I lay sprawled on the grassy slope, the cool night air seeping into my sweat-soaked clothes. My breaths came in ragged gasps as I surveyed the city sprawled beneath me, a tapestry of twinkling lights and bustling activity. Every muscle screamed in protest, but despite the exhaustion, a surge of exhilaration coursed through me. I was free. I’d survived the spider, the tunnels, and tasted the sweet air of freedom.
Gingerly, I touched the throbbing bite on my leg, wincing at the sharp pain. My character sheet flickered before my eyes, displaying the grim reality of my situation.
"Thanks a lot, Fortuna," I muttered, my tone dripping with sarcasm. "Really appreciate the whole 'spider ambush followed by a delightful stroll through death tunnels' adventure you've thrown my way. And let's not forget this lovely souvenir," I grumbled, poking at the throbbing bite on my leg. "You're just full of surprises, aren't you?"
I imagined the elderly goddess of luck lounging at a bar somewhere, with a pack of Marlboro reds, sipping a cosmopolitan and laughing at my expense. "Oh, Larry," she'd say, her voice dripping with faux sympathy, "it's all part of the grand tapestry of fate, darling. Embrace the chaos, revel in the uncertainty. It's what keeps life interesting, after all."
Larry the Goblin
Level 1
Race: Goblin
Class: None
HP: 3/10 MP: 0/0
Skill Unlocked: Divine Instruction
"With a whopping 3 out of 10 hit points, it's a miracle you're still alive to complain about your circumstances. And look at that, no class. Guess you missed the memo on goblin orientation day. But fear not, Larry, for in the grand scheme of things, you're... well, you're pretty much at the bottom of the totem pole. But hey, every hero has to start somewhere, right? At least you're free from the clutches of that spider and those dank, suffocating tunnels, right? Silver linings and all that. Now, how about we find you some proper sustenance and maybe, just maybe, a smidge of dignity? You still don't have any pants!"
"Alright, alright," I muttered to myself, pushing myself up to a sitting position. "First things first, let's find some pants. Can't exactly blend into society looking like this."
With a grimace, I peeled myself off the ground and began to hobble down the slope, my movements slow and labored. Each step sent a jolt of pain shooting through my injured leg, but I gritted my teeth and soldiered on, determined to find some semblance of normalcy in this chaotic world.
The slope was steep, and my leg throbbed with every step. But the city below beckoned, a promise of refuge and resources. I moved cautiously, slipping and sliding on loose rocks, my heart pounding in my chest. The lights grew brighter, the sounds of the city reaching my ears.
The city’s outskirts came into view, a jumble of ramshackle buildings and narrow alleys. I stumbled upon a small, winding path leading down into the heart of the city. The path was lined with overgrown shrubs and discarded junk, the remnants of previous travelers.
As I made my way down, I encountered a few people on the trail, their faces a mix of curiosity and indifference. Most gave me a wide berth, their eyes lingering on my ragged appearance and the bite wound on my leg. A few muttered to themselves, casting wary glances my way. I kept my head down, my focus on putting one foot in front of the other.
A particularly steep section of the path forced me to slide down on my backside, the rough ground scraping my skin. I landed with a thud, my body protesting the abuse. I groaned, clutching my injured leg. The pain was sharp, a constant reminder of the spider’s venom coursing through my veins. I needed to find a healer, and fast.
The city proper loomed before me, a sprawling mass of buildings and bustling activity. The air was thick with the smells of cooking food, smoke, and the salty tang of the sea. Down by the docks was a hive of activity, sailors and merchants shouting and haggling over goods.
I scanned the city, my eyes falling on a bustling marketplace near the docks. Colorful stalls and tents filled the square, merchants hawking their wares to a throng of eager customers. The tantalizing aroma of street food wafted through the air, making my stomach growl. I had my destination.
The tantalizing aroma of fresh bread led me towards a small, unassuming bakery nestled between two dilapidated buildings. The sign above the door swung gently in the evening breeze, the letters faded but still legible: Lara’s Bakery. I hesitated for a moment, the scents of yeasty dough and warm ovens drawing me in like a moth to a flame.
Pushing open the creaky door, I stepped inside. The interior was a stark contrast to the grimy streets outside. Shelves lined the walls, laden with loaves of bread, pastries, and other baked goods. The air was thick with the comforting scent of baking bread, a welcome change from the rank odors of the city.
Behind the counter stood a plump woman with flour dusting her cheeks, her hands deep in a massive mound of dough. Her eyes crinkled at the corners as she looked up and saw me. She had a kind face, her warmth radiating through her welcoming smile.
“Well, hello there,“ she boomed, her voice surprisingly strong for her build. “New to the city, are we?“
I straightened my posture, trying to project an air of confidence despite my ragged clothes and rumbling stomach. “Something like that,“ I replied, my voice a touch hoarse. “Looking for some honest work, if there’s any to be had.“
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Lara’s smile widened, her eyes twinkling with a mix of amusement and curiosity. “Honest work, you say? That’s a rare commodity these days, especially for a young fellow like yourself.“ Her gaze swept over me, taking in my slight build and nimble fingers.
“I’m quick on my feet, and I can learn fast. Maybe some errands or deliveries?“
Lara chuckled, a warm sound that filled the small bakery. “Errands, eh? You might be better suited for a more... organized establishment. Down by the docks, you’ll find the Dockworker’s Union Hall. They’re always looking for a sharp lad to help out with odd jobs and keep things running smoothly.“
Intrigued, I raised an eyebrow. “Union Hall, you say? Sounds interesting. Can you tell me how to get there from here?“
Lara nodded, her flour-covered hands deftly shaping the dough as she spoke. “Of course, dearie. It’s not too far from here, just a short walk down by the docks. Head straight down this street,” she pointed towards the door, “and keep going until you reach the waterfront. You can’t miss it, big building, hard to miss.”
Lara winked, her flour-dusted hand patting the dough with practiced ease. “Tell them Lara sent you. They might just have something for a clever goblin with a willingness to work.“
I thanked her, my heart lighter than it had been in days. Before I left, Lara reached under the counter and handed me a small, warm loaf of bread. “For the road,” she said with a kind smile. “Consider it a welcoming gift.”
The bread was a small miracle in itself. As I stepped back into the chaotic streets of Bilgewater, I tore off a piece and savored the warmth and softness. It was the first decent meal I’d had in what felt like an eternity. With renewed energy, I made my way towards the docks, Lara’s words echoing in my mind.
As I savored the taste of Lara’s bread, a notification materialized in my mind, its text shimmering with an otherworldly glow:
Divine Endurance of Demeter
Upon consuming Lara’s bread, you have been bestowed the Divine Endurance of Demeter, the goddess of the harvest and sustenance. For the next 24 hours, your stamina receives a boon.
A sense of gratitude washed over me as I read the notification. It seemed that not only had Lara’s bread filled my stomach, but it had also brought forth the blessing of Demeter.
The slums of Bilgewater were a far cry from the bustling market I had seen from above. Here, the streets were narrow and winding, the buildings leaning precariously against each other. The stench of rotting refuse and unwashed bodies clung to the air, making my stomach churn.
As I navigated through the maze of alleys, I saw a group of children playing a game with a worn-out ball, their laughter ringing out in stark contrast to the grim surroundings. One of them, a girl with tangled hair and dirt-smudged cheeks, noticed me and nudged her friends. They stared at me with wide eyes, whispering among themselves.
“Hey, you lost?” one of the boys called out, his tone a mix of curiosity and mockery.
“Just passing through,” I replied, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Better watch yourself,” another chimed in. “This ain’t a place for strangers.”
I nodded, not wanting to attract any more attention. I continued down the alley, the children’s laughter fading behind me. My goal was clear: find food, find a healer, and find shelter.
I navigated the throng with the skittishness of a hunted rat, my senses on high alert. A hulking brute with a shaved head and a missing ear leered at me, his scarred hand resting suggestively on the hilt of a wicked-looking dagger strapped to his thigh. My heart hammered in my chest as I quickened my pace, desperately trying to avoid his gaze.
Following Lara’s cryptic instructions, I found myself before a building that could only be described as a monument to disrepair. The crooked sign creaked ominously in the damp night breeze, proclaiming the establishment to be “The Dockworkers Union.” Flakes of peeling paint revealed rusted iron beneath, and a single, flickering lantern cast an eerie glow over the grime-encrusted entrance.
Steeling myself, I pushed open the heavy, warped door. The stench of stale ale and something decidedly more unpleasant assaulted me. The interior was a cavernous space, dimly lit by strategically placed oil lamps that cast long, menacing shadows. Smoke hung thick in the air, obscuring the faces of the patrons huddled around rough-hewn wooden tables. The sound of raucous laughter, drunken brawls, and the rhythmic clinking of coins filled the room.
As I stepped into the dimly lit interior of the Dockworkers Union, the atmosphere was heavy with the scent of stale ale and sweat. The air was thick with smoke, making it difficult to see more than a few feet ahead. I could hear the clinking of tankards and the low murmur of conversation, punctuated by bursts of raucous laughter.
I made my way cautiously through the crowded room, my eyes scanning the faces of the rough-looking patrons. Many of them were sailors, their weathered faces marked by years spent at sea. Others were dockworkers, their muscles bulging beneath their threadbare clothing. They all seemed to exude an air of toughness, as if they had seen their fair share of hardships. As I weaved through the rugged crowd, I couldn't shake the feeling of being out of place.
I approached the bar, where a burly man with arms like tree trunks was busy polishing a tankard. His grizzled appearance suggested a lifetime spent at sea, and his steely gaze bore into me as I drew near.
The man eyed me suspiciously, his gaze lingering on my ragged clothes and weary demeanor. I squared my shoulders, trying to appear more confident than I felt.
"What can I do for ya, lad?" he grunted, his voice rough like sandpaper.
"I'm looking for work," I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. "Lara from the bakery sent me. Said you might have something for me."
The man's expression softened slightly at the mention of Lara's name, a flicker of recognition crossing his weathered features.
"Lara, eh? Good woman, that one," he mused, nodding to himself. "Well, if she sent ya, you can't be all bad. We're always in need of an extra pair of hands around here. You any good with a mop?"
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. It wasn't exactly the glamorous job I had in mind, but beggars couldn't be choosers.
"I can handle a mop," I replied, forcing a smile. "What do you need me to do?"
The man grunted in approval, gesturing towards a bucket and mop in the corner of the room.
"Start with the floors. They could use a good scrubbing," he said, his tone gruff but not unkind. "And if you do a decent job, maybe we'll find something else for ya."
With a nod, I grabbed the mop and bucket, steeling myself for the unpleasant task ahead. As I set to work, the sounds of the bustling tavern faded into the background, replaced by the rhythmic swish of the mop and the distant clink of tankards. Despite the monotony of the task, I felt a sense of satisfaction wash over me as I worked. It wasn't much, but it was a start. And in a world as unforgiving as this one, sometimes a start was all you needed.
As I scrubbed the grimy floors of the Dockworkers Union hall, my mind wandered, reflecting on the twists of fate that had brought me to this moment. The rhythmic motion of the mop became almost meditative, soothing the ache in my muscles and easing the gnawing worry in my mind. In the dimly lit tavern, the patrons carried on with their revelry, oblivious to the struggles of a lone goblin trying to make his way in the world.