After they deposited their funds, Francis snagged every available quest that looked interesting. He paid particular attention to anything near the Dark Forest. Getting paid to do his own pest control was too good to pass up.
Francis was getting a basic understanding of the local currency. There were one hundred coppers to a silver. One hundred and fifty silvers to a gold. A silver could cover the cost of a cheap meal or two beers. So he figured a silver was worth about ten dollars.
By his estimation that meant a gold was equivalent to $1,500, give or take. Adventuring paid big bucks. High end mercenary work usually did.
He knew plenty of guys who went to the private sector when they got out. Their companies always had names like Defensive Dynamics, or Kinetic Solutions. (Which Francis had to admit sounded pretty cool.)
Each of the hexagonal coins had the exact same physical dimensions. They were about as wide as his thumb with a hole through the middle. The coppers had a scale motif, the silvers were decorated with talons, and the golds had a sleeping dragon wrapped around the center.
Francis was going to ask Willow about the dragon. Then he realized he didn't really care. The Canadians had maple leaves on their shit. So why not dragons? Besides, dragons were cool. He figured he would run into one eventually.
The inn by the stables where they stashed Chuck and the wagon had a beer garden outside. Hop bines crept over the trellises to provide shade from the summer afternoon heat. During the fall they would be cut and harvested to make more beer. Francis wasn't sure why hops grew on bines instead of vines, but apparently they did. He didn't question it. (Hop bines wrap and grape vines creep vertically. Now you know.)
Willow walked back with a head sized tankard of beer in each hand. The Death Cleric was tall for a woman and her horns added a bit to her height. She stood out as she walked through the late afternoon crowd.
Francis liked Willow a lot. She was dependable, smart, supportive, and not shy about engaging with the grittier parts of life. The fact she was a Death Cleric didn't bother him. He had dated goth chicks before.
As Willow approached the table she caught sight of Francis and smiled. For a moment the Marine wondered if this was what heaven looked like. She set the wooden tankards down and took a seat next to him.
He didn't read too much into that. They were in a bar. Francis figured Willow didn't want strange men trying to sit down next to her.
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She tapped her head and got the Grunt translation magic going. “I got us a place to crash out if we have too much fun. Beef stew smelled good and it was a fresh batch, so I ordered one each.”
He raised his beer. “To bounties and buckets!”
“Hell yeah!” Willow clinked tankards with him and took a long sip. “That's some good beer!”
“Damn right!” Francis agreed. It reminded him of the stuff they used to drink down in Oceanside. It was sweet and crisp with a hint of orange. California fucked up a lot of things, but they made pretty good beer. (Apparently it was possible to get something there besides a triple hopped, cinnamon infused, double IPA. You just had to know a guy.)
Hot peppery beef stew, loaves of warm bread, a crock of butter and a jar of honey arrived a few minutes later. “Hot dog!” Francis said as he dug in. “This is some damn fine chow!”
“I'm glad you like it.” She looked around the beer garden. “I remember when this place was just a bunch of farmers trying to get by. Now they have a castle. It's amazing how time flies.”
“Sure is.” Francis usually didn't pay that much attention to the world around him unless he was in combat. But he figured her words made sense. “So, High Priestess. You're the expert in organizing religions. What are our next steps to getting this thing off the ground?”
“We need to let Lord Kelvin know we have claimed Brexis. He will say some bullshit about back taxes and needing to swear loyalty to the king, but legally he doesn't have a leg to stand on.”
She took a big bite of bread covered in butter and honey, then washed it down with some beer. “Brexis was an independent city state long before Grumble was a kingdom. And nobody owns the Dark Forest.”
That was strange. He figured prime timberland like that would have already been claimed. “Why not?”
“Because the forest would take offense and kill them in their sleep.” She looked at him for a second. “I forget you're not from here. The Dark Forest does not fuck around. About a hundred years back Lord Kelvin’s grandfather tried to cut a road through the forest to open up a trade route.”
“One day a wooden casket appeared in his bedroom with a note that said ‘Get out, or get in.’ and when he didn't get out, at least they didn't have to go looking for a casket.” She shrugged.
“That's some gangster shit.” Francis made a mental note for later. “So, what's next after that?”
“A bunch of lords' second sons and other minor nobles will try to lay claim to the city. A few might even show up at our door. We can send them packing or turn them into minions, whichever you prefer.” She finished her beer and gave him a peck on the cheek. “I'm going to go get us another round. Same as last time?”
“Sounds good to me.” Francis wondered about the sign of affection. Maybe she was trying to ward off any unwanted suitors by making it look like she was taken. He figured that was it.