“Did you hunt all these by yourself?” Iris exclaimed in surprise as Exill carefully lowered the wings and chitin balls onto the counter.
“Yep.”
Her kind grey eyes clouded over in concern as she absorbed the state of his wounds. “Why did you go alone? Will blessed that you even made it back alive! It’s only been… three hours since you signed up?” she held his hand, inspecting him closely as she continued. “Please come here before you do anything reckless again, I’ll introduce you to some good people.”
Exill was strangely touched by Iris’s expression of genuine concern. He had been attacked, swindled, and exploited so many times he had nearly lost faith in humanity. She stared at him with furrowed eyes, waiting for his promise to not do anything reckless again.
He nodded.
Only then did her smile return, and she quickly started processing the goods on the counter. “That comes out to… 17 Denars” she placed one large copper coin, and seven smaller pieces onto his outstretched palm, and squeezed his closed fist with both hands. “Remember… rest first and drop by before heading out to the labyrinth again.”
Exill nodded, avoiding her eyes. If he hadn’t lost so much blood earlier, he would be blushing from embarrassment. Apparently some of his emotions must have seeped through because as he turned around, Mercs were staring at him, many with knowing smirks adorning their lips.
To them, Iris was the heart and soul of the guild. She was the one who had strongly championed the Field Guide’s adoption, hoping to save just one more soul from a cruel premature death.
Membership had fallen slightly but the numbers didn’t lie, more Mercs were surviving beyond the six-month mark. The veterans of the guild had become accustomed to seeing men, both young and old, fall head over heels for her. It certainly was a strange predicament. These were hard men, doing a hard job. Yet they became weak and malleable under the woman’s grey gentle eyes.
Exill avoided their gaze and limped past a grizzled man who was making kissing noises at him. There were always some immature people like that, those who took perverse pleasure in ribbing the new recruits.
Quickly, he stepped out into the busy street, face heated in embarrassment. The pain in his leg had subsided to a more manageable dull throb. It was time to rest, and he limped in the direction of the inn, taking a slight detour to visit one of Inner City’s famed night markets. It was too early in the day for the market to be in full swing, but he was in luck.
Out of the dozen or so shuttered stalls in this corner of the plaza, two remained open, and the appetising smell of grilled meat wafted in the gentle breeze. He grabbed a charred skewer of mystery meat and paid the Vendor two small copper coins, voraciously biting into it. It was the first morsel of meat he had tasted since coming to this world and the heavily seasoned, dubiously sourced grill melted in his mouth.
The Vendor’s sweaty face opened into a wide grin, revealing many missing teeth. “Very tasty? Have two more, only three Denar!”
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Exill had to literally tear himself away from the sweet temptation of the Vendor’s offer and struggled his way to the inn. Regret was eating him up. ‘When I get rich, I’m going to eat all the mystery meat!’
***
The innkeeper placed a large steaming bowl in front of Exill and pocketed three small copper coins. The bowl held a generous portion of clear white broth, a glimmer of gelatine shimmering on the surface. There were chunks of potatoes and even carrots in the soup. He devoured it, too hungry to really taste and enjoy the rich deep flavour.
He flipped through his pocket guide and found an illustration depicting a snub-nosed lizard with a tail as long as its body. What he had just enjoyed was the ‘Wheyr Tail Soup’. Apparently the tail does not have much meat and was sold cheap on the market. It is repeatedly boiled in a large cauldron until the bones literally disintegrate, resulting in a white broth rich in calcium and fatty gelatine.
Exill smacked his lips. He hoped to encounter some of them in the labyrinth.
“Can I get some hot water please?”
The innkeeper nodded and poured fresh water into a second cauldron over the fire. This was decanted to a small washbasin as the water began to slowly steam. Exill carefully took the washbasin upstairs, struggling to turn the key with one hand, and entered his shared room for the very first time.
It was a small room furnished with two beds against opposing walls. A thin sheet of see-through fabric resembling a curtain hung from the ceiling, dividing the space and offering a modicum of privacy. Both beds were messy, and the pillows had a faint lustre from all the hair grease it had accumulated over its lifetime.
Exill sniffed, It was still better than the camp barracks. He chose a random bed and quickly undressed, then used a wet towel to wipe himself down. Peeling away the linen on his wounded thigh, he sighed, grateful it had stopped bleeding. He carefully cleaned around the edges and opened Verill’s pot and was greeted with the familiar smelly red paste.
He remembered the rugged face of the Ranger, his brows furrowed in a perpetual frown. The last time he had heard from Verill was a month ago, where Exill wrote of his intention to join Mercenaries Guild, and to seek him out there.
Exill reminisced fondly, and with a hint of worry as he finished treating his wound. ‘Big guy must be safe right?’ He tentatively took out and reread the letters Verill had sent, which were written on scrap cloth and difficult to read. Sighing softly, he folded them away, then began to inspect the damaged scrap leather armour.
Exill’s pinkie barely fit through the hole in the thigh plate. He unfortunately didn’t have the tools or materials to patch it, so it would have to stay.
‘What is the likelihood I would be pierced in the same place?’ he thought, before dismissing it as tempting fate. Packing all his belongings away, he was about to fall asleep when a hairy beast of a man, with greasy black locks stumbled into the room reeking of cheap booze.
“You’ze in my bed.” He slurred.
Exill stared at the hulking brute for a moment in shock, then limped over to the other bed, sliding his rucksack to the other side with his good foot.
“Good boooy.” The Merc drunkenly stumbled towards his bed, stepping on Exill’s bag and slipped, flinging it against the wall while the Merc’s head hit the edge of the bed frame.
“Bloooody… cheese” He slurred before falling asleep on the floor, the small room reverberating from his baritone snores. There was a shallow gash on the Merc’s forehead, and it bled profusely.
‘I hope he dies. Then at least I might get some sleep.’
The discordant thought jolted Exill awake. It was the first time he had callously wished someone dead, simply for his convenience. Groaning inwardly, he painfully sat back up and sprinkled what was left of his coagulant powder on the Merc’s forehead.
The cruel world had nearly worn him down in its Sisyphean embrace. He lay back, wide awake and deep in thought. ‘Would I even recognise myself in another six months?’ he wondered glumly, thinking of an alternate timeline where he had allowed the Merc to bleed out.