Warm Up - 13 | Experience
A hooded individual sat down on one of the bar stools and ordered himself a drink. Served on a wooden tankard, he took a sip with his upper lips kissing the foam. A gulp down of liquid courage, and there he found the bond shared by the nobles and the lower classes. Definitely not water because the emperor would never worry of disease or poison. Gods no, alcohol was the equalizer of not only man, but all sentient species too.
The same hooded individual turned on his seat to indulge in the hearty slurred songs of this fine establishment. In a typical tavern fashion; a knocked out drunk by the doorway, another table with five (and counting) tankards over someone who had suffered. And another that always had this one muscular guy swooning over the mercenary women who expressed no interest. She told him off several times, even unbuttoning the scabbard that sheathed her shortsword. The all-brawn-no-brains’ next repeated attempt resulted in his hand pinned on the table with his own dagger. Everyone had agreed that it was his fault and paid no attention to his wailing
Despite that, or the subtle stench of the mingling lower class, he didn’t expect the city taverns to be this calm. The closest to tense, as far as his standards went, occurred when a rugged mage, moments earlier, blazed his own hand with fire magic to intimidate a stranger he disagreed with regarding slavery. Still a hot topic that resulted in a thematic answer, shut down when the latter doused it with the alcohol.
The mage erupted in laughter, with the crowd and even the person he intimidated joining in.
Nonetheless, the hooded individual thought it was not far off from the taverns deeper into the slums. Except those resulted in a fistfight out in the street while the rest would just watch, placing bets if they even had the coin for it.
And after downing his first serving of grog, the hood had been folded back, revealing the face of a bearded, scruffy-haired man in his early twenties. Ricky, they called him, a name that felt off-world as the rest of his peers’ would have their names end in ‘-ius’ or ‘-rax’, or inclusive of an epic title. He was just Ricky. Not the destroyer, or the lightbearer. Simply that. And he had donned the makings of a simple nomad. Trousers and a shirt in drabbed color, a gray hood, leather boots, and steel plates that hugged against his torso.
Ricky felt the warmth built up halfway through his second drink. Mind became a buzz followed by the repeated warning to stop while he was still ahead. Not that he had a job tomorrow, which in itself was the predicament. Short on coin, not enough to last the week while already living off bread, water, and nasty grog to help him forget even for just a moment. Not even enough to get himself drunk, which was a blessing in disguise.
He eyed around for anyone that resembled the need for a mercenary, or escort work, or hell even a menial job. There were areas surrounding the arena that needed haulers, because another extravagant spectacle of bloodsport would happen in a week’s time. Maybe he should become a gladiator instead and make more coin that way? No sword to his name, after having sold it for meager coins, and no one would sponsor a vagabond such as himself.
One last gulp and his first and only drink of grog was gone. An eye looked into the empty cup and made sure it was truly empty. Ricky sighed out and let the warmth settle first, queueing the disappointment on himself to come a few minutes after it had gone. Temporary bliss that extrapolated the songs and speakers of the night.
A band composed of three men dressed in fake knightly armor, one of which had a cello, another a flute, and the last an accordion, all started to play on the same tune together. Anyone who hadn’t paid attention at all were attracted by the screech it made when the cello and accordion seemed to miss a note at the start. No, it was actually a part of it. Because the longer they played, the calmer the tune went. And the cellist’s voice was magnificent when the first lyrics of the ballad came up.
Ricky scoffed it off as advertisement because they sang about what had happened in the arena not too long ago it seemed. Names mentioned were from the ‘defending champions’, and how their fights were poetic, artistic, and was a show for the Divines. That assumption meant that his warmth had gone off. The near-emptiness of his coin purse with the way he could only feel three coins clink inside as he shuffled himself towards the exit.
That cellist’s singing voice must’ve been imbued with magic because it had attracted the passers by as he opened the door, and some flocked onto the windows and watched them perform, and he had to squeeze through five people to find himself out. Walking ten paces away and he could still hear their instruments.
Once he was further away, another attraction had caught his eye: The Arena. Easily one of the tallest structures of the region, the other being the Emperor’s palace, it stood five times higher than the inns. Emphasized further that the streets surrounding it were cornered with them with more taverns, and even a few marbled noble households that contrasted the wooden structures. Even the street in front of them was often cleaned, and had electric lamps opposed to gaslit ones.
The sun over the horizon, where the mountains were shorter in comparison to The Arena, sank behind slowly. Ricky took it upon himself to find work at a time when demand was plenty. He paced towards the colossal structure that only grew taller than the background as he got closer. These streets were made of stone tiles, jagged and rustic that stumbled anyone who had a third share of grog. While the roads themselves, trodden over by horse drawn carts and their horses, were smooth and stained with the occasional animal shit. The smell wasn’t as unnerving because he had come from far worse, and it was no longer in view behind.
Closer towards the stadium, he could make out a massive evening bazaar that was lit by scattered street lamp posts, and hanging ones on plethora upon plethora of wooden stalls. Several were draped in cloth, others were put up by metallic rods, and even a few had lamps that floated just in front of their sign to impress the mundane. Ricky certainly was. As were the crowds that flocked through and out of the evening market, who all came from the surrounding inns.
When Ricky had entered the street ring just before the tall structure, only then did he notice the slight decline from the exterior market. There he discovered stalls made of metal, stone, and something from far off lands that looked like diamonds as their foundations. It was a complex labyrinthe of colorful lights, and the intermingling of different species. An uneasy peace calmed only by their own greed.
It wouldn’t discount the fact that everyone still held resentment towards one another. That this competition between stalls, glares between humans, and gobbos and dwarves could still result in an incident. Especially after a time where one had been slaves to the other. Didn’t matter who upon whom– everyone had done it. Ricky had come close to pens, cages, and convoys during his travels, and nearly got caught on occasion.
Ricky shook his head to forget such things. Bygones of an old era. As caution though, he lifted his hood as he blended himself into the sea of commerce and coin.
He wasn’t the only one who shared the same idea. Hooded figures explored around between these seemingly endless stalls. Wherever he went, in any turn that resembled a circle, always found himself in a new corridor that always sold new things. The first stalls he came through were all food-related. Pastries, fruit snacks, and cuisines from Elven lands that used leaf plates, but none of them were looking for a handyman.
Further inward, closer to The Arena he found more intrigue. Clothing that was comfy yet waterproof, and the same kind but imbued with magic. Difference being the latter was far lighter. Another would be a magical bauble that could unleash snow in a target area, next to one that had fire, and another that had, oddly, skunk urine. Each for a hundred coins. With the complexity increasing deeper into the labyrinth of trade, like that sword that had a living on its handguard that he wanted, so did the retailers and their buyers.
Tall female gobbos who walked around with her consort of lesser male gobbos carrying trinkets and dooh-dahs that were too benign for him to understand. And not soon after was a human noble only dressed in cloth and paint, yet surrounding him were ten bodyguards in various armor, with dark-tinted visages that had glowing red eyes behind. One glanced at him for a moment, and the rest that followed ignored– he posed no threat to them at all.
It wasn’t the oddest, nor the most terrifying until he encountered a set of dealers closest to the Arena’s walls. There were these five men, all sitting in a line with a long mat of eighteen similar daggers laid out across. They were of the same make but pommels representing different animals, and a few creatures that were considered myths– such as the snake-tailed manticore, or a flying crocodile. It turned out the men, who wanted to sell all these at an absurd price of forty thousand coins, were not men. They were elves who had cut their narrow ears to resemble that of a man. Curved enough to resemble a shape eerily close to his own.
Ricky was appalled but did his best to hide the expression. His insides reminded him of the stories he overheard– elves and even dwarves who cut parts of themselves to resemble humans. Ears tingled, and he turned to leave heading outward with the elven dealers’ gaze following him.
When that eeriness had left him, just like the music had died out from the tavern hours before, he found himself in front of a stall that bore the banners of the Roma Legionnaires. Simple and wooden, standing banners on both sides, and a crested shield on top that bore their logo– a griffin with its wings spread out, standing on its high legs with a sword between its beak. Two guards in their griffin-crested lightweight armor and battleskirts, guarding a balding mage in silky light blue robes, who attended to a yellow clump of rocks.
That meant one thing, and it was an aspect that Ricky never considered.
It was when the mage announced, “Come one, come all. Turn your inner gold into outer!” He toyed with the chunk of physical experience, floating and dancing around his hands from one to the other. And he teased by inserting a small part of it onto the guard on his left where it turned to dust and disappeared onto the side of his helmet.
Ricky approached him, hood turned backwards, with both guards eyeing him cautiously. Yet the mage was ecstatic for he was the only one who had shown interest, despite the little show he had put on.
“Ah, a customer!” The mage gestured one hand towards him, easing the guards. “Would you like to manifest your internal values? Hm?” There was a wry smile that allured him more.
Frankly, he may as well.
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