Hallvar ate dinner, checked that Queenie was fed, and then crashed in the guest accommodations provided by Oma. It was a small room almost like a monastery chamber, with room for a single bed, a single desk, and a storage trunk.

If Brigavalé was as dangerous as people said, then travelers and adventurers alike sought solace in large cities. A castle like this, built for the express purpose of housing the Adventurer's Guild?

It certainly served the community, as Oma wanted.

Pipkin had to wake the hero up the next day, as Hallvar slept well-past time to rouse. She was hungry and the beastmaster was not being cooperative. She nipped at the cartilage of their ear until they shook off the slumber.

A guild member followed them to the stables, watching as Hallvar greeted Queenie for the day. She was fine in the stall, as it was roomier than any burrow-sett she would have built as a kjerrborn.

She clambered to her feet as Hallvar stepped away, but the beastmaster settled her down once again. It was hard to convey that she needed to stay here.

Hallvar hoped they did a good enough job – having conceded that the kjerrborn could wander in this courtyard and only this courtyard if she wanted to stretch.

The local adventurers' terror was a problem for later.

The guild member passed a paper over to Hallvar. Upon it was a list, written out in two languages.

Physician, barber. Right, those things were often the same person. The dexterity to use blades and the alteration of bodies was a commonality between hair-cutting and flesh-cutting.

Clothing. Yeah, Hallvar was bursting at the seam in these clothes. They were quite surprised to see that no threads were snapped from crouching to speak to the toddler yesterday.

Bath. Fates, Hallvar would kill for a bath. They wished it was higher on the list.

Guild storage, armor, weapons. It dawned on Hallvar that Oma said she was around before two countries were formed, split off of one. So, she must have had a lot of weapons and supplies obtained over time, enough to spare for the hero.

This was the thought lingering in Hallvar's mind as they were led by the guild member – a polite but Valien-speaking vode with long dark hair – out of the castle to their first destination.

The feeling of being a pet to be groomed and clothed was present, sure, but what was the human Hallvar to an elf that saw nations rise and fall?

It was the same concept for Rodu, except the old necromancer was a little better at coming off jolly and amenable, like he actually enjoyed Hallvar's company.

The hero was very, very unused to someone else attending to their… their beard, so they let their thoughts wander literally anywhere except for the blade near their throat and face.

It landed on Oma again.

The elf that saw nations live and die. The elf.

Hallvar was lucky that they were already so focused on staying still, because they would have shot upright in shock otherwise.

Elves lived way longer than humans. How… how had Hallvar forgotten this? Or not processed it.

Did Stella not tell them? Did they just forget to ask?

It wasn't like elves here were exact parallels of their past life's conception of elves. No, these ones were just more magical and born from humans.

That was it. Hallvar didn't add on the long-lived nature of elves because it wasn't the exact same here. Not immortality, not if Oma was a prime example of an elf. She looked old; therefore, elves did age.

Just… slowly.

So Hallvar would age without Stella.

Oh.

They were unable to do anything but ruminate on this. No conversations could be had in Sínisch, so it wasn't like the others could distract Hallvar.

They did some pantomime in response to the barber, who insisted that the hero keep their hair long and keep a short beard. Now clean and tidied, but still present.

(The bristles and hair going down the back of their neck and spine were untouched, save for a single bristle that proved far too hard for the barber to shave, for fear of dulling their razor.)

Hallvar didn't catch sight of themselves in a mirror until the physician came to weigh in. She carefully assessed the scar on the hero's face, asking questions that they couldn't answer.

More charades and a few doodles from Hallvar managed to convey that, yes, it did hurt sometimes.

They hadn't been human long enough to give an accurate assessment, but the damn injury woke them up in the dead of night, a strong burning sensation behind sealed skin.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

The physician did some magical tests or some shit while Hallvar stared blankly into a mirror.

Fates, they didn't look the same. Not remotely the same person as before.

A few months ago, they were this lean, gangly figure, with tired eyes and an intentionally smooth face and floppy hair that didn't do much for their features.

Awkward and unsure. And there was even a changing body metaphor in the permanent alterations from beastshaping.

Now Hallvar looked like a side character from a historical romance novel or show. Like, the missing eye didn't qualify them to be Fabio-adjacent on the book cover, but it sure slotted them into side character with a troubled past.

Maybe like… viking or pirate media.

Hallvar was given a U-shaped brass hairpin to keep their hair out of their face, if they wanted. It was long and wavy and still as red as ever. Their sideburns were now connected to a short, cropped beard, kind of like Anton's.

Numerous 'just like your father' jokes passed through Hallvar's thoughts, but nothing stuck.

They were still stunned by everything.

How had they matured so much in so little time? Going from an awkward adult to someone who was, despite this moment of concern, mostly self-assured and felt better in their body?

Was it weird that they accepted the changes the beastshaping made? That now being a fish hawk or a kjerrborn or a qittakākom was as natural and normal as being this?

A one-eyed, red-headed side character in a pirate movie?

No. It was the foreign location, the ill-fitting clothing, the need for cleanliness and tidiness, that was what was making Hallvar feel off.

They felt gross and confined by a tight collar and tighter pants-waist and untethered to the community. Following the list would make everything better.

Their eyes were still tired, though. The pronounced under-eye wrinkle was a forever-trait.

Trying on clothes made Hallvar think of the old clockmaker, as they were provided leather pants like the old man wore.

That started the decline back into questions of aging and Stella. Would Hallvar be tinkering in some workshop, wrinkled and hard of hearing, while Stella still looked like she was in her mid-twenties?

Fuck. To everything.

They'd been provided these thick stockings – hose – to wear under the leather pants, but their talons poked through if Hallvar wasn't really, really careful.

A beastly growl escaped them as the frustration mounted, startling the poor merchant and guild member assigned to help Hallvar today.

After another series of less productive charades – undercut by Hallvar's emotional state – the others settled on a less Valien fashion.

The kingdom of Hafneir was just across an expanse of sea, only Kuteli separating it from Brigavalé.

Hafneir was the funky little lovechild of pre-Valiens fleeing from the formation of Drac Dumon and colliding with the native Fyrmannic cultures. It had cold weather and high mountains in the far north, wetlands and sprawling rivers further south.

Sure, Hallvar would look out of place in Hafneir fashion, but they already looked very out of place. At least now they would be comfortable.

It was easier to put on this clothing. Hallvar nearly cried when the tailor provided them with a little button hook, a device that made buttoning clothes easier for older hands or less able-bodied people.

It went directly into Hallvar's pocket once they were done, so that it would be available constantly to the be-taloned human.

The tailor didn't have much Hafneir fashion on hand, so it was a matter of what fit rather than selecting a style.

There was audible disappointment when the blue-green option was too small, but a bit of glee from the tailor when a dark blue tunic and black metal-studded gambeson fit perfectly.

Paired with a new pair of dark boots and bracers, and a dark blue set of trousers, Hallvar felt that there was no denying the Viking-Pirate allegations.

They were suddenly grateful that only four other people from their previous world were present to potentially witness this.

It was a good look on Hallvar, admittedly. Black, blue, and red were timeless as far as color combinations went.

But, back into the too-tight clothes for now.

The tailor provided another tunic and trousers. The boots and bracers came from a leatherworker's shop, where they got a belt and a couple pairs of socks.

After a bath, Hallvar was feeling exceptionally human. It was the same wash-first then open bath concept as Amnasín, except the bathhouses were fully indoors with smaller occupancy pools.

If winters were this bad, it probably took a lot of magical effort to maintain the water heat. Smaller pools made sense.

By the time Hallvar was shown to the guild storage, their worries about aging and Stella were largely forgotten. It was a challenge they would need to address, but so was the lack of an eye and the imposition of their beast instincts.

Hallvar rummaged mostly out of curiosity, checking out several weapons before identifying a serviceable boarding axe and dagger. No great treasures were left behind in the guild storage, only simple, functional weapons to replace broken ones in times of need.

After they were done playing dress up, Hallvar's transformation was complete. If they got some tattoos and piercings, they would descend into a modern romance novel anti-hero.

It was unsurprising, then, that the Wanderer failed to recognize Hallvar, only giving the hero a glance as they were escorted into what they presumed to be Oma's office.

Hallvar wasn't rude. They didn't interrupt Tyrus as he tried to converse with Oma, who refused to let him speak Sínisch and kept encouraging the mage to use Valien, no matter how fragmented.

How… was the mage here? He was in Staareaux last time Hallvar remembered, but at that fancy wizard's tower. Did he trek around the mountains just like the hero did?

Wouldn't that have left Tyrus just as worn out and exhausted as Guillaume had been?

So why did he look… fresh? Not a frayed loc on his head. Tyrus always looked thin – he had a slight frame and was bookish, it was his general demeanor – but he didn't look starved or gaunt.

He stumbled over his words, an irritated look on his face at failing to conjugate a verb properly, before handing off a stack of letters in their leather wraps.

Tyrus. The Wandering Scholar.

That was right! Oma said the Wandering Scholar would be by later with mail.

Hallvar was practically kicking their feet in the chair, gleeful to send a letter back to Stella and honestly happy to see a friend here.

But they could be patient. This guildmaster was not their guildmaster, their dad, and therefore Hallvar wouldn't be as rude as to interrupt business.

Oma glanced at Hallvar sitting on a stool by the door, returning to reading her letters.

However, when she next spoke, it was in Sínisch.

"When is your return? Or do you have business here?"

Tyrus blinked behind his round glasses, reconsidering the scolding he just received for daring to say a word or two in Sínisch instead of Valien. His Valien was terrible, having avoided Brigavalé for so long because it was so cold.

"Er, not for a day or two. I want to visit the markets."

"There is a caravan traveling with supplies for Valiens in isolated villages. Your friend–" Oma gestured behind the mage to Hallvar, who grinned. "–is a guard. You should consider it. You can practice the language."

Tyrus whipped his head around to stare at the beastmaster, surprised that the other person was still in the room. There was absolutely zero recognition in those owlish eyes until the hero wiggled their taloned fingers at him.

The shock was evident. "… Hallvar?"

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