The next month dissolved into a rhythmic blur of repetition and soreness. Linda’s existence narrowed down to the calloused grip of a shortsword, the biting snap of a bowstring, and the endless, droning lectures from Theodore. She spent her mornings calculating wind shear and her afternoons learning the precise angle of a parry, her mind constantly running simulations of combat like a game debugger hunting for a glitch in the code.
Between the bouts of exertion, she navigated the mundane demands of her Aelvyn body...
..which was just regular body processes.
Eating.
Peeing.
Pooping.
Still had to do all of it.
Izze had cackled at her for it one evening when something didn't agree with her stomach and she had a case of bad diarrhea...
It was mortifying.
Anywho...
The shortsword training felt like grinding on Runescape while the bow training felt like remembering to ride a bike after a few years of not riding. Linda had grown though throughout this last month, her muscles knitting themselves together into something denser and more capable. She now could clearly see her defined muscles instead of just being fit and even has a four pack. She thought it sounded like some sleezy ad that promised 'Great results fast!' but the training had done wonders for her.
Then there was the learning.
Theodore was like a walking encyclopedia with a voice like old parchment. She spent hours in his room, absorbing the complexities of Velmoira's fragmented history while sipping tea. She liked the quiet of it all, where the only sound was the scratching of quills and the occasional soft sigh of a turning page. It reminded her of the deep-dive forums she used to lurk in back in New York, the feeling of uncovering a hidden piece of a puzzle that no one else cared about.
Between the sweat of sparring in the Quorrith heat and the silence of learning, Linda felt the gap between her old self and this new version narrowing. She still flinched when someone raised their voice, and her instinct was still to shrink into the background, but her hands no longer shook when she gripped the hilt of her sword. She was starting to realize that confidence wasn't a magical switch you flipped, but a series of small, grueling victories accumulated one day at a time.
Linda wasn't a warrior yet, but she was getting used to this world one new experience at a time.
But one topic stood out in Theodore's room...
Sollavar.
Because of course it did.
Theodore "thought it prudent" because she was sun-blessed...
Chosen of Solanthe...
Linda didn't argue.
To argue would bring suspicion and to bring suspicion would mean questions.
Linda had been doing really good at occupying Izze's and Theodore's minds away from why she couldn't do anything with her Blessing.
So the Aelvyn left it alone and begrudgingly learned about the theocratic state.
Theodore spent hours detailing the Solavate, the monolithic church that functioned as the spine of the empire. He explained how the Lumarch sat atop the pyramid, a supreme figure blending spiritual divinity with absolute military command, while the Solar Conclave whispered the doctrines that defined a citizen's worth. Below them were the Dawnguard - seven elite shadows sent to erase "inconveniences" - and the Solenguard, the white-armored police who ensured every newborn was registered with the Sollari. In Sollavar, faith was not a choice, but was a civic requirement. To be born without a mark was to be "curseborn," a living insult to Solanthe's light, and to hide such a void was a crime punishable by exile or worse.
Death.
Then there was Sollavar's Emperor and the Sundered Houses...
Emperor Aldric IV sat atop a throne of gilded legitimacy, backed by centuries of curated bloodlines, yet he was little more than a decorative seal on the Solavate’s decrees. He was a man of soft edges and quiet compromises, a Roven-blessed pragmatist who knew that the crown he wore was merely a loan from the Church. Beside him stood Empress Seraphine, a Vessandra-blessed predator in silk, whose eyes could strip a man’s secrets bare before he even spoke. While Aldric played the part of the dignified sovereign, Seraphine operated the actual machinery of state, weaving through the whispers of the Imperial Council and the demands of the Solar Conclave with a precision that made the court tremble.
Below the throne lay the Sundered Houses, the seven ancient dynasties that acted as the empire's skeletal support. These were the Primarchs - men and women of old money and older grudges - who viewed the Imperial throne as a necessary formality. The first among them, House Caelthar, breathed the cold air of military prestige, their bloodline a conveyor belt of Korath-blessed generals for the Solenguard. Then there was House Drevath, the architects of doctrine who whispered the laws that the rest of the world obeyed, and the House Solenne, whose coffers were so deep they could practically buy the sun if the Church ever decided to sell it.
The power balance shifted toward the grim and the mysterious as the list continued. House Valdenmere kept the empire's borders secure at the Sunderwound, their Isolde-blessed lords comfortable with the scent of death and the silence of the frontier. In stark contrast, House Aurentis played the role of the pious zealots, their Primarch, Sevas Aurentis, pushing for a purity that made even the high priests blink. Below them sat House Miraethis, the masters of the southern tides, and the enigmatic House Veyrath, who dealt in the only currency more valuable than coin....
Secrets.
Whose secrets?
Theodore said no one knew.
And below Houses?
The Archons are the gilded grease in the empire's gears, men and women who wear the title of governor like a heavy cloak, managing the messy reality of tax levies and trade disputes so the nobility doesn't have to. They sit on the Imperial Council as a bridge between the muddy provinces and the polished floors of the capital. Beneath them, the Imperial Guard maintains a professional, cold distance from the Solenguard. Where the knights of the Church hunt for heresy with zealous fervor, the Guard simply protects the crown with a power and disciplined silence.
This was the nature of Sollavar.
And above it all lived Solanthe.
Sol Invictus.
The Radiant One.
The Eternal Flame.
The All-Seeing.
The Pyre King.
Infernal Sovereign.
King of Kings.
He Who Commands the All.
The nicknames went on and on and on...
Linda got tired of it and barely made it through that particularly lore-intensive lecture.
But now the Aelvyn was fighting another proverbial battle.
They were back in Garviss's office and ready to petition the Brennox for Linda's first quest.
Lyra was on his left and it looked like there was pride in her eyes, though the look was gone just as fast as it appeared.
Linda couldn't help but admire her large boobs and long legs in those tight secretary-like clothes of hers, but quickly focused back on Garviss.
The Brennox loomed behind his massive desk, his hulking frame making the office feel cramped. He looked at Linda with an expression that sat somewhere between skepticism and reluctant respect, his chest heaving as he let out a low, rumbling sigh.
Linda came to value this old man's wisdom and felt like she was being tested by her grandfather.
Lyra nodded once, a sharp, economical movement that sent a stray strand of purple hair dancing against the rim of her silver glasses.
"The criteria are absolute," Lyra stated, her voice as cool and precise as a fresh blade. She shifted the heavy leather ledger in her arms, the movement causing the fabric of her professional blouse to strain precariously across her chest. "Five successful contracts of a low difficulty. Once the fifth is filed and verified, the Branch Manager will sign the petition for the Bronze rank examination. No exceptions, no shortcuts..." She formally explained for Linda, then continued. "We have no reason to not give Linda the first. She has made great strides in both her swordsmanship and bowmanship."
Garviss let out a sound that was half-grunt, half-scoff, good-naturedly waving a massive hand to dismiss Lyra’s lecture.
"I know, I know! She is not child, she is varrior now," Garviss rumbled, his thick accent turning the words into a gravelly, rhythmic drone.
The Brennox leaned back, the heavy wooden chair groaning under his bulk.
For a fleeting moment, the sternness in the Brennox's eyes softened, and he let out a sudden, wet sniffle - a surprising flash of sentimentality from a man who looked like he could headbutt a mountain into submission.
"Look at that," Izze chimed in, her voice dancing with mischief as she leaned against the doorframe. "The old ox is actually getting misty-eyed. I didn't know you had a heart under all that muscle and leather, Garviss. You're practically glowing with pride for our little archer."
Garviss froze, his expression snapping back to a stony mask of indifference as he glared at the small annoyance.
"Is lie! I show no emotion!" Garviss roared, though the volume lacked any real bite. He pivoted his massive head toward Lyra, his gaze pleading. "Lyra! Tell this bastard! I am stone! I am diamond! I did not make soft face, yes?"
Lyra didn't even look up from the ledger she was now writing in.
"You absolutely did, sir," Lyra replied, her voice a cool, effortless monotone. "You looked remarkably like a lonely puppy. Now, please stop shouting, you're vibrating the ink... again."
Theodore let out a long, weary sigh, shaking his head at the familiar chaos, but the Aelvyn couldn't help it.
A small, genuine giggle escaped Linda, the sound light and hesitant.
It was a strange feeling, standing in a room with a hulking Brennox and a woman who looked like she could fire her with a single glance, and feeling like she actually belonged there.
Garviss huffed, a puff of air sounding like a steam engine, and reached for a folded slip of paper. He shoved it toward Lyra with a grunt that sounded suspiciously like a mumble about "disrespectful youth." Lyra took the paper with a practiced grace, her long fingers brushing the parchment before she extended it toward Linda.
"Your first official contract," Lyra stated, her eyes scanning Linda. "A pest control job on the outskirts of Brennale. A man named Mudo, though people here call him 'Mad Mudo', has a Skrat infestation in his cellar. They've chewed through his winter stores and he came here with the request. Clear the nest, bring back the proof of kill, and you'll have your first mark toward the Bronze rank. And… A payout of 20 copper."
This feels familiar, Linda thought.
"There won't be any cougars there, right?" Linda blurted out, the question escaping her lips before her social anxiety could catch the gate.
She froze instantly, her silver hair shimmering as she stiffened, realizing she had just applied a very specific, very Earth-centric animal to a fantasy pest control mission.
The room fell into a heavy, confused silence.
Garviss paused mid-huff, his massive brow furrowing as he tilted his head, his massive horns still looking massive.
Beside him, Lyra didn't move, but her piercing purple eyes shifted behind her silver-rimmed glasses, narrowing with a clinical curiosity.
The sheer lack of context made the comment hang in the air like a misplaced spell.
Theodore was the first to break the quiet, glancing at Linda with a look of genuine bewilderment.
"A cougar?" Theodore asked, his voice trailing off. "Is that some sort of regional variation of a Skrat? Or perhaps a specific breed of forest predator common to Sylvenreach?"
Linda felt the heat rush to her cheeks, the silence of the room pressing in on her like a physical weight. She shifted her weight, her hand flying up to her forehead in a sudden, theatrical gesture of confusion.
"Oh, g- goodness, maybe it's just my memory acting up?" Linda tried, her voice pitching higher as she tried to backtrack. "Possibly? I think I read something in an old bestiary about... territorial felines? In other regions? I must have just misremembered the t- terminology..."
Theodore nodded slowly, seemingly satisfied by the technical explanation, and the rest of the room drifted back into their usual chaos.
However, Izze didn't look convinced.
The Krithak leaned back, crossing her arms over her chest and narrowing her eyes at Linda with a skeptical, knowing squint.
Then, as quickly as the suspicion had flared, Izze shrugged it off and looked toward the contract in Linda's hands
"Whatever..." Izze mumbled, and then louder asked. "Does this fucker 'Mad Mudo' usually give people trouble? Because if the guy is as unstable as his name suggests, twenty copper ain't enough to deal with a lunatic and a cellar full of Drevan-damned vermin."
Lyra and Garviss shared a brief, knowing glance.
"The moniker is simply a cruel joke," Lyra explained. "Mudo is an old man, broken by time and a few unfortunate accidents. He isn't 'mad' in the sense of being dangerous, just... eccentric. The skrats are the only real threat in that house."
The Brennox let out a rumbling laugh.
"Izze, you overthink!" Garviss replied, rolling his eyes. "Is simple quest! Go to house, kill Skrats, get coin. No politics, no grand mysteries, just blood and cellar."
Izze snorted, rolling her eyes at what they said, and the look on her face was nothing like what it usually was.
"That's what they always say about the 'simple' ones. One minute you're clearing out some oversized skrats, and the next you're fighting a fucking Amalgam to the death!" Izze snapped, her tone angry, none of her playfulness present.
A sudden, heavy chill settled over the group. Theodore’s face drained of color, his eyes widening as if he had just seen a ghost, while Garviss’s laughter died mid-breath, leaving him staring blankly at the floor. The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly, the casual air of a first quest replaced by a lingering, visceral dread that made the hair on Linda's arms stand up.
"What... what is an Amalgam?" Linda asked, her voice small.
She looked between them, feeling the sudden weight of a danger she didn't understand.
Theodore cleared his throat, his expression softening into a regretful frown.
"Calyx's Mercy, my apologies, Linda. I didn't think it relevant to mention such... elevated horrors during your initial studies. Hollows come in various forms, ranked by their mutation and lethality. Most are simple shamblers, but when they fuse, warp, or evolve, they earn different names. An Amalgam is in Tier 4. A night- nightmare given form. A mass of fused bodies and corrupted flesh that can tear through a seasoned squad of adventurers in seconds." Theodore explained, but he wasn't looking at her when he explained this, but had that look again like at the Great Tree.
Garviss let out a heavy, guttural sigh, crossing his massive arms over his chest.
"Too polite. Too clean," Garviss rumbled with a shake of his head. "Amalgam is not just 'nightmare.' Is meat-grinder. Imagine ten men, twenty men, all melted together into screaming vall of muscle and bone. They do not tire, do not feel pain, and eat everything in path. You do not fight Amalgam... You run from Amalgam until legs fail, brain fail, then pray to vhoever is listening." He spat on the floor, his eyes narrowing. "To meet one is death."
Lyra nodded, swallowing roughly at the more descriptive explanation.
With a slow, deliberate motion, the Ardel woman reached for the mark of Vessandra on her skin, rubbing the tattoo with a thumb in a rhythmic, soothing gesture.
"Let us hope the Skrats are merely Skrats," Lyra murmured, her piercing purple eyes softening as she looked at Linda. "I shall pray to the Lady of Law that your path remains clear of such aberrations, Linda."
The Aelvyn was touched by Lyra's words, momentarily shaken by the new revelations that hollows can get even worse, but this was her path and she would take on her first quest with her head held high...