The drunkard awoke to a pain revolving around his entire skull, throbbing at the tip and pulse near the back. He feared opening his eyes, he feared knowing the truth of day. But, he did, as he always did; opened them. Eyes open, he finds himself at the tavern he’s been frequenting as of late. Unlike most towns that lay on the edge of the Dark Forest, Albion housed many townsfolk and held bounty boards that seemed to be filled rather than depleted. And for that reason, Albion was swarmed with all those adventures that wanted nothing more than to join the frontlines, to get to the eye of the storm, they wanted to fight, not to survive, not to live, but die for a difference.

What a load of bullshit...always balance the rewards versus the cost...the youth have lost the knowledge of the old world, of the basic principles of economics, it was no wonder the markets were so easily distorted and disrupted. The true winners are those damn merchants, but no one cares about the true winners after all.

“Enough, of that, no use complaining in your damn head. Well talking to yourself certainly ain’t much better. But it’s a start.”

“Don’t worry, I talk to myself as well, we all do it, hun.”

The drunkard looked up, locking eyes with a warm smile, kind round and hazel milk drop eyes, hair the color and strength of fire, and a figure that only a townsfolk could foster. The morning goddess placed a hearty plate of eggs and ham before him, followed by a tall glass of milk.

“I have no coin.”

“I never asked,” and with that she returned back to her tavernly duties and he watched her go, smiling at the sight and the smell of his meal and last of all his luck.

“Damn it all if I wasn’t sometimes a lucky man sometimes.”

As if remembering his smile, he whipped it and went on to do the same to the plate before him.

After finishing his meal, he went on to clean up around him as much as possible, picking up fallen and broken chairs, grabbing a rag, and seeing to the puddles of fallen ale from the night before. It was the least he could do after all. Feeling content once he felt he had done as much as he could do and sweat began to form at his brows, he made his way out the tavern and into the City Streets of Albion.

The light from midday nearly blinded our hung-over friend as reflexively used his hands as shields from that blazing ball's solar beams. He had to move though, or else be taken, or trampled by the oncoming hoard of the bustle of the streets.

Making his way through the streets was a practice in dodging and squeezing. Merchants, craftsmen, day-laborers, watchmakers, scholars from towns afar, and most abundant of all, adventurers looking to take on the Black Forest; those being the most energetic, and hardest to avoid. Often, he would bump into one, only to find after picking himself up and brushing the dust off his coat that they were already moving along, without pause, their heads in the sky, dreaming of surmounting that Forest that transforms men into warriors and Adventurers to be worthy of the name. Memories of when he was running along these streets, being the avoidee and not the avoided came to mind, even though he wanted nothing more than for those memories to be buried with the others, like the days of the Old World were beginning to be.

Why can’t we bury memories like corpses...thought our haggard friend.

Sadly, for him his hole in the wall that he called home was on the other side of town and required him to pass by the city hub, meaning the bounty board and the adventurers carrying parchments of their wall. It was the middle of the day, so the board had not only been plucked, but the adventurers were scuttling around turning in their work or buying equipment and materials needed for their next job. Leaving the bounty board open for a straggler like him to see what had been left.

Not much, he mumbled, first come first served after all.

All the jobs requiring the least investment and the ones paying the most were gone. It was usually transportation jobs that required them to deliver payments, goods, or important documents to Lords in nearby castles, these would always lead to some other job that revolved around the Lord giving them some half-assed job to do. Adventurers were never without something to do, unless, you retire and begin to see it for what it is. Busy-work.

The best jobs lead to more work. The worst jobs left you with more time to do more jobs and the whole purpose was to continue on to the next town or city or section of this god-forsaken world that just had more of the same. Which isn’t bad, especially if you have a party of friends to enjoy the conquest, the progression, the journey.

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But, then there’s the Black Forest. When your mantle is tested, when the world isn’t so nice, the nights are cold and the monsters are colder. Attacks come from all sides, blood is spilled, and you are never prepared enough, contrary to before when you had more supplies than needed, now you wouldn’t be able to carry enough.

Warriors, skilled men are needed to conquer the Black Forest, not these boys who scurry the streets delivering messages without a care in the world, with their heads in the sky.

What saddened the man most was the rate at which the adventurers were now arriving, before it was scarce, getting to Albion was not an easy feat after all, but now it seemed like the rest of the world was catching up to the ghost of his former party.

The world does not stop after all, and men will always strive for better...or at least what they deem to be better.

Making his way past the city hub, took him past the smithy, the general goods vendor, the jewel crafter and setter, and everything else needed in his former line of work. Each townsfolk would stand outside their shop from sunrise to sunset without fail. Never once missing a day, even in the coldest of days and the hottest of afternoons, they were machines, those vendors, they treated each deal with the same meticulous negotiation as the last. From their daily shouts of deals to their haggling antics, to their display of goods that hung from stalls and even adorned on themselves at times. These men built the foundation for the adventures to do their jobs and in turn, the adventurers made them filthy rich. So, to the men that wish to be adventurers for the loot, I would wager you are in the wrong profession. If you truly wanted coin, you would open a stand, build an inventory, and shout your wares for all to hear.

Past the shouting merchants and chants of parties calling out to one another over one another rested the residential district. And like most districts meant for the house of adventurers, they were piss poor huts with a straw bed, a table with chair, and a candle for light.

How often does an adventurer truly utilize his living arrangements after all? If they are out in the wilderness hunting prey, monsters, or whatever their current job has them doing, they will more than likely set up a campfire and call it a night on the open fields. A more cautious adventurer may ride to the nearest village and pay for a room or farmer’s barn for the sole night. But, a home? That word does not belong in the Adventurer’s vocabulary.

And so these ransacked, blackened rooms lacking soul and character were able to be sold to those who knew and cared for no better. Even that cost coin, though. Something that our hung-over lead carried the least of all of.

So, he was to continue to walk past each residential lot. With each passing district, the state of habitation requirements would drop leagues and leagues, until finally, it nosedived off a cliff and our adventurer of the past was standing affront his ever sweet home.

Putting his hand on the rusted ball that was once called knob, he placed his weight against the splintered and sunken log that was once a door and pushed until that bastard gave way to his hovel that he now calls home.

The hovel composed of: a straw mattress that was more floor than straw, a table that had no chair, resting on the table was an ink pen that wasn’t seen use in months (for lack of ink), a candle that is never lit, he has no need for that after all, and an old wood-choppers ax that rests against the mouth of the door just as you come in. And then there’s that latch at the corner of the room. The latch that leads to the past. Only desperate men open such latches.

As tantalizing as the thought of sleep on his hay-crusted floor seemed, our friend grabbed his ax and made for the door.

A short walk out of the South City Gate by which he lived was a small lake that wasn’t granted a name. This is where he would bathe and on rare occasion catch his meals. After, bathing and dressing once again, he kneeled and stared into the tepid water’s reflection. The lake was crystal and calm. Taking in a deep breath he attempted to make his soul reflect the calmness of the lake. After a few seconds, a small hummm and blue hue began to gently cascade around the outline of his body, pouring out from each pour was a magical property that instantly cleansed his hang-over and any other ailments that might reside hidden away.

Breathing in slowly, breathing out gently, he let the aura cleanse himself, but most importantly, he let his mind become clear and free.

Seconds turned to minutes and minutes dragged on for nearly an hour until his concentration broke, dissipating the blue mist that hand began to dance across himself and the lake. Then, as if by clockwork, the shrill screech of some creature filled his mind for the briefest of seconds.

By the Gods, there it is again as if by some divine command it always follows after a good mediation.

His head jerked, as he caught a glimpse of something moving across the bottom of the lake, on instinct he reached for his ax and lifted it in position to strike. Scouring the lake with his eyes produced nothing strange.

His taught grip on the handle produced a soft burn that filled his nostrils.

Damn, I best not burn through another handle.

Dipping the wood-cutters ax brought a cloud of steam and that relaxing noise with it.

After one final appraisal, he deemed there to be nothing worth waiting for and made his way into the wooded hills that lay across the southern side of the lake.