turns to his baby, and in typical sing song fashion, says, “Dada is going to go fight some monsters now, Rossy. That’s right, monsters.” He tickles the child gently with his hard, calloused finger, eliciting a fit of giggles from the later. This in turn draws a wide grin to the man’s face. He turns to his wife, saying, “I’ll be back late tonight. Don’t wait up.”
“Don’t stay out celebrating for too long,” Martha reminds with a wry smile, “You remember what happened last time when you had a bit too much to drink?”
Garrett lets out a hearty laugh, stemming from deep within his powerful chest. “Oh, Hector and Roger have never let me forget! I will heed your warning indeed! And with that, I bid you goodbye for now, love.”
Garrett gathers his equipment, shield strapped onto his back, a longsword at his hip and a sash around his waist. Then, he exits the house, winding his way through the small back alleys between buildings until he joins the central road.
Though it is still early morning, the sun barely peeking over the horizon, the air chill from the dawn, the cobblestone street is already pounded by footsteps. Farmers head outward, beyond the walls of Bristle, to prepare their lands for the spring seeding, accompanied by the ranchers tending to their flocks. Along the opposite direction, and the one in which Garrett currently heads, are those with business in the Main Plaza, where all the stores and workshops are located. Being a fairly important city, Bristle has the fortune of housing every common business imaginable- baker, barber, brewer, butcher, miller, physician, woodcutter. It even has a smokehouse. Of course, Garrett is not at present interested in any of these; his destination is the Adventurers’ Guild that sits besides the town hall.
As Garrett traverses through the streets of Bristle, he sees the familiar sight of Gilheed Castle, looming in the west, slightly obscured by the morning haze. Opposite it, twin peaks rise high into the air, signalling the towers of the city’s cathedral. Garrett looks away, back towards the street upon which he currently walks. On either side of him, the buildings grow more dense, half-timbered structures, infilled with wattle and daub- a matrix of brown wood with beige-colored paste in between. Ahead, the town hall approaches, and with it, the familiar sounds and smells of the Main Plaza, where the central market is already bustling with activity. Fresh baked goods and the fishy odors of seafood, brought in from the nearby port, permeate the air, while the flutes and chimes of minstrels fill it with song.
This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.
The dense packed buildings suddenly open up into a large space, dotted with more than a hundred individual stalls. Small merchants selling all sorts of goods obtained from dungeons- clothes, weapons, furniture, tools, pottery, potions, trinkets and more. As he passes by these on his way to the guild, quite a few catch his fancy. In particular, he spots a stall peddling in swords, and his mind instantly jumps to his own, which hangs at his waist. He recalls the numerous dents and notches that line his blade, signs of his conquest, yes, but also of the sword’s growing age. He’d need to discard it soon, have it replaced, lest the worst happen, which is for its durability to give in the midst of combat.
Garrett’s hand instinctively reaches into his cloak, to the small leather pouch tied within, which contains his liquid assets (though technically it’s solid assets, being metallic coins), giving it a shake. The soft, empty jingle brings a sigh to his lips. He’d have to do some more saving, and he really hopes that the coming dungeon run turns out to be profitable. He turns away from the sword merchant, proceeding on.
Just as he is about to pass through the entire market, having reached the very edge of the stalls, a table tucked away in a corner to his right catches his eye, mostly for the unusualness of the contents it has on display. Curious, he pauses, and although brief, it is long enough for the stallowner to take notice. A brunette sitting behind the wares, she quickly leaps to her feet, excitement evident in her large blue eyes. She calls out to him, her voice is high and rapid as she says, “Welcome, valued customer! Can I interest you in something? Anything? Please, take a good look! Let me know if you have any questions!”
Garret turns his attention to the woman and notices that she looks foreign, her attire clearly at odds with what’s normal for Bristle, or Engleton writ large, an outfit that appears almost tribal in nature. She also seems young, at least a decade his junior. Bemused internally by her enthusiasm, he decides to humor her, approaching the table. The stall being out of the way, there is little foot traffic, and Garrett finds that as he nears, he is the only one around.
“Hello,” Garrett greets.
“Hello! You’re my first customer of the day! Lucky you, right?”
“I guess? Though your stall does seem a bit… off the beaten path, if I might suggest.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. The computations say that, based on the foot traffic patterns of this market, analyzed against stall location, while co-variating for time of day, this location for sure is the best location for my stall. So, I should be good to go.”
“Uh,” Garrett replies slowly, “I don’t really get it, but… how many days have you been here?”
“Almost a week now.”
“And how many customers have you had?”
The woman is silent for a moment before mumbling, “You’re the first one…”
Garrett offers a polite laugh. “So, shouldn’t common sense dictate that this is a bad spot then? Perhaps you should try a different location,” he offers.
Suddenly, the woman clutches her head, frazzling her hair. “Ahhhh! Are the models wrong?? No wait, if I swap these variables…”
Noticing that the woman has devolved into mumbling to herself, he instead takes her earlier suggestion of looking at the wares on the table. He finds what resembles crossbows, saving missing the limb, that is, the perpendicular part that attaches to the barrel, where the bolt normally goes. These “incomplete” crossbows also come in a variety of sizes, some as long as a broadsword, others short as a dagger. He picks up one of medium size, about one and half feet in length, raising it to his eye for inspection. Like a crossbow, this apparatus has a trigger mechanism of sorts and a stock at the butt, but he can’t seem to determine where the bolt might go. He turns to the woman, asking her a question which breaks her out of her monologue. He asks, “Is this crossbow unfinished?”
“It’s not a crossbow,” the woman replies, “It’s called a blunderbuss.”