Stella was true to her word.

She woke up early and was set up with tea and breakfast for two, with paperwork in front of her. A to-do list of what the foreigner needed to be an established adventurer.

The stranger took longer to rouse, the grasp of a comfortable night’s sleep holding them tightly.

Gingerly, they investigated their new housing. It was small and felt like a camp cabin, though it was much nicer than the spider-infested cabins the stranger remembered not-sleeping in as a kid.

Their room was on the second floor, almost a converted attic space. Or, they supposed, what houses used to look like before wasting attic space was a thing.

A set of stairs led down to the main floor, which housed the bathroom, a living room with books and a simple sofa, a half-closed door which the stranger presumed to be the main bedroom, and the kitchen.

The stranger found the woman reading a piece of paper. She gestured toward the food and drink, greeting the stranger warmly, then returned to working.

Her pen was glass with near clear swirls up the center like DNA strands. The stranger watched as she made incomprehensible marks on the paper, then dipped the pen in a bottle of dark ink. The swirls immediately turned brown-black, as if the ink was sucked up in a straw.

The concept of writing with feathered quills was not one the stranger had considered in their tumultuous introduction to this world, but they were glad to see that was not the case. Maybe ballpoint pens were not a thing, but magical ink cartridges were.

They watched the woman work until the food was gone, then they wandered off to the bathroom. On the way back, a thought hit them. The stranger poked their head into the living room with the books and things, considering that maybe a desk would be there.

It was. With continuing luck, the stranger found a second glass pen and headed back into the kitchen.

The stranger didn’t know what this world held for them. They could, however, predict that they would need to work, to earn their keep or do something useful with their life. Even without an ability to communicate verbally, the stranger had one skill that might offset the ignorance and ineptitude they currently felt.

Those years of being bored in math class – and subsequently being bored in an observation station in the swamp, waiting for the torrential rain to stop – were about to pay off.

They cautiously took a piece of paper from the woman’s pile; she shifted to allow it, far too distracted by her planning to notice.

The pen took ink with ease, allowing the stranger to test it on the paper. They did some scribbles, scratches, hatch marks. It flowed well, a little too well maybe. If they hesitated on a stroke, the ink left a blob, a literal manifestation of doubt.

They started drawing.

As a child, they always liked those fantasy books with fake illustrations of creatures, written as if the author was exploring the jungle or hunting through the desert. It became a game for them to replicate the pictures, in turn learning how to create shadows with hatching, how to vary light weight to indicate depth or edges.

As a teen, it was a way to pass the time. Drawing their neighbor on the train when the tracks were smooth, sketching a couple having coffee while they drank a smoothie, illustrating the teacher instead of taking notes.

The skill made note-taking in biology and anatomy courses very easy. It was much easier to memorize locations of bones when you could conjure up an accurate image. It wasn’t necessary in field work, not when a digital picture would be infinitely better, but it was still a nice way to pass the time.

The stranger remembered a journal with drawings of tiny red sundews and drooping pitcherplants – both native to their worksite.

Their skills were rusty. They drew something the day before the bus incident, so their ability to draw should have been intact, not languishing over months of absence. The combination of changed hands and a temperamental pen made the process difficult.

The mohawk bird was forming in the corner of the paper, slowly but surely. It was off – they needed a direct reference to be accurate – but it was identifiable enough. The stranger drew the bird’s mouth open, a lightning line connecting to a speech bubble with a grawlix emerging.

@#$%&! indeed.

The stranger had begun a second bird, this one with a pronounced hair mohawk and a scruffy looking spiked jacket, before the woman noticed what they were doing.

She was almost enamored by the doodles, cheerful as she pointed at them and cooed unintelligibly.

Yes, the stranger nodded. They didn’t have to hear the question. Yes, they drew that.

The woman smiled at the paper for a few moments longer before gently taking the pen from them. She tapped it point first into the inkwell and the swirls turned clear once again.

Ah, so the ink can be returned to the bottle.

She gestured to her own list and explained something.

(Stella knew that her explanations were pointless. The foreigner clearly couldn’t process words and given how he didn’t spare a glance for the list, he probably couldn’t read either. She didn’t want to treat him like a dog to be dragged from place to place without knowledge. He deserved the effort of explaining.)

The stranger nodded. Was his entire life going to be politely listening to garbled noise? They held out hope that the language issue would resolve eventually.

The woman walked off and they followed, hovering outside her bedroom door as she collected her things.

She pointed to her booted feet, then to the stranger’s naked, dirty ones. Okay, so shoes.

She held up a leather satchel and pointed again. Shoes and a bag.

Then she handed the stranger a knife, its sheath attached to a long leather cord. They examined it closely, intrigued.

The stranger was no… stranger to knives. They were kind of essential when you spent a good chunk of time doing field work. Fishing lines and paracord were everywhere, and it paid dividends to have a nice knife in an emergency.

This one was maybe eight inches long, with a four-inch blade. Its handle was dark wood with a reddish tint, dented and scratched with use. Was it hers?

They looked at the elven lady and back to the knife. Feeling dumb for this line of questioning, they pointed at their chest. For me?

She reached out to close their hands over the now-sheathed knife, confirming the gift.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

In a world of magic and swords, it felt silly to feel so sentimental over the gift of a basic knife, yet the stranger was moved.

It felt… it felt like such a big step, going from only the clothes on their back, to having a knife – a tool, a weapon – that could open so many doors for them.

They had to get help to wear it correctly, but once it was on, the stranger knew it would be infinitely useful. It hung diagonally across their chest, the cord looped around their neck and under their arm.

(Stella found all this endearing. She could see the foreigner’s eyes go soft as they explored the gift; she wondered how difficult life was before with no language or tools.)

Now, it was time to work.

The woman led the stranger back into the city, holding their hand so they wouldn’t get lost.

The building with the desks and the woman’s house seemed to be on the outskirts, just outside of the city walls. The stranger still had no clue what that business was for. They spotted a stable nearby in the daylight, but there wasn’t a workshop or crafting area.

Their destination was the tannery; the stranger made sure to stay well out of the road this time.

They watched the woman and the shopkeep converse with some resignation, eyes focused on the little details of the man’s apron and his tools. When the woman pointed at the stranger’s feet, they took the cue to lift their leg up, proving the unheard point.

Surely a tannery was not a cobbler, but… it was a start. And the stranger understood that their state of patheticness was, indeed, a currency.

Eventually, the woman approached the stranger and patted them on the shoulder, pointing at the shopkeep with unhelpful words. She left for another chore, the stranger watching her departure, before they turned their gaze to the shopkeep who stared back at them, intrigued.

The man said some things that were questions. The stranger, sensing some doubt, answered back. The exchange of non-information seemed to prove something to the shopkeep who furrowed his brows before gesturing to the stranger to follow.

First, they were given a pair of socks by an older lady – the shopkeeper’s wife – and made to sit through foot measurements. She brought them a smattering of small round things and gestured to her mouth. It was candy, foreign fennel seeds and some other spices coated in sugar.

She seemed pleased at the stranger’s surprise and delight. She walked off to find some other entertainment for them both while her husband worked.

In a backroom, the man was sorting through shoe patterns. Given that this was an odd request from the Adventurer’s Guild, this foreigner would need shoes fit for adventuring.

The man was able to speed up his crafting process with skills and expertise. A beginner cobbler may take 60 or more hours on a single pair of shoes, given the hand-stitching and craftmanship required. A normal timeframe was two days, though this particular cobbler could rush a job at the same quality for extra pay.

The cobbler did not intend to beat the standard timeline, especially not for bartered work.

On his break, the shopkeep was unsurprised to find his wife teaching the foreigner how to darn socks.

It was something the stranger knew existed but had no need for it in their previous life. The weather had always been too humid, too hot to bother with woolen garments. Now, it seemed like a fact of life.

They were content to darn, like assembling a little puzzle with yarn on top of a wooden egg. The auntie watched them intently, correcting mistakes and guiding their hands. Over the next hour, once she was sure the stranger was capable, she began setting out nicer socks for them to repair.

No one bought shoes without needing their socks darned. It was income the woman could provide to their store, aside from bookkeeping and generally being the kinder, nicer of the pair.

She wasn’t the one having to tan massive hides in the full sun, a laborious undertaking. Her husband was allowed to be grumpy.

They had help, yes, but today was generally a day of rest for most craftsmen. The workers would come in tomorrow for their regular hours.

The shopkeep let his wife manage the foreigner until the shoes were finished. The stranger was mildly confused when the elven woman didn’t return, but they slept on a cot on the upper floor and were properly fed and watered, so there wasn’t much to complain about.

The stranger was grateful when they were given shoes, finally, unsure how to convey their appreciation without words.

The boots were nice. The stranger had no point of comparison for quality, as they were much more used to tennis shoes and sandals, but they could tell the leather was good and the stitching was sturdy.

A few days of darning – and cooking, scouring pans, sweeping, cleaning root vegetables, being loaned out to neighbors for similar chores – was practically a vacation in comparison to the tannery.

The mid-afternoon was the best time to work outside of the first hours after sunrise; the direct sun was blocked from hitting the tannery by the walls and trees, making the labor much more tolerable.

That didn’t mean it was nice.

The stranger was shown the different stages of the process, then expected to reproduce them on simple ruminant hides. Chemicals were applied in a soak, then the scraping and de-fleshing and de-hairing, stretching to dry and cure, more scraping, and some kind of oiling process.

The payment part of boot-earning came from scraping. The shopkeep had a tall stack of hides to be de-fleshed, some de-haired, and a free worker to do so. The stranger was monitored to ensure they knew how to avoid scraping holes into the leather, then set free to deal with a stack or three of stinky ruminant hides.

Their arms and back hurt even before the shopkeep presented much smaller hides for inspection. Some kind of canine, maybe a fox? This one was used for fur, so the stranger was shown how to take caution when scraping it.

By the end of the day, the stranger was more than a little worn out, but the tannery had very few fleshed hides remaining for processing.

The stranger was covered in fat and meat bits, soaked in sweat, and the boots were new and needed to be worn in, so their feet ached.

The auntie laughed at them when she came out to summon her husband, amused by the look on their face.

While her husband dealt with a business issue, she guided the stranger to a spigot and gave them a rag to wipe off with. It was hardly a cleaning experience, but the nasty bits were no longer caked to their arm hair, so they counted the win.

She made them walk around the building to the front door, handing them a parcel with clean clothes and walking them a short distance down the road. She pointed at a large building with a round sign. It had some words on it, but the stranger homed in on the… the flip flops.

Flip flops? That couldn’t be right. Surely, they were sandals.

In their confusion, they almost missed the auntie’s goodbye. She shooed then pushed the stranger toward the building and waved, walking back home.

Huh, that must be their next workplace.

Apprehensive and mildly bewildered, the stranger entered the building. They were surprised by how dim and small the entry was, merely a wide closet with an opening for a staffed desk.

The clerk perked up as they made disoriented eye contact, a glimmer of recognition in her gaze.

Stella was responsible for the clean clothes, dropped off at the leather goods shop. In her kindness, she planned arrangements with this business – prepaid for a confused, red-haired man who couldn’t speak.

The clerk escorted the stranger into a room lined with tiny cabinets… a locker room? And proceeded to point at a spigot and basin, then to a door at the far end. She took the clean clothes and picked a cabinet, then made a broad gesture that the stranger guessed was an order to strip.

Thankfully, there was no bathing service. The stranger was left alone in the bathroom with warm, flowing water and a little piece of soap.

It was practically heaven, honestly.

They finally felt clean and nice, moving to get dressed before remembering the clerk’s guidance. There was a second door.

With a towel for modesty, they wandered into the next room, considering what the next process of bathing would be. A haircut, maybe?

The stranger lit up with delight, realizing that this was not just a bathroom, but a bathhouse.

Oh, they could kiss that elf.

No, that might be too much. A nice, clean hug later would probably be okay.

It was like… like a hot spring. A big open courtyard with a pond-like hot tub. There were other people here who spared a glance for the stranger, but no one gave them much attention.

The stranger tried to wipe the undoubtedly maniacal glee from their face and act normal, finding a place in the water to sit and relax.

Fuck, this was genuinely amazing. It was the best thing they’d experienced in this world, aside from not dying. This made up for every little inconvenience so far. Was it expensive to use? It couldn’t be, right?

Public bathhouses were a thing in ancient times from the- the-?

Cultural names evaded them. It seemed whatever magic brought the stranger here didn’t see the need for them to remember other civilizations.

But, still, public bathhouses were a thing in other places. Both ancient and modern. So, access to one was important or else the stranger would have smelled horribly stinky people everywhere in the city.

That meant they would be able to afford returning.

The stranger would tolerate weeks’ worth of scraping hides and nasty chores if it meant there was a giant hot tub waiting at the end of it.

They gauged the appropriateness of their stay by other occupants of the spring. Once both the mustachioed man and the lady with the tattoos left – having been here when the stranger arrived – it was probably time for them to go too.

Their new clothes were lovely too. The blue-grey shirt fit loosely, and the trousers had a tie at the waist.

It was a shame they didn’t have time to go show off to the elven lady. The stranger passed out as soon as they reached their bed, completely exhausted from the day’s work.

Maybe tomorrow she would be around… She needed a name. Or a nickname. Something elegant…

They fell unconscious with that thought, snores drifting downstairs.