Tallah

Vergil dreamed of late Fall, of when it was still pleasantly warm under the two suns. Neptas was quickly becoming a pinprick of light in the noon sky while Cares grew ever brighter. That the first snow hadn’t arrived yet promised a long and angry Winter to come.

He learned that in an orientation class. The Guild offered many of those.

The overcast sky above still wanted to drink him whole, but it became easier to ignore day by day. Mostly, he ignored it by being in-doors rather than aimlessly walking around the Guild Halls. Handlers refused to hand him any sorties as a new member without at least another rookie taking on the same mission and agreeing to coop the pay.

Vergil found himself, as before, terribly alone.

And woefully hungry.

Hunger chased away his fascination for the Guild’s splendour, its imposing statues, and gilded halls, and for the throngs of people bustling in and around the great courtyard. No amount of wonder or dread could fill the yawning gap in his stomach.

He could go find work as a menial, he knew, but that would put a definite end to his hopes of adventuring. And with Winter coming, he expected work of that sort to dry up for someone with as few marketable skills as him.

If he returned to the Paladin Corps he’d sign on as a soldier and be sent for further training in Aztroa Magnor, then deployed for duty in some far away outpost where the Empire’s rule was still contested. If he survived his first three Summers then his overall survival odds were statistically sound, per Argia’s calculations.

Well over half of the fresh recruits never survived their first Summer unmaimed.

Death by a spear to the throat or death by starving on the streets of Valen with Winter’s chill looming ever closer.

With those pleasant prospects in mind, Vergil did what any reasonable, budding adventurer would: he bussed tables at the Sizzling Boar for five Valen lions a week, a meal a day, and a dry place to sleep in. On the Gloria he’d worked more for far less.

The Sizzling Boar was a small out-of-the-way tavern which existed because it needed to. Every large city needed a place like the Sizzling Boar where those down on their luck, aimless and lost, found cheap beer and even cheaper rooms to contemplate exactly how life had conspired to dump them there.

Vergil worked with the diligence of a man one lost meal away from desperation. In a week’s time he began feeling quite at home, though still hoping an adventuring opportunity would present itself. Then he met Sidora Adana, Merk Armcast and Davan Steir.

They sat huddled around a small table, hidden away in a barely-lit nook, wearing their misery as a cloak and talking in hushed, angry voices. Each of them nursed the cheapest, stalest mug of ale that the Boar served, alongside equal portions of the perpetual stew. Vergil had spooned and served those himself.

The discussion, as he strained to overhear, revolved around finding a fourth member for their group.

They had gone into the wild and got ambushed by the very animals they were supposed to be hunting. Poor coordination coupled with even poorer leadership—if what one of them was whisper-shouting was to be believed—had almost ended their budding careers as dray chow.

In short, they were ripe for approaching. He just needed to figure out an opening.

He found it around the third round of ale.

“You’re going to need a tank,” Vergil commented offhand as he set down the relatively fresh mugs. From the weapons laid by the feet of the table, he was dealing with an archer, some form of infantry warrior, and a healer. No shield. They needed someone that could protect them in case of an emergency.

“Excuse me, a what?” One of them, Davan it seemed, threw him a black look. He had a nasal sounding voice that made all his words seem unnecessarily belligerent.

“Someone that can take a beating and hold the front line for you. I noticed you haven’t got a shield with you.”

“I don’t hide under a stinking shield.” Ok, so he wasn’t one to just accept a stranger throwing in his opinion. His displeasure was boiling over into rage. Vergil assumed he had struck a nerve.

“As you say.”

He walked away but not quite out of earshot. He dropped off his tray and slunk back around through the midday crowd, just close enough to listen without being obvious. It seemed that a fresh round of hostile reproaches was underway.

“He’s not wrong,” the aelir woman, Sidora, put in, moving food around on her plate, separating the vegetables from the brown, unidentifiable meat. “No offence to you, Davan, but you rushed ahead and left us to fend for ourselves. That was unkind of you.”

“My friend, I almost had the seats of my trousers ripped off by the wolves you failed to draw away. We had to climb trees to get out of the way. I soiled myself, ye? We need more people,” the other man said between spoonfuls of the stew.

“I still say we don’t need another guy with us,” Davan insisted, fist on the table. “I can protect us next time.”

Sidora and Merk looked at one another.

“All those of the opinion that Davan is full of shit, raise your hand please.” Merk raised his hand and Sidora laughed, raising hers as well.

“Majority rules. Davan is full of shit. Mate, we need a fourth person. Less money coming in, sure, but less money we spend on getting patched up. It’s a win for us however you look at it.”

Davan tried to argue his point further but Merk quickly talked over him.

“Who specialises in getting their arse whooped and enjoys it too?” he asked his companions.

“I do.” Vergil pounced on the moment. He had poured himself a mug of ale and, to the chagrin of many other patrons, sat down with the trio. After all, allegiances of opportunity were the main stock in trade for a place like The Sizzling Boar. The innkeeper would understand.

“I’m fresh out of the Paladin Corps and I need some paying work, as you can see.” For good measure, he also placed the metal disc marking him as a licensed adventurer down on the table.

Davan glared at him but Merk shook his hand eagerly.

“I’m Merk, this is Sidora, and the stupid one is Davan.” Vergil already knew all their names, but thought it more prudent not to mention. They’d likely not appreciate his eavesdropping.

“I’m Vergil. And I know a few things about squad roles. I can help you.”

He turned to Davan and extended his hand to him too.

“One sortie. I’ll suggest how we go about it. If we don’t get good results then I won’t take my cut of the reward and will be gone from your hair. How about that? You can’t lose much by just trying.” He smiled at the man, hand still outstretched. Davan shook on it after weighting up the proposition for a few moments.

Vergil remembered men like Davan from the Experiences, desperate for some measure of control and recognition. He felt that way sometimes too. It also wasn’t the first time he had to bribe his way into a social group. His family had hated so dearly that he’d been born male that they’d arranged for the very worst, most isolated job available on the Gloria Nostra. He would go weeks without meeting another person outside the virtual space that they couldn’t deny him.

He did his best not to look at Sidora. She made him uncomfortable in a way he couldn’t understand. The aelir in general had him sweating whenever he drew close to one. It made it difficult to look the woman in the eye when she spoke to him.

“You seem quite down on your luck,” Sidora said. She smiled so bright that he felt ashamed of himself for existing next to her. “I don’t mean to offend you, Vergil, but you smell. May I buy you a token at the bathhouse?”

“I’m… sorry?” he said, taken aback by the disarming brusqueness hiding beneath that smile. “I do bathe, but it’s a tiny pail and my room is small and… well… I…”

Davan laughed loudly, swinging his ale pitcher.

“Don’t listen to her, Vergil. Men should smell of hard work and conquest. Leave the baths to the gelded and the women folk.”

He said men but both he and Merk were barely past seventeen standards by Vergil’s estimate, close to his age if not younger. Sidora was older, in the same way all aelir were older than most anyone else in any room. Vergil had learned about aelir near-immortality, bar accident or sickness, from a Guild orientation class aimed at people coming from the more remote villages of the Empire. Many species weren’t a common sight outside the larger cities such as Valen or Drack.

Hands were properly shook and mugs of ale were knocked back. Vergil settled his dealings with the innkeeper and got paid his week’s half-griffon in advance. If he wanted to come back, there were always pots that needed scrubbing.

Next came the posting from the Guild. Queries and special missions were posted regularly, with an appraised difficulty rating and recommended number of people for best results. There were missions for agricultural help, pest control, property or lost person retrieval, and a wide variety of miscellaneous odd jobs. On special billboards there were bounties for various individuals, as well as assassination requests, though these had to be cleared with the Storm Guard before undertaking.

Vergil already knew what they needed to do. He’d spotted the perfect job days before and had waited for the right people to come along. Luck had been kind.

“This one would be perfect for a party of our size that needs to raise some quick spending money,” he said as he took the notice off the wall, showing it to the others.

“Goboid pest control?” Davan sneered at the idea but stared closer at the paper. “Why’s the rating so high for that low of a pay?”

“It’s out in the sticks,” Merk said. “Vergil, that’s out of Valen’s influence and the pay is really poor for that sort of work. Land’s real dangerous beyond the plains.”

“Yes, yes,” Vergil conceded. “But listen, there’s a bigger picture to this. I’ve seen this notice hanging here for weeks—”

“Because nobody sane would touch it,” Davan interrupted him. “It’s pest control for no money.”

“No, it’s because nobody has the imagination to see this in the right light.”

Everyone stared at him so Vergil kept talking. He had thought about it a lot, so much so that he even studied the map hung in the central pavilion of the Guild Hall.

“Look, this isn’t that far out from Valen. At a brisk walk and we can be there in about six days, give or take.” He led them to the map and showed the place. “The road ends at this village. A vein of the mountain comes real close to it, so it’s a dead end place. No road, no trade, no brigands or bandits. At worst, some animals on the road.”

Merk snorted.

“You say at worst, but that’s what got us in trouble the last time.” He glared at Davan. “Money’s still low for that sort of travel.”

“Bigger picture, remember?” Vergil grinned, finally coming to his conclusion. “Goboids are always popping up here and there, right? The thing is, they hoard a lot of what they steal.”

It had been in one of the orientation classes. The trio hadn’t taken any of them.

“All right, so?” Davan moved closer to the map and inspected the route. Vergil could see his mood turning to his aid now that Merk was sceptical.

“They’re easy to kill and easy to track for any tracker with some experience. If we follow them back into their lair and slaughter them, we’ll probably find a lot of things they kept from raids. They like shiny things and will steal almost anything that’s not bolted down. We can sell whatever’s valuable. Two days’ work probably and we’ll have a good fund to get better gear and go on better missions. Unless otherwise stated in the notice, any loot we find in a warren is ours to keep. Guild rules.”

Merk was pensive and scratched his cheek.

“People go missing in the hills. But the plan has merit.” He turned to the other two. “Vote?”

Davan clapped Vergil on the shoulder. “With him,” he said.

Sidora shrugged and raised her hand. “Safer than what Davan chose, I think. If we keep to the road we should be fine up to there.”

Decided. Vergil felt a flutter of pride for this as Sidora took the note from him and headed to the reception desk to get details about the location and contact person on site.

“Smart reasoning,” Merk commented, rubbing the stubble on his cheek. “I can track them to their lair, Davan can do most of the actual killing, and you can keep me and Sidora safe in the tight space. I hope your instinct’s as good as your head.”

Davan nodded along.

“I read a lot,” Vergil lied. He was barely literate and never bothered once in his life with literature. When he looked at the local letters, he could only understand their meaning once his chip translated the text. He could speak the language like he had been born to it but his reading and writing were patchy at best.

Sidora soon returned holding a rolled-up map.

“It’s way out in the sticks. The map here is generous,” she told them, spreading out the updated map received from the Guild. The goboids were raiding some small villages in the hills with irregular hit-and-runs. It was about a week’s walking journey to there, but the actual reward specified on the posting had actually been increased due to low turn up of adventurers.

“We shouldn’t waste time,” the healer went on. “Talk from other adventurers says the weather may get pretty bad soon. We should do the job while it’s still fairly warm out or we may get stuck out there. I don’t fancy spending Winter tending to chickens and goats.”

It took them seven days of hard marching to reach the small village of Nest. Vergil shared a tent with Sidora, as hers was the most spacious and it wasn’t uncommon for adventurers to share cover at night. He was on edge the whole trip. Being under a single tent at night, aware of her nearness as they slept back-to-back, had him sweating to the point of dehydration.

She and the others had formed up some months back, at near the end of Thaw, and had done a bit of odd work here and there, so they were used to each other. She was an initiate healer and, as part of her training, she had to do field work. She had met Merk the same day she arrived in Valen from the School of Healing, and Davan soon after.

She was being kind and trying to engage with him.

For his part, Vergil was only too keenly aware of her and unable to offer more to the conversation aside from grunts and short, vague answers.

It came as a relief when they reached their destination, and none-too-soon. The supplies the other three had bought were gone by day six, and the last day of travel was accompanied by unhappy stomach growls. Even so, they did not stray away from the road.

Vergil felt anxious about the whole thing now that he was face to face with it. If his insight proved wrong they’d have a very hungry and sullen trip back to Valen. He may well remain behind to tend to chickens, whatever those were.