The City, Part III (Hunters)

The inside of the Monster Hunter's Association outpost is like stepping into a medieval ski lodge. There's this rich, heady warmth to the place, like the air's been steeped in oiled wood, scented smoke, and a variety of exotic spices. Sunlight streams through open windows facing the busy street outside, though most of the interior lighting is provided by the glow of crystals hovering within sconces that line the outer walls at sporadic intervals. Gigantic chandeliers hang from the ceiling—six altogether—but instead of candles or some other source of light there are actual floating wisps of flame circling lazily near the ceiling, like fat magical fireflies circling the chandeliers like they're miniature merry-go-rounds. When I squint and focus at the flames, I'm greeted with a small System-generated text box.

New Monster Identified: Tamed Will-o-Wisp

Level: 2

Classification: Magically-bound Minor Fairy (Fire)

Long oak tables run across the space, some have polished surfaces lined with candelabra, others are just buried under piles of tankards, maps, and armor. People fill the space. Elves, mostly, at a glance. But there are a handful of orcs and goblinoids. I don't see any other humans, or slime-creatures. A bar lines the back wall, which is where most of the traffic seems to be culminating, but the people are scattered throughout the tables, standing in small pockets and coming in and out of the various doorways lining the right-hand wall. The left-hand wall is covered in wooden panels, which are covered in parchment and pamphlets pinned to the wood with needles and—in some cases—daggers.

The second we fully step into the space I'm slammed with a nauseating wave of pressure. It's like my brain is thrown into a drying machine set to turbo all while I'm standing with my face inches away from a base at full-blast at a rave. My balance wobbles. My vision swims. Jelly Boy gurgles and squeaks in alarm and bounces slightly in my arms. I think he feels the same thing I am. It's like the whole building is humming at a frequency my nervous system was never meant to interpret. My tongue feels thick, like it's been wrapped in cotton soaked in static. I hate it.

"What the hell…" I whisper, then blink. My eyes widen. "Holy shit!" I shout. "I can talk again! Finally!" That was the longest three minutes of my life.

Jelly Boy starts bouncing rapidly in my arms like a toddler on espresso. He exclaims a rising and falling buzz.

"Lucky you," Clyde mutters, utterly unimpressed, arms folded across his chest. He scans the giant room with a hawkish gaze.

I stumble a step to the side, trying to keep my knees from buckling under the weight of… whatever the hell this is. My breath comes fast. My skin tingles all over now.

"Do you guys not feel that?" I ask. "That… pressure. It's… What the fuck… It's disorienting."

Clyde blinks. "Uh… Feel what, man?"

"Are you okay?" Veronica asks, voice soaked in concern. "You're looking a little pale."

"That!" I snap. "That feeling… It's all over the place!"

Clyde raises an eyebrow, mouth twitching like he's debating whether I'm having a stroke or just being overly dramatic. He's clearly not catching whatever it is that's happening to me. Did that elf bastard hit me with another debuff spell when I made my escape in the alley? I mentally scramble—pulling up my status screen.

Everything looks normal.

Then a voice chimes in from just over my shoulder. It's low, rich, amused. A woman's alto. "New here, I assume?"

I turn to find a very imposing woman standing there.

She's tall. Probably about six-and-a-half feet. Broad-shouldered, in chainmail that's clearly seen some action: scuffed, and patched with areas of repair like a favorite leather jacket, if a biker jacket was made to prevent a blade from slashing open your guts. A spiked bronzed pauldron is strapped to her right shoulder. Leather pants and dusty boots completes the ensemble. Wind-swept curls of red hair cascade over her shoulders, and her face is tanned and freckled like she's wrestled the sun and kissed it afterward. Long, pointed ears just barely extend from beyond the frame of her hair.

Another elf, then, I think, though my thoughts are muddled through the vibrating air attacking my brain. The System happily confirms it.

Identified: Name: Cannot be Determined [Insufficient Information; Insufficient Level], Level ?, Class: Cannot be Determined [Insufficient Level], Elf

Level '?' That was a first. And whatever it meant, it couldn't be good. I notice Clyde stiffen—ever so slightly—and think he probably received the same information. Was this woman's level too high for my innate scan ability to work on her?

The woman smile—wide, confident, but revealing slightly too long and sharp canines.

"Uh," I say.

Jelly Boy lets out a low gurgle, as if disappointed in me.

"Well, try not to pass out," she says to me, eyes furrowing in concern. She places a strong hand on my shoulder and it steadies me. She looks over towards Clyde and Veronica. "He a sensitive one?"

"A bit of a crybaby, but I wouldn't say overly sensitive," says Clyde, cooly.

The woman snorts. "I meant aura sensitivity. This usually happens to newcomers who have a heightened aura sensitivity. A lot of strong folks gather here, but not all of them have the skill to properly suppress their aura—or simply don't care to, because they're jerks or trying to show off."

"Er, I don't think he is," says Veronica. "We actually only recently learned about auras."

"Hm," says the woman. She leans forward and stares into my eyes, as if looking for something. I try to meet her gaze. Her eyes are a brilliant shade of purple. She clicks her tongue. "Yeah, definitely it. Okay, look here man." She steadies me, which is good because I feel acid hit the back of my throat like I'm about to be sick. "You cast spells, yeah?"

The room spins around us, but I am able to give her a curt nod.

"Good, good… When you cast a spell, you probably focus on a command of some sort. Perhaps an incantation or some kind of magical words. Hm?... Well turn those words into an image, something you can cage or confine. Take that image in your mind, like you're about to cast that spell, and then trap it inside you. Close it up, and keep it there. I know it probably sounds strange, but can you try?"

I give her another nod, but I'm not confident in my chances of success. I want to turn heel and bolt from the building. I close my eyes and imagine my spellcasting poses. I imagine flexing my muscles, isolating specific parts of my body. I think of my body like body of water. A surging river. Roaring with the adrenaline of a sick pump. Every flex, every rep feeds the torrent. Then, I pull the current back, sucking it in, until every last drop is in my core. The roaring river is now a still pool of water in a dark room. I close the door to that room.

I slowly exhale as I open my eyes. The mental and physical assault of the auras in the room is gone, replaced by the general buzz and din of a room full of people. A sigh of relief escapes my lips. That's when I realize the woman is still holding onto my shoulders, face inches from my own as she intently stares into my eyes.

"Better?" she asks.

I try to awkwardly take a step back, but her grip is like iron, holding me firmly in place. "Uh… Yeah. Thank you."

"Good!" she says cheerfully, clapping me on both shoulders and releasing me.

"What the heck just happened?" Clyde asks.

The woman scratches at the side of her nose. "I just ran your friend here through a mental exercise that's used to control and shut down your innate aura senses." She looks back at me. "You should practice turning it on and off. You can also only dampen your senses, if you still want them on but want to be… less sensitive."

Not knowing what to say, I just nod.

Jelly Boy practically melts in my grip, letting out a relieved sounding gurgle. I think he may have done something similar, shutting off his innate aura sense.

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"Won't stop anyone actively targeting you with their aura, if they have the control," says the woman. "But you shouldn't have to worry about that here!"

She steps back, rolling her shoulders casually. "Name's Calarel Escarra," she says. "I run operations here at the La Galcia Outpost. Which means if you're lookin' to get eaten, exploded, vaporized, disemboweled, or casually disrespected by our region's biodiversity, you come through me first." She grins wider. "Welcome."

Clyde gives a small wave. Veronica nods once, tight-lipped, eyes scanning the tavern like she's expecting something to fall from the rafters. I straighten up, trying to seem less like a confused freshman on his first day and more like someone who belongs here.

"I'm Joseph," I say. "This is Clyde. That's Veronica. And this—" I hold up Jelly Boy, who gives a little spin and burbles like a shaken soda. "—is Jelly Boy."

Calarel raises an eyebrow at the ooze. "Well, huh. Don't get many humans coming in as aspiring junior Hunters. Even fewer slimes."

She squints at Jelly Boy, who does his best impression of a bow. It's more of a wobbly sink, really.

"If you three are the standard eager lot," she continues, jerking a thumb toward the huge wall bristling with parchment, "the Marks Board's over there. Gold for guts. That's what most people come here for. Though I'd recommend getting gear that's a bit more… protective."

She eyes my jorts with a look normally reserved for roadkill. "Unless you're trying to seduce the local wereboars. In which case—carry on."

I immediately tug my T-shirt down like it's suddenly going to become a knee-length tunic. It does not. "Uh… Wereboars?"

"But you three," Calarel goes on, voice lowering, "don't look like the usual lot at all."

Her eyes sweep over Veronica, linger briefly on Clyde, and then narrow—not hostile, but curious. Measuring.

Veronica steps forward. "We're new to the region," she says, composed as ever, though there's a ghost of something lingering in her eyes. "We're actually looking to hunt a specific kind of monster. We're trying to collect some information. Is that something the Association can help with?"

Calarel strokes her chin, eyes gleaming.

"Depends on the monster."

Clyde shrugs like he's discussing the weather. "We don't actually need to hunt anything. We're just looking for the core. Assuming Hunters sell monster cores on occasion?"

Calarel raises an eyebrow and flashes a sharp canine. "Indeed."

"We're looking for a dragon core," Clyde says flatly.

Everything goes quiet in our little pocket of the outpost.

Calarel lets out a low whistle, then lets it build into a full-on bark of laughter. "You're not aiming low, huh? Sure, you can buy a dragon core. Even a pup's will do you in for quite a bit of gold."

"How much?" asks Clyde.

"The last one I saw go on the open market sold for four hundred gold pieces."

Four hundred gold?!

My soul leaves my body. Just floats right up to the fire wisps on the ceiling and tries to become one of them.

"Four hundred?!" I croak. "That's… why?!" If a single gold piece was worth so much to Baptiste, four hundred had to be a miniature fortune.

Calarel grins. "Well, for one, you gotta slay a dragon to get the core. Even if it's fresh out the egg, that's no afternoon jog for a number of reasons. And then, once you've got the core, it comes with its own issues. Highly valuable power source, even the younger cores, but very… How do I say this?... Temperamental?"

Clyde cocks his head and wrinkles his nose. "Well, that's not good news… Do you have any intel on nearby dragons?"

She shrugs, then nods toward the bar. "We might. Probably do somewhere. But you three look like you need a drink before you try to pick a fight with a dragon… You do know those are flying war engines?... But I'll think on it and come find you if I have someone on hand today who can help."

She claps me on the shoulder hard enough to shift my vertebrae. I wonder what the Strength score of someone 'Level ?' is.

"Grab a round. I'll come find you after I handle this lot."

And just like that, she's off—wading through a crowd of monster hunters and adventurers like a knife through cream. Shouting someone's name, barking a laugh that filled the space with more warmth than the will-o-wisps.

I look at Clyde. "So… drinks?"

"Absolutely," he says.

Jelly Boy practically does a backflip in my hands.

Behind the bar, a goblin with a mustache like a pair of dead squirrels glares at me. There's a menu behind him, a large black surface with items scrawled in white chalk.

"Uh… I'll take a tankard of brown ale," I say. "And a small cup for this guy." I hold up Jelly Boy, who vibrates happily.

The goblin raises one eyebrow. "You want 'er thick, thin, or screaming?"

"...Screaming?" I ask, blinking.

He shrugs. "Just how we refer to the level of foam you want."

"Right…" I stammer. "Thin, then."

"Make that two, but I'll take mine thick," says Veronica.

I glance at Clyde. Clyde eyes the menu for a moment, then shakes his head. "Just make it another of the same thing… Thin, I guess," he says, eyeing the liquor shelves with a practiced caution.

"You don't want to try their salamander whiskey?" I ask.

"And end up breathing fire when I talk or something? Hard pass until I learn more."

"That makes sense," I nod.

"Three brown ales. Not screaming," I confirm.

The bartender grunts, slams three tankards and a tiny, jelly-sized mug on the bar, and takes our three bronze pieces—which Clyde produces with a wave of his hand.

We grab our haul and push through the mass of hunters to a table at the far side, near the wall of open doorways. It's a long wooden beast of a thing, held together with iron bands and covered in claw marks and knife gouges. We settle into the bench. The fire wisps lazily orbit above like drunken fireflies, radiating a small amount of warmth.

Then Clyde leans forward, setting his tankard down with a thud.

"Alright," he says. "What the hell happened while I was out making change? You two were supposed to be scoping out the shops and next thing I know you're both running in from separate directions—Joseph unable to speak for some reason, and Veronica looking like you've seen a god damned ghost."

Veronica exhales, slow and ragged, then rubs her hands through her hair, tugging it back from her face. For a heartbeat, she just stares into her drink, like she's hoping the answers are floating in the foam. I notice the subtle reflection of bluish light in her gaze and know she's looking at a System-generated window. Then, she speaks.

"There's something I need to tell you guys."

POV: Illrune Abascal, Younger Son of the Abascal Crime Family

The door creaked open and Elaithe stepped through, all cold steel and coiled muscle. Illrune followed in her wake, the rag of melting ice still pressed to his throbbing nose. It hurt to breathe, but not half as much as it hurt to remember the look on that human's face. Arrogant bastard. No one made Illrune bleed… And definitely not with the use of some demented cantrip.

But he did make you bleed, and look like a fool. In front of his own men too. In his own bloody district. Gods be damned.

The study was thick with cigar smoke. Wood-paneled walls, red velvet drapes, the slow tick of a brass clock in the corner. Elashor Abascal sat behind his desk, the throne of his little empire, looking very much the part of crime lord and patriarch—shoulders like granite, eyes dark as spilled ink, face carved from some sterner wood than Illrune's own. A future Illrune might have had if the gods hadn't made him soft around the edges. If he'd taken after his father, instead of—

"Too much like your mother," Elashor had always said. Like it was a curse.

Dain was there too, lounging in a chair like a particularly venomous cat. Small, sharp, and silent. His father's second lieutenant had his silver hair tied back with a velvet ribbon, red eyes half-lidded. The faintest trace of a smile played on his lips, as if he already knew how this conversation would end—and knew it wouldn't be in Illrune's favor.

A few merchant-lords and syndicate types stood awkwardly around the room, muttering to each other in hushed tones. None of them were happy with Illrune's intrusion into whatever conclave had been taking place. Elaithe gave a subtle tilt of her head, and like dogs trained on command, they shuffled out without a peep.

The door clicked shut. Illrune stepped forward.

Elashor didn't look up. He was swirling a glass of something amber and murderous, thick fingers flipping through papers like they weren't worth the ink. Smoke curled from the fat cigar clenched between his teeth.

Illrune cleared his throat.

"Father," he said. "You will not believe what just happened—"

"I believe," Elashor interrupted, still reading. "You and your thugs tried to shake down the wrong man. He was a mage. Made fools of the lot of you."

Illrune's face flushed hot, and it wasn't from the swelling in his nose. Every time. Every single time. His father could cut you apart with words, each one a little blade honed by decades of cold authority. The bastard always knew everything. Or pretended to.

But not this time. Illrune straightened, letting the cloth fall from his nose. His voice was steady, if a little congested. "I was caught off guard. Only because I wasn't expecting to run into an Outworlder, of all things."

That word, at least, got the old man's attention.

Elashor raised an eyebrow. Slowly, he looked up. Smoke streamed from his nostrils as he leaned back, cigar in hand. "What is this nonsense?"

"You can ask my men. He was human, but not like any I've seen before. Clothes like rags but covered with strange runes and illustrations. Magic that didn't follow form or discipline. And he mentioned friends. So, I suspect there's more than one."

The air between Illrune and his father suddenly thickened with more than cigar smoke. It crackled with power and Illrune almost collapsed under the slight oppressive push of his father's aura. The mental tug and pressure reemphasized who really had control of the space. Illrune gritted his teeth, trying his best not to whimper in pain.

"Outworlders," the Abascal patriarch growled. "You're sounding like my grandfather."

Illrune stepped closer, emboldened. "How long have we served Greed? Since the days of the Contest, correct? That's what Great Grandfather always said. I know he didn't quite have all of his mental faculties near the end… But we've heard the same stories directly from Greed himself. Outworlders. That when the gods will return. But first will come the Outworlders. Heralds. Harbingers of another Contest. Greed's been preparing for this. For the next Contest. If we deliver them to him… if we're the first to offer him a gift like that…"

He let it hang there. Let it breathe. Dain sat up straighter. Elaithe narrowed her eyes.

Elashor took a long pull from his cigar. "And what if you're wrong?"

Illrune didn't flinch. "Then strip me of the family name. Cut out my tongue and cast me to the street. But give me some men. Resources. Let me find them. I'll bring them back. Alive."

A pause. Then: "Dain, what do you think?"

The shadow of a man stirred, voice drenched with laughter. "At the very least, if your boy captures a couple of civilized humans, they'll be a novelty. Master Greed may still enjoy that… Or they can work on your holiday estate."

Another long pause. Another pull from the cigar. Smoke coiled through the air like a snake, wrapping around Illrune's shoulders. Finally, Elashor nodded once. "Fine. Take who you need. But bring me results, not excuses."

Illrune bowed his head low, concealing the grin breaking across his battered face.

When he stepped out into the corridor, Elaithe closed the door behind him. Dain's chuckle echoed faintly inside. Let them laugh, Illrune thought.

Let them all laugh.

Soon, they'd be choking on their own smugness. He'd bring the Outworlders in chains. He'd offer them to Greed himself.

And then they'd all learn his name. Illrune Abascal.

Not a joke of a younger son. Not a failure.

No, a legend.

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