The carriage trundled along the dirt path, its wheels kicking up small clouds of dust as it made its way through the snow-filled countryside. The fields on either side looked bleak with rows of onions and garlic planted under a white sheet. In the distance, the imposing silhouette of the Manor loomed, its stone tower piercing the sky. The carriage was due to arrive at the western entrance through the palisade soon. Finally.

Seated inside the wagon were two figures: the Jester, a figure draped in a patchwork of colourful red fabrics, and Herzog, a middle-aged man dressed in a handcrafted grey doublet reminiscent of a modern suit. The Jester’s mask bore strange carvings like scars crossing the slits his eyes looked through, distracting onlookers from looking directly through the eye holes. Its white surface glinted in the sunlight, while Herzog’s stern monocle-wearing face remained fixed on the horizon. As was always the case with the German sitting across from the Jester, the conversation was serious and “professional”. How boring.

“There are reports that the respawn rates of the mobs have been increasing in the Canyon,” Herzog said, his voice tinged with concern. “That’s going to be a problem.”

“Why? The city guards are overlevelled. They pose no threat to the capital,” the Jester said.

“It’s not about them being a danger. Think about the guards that have to fight more and more of them. Who’s going to pay for their potions? This is a disaster for our state budget.”

The Jester rocked his head back. In the last couple of days of their travel, they had discussed so many different “disasters” the kingdom faced that he already dreaded their return to the capital. He is the Minister of Commerce after all.

“And I don’t want to deal with that Australian more than I have to,” Herzog continued. “He’s a cutthroat.”

“He’s an Assassin, Milord” the Jester snickered.

But Herzog didn’t react at all. He wasn’t in the mood for jokes. How boring.

“Why don’t you power-level slaves to help the guards out? Like that squire in the Goblin King’s Plains does?” the Jester proposed. “They don’t need a salary, only food and water.”

“What are you? Crazy? You want an NPC militia right in the capital?” Herzog answered with the same monotonous voice. “You know, for a jester, your jokes are bad.”

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“So I’ve been told.”

Gods, live a little.

As they approached a group of farmers toiling under the sun, the Jester raised a hand in greeting. “Ho there, good folk! Might we trouble you for some directions to the Manor?”

The farmers exchanged glances before one of them recognised the symbol of Carnifex’s High Council on the wagon’s door. They paused their work to bow and a burly man with a weathered face stepped forward.

image [https://i.imgur.com/7pzI2JC.jpeg]

“That’d be the overseer Clif, Milords” the man muttered, pointing at a cottage further down the road.

“Much obliged,” the Jester replied, tipping an imaginary hat.

As the carriage continued, Herzog turned to the Jester. “It doesn’t make sense to exchange pleasantries with the bots.”

“It’s a game, have a little fun, you robot,” the Jester teased.

The carriage stopped at the cottage where a thin man with short-cropped, brown hair examined a rusty hoe with one hand while scratching his chin with the other. He looked back and forth between the farming tool and the inside of the cottage with a concerned look.

“What seems to be the problem, mister?” the Jester asked, as he leaned through the wagon’s door window.

“Well, traveller, obviously I’m concerned that my wife is sharing the bed with another man,” the man without a ring on his fingers sarcastically replied.

Finally, someone with wit!

“Then maybe it’s time to exchange her for a new one!” the Jester humorously suggested.

“I’d love to, if the Baron didn’t keep all the fair maidens all to himself,” the man said. “More power to him. The winter nights are cold.”

Herzog cut into the conversation. “Enough!”

That man is a walking buzzkill.

The man wiped his brow and approached the carriage. “Afternoon, Milords. What brings you to the Baron’s western farmlands?”

Herzog leaned forward, his voice a gravelly rumble. “Official state business.”

“And how can Miriad Clif help you with that?”

“We usually come from the north,” the Jester answered. “The last time we came through here, our driver got lost and we arrived at the mansion when dinner was already cold.”

“That’s a shame,” Miriad said.

“Yes, and it would be a waste to have to replace the driver again,” the Jester said, placing the back of his hand on his forehead with a dramatic gesture. “Especially if you consider the state’s budget right now.”

Clif’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Tell us the shortest and correct path to take,” Herzog demanded.

The overseer nodded. "Aye, follow the road till you reach the first crossroads and take the second path from the left. At the next fork, it’s the road to the right. The road will take a left curve back to the mansion eventually and it’s straight ahead until you see the palisades.”

“You got all that?” the Jester asked the carriage driver up front.

“Yes, Milord,” he responded.

“All right then, goodbye,” the Jester said in a sing-song, as the carriage started moving again.

Miriad carefully waved at them. “Safe travels.”

“What an annoying NPC. How come an idiot like that becomes a supervisor? Is Lucio running out of slaves?” Herzog commented.

“I believe he was quite charming,” the Jester retorted.

Although it was strange that the name on his [Status] read Montgomery Cliffe.