Chapter 54

James

Day 45, Day 5 on the Road

Kronfeldt

A pit of despair was welling up inside me. I saw Orion’s burger stand, bustling with ravenous customers. Sophie already had the rich folk of this town eating out of her hands. Compared to them, I felt like nothing more than a glorified translator. I needed an idea, a get-rich-quick scheme. I needed money. I wanted to return to Thornhill in silks, with a cellar full of vintages, and maybe even make an unaccompanied visit to the bordello... though I should probably keep that last part to myself.

My time in town had been productive, though. I was already level 6 in my Diplomat class and probably 90% fluent in Lokan.

The docks were bustling with life. While miners loaded cargo holds, sailors were readying ships to transport ingots across the lake to trade caravans. But there wasn’t much money to be made as a sailor or miner. I wandered to a nearby dockside tavern, a place catered to sailors and hardy miners. Most of the miners were rodent-men—moles and rats—while the sailors were mostly otters and weasel-faced men, with the occasional frog in the mix. I ordered a pint at the bar.

I paid a Third for a mug of their local ale and found it... unpleasant. Even though I’d been craving a beer, this was swill. I'd always thought it was better to go without than to fill your body with garbage. Now, that burger Orion served me earlier was excellent. Just thinking about it made my mouth water, which I wiped away with another sip of the beer. I winced as it washed away the magical grease left over from my morning meal.

“Bit too strong for you, huh? Pufftail?” the bartender, a boar, asked with a wink.

He called me "pufftail" because I was currently disguised as a rabbit. I couldn’t change my fur to white like I wanted, so it matched my human hair—brown. Looking in a mirror, I resembled a rabbit caricature of myself, like something a roadside cartoonist would draw.

“I’m looking for work,” I said, trying to keep my tone casual. “Anywhere a gent can make good coin, barkeep?”

“That’s the question everyone wants to know, mate—me included!” the boar laughed. “What’s your name, stranger? Don’t reckon I’ve seen you around before.”

“James,” I replied, a bit too proudly, if I’m honest.

“Odd name. I’m Rocksnout,” he replied, rubbing his curly chin hairs. “I can’t pay you much, but you could wash the floors for a Third.”

A single Third?! To wash floors? Yeah, I’m sure I’ll jump right on that

“Psst... I heard Hadrelian’s recruiting some... less-than-reputable men,” the weasel-faced sailor beside me murmured. “For some... less-than-reputable work, if you catch my drift. Some good coin in it for men with the stomach for it.”

Normally, folks don’t go spilling shady opportunities to strangers, but my Espionage skills and Diplomat class were working behind the scenes, loosening lips without me even needing to try.

“I’d prefer something a bit more... above board,” I said, taking another sip of my swill.

“If you’ve got some coin, you could flip slaves,” the bartender chimed in, polishing that same ancient glass. “One of the merc companies caught a group of slavers heading north with their ‘inventory.’ They’re holding the slavers’ goods for auction over at the Mercenary Guild Halls.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Flip slaves?” I asked, my curiosity piqued. My stomach churned at the thought, but I kept my face steady.

"Sell 'em to a slaver past the border," the boar said casually, still wiping the bar with that tattered rag. "Auriel pays a good sum for slaves, especially ones with classes."

I blinked, trying to wrap my head around it. "Wait... let me get this straight. It’s illegal to enslave people, but not illegal to sell slaves?"

"Aye, that’s right." He gave a toothy grin. "We beastkin have no fear of being arrested for owning or selling slaves. Only the Eldrins do."

I could feel my brow furrow. "You’re not from around here, are you? One of the off-islanders?" the boar asked, looking me over like I was a particularly odd specimen.

"Yeah," I said hesitantly, weighing my words. "I’m from a distant village on an island called... New York."

The boar grunted, clearly having never heard of it, and probably didn’t care. "But why are only the Eldrins arrested for enslaving people?"

"Eldrins have the Masters—the classes that can tether people," he explained, the casual tone making it all the more unsettling. "Only they can do it, using void magic. Nasty stuff, that. Best stay clear of 'em unless you fancy waking up with a collar around your neck."

I couldn’t tell if that was a joke or a warning, but either way, I filed it under ‘reasons not to get too comfortable here.’

“Why don’t they free the slaves?” I asked.

“They can’t. Only a Master can free a slave. Once the collar’s on, you’re a slave for life. So it goes. Best pray you get a decent owner,” he muttered, then went off to serve another customer.

“Aye, I’ve got a plan for ya. If you know how to spin a tale,” the weasel beside me burped, “you could make a pretty penny at Celebration Road, collecting tips.”

Now that was an idea. I knew plenty of stories. Earth stories. I could plagiarize a whole library of authors. I’d be this world’s Homer—the poet, not the drunk dad, I thought as I grimaced through another sip of beer.

I left a Third on the bar and headed for Celebration Road. Yesterday, I noticed the road was full of performers—two-man shows, solo jugglers, duets of musicians. Sometimes, even a full band.

Could I pull off a monologue? Wouldn’t that be a bit... dull?

Not to brag, but I’d done my fair share of small theater productions, even some Shakespeare. The problem was, that I couldn’t remember the monologues in their entirety. And let me tell you, translating Shakespeare into another language strips away a lot of the nuance—the puns, the wordplay. Still, the stories themselves are timeless.

At this hour, there weren’t many entertainers out yet. The streets were mostly filled with a few lucky kids, spared from working in the mines or other jobs. Some lute players were busking with dreamy notes, and a puppet show was captivating kittens and rat pups.

What struck me was the puppet master himself—he looked human, but not quite. Long, pointed ears, eyes spaced too far apart, marble-like skin. His weary, timeless eyes and long gray beard suggested his age.

I tried to hide my surprise as he pulled out a card. With a flick of the card, the stage lit up, and the puppets began moving on their own.

It hit me—I hadn’t seen anyone besides the people from Thornhill using card abilities except for exchanging Contracts or Deeds. That vampire-elf hybrid who came to our beaches did, though. That memory stirred up shame and a touch of PTSD.

But this puppet master looked far more human than that pirate. His eyes were kind, though weary. The children, however, seemed bored by the show—a tale about a cat and a mouse.

“Where’s the cheese, Mr. Whiskers?” Scrabby asked, his puppet strings jerking like he was shrugging.

“Under the bed, Scrabby,” the cat said.

As Scrabby crawled under the bed, the cat quickly pulled out a piece of cheese, chomped it down, and just as Scrabby peeked back, it shoved it behind its back again.

“Not there, not there. Now, where did you hide the cheese, Mr. Whiskers?”

“In the closet, Scrabby!” the cat replied.

Scrabby darted for the closet. As soon as he was out of sight, the cat took another bite, smugly slipping the cheese behind itself once more.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

“Strings, this is boring,” complained a kitten near the front, her tiny paws crossed in a pout. “You’ve told us this story already.”

A few of the others began to murmur, nodding in agreement. “Yeah, tell us something new, Strings!” a rat pup chimed in, tail flicking impatiently as he fidgeted in his seat.

The puppet master sighed softly, stepping out from behind the stage. His eyes drifted over the expectant faces of the children, who now looked more restless than entertained. “Children… how about Mr. Whiskers and Scrabby go to the beach?”

“That’s boring! We’ve heard this one before!” the kitten huffed, rolling her eyes like the whole affair was beneath her.

“Tell us about a hero!” someone else shouted from the crowd.

“Mr. Whiskers and Scrabby go to war!” suggested a rowdy rat pup, punching the air as if already locked in some epic battle.

Strings' lips twitched into a weak smile. “War, huh? What if they worked on a farm instead?” he offered hopefully.

The reaction was instant—collective groans echoed through the group. “We don’t want a story about farmers! We want stories about kings and princesses!”

“Yeah! Tell us about Queen Seraphina and her adventures in the dungeon!” another child chimed in, eyes alight with excitement.

“Or an adventure story!” a voice from the back added with urgency.

“Tell us about the battle between Aurelian and Seraphina!” a boy shouted, practically vibrating with anticipation.

Strings threw his hands up in surrender. “Kids... please... I don’t know any stories like that,” he admitted, his tone tinged with exhaustion. Keeping up with this lot was like trying to herd cats—no pun intended.

Just then, a kitten near the back sprang to her feet, her tail flicking with excitement. “Oy! I heard Limmy’s holding a frog-catching competition down by the pier!”

That caught their attention. The children jumped up all at once, abandoning the puppet show in an instant.

Last one there’s a rotten frog egg!” the rat pup yelled, bolting for the door as the rest of the kids followed in a chaotic stampede.

Strings stood there, blinking as the last of the children vanished, leaving the square eerily empty. The lively chaos drained away, and in its place was the unsettling quiet of a space once filled with laughter. He looked down at his puppets, shoulders slumping slightly, while the echo of their little feet faded into the distance. His collection bowl? Still depressingly empty.

“Tough crowd,” I remarked, stepping closer with a half-smile, trying to break the awkward silence. “Name’s James, by the way. I’m a bit of an admirer.”

Strings glanced over at me, offering a tired smile in return. “Sometimes I wonder why the Dealer gave me this class,” he muttered, his voice low with defeat. “I’m Strings... thanks for saying so.”

I watched as he folded up his stage, each wooden panel collapsing like some sort of pop-up book returning to its original form. It was mesmerizing in a way—how something so intricate could be packed away in a matter of moments.

After a brief pause, I broke the silence again. “Have you been a storyteller your whole life?”

Strings paused, looking over his shoulder as if weighing how much to share. “I just... enjoy making puppets,” he said softly, returning to his task. “Puppets are empty shells. They can be whatever you want them to be.”

I nodded and stepped forward to help, grabbing one end of the stage as Strings hefted it into a small, rickety wagon that groaned under the weight. The thing looked like it might collapse any second, but it held—for now.

“You mind if I... help you tell some stories?” I offered, trying to sound casual but hopeful. “I’m from a place that's full of great tales—ones that are popular with kids and grown-ups alike.”

Strings gave me a sideways glance, his eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to gauge whether I was serious or just humoring him. He sighed, the kind of deep, weary sigh that comes from someone who’s used to disappointment. "I can’t pay you much,” he admitted, shaking his head. “I barely make a living as it is."

I shrugged. “Wasn’t looking for money. Just think it might be fun—maybe even help you pull in a bigger crowd.”

With a resigned nod, Strings led me through the quieter, more run-down part of town. The cobblestone streets grew rougher, and the smell of sewage hung thick in the air, making my stomach churn. We passed a tannery, the acrid stench of chemicals blending with the scent of blood from the butcher’s shop next door.

When we finally arrived at a narrow building sandwiched between the tannery and the butcher’s shop, Strings pushed open the door. The inside was dim and cramped, with shelves lining every wall, all filled with puppets in various stages of completion. Their lifeless eyes seemed to follow us as we walked in.

I hesitated for a moment, half expecting one puppet to move on its own. Strings, however, seemed unfazed. He moved around with a familiar routine, opening a small window near a stove to let in some light. “Make yourself at home,” he said, glancing at me. “Care for some water? I don’t have much else to offer.”

I glanced around, still feeling like I had just stepped into a scene from a horror movie, but the light streaming in helped ease the tension. I smiled and nodded. “Water’s fine.”

As Strings began putting his puppets away, I helped where I could, finding empty spaces on the shelves.

“I’m fine, thanks. About payment... How about a revenue split? I can help tell your stories, and we split the earnings fifty-fifty. Does that sound fair?” I asked, scanning the room to see what puppets we had to work with. There were all kinds: humans, queens, knights, and various animals.

Strings didn’t seem to consider the offer. He pulled out a block of wood and began chiseling it with an obsessive look in his eyes.

"Fifty-fifty, huh? That doesn’t sound quite fair to me—I’m the one making all the puppets and props,” he said, still focused on the wood.

“I can assure you, the stories are captivating. Where I’m from, they sell out seats and books like nobody’s business.”

“If they’re that good, why do you need me?” Strings asked, casting a suspicious glance my way.

“There has to be a visual element. With your puppets and my stories, we’ll be quite the duo, don’t you think?” I said.

Strings put down his chisel and sighed. “Spose I don’t have much choice. Man’s gotta eat. I’m down to my last few Thirds, and if I don’t make something tonight, I’ll be out on the streets.”

“Perfect. I’ll provide the voices and story, and you move the puppets. We’ll make it a show worth remembering,” I said, looking over his collection.

I picked out a pair of lion puppets from the shelf. “Do you have a cliff background anywhere?”

“I could make one,” he said, grabbing a thin piece of wood from his supplies.

A card appeared in his hands, and with a swift motion, he shaped the board into a rough cliffside. It looked decent, but I stepped in to help carve a sharper, jagged peak. It needed that iconic look. Another card appeared, and as if by magic, color washed over the background.

“What level are you, Strings?” I asked, impressed by his abilities.

“That’s a rather rude question.” he let out a small smile, filling in some trees with a brush.

“My apologies. I... I’m a foreigner, unaccustomed to this land.”

“It’s fine, but around the more powerful Holders, I’d watch your tongue. I’m level five if you care to know.”

“That low?” I blurted, regret flooding in instantly.

Strings chuckled softly to himself. “I didn’t get my class until late in life. The levels don’t come as easily when you’re older. You’re the first person I’ve met who’s unimpressed by someone having a class at all. Many people work for years without ever getting one.”

“Oh... sorry.”

“It’s fine. I’m half Chattel,” Strings said. Chattel, is the term for humans in this world. “Even with that, it’s still not guaranteed.”

From his gallery, I selected some hyenas and a boar. I couldn’t find a meerkat, so I swapped it for a weasel.

“Does this look good, James?” Strings asked, showing me the finished landscape. I nodded, pleased.

For the next few hours, we rehearsed. Strings’ deep, coarse voice brought the villains to life, while I voiced the main characters. My female voice could use a bit of work—it was a tad exaggerated for my taste, but oh well.

By midday, we took a break. Strings pulled out a loaf of stale bread, offering me some, but I declined, feeling sorry for taking the old man’s meager sustenance.

Maybe Orion would be willing to give me another burger.

Before I left for the food market, Strings asked, 'Do you have a name for this play?”

“The Lion King,” I said, leaving him to eat his meal.

At the food market, Orion’s food stall was crowded to the brim. Scuffles had erupted throughout the crowd, fueled by growing impatience. The look in some of their eyes was almost zombie-like as they waited for their food.

I figured I’d try a nice curry for a change. What is the point of traveling if you are just going to eat food from home? The seats at the food stall were mysteriously absent, and the vendor, with a straight face, blamed it on customers nicking them for McOrion’s stand down the road.

So, I ended up hunched over at the bar like some sad crow, shoveling down a thick orange gravy with questionable meat and a dark green squash, served in a crusty bread bowl. Cost me a Third, too—a good enough price for a meal you’d probably regret later.

After that, I wandered the city. It was, after all, part of my job to get a handle on the politics of this strange world we’d landed in—both locally and further afield.

I took a left through the heart of the city and found myself in the guild district. Standing in front of one of the Mercenary Guilds was an older bloke, kitted out in leather armor, with a short sword hanging from his hip like an afterthought. His face was that of a cat, scars lined his face, the look of a man who’s seen it all and couldn’t be bothered anymore.

Under a clay tile roof in the yard outside the guild hall, bars enclosed a small picnic area with stone tables and stone stools where three people sat, a mix of boredom and lethargy on their faces.

They wore silver collars around their necks that didn’t fully close. Instead, a blue light bridged the gap between two metal spheres, forming an open space near the throat, like the arc of a lightning bolt suspended between two conductors. More concerning was that they weren’t beastkin at all—they were humans. Or, as they were called in the wider world... Chattel.