Dungeon Item Shop - Chapter 9

Fresh stands in the large market square of the entryway plaza, feeling the sun land on her back together with the occasional glance of a curious passerby. She fidgets, somewhat nervously, wishing that she had at least a scarf or something to cover her bare shoulders. Even if it was a warm, bright day. This was a huge difference for her in comparison with the old jeans or baggy, frame-obscuring hoodies that she would wear all the time. But she has to admit that the robe is comfortable at least, more-so than jeans would have been under the hot sun, as the fabric reaching her ankles is very loose and flowy and billows in the gentle, early-year breeze.

“Adventurer’s guild… adventurer’s guild…” she mumbles to herself, looking around, as she stands in the center of the square. Stalls and vendors line the streets, which are bustling with the busy commerce of the day, as hundreds of adventurers and also some more ‘normal’ looking people go every which way, their buzzing voices turning the city into a hive of activity and life. She feels happy, hearing them all around herself, even if she can’t distinguish any words in specific. It just feels so alive. It makes her feel so alive to just be here, surrounded by it all.

“Looking for something?” asks a loud, booming voice behind her. Somewhat startled, Fresh half jumps and half turns to look at the giant man, standing behind a small wooden stall, covered in baked goods. She stares at him for a second, somewhat panicked and lost for words.

“Ah! Uh… I’m looking for the adventurer’s guild…?” she asks with uncertainty, as if perhaps this was something absurd.

The giant man leans forward to look at her somewhat perplexed. But then he pulls back upright, crossing his huge arms and laughs jovially. “It’s right over there!” he says pointing with a finger that was the size of two of her own. Following his direction, Fresh looks at the building nested behind a large sign that was swinging from two chains from above it, that plainly and obviously read ‘ADVENTURER’S GUILD’.

Laughing meekly, somewhat embarrassed, she thanks the man who nods back to her. Sparing one, somewhat tense glance, she looks at the sign above a small loaf of bread adorning his stall. It was ten Obols. Wincing, she waves to the man and walks towards the guild. Well, it’s no surprise. It was just one tiny, little mushroom monster. If each cap is worth three, then she’d have to kill at least three more Mr. Mushroom’s to be able to afford a single loaf of bread. Then again, she wouldn’t need the bread if she just eats them instead. Though maybe eating monsters is sort of a lowbrow thing to do? She is unsure, as she stands before the door to the guild, the loud buzzing ambiance of the hive behind her is an all-encompassing noise that accompanies her thoughts.

Fresh feels nervous, uncertain. Her heart begins to beat a little faster than it should and her hand becomes a little shakier than it should be as she grasps the iron ring on the door. Taking one deep breath in and then exhaling it out slowly, she pulls it open and steps inside. This is it.

Immediately, there is a change as she steps inside of the somewhat darker building, as if the sun can’t quite manage to reach through the windows here, nor the buzzing candor of the outside world. She shuts the heavy door behind herself.

It’s quiet, the noise of the city cut-off entirely, as if it never was. All except for the single haunting voice, that now makes itself heard all around her. Enveloping her, as if it were the sound of rushing water as she is pressed beneath a baptizing river. It sounds as if it is the singing of a lamenting woman, high toned but somber. The crystal clear voice rings out throughout the room and Fresh looks for the source. There are dozens of people here. But there is nobody here that is singing, at least that she can see. Directly in front of her are a row of thick, wooden tables on both sides of the room, as if she had stepped into a restaurant or a tavern and seated at each and every one of them are adventurers of all types and builds. Humans, elves and other strange things that she isn’t able to recognize right away. All wearing their various, colorful, or sometimes less ornate, equipment. All of them looking down somberly into their heavy mugs filled with amber liquid, as they all sit in quiet contemplation, listening to the eerily nostalgic voice crying around them; as they are all lost to the allure of its call.

Some eyes rise to meet the girl as she enters, not out of curiosity, but seemingly more out of agitation, because her quiet incursion had interrupted their equally silent lamentations. What is this? This is the adventurer’s guild? It feels more like she has walked into a funeral, the pressure in the air is heavy and tense. Her heart beats faster again, was this a mistake? Is she in the wrong place? Did she make a fool of herself already, like she knew she would? Straight ahead, down past the rows of tables is a bar. Its keeper stands behind it, polishing a crystal glass with closed eyes, as she too listens to the doleful aria that has no source.

Fresh clenches her fist, uncertain. But it’s too late to turn back now. Quietly gulping, she takes a step forward and walks towards the barkeeper. The eyes of the people around her now turn back away, as she steps further inside, their gazes returning to the reflections they see in the cups, which they hold before themselves as if quietly contemplating the sights held inside. The elfish woman, oddly enough, wears what Fresh would have expected a high-class barkeeper to wear in her own old life. Simple black trousers with a leather belt showing above, a tucked in, white-cuffed button up with rolled up sleeves and a tightly closed black vest on top of it. Her hair is a dull, dusty blond that is pulled back into a loose, short tail behind her. Two long bangs hang before her face that has large patches of burn scarring beneath one eye and on her cheeks. She is hardly much larger than Fresh herself is.

As the girl nervously steps before the bar, the keeper’s eyes open and raise up towards her. Not agitated like the others, but just blank. Expressionless, not filled with any particular sorrow or happiness. It’s just blank. Fresh opens her mouth to ask her where the guild is. If she’s in the right place? But then closes it a second later, as no words come out. It was hard to explain for herself, but apart from the singing voice, there is no sound to be heard other than the odd shuffle of a boot or a gulp from a nearly empty mug. It seems wrong to her to break the silence and so she stops herself from speaking.

The elf looks at her, her expression still not changing. But as Fresh closes her mouth again, the woman nods as if understanding the dilemma. Turning around, she grabs a shot-glass and a bottle filled with a thick, black, gooey liquid and pours it inside, before sliding it across the bar to Fresh.

She looks at it uncertainly, she can’t afford this. She doesn’t even want it. Sweat beads on her forehead as her heart begins to flutter. Something was going wrong. Raising a hand, she softly waves ‘no’ and shows the woman the three tiny coins that she has. The keeper’s expression doesn’t change, she looks back to Fresh and slides the glass further towards her a second time with a single finger, teetering it on the edge of the bar. The black-liquid inside barely moves as the glass shifts, its consistency is thick, like a heavy oil.

What is this? What should she do? Her under arms are feeling a tinge of the wet as well now, as her legs become wobbly beneath her. She never drank much before. Why is the woman offering her this? Fresh takes a step back, unaware of herself doing it. The singing voice calls out around her, never stopping to take a breath, never breaking its mourning. Its calming, numbing presence doing little to alleviate this new angst that cut through her like a sharp knife.

Something nudges her, dully pressing into her waist. Fresh looks down towards it.

The small, hooded person with the mask from the day before stands next to her, also looking at the barkeeper, who prepares a second shot and slides it towards them as well. The small, childlike figure reaches up to the top of the bar and grabs it, subtly pressing an elbow into Fresh’s leg again, as they rise up to the tips of their toes. 

What was going on? What had she gotten herself into? Fresh’s hand takes the tiny shot glass and she looks at it uncertainly, before looking down at the small person accompanying her, who lifts the fully-obscuring, white wooden mask only an inch from their face. They hold their tiny glass out towards her for a toast. Fresh, unsure of what else to do, feeling the stranger’s and the keeper’s eyes pressing down on herself, takes her own glass and quietly hits it against the out-held shot, before downing the black liquid all at once.