September 20th. The Year of the Ox Moon, 1066.

Mission: Collect twenty goblin skins.

Status: Failed. No skins collected.

“That tribe was a cultural marvel,” Rick explained. “Stuck in the stone age. Used clubs instead of swords. Good for scientists to study.”

“...” Pern bit her tongue.

January 25th. Year of the Tiger Moon, 1067.

Mission: Collect ten ornate jewels

Status: Failed. Gems never received.

“The reward for that quest was a colorful hat,” Rick said. “It was better for me to just sell the diamonds. Funds lasted about a year before I had to find more work.”

“...”

March 3rd. Year of the Rabbit Moon, 1068.

Mission: Escort client to Caer Princips

Status: Failed. Client denied payment.

“The person I escorted was stupid,” Rick said. “When I walked, he moved quickly. When I ran, he moved slow. Must have been some kind of power play, refusing to match my pace like that.”

“Escort missions are always difficult,” Pern nodded. “I’ve had a lot of clients like that too.”

“So I put him in a coffin and I sent him where he wanted to go.”

“That’s not funny! That’s horrible!”

“The fare was cheap. I put in air holes and gave the box to a funeral director on his way to Caer Princips, Rick said. “But the client wasn’t pleased when he woke up.”

The lady knight held her head in her hands, and when she showed her face it was flushed an indignant red. The pair stood just outside the tavern at a cross-street.

The quest Pern had taken was supposedly simple. Kill one hundred elmens, spherical element-based creatures that were usually harmless but could occasionally replicate out of control. Water elmens were known as slimes, air elmens were floons, rock elmens were crockies and fire elmens were smorks.

But Pern felt her true enemy would be Rick. She felt it in her bones.

“Listen!” said Pern. “I don’t think you’re a bad Adventurer per say, aside from the other ninety-eight quests that you failed. You just need to change two things.”

She leaned on the back alley wall.

“One. Your attitude!”

“You got a problem?”

“You care a lot more about what makes you happy than about the Guild requirements, and do sloppy, unprofessional work. You need some proper motivation.”

“Drink, money, women.” Rick flicked up a finger for each word. “Give me one of those things and I’ll be a hero.”

“...I’ll let you touch my boobs if we win.”

“You seriously want that?”

“Well…” Pern stammered. “So what if I do? And, well, if I don’t, then what else would you want? I have some money, but I’m going to need it soon.”

“I’d want that kind of cute expression,” Rick said. “Sure, I’m motivated now.”

Pern coughed, sighed, and then smacked his cloak: “Two. Your equipment!

“Everything’s messy and improperly maintained. Your coat’s scratched leather, and worse you’ve got no weapon. Come on.”

She led him down the city roads and across the river to a building with an old wooden sign. A crossed sword and shield, with a big wide “R” engraved on a sketched aegis; she’d taken him to Reginald’s Weapon Shoppe.

Ding! rang the door chimes.

Spears lined the room like prickly fencing, and swords of all curves and sharpness were laid out on an oak table. A tapestry hung opposite the windows proudly showed the Reginald’s family tree, with lines running down to a single name: “Monique.”

“Fighting someone with an unwieldy weapon is like cutting bread with a dull knife. It makes the person feel clumsy and useless, but it’s really the tool that’s at fault.”

Pern gave Rick her money pouch; inside it were twenty silvers and seven copper marks, enough for a weapon made from steel.

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“Pay me back by making sure the quest is cleared, and return the pouch when you’re done.”

“Interesting,” said Rick, as he started to browse.

While spears served well during wartime, they were cumbersome to carry and store; so they were out. Unorthodox weapons lay tangled in a chest in the back—nets and tridents and other gladiatorial fare—but these had the ignoble drawback of making the wielder look like they were hunting for fish instead of monsters.

Finally, Rick examined the swords. He was drawn to one in particular, a jet black blade with a stone encrusted in its hilt.

“Hmm.” Rick hefted the length. It was light, and as he swished it, it felt like an extension of his arm. The rest of the room seemed still, and while he slashed and hacked he felt as if he were in a place beyond time.

Then the blade spoke to him:

“Could it be…? Could you be the chosen one?” the sword said. “I’ve long awaited this day, Ricard “Thunderblade” Zweithander.”

Rick jerked. Pern and Ms. Reginald were talking about something by the store counter, undisturbed.

“Yes! Tis you! Brave hero who will bring about a new Andrestian Era! Take this relic, brave herOOMPH.”

“Creepy,” Rick decided. He re-sheathed it, and smothered its nauseating voice.

Rick lived in a small room at the Four-Leaf Inn. Though he was reasonably sociable, he enjoyed his privacy—and if he brought home a girl he didn’t want to deal with a voyeuristic sword.

Besides, talking swords had an annoying tendency to nag. “Slash this way!” “Attack like that….!” Rick already had a fighting style he was comfortable with and he didn’t need a backseat general.

“What’s that?”

Rick could just barely hear the hero sword’s protests. But beyond that, he became aware of another sound, a low ominous hum. It came from somewhere outside…

***

Pern was making preparations of her own.

Monique Reginald was a young woman who had been weapon-shopkeeper for about five years. She’d inherited the store from her father, the late master craftsman, and though Pern was proud of her S-Rank, she respected all merchants and suppliers who supported the Adventuring profession..

“What’s the best weapon for killing elmens?”

“An elmen can be challenging for E-Ranks to kill. I’m surprised it also gives trouble to S-Ranks as well.”

“A good Adventurer always knows when to take advice, and it’s been a while since I’ve had to kill a smork or a slime.”

Monique smiled awkwardly. She spoke loud, clear, and slow, enunciating every word.

“Then I’d recommend a warhammer. With the flat side, you can crack open earth elmens and smother away the fire ones. With its sharp side, you can puncture the air-filled floons. It’s a very simple weapon to use.”

“Three...” Pern muttered.

“I beg your pardon?” The hammer’s price tag bore eight tally marks. It was written like that so even the illiterate could understand its pricing, and Monique’s awkward smile intensified.

“Three… as an S-Rank Adventurer, you should know I can count to three!” Pern’s breathing hitched. “You mentioned three elmens, but there’s four elmens we have to fight. How can this warhammer kill slimes?”

“We’ve always had problems with floons, crockies, and smorks,” the shopkeeper replied. “But the slime problem is new, so to be honest, I don’t know what’ll be effective.”

Pern hefted the weapon. “What do you think, Rick? Would a warhammer be good for you …Rick?”

There was no one else in the shop.

“Rick!!!”

***

Rick had not only wandered off with Pern’s whole purse, he had also stumbled into an alley full of floons. Floons were balloon-like monsters with rubbery skin and painted-on eyes. Drooping from each floon was a long, narrow, string that it would use like a tentacle to choke out or abduct its foes.

As long as an Adventurer had a weapon that could pop sacs or cut strings, floons were relatively easy to defeat. However, Rick had pawned off most of his equipment for drinking, flirting, and renovating the Four-Leaf Inn where he did those two things, so he was completely unarmed.

The floons continued their hum, and backed him even further down the alleyway. It was a narrow space with refuse, a tobacco pouch, a few stray rocks, plus one quivering boy.

But none of these were suitable for use as weaponry. The rocks were tiny, and the child was scrawny, ill-nourished and would break easily if swung.

“Help… help…” the boy shuddered as the enemies approached.

“I hear you, I hear you.” Rick complained.

***

….And of course, Pern would have to rescue them both. Pern, the S-Rank Adventurer with a 100% chance of success who never, ever, failed would have to bail out this failure thief. She’d protect Rick, retrieve her purse, and save the child, but there was a one-two-three-fourth problem in her way.

A river flowed between her and Rick’s alley. It was a swirling muck with more dirt than fish, and the gap was wider than seven strides. There was no bridge in sight, and laden with her breastplate, she wouldn’t make the jump.

Pern flushed. “Success at any cost, with any tactic. The Genius S-Rank devises an ingenious solution. Don’t look away—I mean, don’t look!”

She lost weight the fastest way possible: she stripped. Armor clattered on the brick, and she was proud of her toned body, but it sure felt funny to go down to just her underclothes…

But for once, Rick wasn’t paying attention.

“It’ll be okay, little brat. Big brother Rick’ll take care of it.”

The boy cowered behind Rick’s awkward frame.

“Will you, weird grungy man?”

“That’s some critical damage already,” Rick murmured, and then braced himself for the assault. The humming grew loud—and four floons swooped down, with their dirt brown skeins and strings. Their cilia tickled at Rick’s arms and neck, then slithered worm-like around him.

His left arm was wrapped tight, as if it were in tourniquet, and all air was choked from his throat by another demented string. With his only free hand he pulled out Pern’s purse and found five copper coins.

Monsters are monsters, not greedy thieves like Rick. Of course bribery wouldn’t work! Pern mustered her courage and leapt across the creek.

But even as life was slowly clenched from him, Rick had the strength to grin. He took the copper coins, and slotted them between his fingers.

Pop!

A thread loosened around his neck.

Pop! Pop!

Another two floons down.

Copper knuckles. That was Rick’s weapon choice.

He slammed this makeshift tool against the final floon. The metal sunk viciously into its skin, and it deflated to an empty bag.

It can take as little as sixty seconds for someone to choke and die. But for Rick to kill a pack of floons with his fists took just ten. The kid had stopped crying, though his eyes were still wet.

“These coins are for you kiddo. Buy yourself something nice.” Rick dropped his five coppers —Pern’s five copper—into a trembling hand. “Might want to ease off tobacco, though.”

The kid darted off. Pern had meanwhile relocked her chestplate, found her gauntlets, and reapplied her greaves out of sight on the far side of the river.

“I guess you don’t need a weapon after all,” Pern muttered.