The Halfwit Halfling: A Bard's Tale, page 6
I hurried after Gram before Klinkle could change his mind. Walking into the tent, I expected several rugs and cushions with sparse furniture. Instead, I found cuts of meat and fresh game hanging from hooks. For a moment I was worried the cappers had played an elaborate trick on me and were going to butcher me for dinner, but Gram walked past the drying racks and into a hole carved into the floor.
Following him felt like a bad idea. But then again, unless Gram had several cappers waiting to jump me, I would have no trouble outrunning him. As for Klinkle, I’d have to risk Pacifist’s debuffs. To keep my hands free, I slung the guitar over my shoulder. It was a good thing I never removed the original’s ugly, patchy-brown strap.
Much to my relief, there was no one waiting for me. I found a collection of unfinished rooms decorated with crooked wooden and metal furniture. So, most of the tents above were probably entrances for similar structures. Even though the tooltip had claimed cappers were inventive, they didn’t seem particularly skilled at carpentry, metallurgy, or masonry. How did they tinker?
“Ye look like me nephew’s size. Try these on.” He threw a bundle of rough, woollen jumpers at me. Gram probably didn’t have the best eyesight. The jumble of clothing included cardigans, jumpers and vests of varying sizes. “Don’t have too many capes or coats to spare, lad. I guess you’ll have to make do with one o’ mine. Me kids won’t let me travel anymore anyway.”
Gram’s hand-me-down cape proved to be a real prize. The base cloth was a faded, dark green, but an assortment of colourful and patterned patches constituted the bulk of it. It was so ugly I loved it. Trying it on, I knew it was a winner. It had a hood, a few clasps to secure it around my collarbone and bindings to tighten it around my neck as well. The length was perfect, cutting off halfway down my shins. The best part of it had to be the lengths of cloth stitched into the insides at stomach height.
“Useful, ain’t they?” Gram asked while I investigated them. “Me Crivy—the spirits bless her soul—stitched them sleeves in after I lost me sixth pair o’ gloves. Lets you get all nice and snug.”
“Are you sure I can have this?” If I weren’t as good as a pauper, I would’ve said no straight away. Parting an older man from his cape just didn’t feel right.
“I haven’t worn it in years. None of me boys wants it, and Crivy will sock me in the Great Beyond if the moths get to it.”
I accepted it graciously and paired it with a woollen vest. Two of its wooden buttons were missing off the bottom but still better than the rest. It wasn’t too snug and would keep me warm. All I needed now was a scarf and life would be good.
“Thank you, Gram.”
“Yer welcome. Now get the feck off my property.”
Klinkle gave me the stink eye on my way out. I didn’t wait around in case she decided to berate me. Now, I needed to make some money before securing a way out.
Chapter 9
A Troll on a Mission
Passing cappers now smiled at me; no more glares or stares. I guessed the ugly cape went well with whatever made jovians likeable. Walking through the streets, I noticed a split in capper society. They either dressed in flowing robes decorated with stone and pebble jewellery or stuck to shirts, trousers and overalls. The latter often carried unrecognisable equipment that looked like junk welded together.
Walking through the streets, I realised I wasn’t cold, at all. Sure, I was wearing a cloak and a vest, but my face was still exposed. In fact, I felt a comfortable warmth pulsing through my body. When I stood still and focused, it wasn’t difficult to figure out where the familiar heat was coming from: the guitar. I recalled its description.
Made from a piece of the Tree of Life, Diya wasn’t a piece of inert wood. I got the sense that the guitar was alive. The sensation left my toes and fingertips tingling. It all accumulated in my solar plexus where it was the warmest before circulating around my body. Was this the Mana mentioned in the user interface?
『
Congratulations!
You’ve recognised the existence of Mana. Good job! You’re not a closed-minded dolt after all!
Mana Mastery, unlocked!
Mana Mastery:
The understanding, sensing and manipulation of Mana. Understanding magic is the first step to using it. You’re putting that starting Perception to good use, eh? By following the flow of Mana in your body, you have started your journey towards sensing Mana.
Mana Sense:
You’re no longer limited to the natural world, but can now study the Arcane realms as well.
』
I didn’t like the UI’s tone. Was the system sentient or had the Cosmics programmed it to annoy people with its snarky tone? Here I was trying to figure out how to survive, and something or someone was taking shots at me.
I checked the Masteries screen. It wasn’t blank anymore but now housed a tab labelled ‘Active’ and another labelled ‘Inactive’.
『
Cooking: (Apprentice: Rank 5)
Mana Wielding: (Novice: Rank 0)
Mana Sense(Novice: Rank 1)
』
I wished the system was closer to the RPGs I’d grown up with. Without a help menu or a guide, this would take some time to get used to.
I made a note of my observations. Despite what the system said, it wasn’t me detecting Mana that prompted the notifications. Instead, it was me acknowledging it as so. Things were intent-based. Noted. Now that I thought about it, Cooking Mastery didn’t unlock until Cook tasted my potato and appreciated it. So others acknowledging my ability would trigger Mastery unlocks too?
Following the same logic, playing the guitar should unlock the respective mastery. I was considering giving busking a shot when the ugly man with the cart caught my attention again.
“Plague cart!” he yelled. “Plague cart heeaaarr! Safe body disposal. No mess, no fuss.”
His cart was empty and spotless, but the troll-man seemed determined to fill it. He continued shouting his spiel, slowly walking through the market street ahead. The road displayed the densest concentration of wooden and stone buildings. Crooked and unstable, it looked more like a shantytown than a centre of commerce. Maybe it was a bit of both. As the cart progressed down the street, all capper shoppers filled into nearby shops or disappeared into the alleys while hawkers and stall owners sat back with defeated looks on their face.
“Plaaague cart! A plagued corpse is a bad corpse!” the troll-man continued, looking more and more dejected when no one approached him. “No hassle disposal. You don’t ask; I don’t tell. Bring your corpses in before they swell!”
He wasn’t wearing any personal protective equipment besides an apron over his shorts and shirt. I guessed whatever race he belonged to enjoyed high resistance to cold and disease. Or he was desperate enough to risk the elements and the fear-inducing plague he was shouting about.
Our eyes met again, and he seemed on the verge of breaking into tears. If he didn’t look so terrifying, and the cart wasn’t a vehicle for plague corpse disposal, I would offer him my sympathy, but maintaining a wide berth was probably for the best.
Then, a trio of capper guards in rough leather and metal armour appeared from out of the alleys. Their spears had strange, bulky contraptions below the spearheads, and similar but mismatched attachments stuck out of their shields as well. Was this the extent of capper tinkering? Considering the shaman’s influence, maybe this was more of a magic driven settlement. Though very much like a game, Game World wasn’t one. So, I reasoned that talking to anyone willing to speak to me was vital to learning more about the world.
“There ain’t no plague in Blacknail’s Table, boyo,” the shortest and stockiest of the guards said. “Yer scaring our citizens. If ye don’t stop, I’ll put ye in lockup.” One of the other guards whispered a few words into their leader’s giant, pointed ear. “I mean, the lads will have to kick ye out of town.”
“I’m sorry, boys.” The troll-man looked embarrassed. “I’ve been following the Champions of Pestilence around the country. I was sure the plateau was their next destination. I guess I’m early.” His shoulders slumped as he looked at the rocky ground disheartened. His feet were bigger than mine; Instead of the tufts of hair, tiny scales covered his. “Not to worry, lads. I’ll get out of your hair, maybe return in a few weeks after they’ve passed through. It’s not an easy trade ye know, can’t always predict where them lords are heading.”
The guards paled, listening to the troll-man speak. Eavesdropping hawkers and stall owners started closing shop, even though most of them hadn’t finished setting up. I’d been hoping to spend some more time in this city’s safety, not keen to face any rival Champions. But hearing the troll’s words, I changed my mind. Getting out as soon as possible took priority. I now had warm clothing. All I needed now was to make a friend who’d help me escape and maybe to travel to a neighbouring settlement with.
“You wouldn’t happen to know a good apothecary, would you?” he asked. “There’s a parasite going around in Bracken Swamp. I might as well provide them with some aid in the meantime.”
“Why don’t ye stick around a while?” one of the other guards spoke up. “We could use yer help safeguarding against the coming plague.”
“And risk bumping into the Champions of Pestilence?”—he shuddered at the idea—“I clean up after them, not get in the way of them doing their job. Besides, what good is a cemetery troll against a champion? No thank you.” The corpse collector clapped the guard’s shoulder. He winced at the force and then quickly scurried out of the bigger creature’s reach. “Don’t worry. I’ll be here for the aftermath. You’re alright for a capper, mate. If you’re not dead by the time I get back, how about we get a drink?”
I watched the guards back away from him, before breaking into a run towards the cliff face where the jail was. I guessed they were off to report to their seniors. For a moment, I felt sympathy for the poor troll. He looked back and forth as everyone stared daggers at him. Most looked at him in fear, others hatred and a handful had pity in their eyes.
Was it his race? Why was he stuck in such a thankless and hated profession? I imagined the world lacked modern medicine and sanitation. The service he was offering was an essential one. Probably due to misinformation, he had arrived at Blacknail’s Table ahead of whatever disaster was about to befall the city. Historically, heralds of misfortune and omens were never welcome appearances.
I stayed out of the troll’s way as he pushed his cart away from the market street. He looked like the sort that might strike out in anger or grief. Then again, making such an assumption, was I any better than the aelf woman? Better safe than sorry. I waited until he was gone before looking for some way to make money.
Chapter 10
Hide and Seek
With zero coins or whatever backward currency Game World used, in my pocket, I probably wouldn’t get far. First, I considered busking in the street.
Space turned out to be a commodity nobody wanted to share. Whenever I got close to a workable spot, a nearby capper shooed me away from their ongoing hustle. Not like I had anything to collect coins with anyway. The idea of walking around with cupped hands felt entirely degrading.
Then, I saw a group of face-painted cappers and decided: trying to make money on the streets was a bad idea. Their bone jewellery and ugly staves looked like the classical religious figures of goblin society and set them apart from the other robed citizens. Their blue-orange or white face paints were applied in a variety of shapes, and none of it made them any more attractive. I guessed one of them was the shaman, or they were his followers. Either way, I needed to stay clear of them.
The last thing I wanted was for the insulted father or daughter to strike out at me. I imagined they wouldn’t be pleased with my sentence. Antagonising them further, probably wouldn’t serve me well either.
I watched them from behind a pile of crates. The mushroom seller that owned it tried to shoo me away, but sticky-fingered capper children kept him too busy. Whenever one of the acolytes got close to a stall, the capper shopkeepers would fawn over them, bowing and showering them with praise. In return for service and goods, the acolytes gave them coins alongside small charms of bone and wood. Some of them vaguely resembled Gor’s charm. The acolytes gave merchants selling alcohol a wide berth, focusing their patronage on food and tobacco vendors instead.
Crap. One of them was coming my way. My jovian skin had a healthy tan, and unlike the capper males, the hair on my head wasn’t patchy, so, I stood out like a sore thumb. Squatting behind piled boxes of oyster mushrooms, I hoped they wouldn’t notice me.
『
Who knew? Sneaking would come naturally to a little person.
』
Wow. The social justice warriors on Earth would have a field day with the system notifications.
『
Sneaking Mastery, unlocked!
No, the shadows aren’t ready to embrace you quite yet, but improved instincts when trying to remain hidden is always a bonus.
Sneaking: Novice Rank 4
』
Huh. Unlike Mana Sense, the Mastery didn’t start at rank zero. The system did say it would take my natural skills into account. Maybe a childhood filled with hide-and-seek wasn’t a waste of time after all. Curious whether it would unlock another Mastery, I stuffed my pockets with what was either cave or chestnut mushrooms. Nope. No such luck.
Maintaining a low crouch, I worked on putting as much distance between the acolytes and me as possible. Much to my disappointment, they were everywhere. Maybe they just finished their post-waking prayers. It didn’t matter; I needed someplace to hide.
Sneaking Mastery gained two ranks when I had a near-miss with the one white-faced acolyte. Was he the shaman? Not keen to find out, I turned into a side alley and entered the first tavern I came across. Seeing it was empty, I sighed in relief.
“What are you doing here?” My heart dropped. It was Klinkle. She stood behind the only decent-looking furniture in the room—the bar. “Get out. No more charity for you.”
“Just give me a second. Please.” I wasn’t too big a fan of begging, but the situation was dire.
She glared at me, brows furrowed. Marching past me, she opened the door. “Out. Now!”
“Please,” I pleaded. “I’ll be out of your hair in no time at all.”
“Who’re you hiding from?” She peeked out the door. “Is it the rambans?” I was sure she was going to call one of them over. Instead, she slammed her door shut. “You’re the foreigner that called Glinga ugly?”
“I know, it’s not a nice thing to call—”
“Alright, you can stay,” Klinkle said, grinning ear to ear. “About time someone dragged her off her high warg. Just because she’s the shaman’s daughter, that bitch thinks she can walk around behaving like she’s royalty. That girl forgets, the Chief and tinkers still outrank her father.”
“Thank you. There’s no chance of any of them coming in here, is there?”
“Not at all. The shaman and his rambans only indulge in their powders and pipeweed. They claim alcohol cuts off their link to the spirits.” Klinkle shook her head, returning to cleaning mugs. I took a seat on a stool opposite her and carefully leaned my guitar against the bar. “Then they have the gall to tell citizens to avoid the taverns. Not everyone believes them, but the shaman is scary enough for people to stay away until later in the day.”
“I don’t remember the evening particularly well, but I’m pretty sure I met his daughter in the pub.”
“That’s the kicker. The shaman and his kin don’t follow their own rules.” Klinkle slammed one of her mugs down on the bar as she continued, “Every season a merchant from the Bergen Mountains brings over crates of Twergish Firewater. They know very well alcohol doesn’t cut off their links. It’s a means to control the people. They make a big deal of their spirit singing, but it’s just ritualistic Covenant magic, nothing more.”
Though angry, Klinkle was giving me a clear picture of capper society. As she carried on with her rant, I learned that there was a clear divide. There were the shaman and his followers looking to control the masses with their ancient tribal religion, while the tinkers were determined to lead the race into a future with a better understanding of science and the Arcane.
More importantly, I learnt there were seven schools of magic: three of which were Covenant, Creation and Shaping. I wanted to ask her more questions, but she only paused every now and again to catch her breath, and I struggled to get a word in. On the bright side, I got a good idea of the local geography.
Blacknail’s Table was set on a plateau. The Bracken Swamps was to the west. It housed several small settlements housing a variety of kobolds, swamp trolls and a handful of wood aelphs scattered around the wilderness. Eldar’s Port, a secular commercial hub, was a week by carriage to the south, with several leagues of farmland and villages in between.
Not knowing my status, I needed to give all champions a wide berth. I wasn’t aware of whether they had any identifiers or not. There was also the chance of me having a pseudo champion status, despite my lack of a patron. So, there was the likelihood of me being a target in their eyes. Though Eldar’s Port was a likely destination or even home for them, I chose it as my destination. A commercial hub felt perfect for my Charisma dumping plans.
“Do you have any work for me?” I asked. During her rant, Klinkle’s distaste for me had lessened. So, I took my chance as soon as she stopped for a drink of water. “I don’t need much, just room and board until I can afford passage to Eldar’s Port.”
