The shoeshine's money-grubbing tactics aside, his detailed directions led Sigurd to the aforementioned destination: a lone bakery smack-dab in the middle of the dilapidated boroughs, a couple of blocks north of the main square.
Devoid of any patrons outside, the interior wasn't in a better state. The air was heavy with the smell of cigarette smoke, piss, and alcohol from the drunks that lay strewn across the tables, and a general sense of foreboding. Only three of the patrons were eating any sort of baked good, and even then they were so quiet the place might as well have been more dead than alive.
The paint on the walls was peeling, the colors washed out, and the dreary atmosphere made it seem as if someone had sucked the life out of the building. It being a bakery was the last thing that came to Sigurd's mind.
He wasted no time upon stepping inside; walking past the tables and the “patrons", Sigurd made his way to the back. Excusing himself as he opened the door, Sigurd encountered a young boy.
“Huh? Who are you, mister?” the boy asked, turning away from his activity. His apathetic expression and lifeless eyes belied his fragile state. “You're not supposed to be back here.”
“I don't know how best to explain it, but," Sigurd knelt down and assumed an assuring tone. “I’m an adventurer. I heard you're in trouble and I'm here to help.”
“Aw, thanks mister, but we don't really need help making bread," the boy replied, turning away to keep kneading a ball of dough. “Me and Mom can handle it all fine.”
“That's not what I meant, though," Sigurd reached out a hand. “You're in trouble with some bad people, right?”
The boy froze and stared at Sigurd, his eyes turning glassy and his breathing shallow. He backed away, trembling. “Who are you? How did you find out about us? Are we in more trouble?" he stammered.
Sigurd smiled radiantly and nodded, “I'd be apprehensive too if I were you. I'm not with them, and you're not in trouble. My name is Sigurd, and I genuinely want to help.”
Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.
“How do I know I can trust you?” the boy shut his eyes. “We've been lied to before!”
“That's an understandable concern," Sigurd said, pulling out his adventurer's ID. On it, his name and rank were displayed. “Here, see?”
The boy took the ID and scanned it over a few times. Just then–from beyond an ajar door leading to a different room–a soft-spoken, soothing voice was heard.
“Jerry, honey, what's wrong? Why are you shouting? Is it Mr. Crook again?”
“It's not that, Mom!" the boy replied, running to the door, Sigurd's ID in hand. “I'll be right back, mister, I'll check this with Mom.”
He went through the door, leaving Sigurd alone in the stillness of that backroom.
Sigurd stood upright and walked toward the table. Passing his finger along the flour-stained, wooden tabletop, he proceeded to take a whiff of it. The entrancing smell of the makings of bread brought back good memories and made his stomach growl.
For the time being, he had to push those thoughts elsewhere. First and foremost, he needed to clear the obstacle in front of him. A few minutes later, the boy returned and handed Sigurd his ID.
“Mom was hesitant, but, after seeing your ID, thinks you're legit," he told the baron.
“Good. And I promise I'll help, today, right now," Sigurd answered with another reassuring grin. “But, to do that, I need to know exactly what's going on.”
The boy went on to expose his family's plight, of how a sinister crime syndicate had ensnared them in a web of debt and fear. It all started when their bakery struggled with constantly decreasing sales and clientele. To make matters worse, and in a moment of despair—fueled by his natural desire to provide for his own—the boy's father took out a loan with the syndicate.
They were the only ones in town who could offer such aid amid the rapidly deteriorating town. The father somewhat managed to keep them afloat, despite the interest rates soaring month after month. Then things worsened. In a tragic twist, the boy's father passed away; it was an untimely accident that left his wife widowed, his son without a dad, and their family vulnerable and alone in the face of the syndicate's wrath.
The relentless pressure, harassment, and intimidation had driven the family to the brink, even after they had scrounged all their savings together and repaid their dues. Still, the syndicate wanted more and more, thus the family was hounded daily.
Such was their plight that they lived in fear every day of their lives, of violence, beatings, or worse. The town guard was useless to help in the face of such deep criminal activity, and Sigurd was the first adventurer to offer actual help.
Before him, only scam artists had approached them. When Sigurd heard that, he empathized even more with the boy's distrust of everyone around him.
‘So, the syndicate is nothing more than a bunch of shitty loan sharks, eh?' he thought, summarizing in his head.
“And I heard your mom call you Jerry, is that your name?” Sigurd asked, after hearing his tale.
The boy nodded.
“Nice to meet you," he smiled at Jerry, who smiled weakly back. “Now that I understand what's happening, I know what to do. And for it, I'll need your help with two things.”
“Mine?" Jerry's voice was tinged with fear.
Sigurd calmed him down, “It's nothing dangerous, I promise. The first thing: I want you to lead me to where those bad guys are, to where they ask you to deliver payments.”
“And the other thing?" the boy followed up as he walked with Sigurd across the bakery and out the door.
“I'll tell you that when we get there!”