Kael glanced down at himself, the tatters of his clothing clinging to his thin frame like a mockery of protection. His shirt, once a simple tunic, was now a series of torn rags, barely covering the bruised and scabbed skin beneath. His pants, ripped and stained with dirt and dried blood, offered little warmth and even less dignity. He ran a hand over his chest, wincing as his fingers brushed against the rough texture of the barely scabbed-over wounds from his fights in the second realm.
He couldn’t go on like this. Not in these rags, not with his skin so raw and vulnerable. He thought of the Healing Salve he’d used before, how it had soothed the pain, knitted his wounds with a gentle warmth that felt almost magical. But that was gone now, used up, and his body felt like it was one bad fall away from breaking entirely.
The air of the Market of Shadows pressed in on him, thick with the scent of spices, sweat, and something else, something sharp and metallic that reminded him of blood, of the battles he'd fought, the creatures he'd killed. His wounds throbbed dully, each step sending a faint pulse of pain through his body, a constant reminder of his fragility. TThe raw edges of his wounds chafed against the rough fabric of his clothes, the pain a constant, grinding presence that threatened to overwhelm his senses. He felt brittle, as if his bones might shatter with the slightest pressure, as if his skin, stretched thin over his ribs, might tear open, spilling the last of his strength onto the filthy cobblestones.
He clenched his jaw, his vision blurring as he forced himself to keep moving. A hollow determination settled in his chest. He needed to heal, needed to cover himself. Food could wait. He couldn’t fight, couldn’t even defend himself against a well-aimed kick, not in this state.
He wandered through the Market of Shadows, his gaze darting from stall to stall, his shoulders hunched, his body tense with a wary anticipation that bordered on paranoia. The chaotic symphony of the marketplace—the shouts of vendors, the haggling of customers, the rumble of carts, the desperate pleas of beggars—pressed in on him, a discordant melody that threatened to overwhelm his already frayed senses.
He scanned the stalls, past vendors hawking everything from rusty knives to dubious charms. He needed to find one that sold herbs, lotions, anything that might offer some relief from the throbbing ache in his wounds.
He spotted a stall towards the edge of the market, tucked away from the densest crowds. A woman with graying hair, her face etched with a lifetime’s worth of wrinkles and hardship, stood behind a cluttered table, her hands working with a practiced ease that hinted at years of experience. The shelves behind her were crammed with jars and bottles, each labeled in a scrawled, messy script that spoke of a knowledge passed down through generations, whispered secrets of herbs and roots and their hidden powers.
The air around the stall was heavy with the scent of crushed leaves and roots, the bitter tang of something medicinal weaving through the more pungent aroma of the marketplace. Kael approached cautiously, his gaze lingering on the woman’s hands as they mixed something in a small clay bowl. Her fingers were stained green and brown, the marks of her craft etched deep into her skin, a living testament to her mastery over nature’s hidden remedies.
“Need something for those wounds, boy?” she asked without looking up, her voice gruff, but not unkind.
Kael hesitated, the familiar anxieties swirling within him, then nodded. “Do you have… healing salve?” His voice was low, rough from disuse, the words scraping against his throat like dry leaves.
The woman snorted softly, finally glancing up at him. Her eyes, dark and sharp, seemed to pierce through him, taking in his tattered clothes, his torn and bruised skin, the fear that he couldn’t quite conceal. “Healing salve? Aye, got some,” she said. “But it’ll cost you.” Her gaze lingered on his face, an unspoken question hanging in the air. “Don’t look like you’ve got much coin to spare.”
Of course. Everything in the slums had a price, and it was always more than he could afford. The iron coin felt heavy against his chest, a tempting solution, but fear whispered at him. That coin was too much. He could buy a whole new set of clothes with that coin, food for days, maybe even a decent weapon. He couldn’t waste it on something as temporary as healing.
“I’ve got some,” he mumbled, keeping his gaze on the jars and bottles. He couldn’t afford to let her see the desperation in his eyes, couldn’t afford to show her his weakness.
She gestured to a row of small, clay pots lined up on the table, each with a different symbol etched into the lid—a green leaf, a white slash, a red spiral. “This one’s what you’re asking for,” she said, tapping a pot with the green leaf. “Best in the market. But it’ll cost you eight bronze.” Her eyes narrowed, a shrewdness sharpening her features. “Don’t think you’ve got that.”
His heart pounded in his chest, a heavy, aching rhythm that echoed the fear swirling in his gut. He could feel the woman’s eyes on him, sharp and assessing, weighing him, judging him, the unspoken question hanging between them. He felt exposed, vulnerable, like a rat cornered in a trap, every instinct screaming at him to flee, to run, to escape her scrutiny. But he couldn’t, not with the pain clawing at him, not with his body barely holding together. The green salve, the one he needed, seemed to glow with a cruel, mocking light, a promise of relief just out of reach.
Kael’s heart sank. Eight bronze? He glanced at the pot next to it, the one marked with a white slash. “What about that one?” he asked, hoping his voice didn’t betray his desperation.
The woman shrugged. “Cheaper stuff. Not as strong. Three bronze.”
He hesitated for a moment, his gaze flitting between the two pots, weighing his options. He wanted the green salve—the best, the strongest—but his practical instincts, honed by a life spent scavenging for scraps, overruled his desire. He nodded slowly. “I’ll take it.”
“Smart choice, boy,” the woman said, a flicker of something that might have been approval crossing her face. "No point wasting what little you have on something fancy. This’ll do the job.”
The words felt hollow, a lie that echoed in the hollow space where hope used to be. He knew it wasn’t enough, that the thin, watery salve would barely numb the pain, let alone heal the deeper wounds that ached with every breath, every heartbeat. But it was all he could afford, all he dared to risk. The iron coin, a cold, heavy weight in his pocket, was a lifeline he couldn’t sever, a shield against the hunger, the cold, the dark that waited for him in the shadows.
Kael fumbled with his pouch, his fingers clumsy, his heart heavy as he counted out the three bronze coins. It felt like he was paying a king's ransom for a few pinches of herbs, but he knew he had no choice. His body throbbed with a dull, persistent pain, a reminder of his fragility, his vulnerability in this world.
He handed over the coins, his fingers brushing against the woman’s rough palm, and picked up the small pot. He tucked it into his one remaining pocket, the coolness of the clay a small comfort against his aching skin.
“Thanks,” he muttered, already turning to leave, eager to escape her scrutiny, to retreat back into the anonymity of the crowd.
“Stay out of trouble,” the woman said absently, her attention already back on the mixture in her bowl, her fingers working with a practiced ease that suggested she’d witnessed countless boys like him stumble through her stall, each one bearing the scars of a life spent on the edge of survival.
Kael nodded, his heart sinking. Stay out of trouble. As if it were that easy. As if trouble didn’t follow him everywhere he went, clinging to him like a shadow, whispering in his ear, reminding him that he was always one step away from disaster, from oblivion.
He took a deep breath, the market’s cacophony pressing in on him from all sides, and forced himself to move, to disappear back into the crowds. He had what he needed, at least for now. But he knew it wouldn’t be enough, not really. The salve was a temporary solution, a Band-Aid over a gaping wound. He needed more than that. He needed a way to break free from this cycle, a way to find his place in this world, a world that seemed determined to crush him beneath its weight.
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As he made his way through the market, he felt the iron coin tucked deep into his pocket. Heavy, cool against his skin, a potential shield against the chaos, but also a weight, a reminder of the choices ahead, of the path he had yet to find.
Kael moved on, weaving through the chaotic maze of the market, his eyes scanning the stalls, searching for anything that might offer him some semblance of protection. He found it tucked away between two larger stalls, a dimly lit booth piled high with a jumble of discarded clothing. They were mismatched, worn, some torn and stained, others patched with a desperation that mirrored his own, but they were better than the rags clinging to his skeletal frame.
An old man, hunched over like a gnarled, ancient tree, sat behind the stall, picking at the hem of a frayed coat. His eyes, watery and faded, lifted as Kael approached, a flicker of recognition sparking in their depths. “Lookin’ for something specific, boy?” he asked, his voice rough as gravel, worn by years spent haggling in the marketplace.
Kael shook his head, a weary gesture that seemed to encompass more than just the exhaustion dragging at him. “Just… something better than this.” He gestured to his torn, bloodstained shirt and pants, feeling a familiar wave of shame wash over him.
The old man’s gaze drifted over him, taking in the wounds that peeked from beneath the tattered rags, the dirt ingrained in his skin, the hollow look in his eyes. A lifetime spent in the slums had given him a sharp eye for vulnerability, for desperation. “Not many choices for a few bronze,” he said, his voice gruff but not unkind. “Got some old shirts, maybe a pair of trousers. Good enough to keep the wind off, at least.”
Anything was better than what he had now. Kael nodded. “How much?”
“Two bronze for a shirt, three for trousers. Belt’s another two.” The prices felt exorbitant, a blatant attempt to exploit his obvious need. But he didn’t have the energy to haggle, didn’t have the strength to fight for a few measly coins.
The clothes smelled faintly of sweat and mildew, a testament to their previous owners. The fabrics were rough against his fingers, coarse and stiff as he sifted through the piles, searching for items that might fit his wiry frame.
A wave of weariness washed over him, a heavy ache that went beyond the throbbing in his limbs. It was all so mundane, this bargaining over scraps. Yet it felt like a mountain to climb, each step a Herculean effort. He pushed the exhaustion aside, forced himself to focus. He had to survive.
Kael found a shirt and a pair of pants, both stained with dried blood that looked suspiciously fresh, the fabric stiff and unyielding. He couldn't tell if the previous owner had died in them - violently - or had just been injured while wearing them. It didn't really matter. They were mostly whole, and that was all that counted.
Bargaining with the old man felt like a chore. In the end, Kael managed to acquire the lot, plus a thick, cracked leather belt, for four bronze coins. It meant breaking his iron coin, leaving him with six bronze, a sum that seemed to dwindle before his eyes.
Persuasion +1
A skill increase outside of battle? That’s a first, Kael thought, surprised. Before he could dwell on it, the old man began counting out the change, his fingers slow and gnarled, his gaze lingering on the wounds peeking out from beneath Kael’s tattered shirt. “Take care of yourself, boy,” he said quietly, the words laced with a weary sympathy that Kael had almost forgotten existed.
The old man’s words, rough and hesitant, cut through the fog of pain and fatigue clouding Kael’s mind. He hesitated, unsure how to respond to this unexpected kindness. He’d spent so long expecting the worst, anticipating betrayal around every corner. He swallowed, his throat tight. “I’ll try,” he murmured.
The old man watched him for a moment longer, a flicker of understanding in his faded eyes, then turned away, his attention drifting back to the frayed coat in his lap. He was just another face in a sea of hardship, another reminder of the relentless grind of survival in Mudtown.
Kael quickly changed into the new clothes, pulling the rough fabric against his skin. It felt stiff, the seams digging into his wounds, the worn fibers holding the faint scent of another life, another struggle. But they were whole, and that, for now, was enough. The weight of the new clothes felt both alien and comforting—a shield against the prying eyes, a physical barrier against the harshness of the world. He was still thin, still gaunt, but at least he wasn’t naked anymore, wasn’t so exposed. He moved his coins and salve to his new pockets — two of them, a plethora of choice.
His gaze drifted over the bustling market stalls, drawn towards a vendor displaying an assortment of weapons —a chaotic array of cracked blades, rusted daggers, and battered clubs — and tucked away between a vendor selling incense that reeked of burnt sugar and decay, and another overflowing with caged birds that chirped and fluttered, their frantic energy a stark contrast to the weariness that weighed down his limbs.. The glint of metal, a familiar reassurance, cut through the colorful distractions of exotic trinkets and dubious charms. A few steps, and he was there.
The merchant, a burly man with a beard like tangled wire and a perpetual scowl etched deep into his weather-beaten face, looked him over with a swift, dismissive glance, his eyes lingering briefly on Kael’s newly acquired clothes, then moving on, searching for customers who had something more substantial to offer. "What’re you lookin’ for, boy?” he growled, his voice as rough as the weapons he peddled.
Kael swallowed, forcing himself to meet the man's gaze. He was out of his depth, a Mudtown rat in a marketplace meant for those who had at least a steel of coin to their name. "A club," he said, forcing himself to meet the merchant’s gaze, hoping the tremor in his voice wasn’t too noticeable. "Something… cheap.”
The merchant snorted, a derisive sound that made Kael’s cheeks flush with a familiar wave of humiliation. He knew his request was pathetic, his meager resources a transparent reflection of his desperation. “Ain’t much cheap here,” the man grunted, waving a dismissive hand over the collection of weapons. "But I’ve got this.”
He reached down, pulling out a short, heavy club-hammer, its wood cracked and splintered, the metal head dented and scratched, bearing the marks of countless battles, both real and imagined. But it looked sturdy enough, a solid weight that promised power, control, a chance to defend himself.
“How much?” Kael asked, his voice barely a whisper. His fingers curled, the remaining bronze coins heavy in his pocket, a symbol of fleeting security.
“Three bronze. Take it or leave it.”
Kael hesitated. Three bronze. It was almost everything he had left. But he needed it, knew it with a chilling certainty. He couldn’t face those creatures in the realms, those silent predators with their glowing eyes and razor-sharp teeth, armed with nothing but a stick. He needed a weapon. A real weapon. Something that could give him an edge, a fighting chance in a world that seemed determined to grind him to dust.
He ran his hand over the club-hammer’s surface. His fingers traced the cracks in the wood, the dents in the metal, feeling the echoes of past battles, past struggles. He knew it wouldn’t last, that it was a poor defense against the creatures that waited for him in the realms, but it was something, a small, stubborn flicker of defiance in the face of the overwhelming darkness. He had to believe it would be enough, had to hold on to the thin, fragile thread of resolve that kept him moving, kept him breathing.
A sense of grim acceptance settled over him, a weight that seemed to pull the tension from his shoulders, the anxiety from his gut. He’d made his choice. It was all he could afford, all he had left to wager against the relentless tide of chaos. It would have to be enough.
He forced himself to nod, a jerky, hesitant motion that felt like a surrender. “I’ll take it.” He dug into his pocket, his fingers trembling as he pulled out the pouch, the bronze coins heavy against his palm.
He handed over the coins, the clink of metal a sharp, final sound against the backdrop of the market’s cacophony. The merchant took the coins with a grunt, his attention already shifting to the next customer, another haggard face in the endless stream of desperate need that flowed through his stall, through the market, through the slums. "Try not to break it too soon," the merchant said, his voice rough with a gruff amusement, as if he'd witnessed a thousand boys like Kael come and go, each carrying the weight of similar dreams, burdened by the same desperate hopes. “Ain’t gonna be much use to you then.”
Kael nodded, tucking the club-hammer into his new belt, the familiar weight settling against his hip, a comforting presence amidst the swirling uncertainty. "I’ll try," he mumbled, his voice a hollow echo of his earlier resolve. It was a lie, they both knew it. This weapon, a cast-off, a reject from a world he didn’t belong to, wouldn't last long against the creatures he'd seen, the battles he’d fought. But he had nothing else, no other shield against the darkness that encroached on all sides.
The Market of Shadows pressed in on him, a tide of bodies, scents, and sound that threatened to drown him. He wanted to get out of here, back to the quiet, shadowy confines of the basement, where he could lick his wounds and plan his next move. He could even go back through the portal.
But what was waiting for him on the other side? A relentless cycle of violence. And beyond that, an impenetrable boundary. The exhaustion he’d managed to keep at bay crashed over him in waves. All he’d managed to do was buy himself some time. Delay the inevitable. His stomach cramped, sending a wave a nausea through his thin frame. It was time to find some food.