It was nighttime in the slums.
Tatters scurried across The Hole, his eye dashing to any perceived sound or movement, not wanting to be another victim claimed by this dark place. Unblinking eyes watched him from the shadows, the eyes of lowly beggars, but they watched him for weakness instead of the grace to part with coins. Like everyone else in The Hole, even the beggars were predatory.
Tatters scoffed at the decrepit filth watching him. As if they could do anything to him. He had moved up in the world where such meek things couldn’t threaten him. If they did, they’d be sorry. Tatters had become a member of the White Scale Vipers, one of the most prominent gangs in Soalde, with influence reaching as far as the red fox district.
Not many could bully him these days. He found himself rubbing his cheek, remembering being sucker punched by Red.
I’ll get you for that, Red. Tatters vowed.
Down an abandoned alley, through deserted buildings, he shuffled through an opening in a wall. It wasn’t a door but a hole made by someone breaking through the brick. Tatters didn’t know who made it, but he knew this was the path to the White Scale Viper Club. He went past destroyed corridors with mold-covered walls, moving from one floor to the next below and then continuing downward, down into the darkness.
Tatters’ cloth shoes finally hit the familiar sound of solid wood, a wood of quality and choice material to make a sturdy floor. His boss called it Venenian wood—wood from the elven woods—illegal to own in their kingdom of Loderan. The heavily clothed youth could hear music in the distance with upbeat melodies. Tatters knew the music playing emanated from the club. He was close. Floating lights uncovered the rest of the way forward for him, lights conjured by sage symbols as good as those in the upper districts.
Such expense and prestige is what made Tatters become affiliated with the White Scale Vipers.
A light burst underneath him, and he dove away in time to avoid colliding with important guests coming through a rune portal. In a flash of light, masked individuals appeared above glowing marks carved into the floor, all dressed in fine fabrics and glittering jewelry. At the sight of them, Tatters couldn’t help eye his own many tattered clothes that draped over his shoulders while focused on the tattered condition of it all, comparing them to what these newcomers wore. These seemingly important figures walked toward the club, unaware of the dirty young man they'd nearly crashed into splayed out on the floor.
I’ll be like them one day, Tatters promised, watching the group of luxurious guests walk to a black door with a white scaled diamond shape on the front—the sign of the White Scale Viper gang. When they entered, Tatters caught sight of his boss within the room beyond the black door.
His boss was sweating profusely. That wasn’t a good sign. What made matters worse was Tatters could see him on his knees, bowing to someone berating him. There was only one person that could make his boss look so pathetic.
Did the big boss get mad? There was always a bigger fish in the sea. Even Tatters' boss had a boss, who they referred to as "big boss."
When the door closed, Tatters snuck up to it and attempted to open it to get a better view.
“Tatters,” a voice caused him to nearly jump out of his many clothes. “Hey, don’t be so fearful.” Tatters turned to see one of the other White Scale Snake members, a young man by the name of Vicious Vorbro. With a name like that, someone would expect the youth to be quite violent, but Tatters only knew him to be as vicious as children’s toys. Vicious was a young man with short, cropped hair and a face that held a permanent grin, dressed in stained linen clothes along with a pair of leather boots—the only thing of value Vicious owned.
Tatters stared furiously at him. He bared his buck teeth as he spat, “Vicious, you ingrate. Stop sneaking up on me like that!”
Vicious shrugged and smirked, “Did you want to try and peek?” He thumbed at the door. Tatters didn’t trust Vicious or anyone here in The Hole for that matter. Vicious could very well inform their boss that Tatters was looking in places he shouldn't. Their boss hated being seen in his weak, embarrassing moments, and from what Tatter saw, his boss was currently in one
“Come on,” Vicious urged, “The boss is getting dressed down by the big boss. We can use this memory to console ourselves whenever that slimy roach hounds us about work.”
Tatters had to admit it; Vicious had a point. He hated when their boss came down on them and always in a violent fashion as well. Many of his clothes have been torn due to their boss’ raging at their mistakes, and Tatters hated his clothes being messed with.
“Fine,” Tatters agreed, “But keep a look out.” He creeped over to the black door once again and made to open it. Just then he noticed Vicious was no longer with him.
Where did he go?
The black door was kicked open, sending Tatters to the floor. A well-dressed short man in black clothes appeared with pockmarks on his cheeks, slicked-back hair, and a wild look in his eyes. It was his boss: Boss Harvul.
Harvul focused in on the dirty peasant he’d knocked over, his visage becoming a veined mask of fury. “Damn you, Tatters. You saw, didn’t you?”
“I w-was…” Tatters stammered, his mind racing to find an excuse.
“He was peeking,” Vicious informed the boss, coming out of the shadows.
Tatters had forgotten that this was why Vicious had such a name. His tricks and his tactics always involved unashamed backstabbing. What made matters worse was Tatters knew that Vicious would later pretend that this never happened. Surprisingly, Vicious was quite likeable and charming outside of betrayal.
Havul picked up Tatters by one of his many collars. Tatters could see his boss wore a ring on every finger today.
This is going to hurt.
After Havul vented his anger on Tatters, he felt immense relief. After being hounded by the big boss, he needed an outlet. Luckily, Tatters showed up on time.
The three of them remained outside the club with Havul sitting on an overturned crate as Tatters and Vicious stood at attention in front of him. “So,” Havul said, taking out a pipe to smoke, “Tell me what you want.”
Vicious gestured to the now bruised up Tatters to allow him to go first. “You go ahead,” Vicious smiled.
Tatters scowled at him, but didn’t keep his boss waiting for long as he said, “I need help getting debt from someone.”
“Why come to me? You should’ve asked the senior members for help,” Havul said, puffing on his pipe.
“I’d be happy to help,” Vicious offered, to which Havul nodded as if that concluded the matter.
“Vicious is too weak,” Tatters denied, prompting a breath of a laugh from their boss. Tatters stole a glance at Vicious, but the other young man only gave him a slight nod, acknowledging that the insult was a good one and well placed being said in front of the boss. Tatters hated that Vicious had charm.
“Tell me who it is,” Havul prompted.
“It’s Red,” Tatters answered.
“Who?”
“Redyl Rombell,” Tatters clarified, but saw Havul unable to recollect. “Varza’s son.”
“Ah,” Havul said, his eyes drifting as he remembered, “She was an annoying one, wasn’t she? Always going on about her son with rocks for brains.”
“She left this world and still owes you money, boss.”
“And the son refuses to pay?”
“He’s become a Hunter.”
Havul quieted and took a moment to puff away at his pipe.
“The Hunter’s Guild is one of the most powerful organizations in the world, filled with heroes in fact,” Vicious commented, “It won’t be easy to squeeze a Hunter for coin.”
“We’re talking about the Hunter’s Guild branch in the Classy Slums,” Tatters argued, “Hardly a place for heroes and also uncared for by the branch guild within the upper districts.” He wanted Red to be punished for hitting him. How dare that hair brained idiot get the better of him?
“You’d take such a risk for a mere what, thirty silver crupels?”
“Sixty,” Tatters corrected.
Havul’s brow furrowed as he asked, “Why in the forsaken realms did we give sixty silver crupels to a woman that lived on the street?”
“She lied to us, boss. Varza promised to work in the brothel after receiving the money. We didn’t know she was sick at the time. She used the money to pay for her gravesite and left the rest for her rotten brained son.”
“Ah,” Havul muttered, “She was quite the looker, wasn’t she? Shame she had that stubborn pride of hers. She could’ve made much more money working in our brothel.” He put away his pipe and got up, “No matter. There’s always a way to get to everyone, even a Hunter a part of the Hunter’s Guild. I’ll take care of this, Tatters.”
Tatters gave a slight bow, a feeling of triumph growing in him. Red would have his comeuppance soon enough.
A slight stirring in the wind swept through the corridor, which was odd since they were inside. The three men turned their heads to see people coming out of the black door.
Tatters recognized the first to come out was the big boss.
He was a man with youth still clinging to his face, with a heavy scar over a brow that slightly skewed one of his eyes, dressed in one of the finest tunics Tatters had ever seen. More people marched out, coming out to stand in two lines while creating a pathway toward the teleportation runes. Tatters was taken aback when he noticed that every major boss in The Hole was present—every boss that was equal to the big boss. These were the men and women in charge of every gang in the city.
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Why are they all here at the White Scale Viper Club? Tatters wondered.
“Lower your head,” Havul grunted.
Tatters quickly lowered his head as the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen walked out of the black door. Tatters couldn’t tell if this person was male or female. With deathly pale skin, this being had eyes that shone similar to the sage symbol lights around them, but somehow brighter. A fine silk hooded cloak was draped over their body, fluttering as they moved with the grace of a majestic beast.
Who is that, Tatters wondered. And why are all the bosses bowing to this person?
The beautiful being stood atop the runes and turned to face the bosses that were still bent at the waist bowing. The bosses spoke in unison, “Thank you for your visit, Grand Starseeker!”
With a flash of light, this “Grand Starseeker” vanished—teleported home to heaven would be Tatters’ guess.
The sun had returned, pushing the moon away to take its place in the sky.
A dwarf on a goat could be seen speeding across plains outside the eastern gate of Soalde, his face panicked, yet focused. A dwarf on a mission—that’s what people would say if they saw this dwarf racing his goat toward whatever demanded him to be in such a hurry for.
“Baaa,” his steed bleated as its rider slapped the reigns like a taskmaster’s whip.
I’m late, Dwindle thought. Hammer and wrench, of all the days to be tardy.
Memories flashed in his mind of the meaningless inventions he’d come up with and the uninspiring forged items no one wanted—his failures and his shame. He couldn’t allow this once-in-a-lifetime investment to end up like the rest of his endeavors.
From afar, he could see that investment kicking a tree like it owed him something. A lanky arm rose to greet him as a young man wearing only a pair of shorts with leather bound arms and legs shouted, “Greetings, Dwindle!”
Dwinde’s hefty goat dug its hooves as the dwarf pulled hard to brake. He suddenly flipped over and landed face first into the dirt.
“Dwindle!” Red sputtered in shock, seeing the dwarf upside down, making him look like a tree stump, especially with how the dwarf was shaped.
Dwindle rolled to his stout feet, his red nose redder with a drop of blood oozing out. “Not to worry, champ,” Dwindle sniffed, “I’m as durable as hammers and anvils.”
Red made a look of astonishment, taking the dwarf’s words to heart, wondering if that made Dwindle invincible.
“I’m sorry,” Dwindle decided to say with a forlorn look.
“Whatever for?” Red asked with his face as blank as ever.
“I was late,” Dwindle said, biting his lip, “I should’ve been up as soon as you were.”
Moving back to hit a tree with kicks, Red laughed, “Why? I’m the one who needs to train. You just need to book the fights and cut sweet deals with the fight promotions.”
Red was speaking in strange ways again. Dwindle disregarded what he couldn’t follow along with.
“I have to be with you every step of the way on this journey,” Dwindle said solemnly.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Red argued, “I've already finished my run.”
Dwindle kept the rest of the promises he was about to make to himself, not wanting to confuse the champ anymore. He inwardly vowed to make sure, through thick and thin, to be next to Red in all that the champ did. This was his once-in-a-lifetime investment. He was not about to mess it up.
“You look stressed, bra,” Red commented in a strange accent, “Hit some weed and chill.”
“I don’t understand, champ,” Dwindle admitted, unable to parse any of the champ’s words to make them make sense.
“Cool it with the labels, dawg. We’re just people.”
“Are you alright, Red?”
“As cool as ice cubes, man. My chakras are aligned and my way of being is synchronized with the flow of the universe.”
Damned healer, Dwindle cursed inwardly. He said there was nothing wrong with Red! In front of him, Red began to dance while kicking. If nothing was wrong, then what do you call this?
“It’s how I get into the groove of things, bra,” Red explained, noticing Dwindle’s bewildered stare. “One with the rhythm and one with the rhyme.”
Since being hit on the back of the head, Red now had three sets of memories in his head.
One was his own, another was the boxer's, and the last was of a person who called himself a Muay Thai fighter or kickboxer. Red realized the extra set of memories after coming out for the day to train. Just like the boxer’s memories, distinguishing between the kickboxer’s needs and wants from his own seemed impossible.
The memories weren’t as compelling as the boxer's and belonged to a more modest and very relaxed person, but in the same way as the boxer's, the new memories still called out to Red to train, this time with as much emphasis on kicks as punches.
This kickboxer was more of an artist in comparison to the boxer, who only wanted to win. The kickboxer in the memories reveled in the art and presentation of fighting rather than the competitive aspect of it. He even created a philosophy comparing life to kickboxing. But even with a carefully thought-out viewpoint towards fighting, to Red’s chagrin, the kickboxer was as dumb as Red and the boxer were when it came to living like a normal person.
Red could only hope for the next blow to his head to trigger memories of a man of numbers or at least someone who could count well to give him the least modicum of intelligence in how to live independently.
“Perhaps we should go visit the healer once again?” Dwindle proposed.
“That guy is too much of a buzz kill,” Red denied, “I’d rather focus on getting something gnarly for my outer shell.” He turned and displayed the bruises covering his hands and feet, the exposed parts unguarded by the leather bindings of his gypsy brawling outfit. “I’m feeling really negative about having to brawl a tree. I need some good equipment—stuff for fight training, man.”
Red waved Dwindle to follow him, and as he walked, spread his arms wide. The sun beamed on him making him feel like a he was receiving a hug from a friend. He soon sat on a short boulder and offered another boulder next to him for his friend to sit on. Dwindle sat, watching Red carefully, unsure if the young man had gone mad. Red then went into detail of what he needed.
With sensible words finally came out of Red, Dwindle became serious.
Both Red and Dwindle huddled together and started to discuss training. Red relayed all that he had seen in the foreign and strange memories of both fighters to his dwarf companion, who in turn wrote down points here and there what he felt needed to be recorded.
Red wanted a heavy bag, dumbbells, a jump rope, a heavy mace and other things that Dwindle did not know of nor could fathom what such items would be used for.
In their world, everyone used either weapons or magic.
Few people would solely fight with their fists and legs. For training, physical combatants would train on wooden dummies, spar with one another and occasionally play tactical games to improve thinking and improve fighting strategy. Those who approached fighting from a magical perspective would improve themselves through research and magic-related experimentation.
But regardless of Dwindle’s ignorance to what Red described, the dwarf made a concerted effort in trying to come up with ways to get what the champ needed.
A week passed by.
One afternoon, a hefty looking goat could be seen using every fiber of its body to pull along a wagon that left heavy indent marks on the ground in its wake. At that time, Red was in a tree, sitting on a tree limb in what his memories called a lotus position while meditating, absorbing mana into his body. One of his eyes popped open at the sound of heavy bleating of an exhausted and struggling goat.
Dwindle, Red thought happily, always in a good mood to see his dwarf manager. The dwarf was the source of all food and owned the nice place he got to sleep in. It was always a sunny day with Dwindle, no matter the weather.
This time around, Dwindle came bearing gifts and excitement grew on Red’s young face.
“I did my best, champ,” Dwindle said, hopping off a goat that lied down as soon as it was allowed to stop.
A small dwarven hand gripped onto the dusty mat covering the wagon and pulled hard.
From within the wagon, different kinds of metal and bulky cloth could be seen. Dwindle pointed at the heavily stuffed cloth, presenting it as a heavy bag. He then hopped over to different kinds of iron bars to point them out as the weights that were asked for. Afterwards, Dwindle took out a rope with handles on each end and presented it as Red’s jump rope.
The only thing that was accurate to Red’s foreign memories was leather boxing gloves.
Every other piece of equipment showed flaws and ineptitude in their design, but Red didn't denounce them quite yet. Instead, he could see new ways to use them, adapt around them, and create whole new methods of working out.
When life gives you lemons, man, Red thought to himself assuredly. Wait, what about lemons? His brain didn’t have an answer. The kickboxer in him left the phrase incomplete, leaving Red wondering what life did with lemons.
Red now had the bare minimum of what he needed to train well. Dwindle shortened his schedule to stick by Red, as he said he would, in order to get the gist of what Red needed to accomplish in every form of training.
In their spare time, Red would talk to Dwindle about why he trained the way he did so that the dwarf could better understand what goals were in mind when using different equipment. Dwindle became astounded at the amount of knowledge Red had in terms of the physical body.
It was almost like the young man was a scholar on the subject.
Every exercise had its purpose. Every part of Red’s body was accounted for with specified workouts. The boxer and kickboxer residing within him were simpletons who possessed cavemen like intelligence, but one thing they both knew completely and without a doubt was how the body physically operated.
Dwindle kept notes about every facet of exercising Red would bring up.
Without notice, a month passed.
Red's body had become chiseled in that time, though he still had the thinness of a slum dweller. One day, Dwindle approached Red with a parchment in his hand. Red looked curiously at the paper, unsure what was written on it since he couldn’t read.
“Immature troll,” Dwindle said, “It’s a quest from the Hunter’s Guild, are you interested?”
Red’s mind became excited as both the boxer and the kickboxer within him started to liven up at the thought of a fight looming near. He thumbed his nose and looked at Dwindle with self-assuredness as he said back to him, “I’m more than interested, I’m ready.”
Dwindle nodded his head appreciatively but warned, “This is another quest that requires a team of Rank 1 Hunters or a few Rank 2’s to be able to accept it, but I managed to push that old curmudgeon, Euness, into giving it to us. But we have to keep in mind that just because we handled the goblin quest with the two of us doesn’t mean it will happen every time. Eventually, a team will be required at some point, champ.”
Red patted Dwindle’s small shoulder and assured, “Put anything in front of us and we’ll knock it down.”
The dwarf nodded again, his spirit flying from Red’s words alone.
He undid a sack attached to his back and brought out from it different kinds of leather armor to show his young companion. Red raised an eyebrow at the strange pieces of hardened leather. Each piece was separated from the others by straps that dangled behind them.
“It’s your armor, champ,” Dwindle announced with pride then humbly continued, “I could only get this quality, sadly, since that human at the blacksmith wouldn’t budge on prices. I don’t see how humans can call this blacksmithing without any shame, but the dwarven shops in this city are even more outrageously priced, so I had to make do. Here, try it on.”
Red donned the armor warily, hesitant to hamper his flexibility with the leather tying him down. As an unarmed fighter, movement would be the difference between losing and winning. If he somehow became stuck in place due to an armor malfunction, he would pay dearly for it.
However, to his surprise, the armor was made to keep his joints free for incredibly high mobility.
Red's helmet was secured by a chin strap, with nothing obstructing his field of vision. His chest armor was the only part of the armor that was attached to the upper torso, which covered his chest, shoulders, and back. The leather armor that covered his abdomen was secured by a thick leather belt.
His shoulders were buried beneath pauldrons that were unconnected to anything but each other. The armor on his arms was made up of different sections that covered different muscles, such as his biceps and forearms, and each section stayed in place no matter how Red moved.
The armor on his hands was loosely linked to his leather armguards but could be adjusted suitably. The leather armor on his shins was linked to the armor on his feet. Except for the leather that covered the tops, his feet underneath were bare. Dwindle was well aware of Red's preference for strolling around in bare feet, so he made certain to advise the blacksmith of this fact.
As a result of his memories of the Kickboxer, who believed in living simply to the point of shunning the idea of footwear, Red had begun to walk around without shoes.
Outside his fingerless leather gloves, Red examined his fists and noticed flat metal plates covering them, the shiny metal reflecting his own curious gaze at him. He noticed that his forehead, knees, elbows, and shins also had the same metal plates. The metal pieces protected and reinforced his main weapons: his limbs.
Dwindle didn't simply bring him run-of-the mill armor. The dwarf brought him armor that was custom-made for Red. Red reflected on the fact that Dwindle had asked to measure his body a few weeks ago.
With tremendous emotion, he turned to face his manager. “You’re the coolest, dude.” Red said it with an accent he'd been using a lot lately.
The dwarf didn’t understand the words but noticed Red’s heartfelt expression but dismissed it nonetheless. He humbly stated that what he had bought for Red wasn't much, but Red couldn't let things go as they were. The young man promised himself that he would repay the dwarf tenfold. He was going to demonstrate to Dwindle how much the armor meant to him.
The only way he could do that was by fighting.