"Look what the mist dragged in. Come to beg for more handouts, dull-ear?"
Branson was sprawled out at the bar, his bloodshot eyes tracking Caleb's entrance with a sneer twisting his lips. Caleb held his course and ignored the loser, striding steadily forward. The insult was just another sound in a loud room, and ultimately irrelevant to his objective. His boots clicked against the worn floorboards as he walked straight to the quartermaster's counter, where Felicity was sorting through a stack of bounty notices.
The Hall buzzed with its usual chaos as adventurers haggled over contracts at scarred wooden tables. The smell of stale ale mixed with leather and steel, and monster parts gleamed behind glass cases, trophies and commodities alike.
Without a word, Caleb projected his status screen so that only Felicity could see it.
The translucent blue light materialized between them, his character information laid bare for her professional assessment. He made sure only the relevant line was visible:
SKILLS
Combat
[Breaching Thrust (F) - Adept]
Felicity scanned the display and after a moment, her calm composure cracked. She leaned forward, mouth slowly dropping open to stare so intensely Caleb thought she might try to touch the projection.
She looked at him as she pulled back, searching his eyes for a few seconds. "Well done, Thal. Well done."
Then she quickly craned past him, glaring directly at Branson.
"Looks like some investments pay off better than others!" The drunk lout scowled, and his face darkening. She gave Caleb a conspiratorial wink and leaned back. "Come on then, my impressive young adventurer-to-be. Let's get you equipped."
Through a door behind the counter, she led him away from the common room's din. The hallway beyond was narrow and utilitarian, shifting from public theater to private business in the span of a few steps.
"Branson's been nursing ale for three hours," Felicity said conversationally as they walked. "Ever since his last contract went sideways he's been a right bastard. He lost two fingers to a mistweaver spider because he was too drunk to see their webs, so now he sits there making everyone else miserable, because misery loves company."
She pushed open the heavy door at the end of the hall. "Welcome to the armory."
The room beyond was a testament to failed ventures. Racks of mismatched gear filled the space from floor to ceiling. Leather armor hung like empty husks, while swords and axes gathered dust on their stands.
"All unclaimed," Felicity said somberly. "From adventurers who had no one to collect their effects."
Her eyes landed on a big tower shield leaning against the far wall. It was made of thick wood and reinforced with bands of steel. Three deep gashes raked across its surface, the metal peeled back where massive claws had connected.
"That," Felicity pointed, "is all that came back from the Iron Tides. They went into the deep forest chasing rumors of a 'peak existence.' One of them made it back to the gates, dragging that shield. Died before he could say much more than 'red scales'." She shook her head. "Some monsters just aren't worth the potential bounty."
She moved to a rack holding several spears, her movements reverent. Three weapons came free with gentle tugs. Each one told its own story through wear and craftsmanship, and Felicity held up the spear of dark wood with silver filigree worked into the grain.
"This one belonged to a Mycari scout named Aelyth. Unfortunately she pushed her luck in the outer woods, hunting alone. The search party found her spear. Not her."
The second weapon was utilitarian to the point of anonymity. "This was donated by a Legion deserter. It's standard issue and batch-forged. The weapon probably changed hands a dozen times before ending up here."
The third spear looked rougher than its companions. "Local smith made this one. The kid who carried it wasn't much older than you, actually. He joined the Guild with big dreams… and died his first winter when a sporecap shambler caught him off guard."
Sighing, she laid all three on a nearby table. "Are you sure you want to do this, Thal? I know you've made incredible progress with the spear but it just seems too fast."
"I'm sure Felicity. I want to earn that apprenticeship as soon as possible. Besides, it's only one feral goblin… how hard can it be?"
"You know you just jinxed it, right? Spirits Thal, you really do have a lot to learn." She shook her head and pointed down at the spears. "Take your time with these and pick the right one. The armory doesn't like returns."
Caleb approached the weapons, testing the weight and balance of each spear while cataloging the details.
The Mycari weapon was first. It was striking, no question. His fingers traced the silver filigree, feeling the slight catch where an impact had warped the inlay. He spotted the hairline fractures radiating from the pressed metal, compromising the wood's soundness. The tip was fragile, worn thin from over-sharpening.
Next, he reached for the Legion spear. It was a model of military efficiency. Standardized dimensions, well-balanced. Utilitarian. But when he clasped the shaft it felt… inert. It lacked character. The weapon was an instrument forged through mass production, and something about it just didn't feel right.
The last spear drew him, however. It was simple, but the smith had paid attention to what mattered. The grain of the wood was straight and true. The weight fell into an intuitive balance. When he hefted it, the weapon settled into his grip as if created for him. It made him eager.
"The Mycari spear is damaged," Caleb said. "There are fine cracks where the filigree was pressed into the wood. It's beautiful, to be sure, but it'll fail under real stress. The Legion weapon is solid, but it's... impersonal. It'd be like fighting with math instead of art."
He hefted the third spear, feeling its lively poise. "This one is simple, reliable, and it just… feels right."
Felicity nodded once, approving. "That's sound reasoning, Thal. Most pick the pretty one, but it's always best to go with your gut."
"Pretty doesn't keep you alive." The words came out harder than he'd intended.
"No," Felicity agreed quietly. "It doesn't."
Caleb turned the spear in his hands, already planning his next step. The weapon was first. But a spear alone wouldn't keep goblin claws from him. He needed armor, and his coin purse wasn't exactly full, even with what he'd managed to save after buying the spirit stone.
Time to leverage his corporate experience.
"I'll need some sort of armor to have a realistic chance of completing the goblin contract," he pitched confidently. "And I'm currently broke. Can the cost of a used one be taken as an advance against the contract's bounty?"
Felicity raised her eyebrows slightly. "A standard cuirass runs well over a gold new. Used?" She tilted her head, calculating. "Let's say seventy-five silver for something serviceable. It's not regular procedure to advance gear against bounties, but..." Her lips quirked. "I have discretionary authority for promising candidates. You've shown good judgment so far. Let's see if that continues."
She led him to another section where armor hung from pegs, navigating the cluttered aisles with an easy familiarity. Caleb examined each, checking straps and joints while checking for wear patterns and weak points.
They settled on a battered but solid cuirass of boiled leather reinforced with iron strips. It showed its history in scuffs and scratches, but the essential structure remained sound. More importantly, it fit well enough to allow free movement, which mattered far more to someone relying on agility over strength.
"This'll do," Caleb confirmed, already working the straps. "Function over form."
"You're consistent, I'll give you that." Felicity made notes on a leather-bound ledger. "Let's make this official."
As he passed a rack of polished armor on the way out he caught his reflection in a brass cuirass. The face staring back was still a stranger's with an angular jaw and high cheekbones, not to mention the faintest point to his ears. Yet the sight had lost its power to unsettle him.
It's just a face. He clenched his jaw. And this face is going to keep breathing.
They returned to the main counter where the Hall's clamor continued unabated. Branson still nursed his ale, shooting poisonous looks their way, while other adventurers conducted their business with varying degrees of sobriety and success. Felicity filled out and handed the contract she'd discussed with Caleb to a bored-looking clerk who didn't bother glancing up from his own paperwork. The man dipped a stamp in an inkwell mechanically as he read over the details.
"This next part is a tradition, Thal. All newbies get their first contract proclaimed to the Hall," Felicity explained with a smile.
"Contract seven-hundred thirty-four!" the clerk announced, his voice pitched to carry easily across the Hall. "Target: feral goblins. Threat designation: Low F. Objective: culling. Bounty: ten silver per thumb claw pair. Contract accepted by Thalorin Caldorn." He paused, re-reading the last line. "Gear advance of seventy-five silver issued against future earnings."
The stamp came down with a decisive thud that seemed loud in the sudden quiet. At a nearby table, two scarred adventurers looked up from their dice game. One, a woman missing her left ear, scoffed loudly.
"The lad's gonna die for pocket change while starting nearly a gold in debt. These new 'uns get dumber e'ry year."
Her companion, a man whose face looked like it had been rearranged by something with too many fists, shook his head. "Give 'im a week. 'em gobs'll have picked his bones clean, and that gear'll be back on the rack."
Heat crept up Caleb's neck, but he kept his expression neutral. Let them talk. Their opinions mattered less than the spear in his hands and the protection across his chest.
Felicity leaned in as he collected the stamped contract, lowering her voice to a whisper meant only for him. "One last thing, Thal. Feral goblins are weak, but also fast, and they like to swarm. Don't fight the pack. They're aggressive and stupid individually, but they coordinate well in groups. Make noise, use the terrain, and separate one from the others. A lone feral goblin is a scared feral goblin. Scared means sloppy."
Caleb gave her a grateful nod. "Thank you, Felicity. For all of it."
"Save your gratitude for when you return with my coin." She pointed her finger at his nose. "And don't be squeamish on me. Make sure to cut into its sternum to look for a spirit stone."
The concern in her eyes belied her stern words. He recognized the look: years of filling the armory's racks, one tragedy at a time.
Caleb gripped the worn wood of the spear shaft and adjusted the cuirass pressed against his ribs. With these tools, he'd stop being prey. Cillian's smiling face flashed through his mind, followed by the forager's gurgling last breath. Then Leo's scared face after Narbok's bullying. The brief, satisfying moment when he'd swept the Mycari boy into the dirt.
Control, that's what it came down to. The power to choose his own fate.
Never again, he promised himself. I'll become strong enough that no one can ever make me feel that helpless again.
He left the Hall with sure-footed steps, ignoring Branson's continued glare and the whispered predictions of his demise. Outside, Deadfall's streets buzzed with afternoon activity and the typical bedlam of commerce he'd grown accustomed to over the past weeks.
He had one more stop to make before the quarry. One more piece to put in place.
The Hearthsong Inn's kitchen was in its usual state of controlled commotion when Caleb slipped through the back entrance, after a quick detour for some fried mushrooms. That street vendor was always so happy to see him after his overpayment. With the lunch rush over, Gareth began dinner prep while assistants scrubbed pots and arranged ingredients. The big half-elf looked up from his cutting board, noted the spear and armor, and returned to his work without comment.
Cassia's office door stood open, revealing the proprietress bent over her ledgers. Caleb knocked softly on the frame.
"Come in, Thal," she said looking up. "I heard about your contract. The whole Hall did, apparently."
Caleb arched an eyebrow. "News sure travels fast."
"It's faster when it involves someone young starting their adventuring career in debt." She looked at him meaningfully. "Felicity has a good eye for talent, Thal, but seventy-five silver is a significant advance."
Caleb walked into the office, closing the door behind him, and opened his mouth to make his case. To lay out the logical reasons for his decision.
Cassia raised a palm, stopping him before he could begin. "Thal, you don't need to justify it. A young man gets a spear in his hand, learns how to use it... it's only natural to want to test yourself." Her expression shifted through multiple emotions as she considered what to say. "It doesn't mean I won't worry about you, but the way you handled that sale for me yesterday gives me confidence you will succeed. You have a good head on your shoulders, and I trust you."
She leaned forward, her tone getting more serious. "But intelligence doesn't stop claws or teeth. What you're doing is dangerous, never forget that. Feral goblins might be stupid individually, but they're pack hunters. Numbers can overwhelm even experienced adventurers."
Cassia was quiet for a long moment, studying him. Then she opened a drawer in her desk and produced a small iron key. This unlocked a second compartment from which she withdrew a small vial filled with glowing red liquid.
"We figured you would plan to go through with it. Your job will be here when you return, but I won't have you gallivanting around out there without this." She set the potion on the desk between them. "It's an F-tier healing potion if you couldn't tell. They're worth five gold on the open market, but I bought it wholesale. Call it three gold from your wages if you use it. If you don't, bring it back intact."
Before Caleb could respond to the generous loan she was already moving, pulling a leather pack from a shelf. Her hands danced with maternal competence, filling it with supplies that had been waiting on her desk.
"Trail rations from the kitchen - the good ones we charge adventurers extra for, mind you," she explained, wrapping a parcel of smoked meat and a loaf of dense travel bread in oilcloth. She tucked a small clay pot beside them. "These are fruit preserves. You'll need the energy." She added a full waterskin, flint and steel, and fifty feet of rope before including a knife in an oiled hide sheath. "Gareth insisted you take this. Said you'd need a proper tool for the messy part. Don't lose it now; it's his favorite blade for deboning fowl."
The motherly care in her actions gave him a smile that grew. When was the last time someone had fussed over him like this? Evelynn, making sure he had his lunch before a big presentation? The memory came with its familiar ache, but for once it brought warmth along with the pain.
"Cassia, I—"
"No arguments." Her manner brooked no disagreement. "This is insurance, nothing more. I protect my investments, just like Felicity."
Her features said differently. Her generosity was to someone she'd grown to treasure, a lost youth who'd found shelter under her roof.
"Thank you." The words felt too simple for the depth of his gratitude.
"Don't thank me. Come back alive and in condition to work the dinner rush tomorrow night. That's thanks enough!"
These women… why won't any accept my thanks? Is it bad luck around here or something?
Caleb shouldered the pack. The cuirass across his torso, the spear in his fist, and the supplies on his back: each represented someone's faith in his potential. He couldn't let them down. Wouldn't let himself down.
"I'll be back by dinner tomorrow," he promised.
"You'd better be. Gareth gets irritable when there aren't enough vegetables prepped."
He left the room, the supplies a comforting presence on his shoulders.
At forty, it's a bit late to be getting a packed lunch from a worried mother. Especially for my first battle, no less. He smiled. Her actions had moved a part of him that hadn't been stirred in a long, long time.
He pushed the thoughts aside after stowing his gear under his cot and turning toward the kitchen. The day's work wasn't finished yet. Tomorrow, he would step beyond the safety of the village walls. He would enter the green depths of the Virethane, a place where the law of the jungle ruled.
The hunt was set. His path was clear.