Hands of Fate - Survivors of Flight AA214

Chapter 48



Chapter 48

Orion

Day 44, Day 4 on the Road

Kronfeldt

In the heart of the city, wagons of produce were being unloaded at various food stands. Along the main street, hawkers on the left side called out, peddling fresh fruits and vegetables, their sellers shouting at beastkin passing by, waving samples in their hands. Beyond the produce, large burlap sacks of grain, salt, and spices were stacked in front of wood booths.

On the right, near the lake, stalls offered lake-caught fish and crayfish, along with butchered pheasants and the hanging carcasses of lambs and pigs. Sausages dangled from hooks, and dark organ meats lay next to clay plates. In another stall, brown and white eggs were piled high, forming a pyramid atop a large bowl.

I was unfamiliar with most of the vegetables and fruits being offered, save the cabbages streaked with bright purple veins and the carrots in shades of brown, red, and orange. One fruit stall had green cherry tomatoes in wooden crates, tucked away behind other fruits, nearly hidden from display.

My Lokan wasn’t perfect, but I could manage after spending time with the goat farmers. Unlike Sophie, I had taken my lessons with James seriously. I had leveled my Polyglot skill to 2. Sophie, as smart as she was, figured she could lean on James for translations and focus on the financial side of trading.

I approached the fruit vendor and pointed to the green tomatoes. “How much?”

The vendor, a mouse-like creature similar to the farmers I’d seen, sized me up and then offered a price. My travel-worn clothes must have made me look like a beggar. Maybe out of pity, he gave me a fair price.

“Three thirds,” he said.

“For one?” It sounded high, but the vendor shook his head.

“For all,” he clarified.

“Why so low?” I asked, hesitant. I knew I should haggle, but that seemed like a bargain.

“People think they’re poison: the voidblasted fools!” His squeaky voice, full of indignation, made his outrage oddly endearing.

It made sense. Tomatoes, like other nightshades, were once feared as poisonous when first introduced in Europe, and it seems the same was true here. I picked up one of the small cherry tomatoes and popped it into my mouth. The vendor didn’t seem to mind. The tomato was a bit bland and tart, though with a savory undertone.

“I’ll come back for them,” I said, declining the vendor’s offer to show me more of his wares. “I don’t have a cart.”

I continued browsing through the stalls. As expected, spices were the most expensive items—a jar of cinnamon bark nearly cost a Second. According to Sophie, a Second mint was roughly worth ten dollars, while a First was a hundred dollars, and a Third just one. Of course, this was just a rough estimate, as, in reality, a Third could easily represent a day’s wage for an average citizen here.

I had:

40 Second mints

80 Third mints

I needed to spend it carefully. There were two reasons I traveled alone.

First, I could make more money while Sophie handled things her way, doubling our potential earnings; second, I wanted to level up my Cook class by creating better recipes. With that in mind, I was browsing the market for certain items, trying to get inspiration for what I could sell in my stall.

Another vendor sold various starches—yams, lotus root, cassava, carrots, and other unfamiliar roots, all neatly arranged in wooden bins. The vendor, a bunny-faced figure with white fur and gray patches around his eyes, wore a bright red linen tunic.

In the back corner of his stall, I noticed pink-skinned potatoes, long and tuber-like. When I asked their name, he told me the Lokan word for potato. He sliced one and offered me a piece, but I declined, not wanting to eat raw potatoes. Like the tomatoes, these too were priced low due to their association with nightshades.

A side street cut into the main road, winding down toward a narrower cobblestone path. Unlike the food peddlers on the main street, these stalls offered cooked food. A sudden sense of urgency hit me—I was missing the lunch rush. Miners and sailors crowded the street vendors, sitting on tiny wood stools barely off the ground, eating from wooden trays before returning them to the stalls.

Permanent buildings lined the street beside the wooden food stalls — bakeries, a sweet shop, an upscale spice shop, and a teahouse.

The prepared food stalls had a familiar yet exotic air, reminiscent of lively Asian markets, yet they were backed by a mix of Western frontier storefronts and cobbled medieval European architecture. The scent of frying fish and charcoal-grilled meat filled the air, mingling with the spices of curries simmering in pots. Exotic meats were chopped and served over bowls of porridge, while steamed dumplings were dipped in dark, rich sauces. Nearby, spiral dough, golden and crisp, was drenched in honey and syrup.

Navigating through the crowd, I spotted a food hawker with nearly no customers. His stools sat empty, and the black-furred ratman, clearly irritated, was scolding passersby who borrowed his stools to eat food from his competitors.

He was frying pancakes with onions on a blackened griddle, and beside him, a large pot simmered with pale gray meatballs speckled with long green chives. Spotting me, he smiled warmly and beckoned me over.

“Half-off special! Two extra meatballs and a free onion pancake, sir! Only one Third!”

The smell made my stomach growl, having not eaten since the morning, so I accepted. He handed me a wood tray with six meatballs and a folded onion pancake, drizzling a rich brown gravy over it before nodding and clasping his hands.

“Enjoy your meal, sir.”

I pulled up a stool at his counter, feeling uneasy under his watchful gaze. I turned my back to him for some privacy, pulling my hood low and lifting my mask just enough to eat.

The meal wasn’t bad. The meatballs were a bit bland, and the gravy tasted faintly of fish sauce but lacked depth. The onion pancake was the highlight—sweet, savory, and crisp. I used the last of it to wipe up the remaining gravy before handing the tray back to the vendor.

“What did you think?” he asked, his voice nervous.

“Not bad,” I replied honestly.

However, there was a reason this place wasn’t crowded. It was just okay. Nothing that would make me go out of my way to return. There was another problem, too—he was boiling the meat in water. Sure, it made sense for the meal, and I’m sure it was traditional for him, but for a stall? You need the smell of sizzling meat to draw in customers.

“How much for this,” I asked, circling my index finger around the entire stall to show him I wanted it all.

The stall had a decent location, wedged between a popular fried dough vendor and a busy brick-and-mortar bakery with good foot traffic.

The rat vendor wiped his brow with a towel, pausing as if weighing his decision. His lockbox was open, revealing a dozen Thirds in one compartment, a couple of Seconds in another, and one empty compartment where his Firsts had likely gone. He sighed as he dropped the Third coin I’d left on the counter into the box.

He shook his head as I turned to leave.

I needed to find an empty stall to start cooking and selling food.

Before I could wander into the bakery next door, a tall boar-man with tawny fur and twisted tusks, approached the rat vendor with a delivery. His tree trunk arms were lifting a giant crate of minced red meat.

“Ground venison,” the boar announced, hauling a wooden crate from his hand-pulled cart.

“How much do I owe you, Gnarltusk?” the rat asked nervously.

“Slink, your tab’s at one First and three Seconds,” Gnarltusk said expectantly holding a hand out.

“One First? That’s ridiculous!” Slink yelped.

“Yar haven’t paid for your shipments in a month, Slink. That’s with interest, ya damn rat!”

“Listen... I can make it back. L-let me sell today’s meat, and I’ll pay you. I don’t have that money here.”

“Slink. My partner says if you don’t give me at least one First, I can’t sell to you anymore. I’ve heard your excuses before, so hand over the coin or I’ll break something worth a First.” Gnarltusk reached across the counter, grabbing Slink by the tunic and shaking him.

“I... I can give you three Seconds,” the rat stammered. “That’s all I have, I swear.”

Gnarltusk slammed a cleaver down on the counter, causing the rat to let out a high-pitched squeal. He grabbed Slink’s arm and pressed it to the counter. “If I don’t get my First by the end of the day, I’ll take another finger.”

Just as Gnarltusk raised the cleaver to swing down, I gripped his wrist tightly from behind.

“What the—?” the boar yelped, turning to look at me, a stranger wearing a boar mask. His stale breath blasted into my face as he snarled, “This doesn’t concern you, friend.”

I held out ten Seconds—the equivalent of one First—before letting go of his wrist.

“You’ll... you’ll pay my debt?” Slink asked, wide-eyed.

“For the stall,” I said. “Give me the stall, and I’ll pay the debt.”

“But... this is my livelihood.” Slink looked around, taking in the small world that was his stall.

“Fine,” I said, turning to leave, knowing what would come next.

“WAIT!” Slink shouted. “Give me at least 13 Seconds. That way, I’ll have something left to start again. Please.”

It felt like a waste of money, and if Sophie were here, she’d scold me for being soft. But what did it matter? I needed to get ready before the dinner rush. I needed to level. I was stuck at level 8 of my Cook class, aiming to push to level 10.

I reached under my apron for the coin bag strapped to my chest, pulling out three more Seconds and handing them to the rat. My total coinage after the exchange would be 27 Second mints and 79 Thirds. Slink handed 13 of the coins to the boar, emptying his lockbox.

The boar, now grinning broadly, had shed the rough demeanor of a debt collector, and instead adopted the easy charm of a seasoned salesman. "Looking for meats? The Tusk brothers have the finest quality you can find in all of Kronfeldt."

Beside him, the rat vendor moved with a slow, deliberate heaviness. He handed me the key to the lockbox, a small, weathered thing that felt more symbolic than practical. He pulled out a card from his palms, offering it to me with an unmistakable air of reluctance, as though surrendering more than just a simple object. When I tapped the card, a faint blue glow materialized, outlining the lot and my area of possession.

Lot Deed

Lot Size: 5 x 5

Lot Number: 14-B

Location: Crust Road

Owner: Orion Sterling

Interesting, a deed system that is usable by people without a class. I’m guessing Bianca needs to grow her village to unlock this.

“Where are you going to go?” I asked.

“Back to the mines, I guess,” Slink sighed. “I had a dream once... of being a cook. Thought everyone would come to my stall for my famous meatballs. I guess it wasn’t meant to be.” He packed his belongings, and strapped a rucksack to his back, glancing at his stall with regret.

“I hope you have better luck with this place than I did,” the rat sighed, his head downcast as he strapped a rucksack filled with his belongings onto his back. He pulled on a wool cap and gave me a final nod. “There’s a latch to the cellar with whatever food I haven’t used yet. Good luck, friend.”

After he left, I decided to check out the bakery, leaving my stall for the moment. As I walked, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being followed, with a prickle crawling up the back of my neck.

Inside the bakery, long, bamboo-like bread loaves spilled out of baskets, and glazed confections sat temptingly on wooden trays at the center of the shop. A tawny-furred rabbit in an apron bounced around, helping customers with their purchases, while a white-furred rabbit with bold black stripes spiraling around his muscular arms worked the stone oven behind the counter.

The place was overflowing with bread—massive sourdough rounds piled high in wicker baskets, plate-shaped loaves stacked in neat columns. I didn’t find exactly what I was looking for among the bread, but I spotted a small round bun on a confectionery table.

I picked it up, sniffing the soft, seed-covered bun. The rabbit hopped over, her whiskers twitching. “Those are delightful,” she said with a smile. “Filled with custard and wildberry jam. Only one Third for three.”

I handed her a coin and bit into the bun. The soft brioche bread melted in my mouth as sweet custard and jam oozed from the center, a bit of it escaping to the corner of my lip, which I quickly licked away.

“Can you make a hundred of these buns for me?” I asked.

“One hundred?” The rabbit’s eyes widened.

“Yes, but no filling, just plain.” I gestured to the bun, shaking my head at the oozing custard to emphasize what I meant.

“No filling? My husband can bake anything to order. When do you need them?” she asked, her ears perking up.

“As soon as possible,” I replied, handing over my Lot card, which she inspected for the address.

“Oh! You’re right next door. I take it Slink finally sold the place? No need for a delivery fee then,” she laughed softly. “One hundred plain buns will be… let’s say, 1 Second and 4 Thirds. Sound good?”

I had no clue what the price should be, but I nodded anyway. “Sounds good.”

I handed over the coins, watching as she tucked them into a pouch at her waist. I had to resist the sudden urge to pat her on the head—this was a person, after all.

That’d definitely be considered assault. Don’t do it.

“In case we don’t deliver, you know where to find us,” the rabbit chuckled, walking off to the back to relay the order.

With that sorted, I headed for the produce section. I moved quickly, trying to slip through the crowd. That’s when I felt it—a bump, way too obvious to be accidental. I glanced back to see a hooded figure darting through the market. My pouch was gone.

I sighed. Great. Without rushing, I pulled up my hood and ducked into an alley, activated my Tracking and Shadow Walk abilities. My eyes followed the faint trail of the thief. Above, my jackdaw companion, JD, flew ahead, scouting the path.

The tracks led to the docks, where the hooded figure slipped behind a tavern catering to sailors. Hidden behind barrels, the thief met up with an accomplice. From my vantage point, I watched them—a small gray cat, round 5 feet, and an even smaller orange tabby, practically a kitten.

They were overjoyed at their haul, but their excitement didn’t last long. Their faces fell as they opened the pouch, only to find a handful of pebbles.

I approached, my stiletto drawn, and both of them puffed up in fear.

“I’ll take my bag back,” I said calmly, holding out my hand.

The gray cat’s eyes darted around, but there was no escape. He tossed the pouch at my feet, the pebbles spilling out. I tied it back to my belt.

“Take it! It’s just rocks anyway!” the gray cat spat.

“We didn’t mean any harm, sir. Please don’t call the guards,” the young tabby pleaded, his voice trembling.

“Shut up, fool,” the older cat hissed.

“I can go to the guards... or you can repay me for the trouble,” I offered my voice low and even.

“We don’t have any money! Why do you think we’re stealing?” the gray cat snapped.

“Then you’ll work for me,” I said simply.

“Work? We don’t know how to do anything!” the orange tabby shook his head, bewildered.

“Can you say, ‘Do you want fries with that?’” I asked.

They exchanged confused glances.

“Do you want fries with that?” they repeated in unison.

“Perfect,” I grinned beneath my hood.

I felt sorry for them. They were just kids. Kids shouldn’t be out here stealing. If they wanted money, they should be working part-time jobs, like, oh, I don’t know, flipping burgers?


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