Aaric

The scout, silently leaning against the doorway to the clothier's changing room, sent a private message warning of Quinn's approach just as Aaric reached the end of his rather laborious reading.

Somehow, the scout had managed to procure a copy of the shifter's contract. Exactly how he'd managed that, Aaric couldn't have even guessed. The scout had merely assured Aaric that nothing would blow back "on a Longbloom," and that was enough.

Now that he'd read his new attendant's contract all the way through, Aaric was more than mildly miffed. He walked straight out of the changing room and put a finger against the shifter's chest.

"Where have you been? Did you forget that we had a dungeon run scheduled this morning?"

"I'm here to heal you now, sir," the shifter said, lifting an already green-glowing hand from beneath his color-changing cloak. Their faceless form peered at Aaric as the hand waved. "And now you're all nice and topped off. Feeling better?"

"That's not good enough, and you know it! We finished that place half an hour ago, thanks to the most costly hiring of my life. Do you know how much I had to pay to convince an already-exhausted healer to run that dungeon again?"

"Knowing the depths of your family's purses, I imagine it wasn't difficult."

Aaric glared as the shifter's mouth blended back in with the rest of their formless face. "Expensive. Very expensive, and I currently do not wish to use my father's coin. Still, we were able to make it through though, barely. The final boss fight was--!"

"Then you did complete the dungeon after all? Does that not prove, sir, that you had all the help you needed?"

"That's bullshit, and you know it," Aaric hissed quietly. "What good is an attendant if I can't count on them to attend me?"

The shifter had no reply for that, so Aaric pressed on. "However, with all my extra time, when I found myself without your attendance, I was able to do a little digging... about you."

"No offense, sir, but I presume he did the digging," Quinn said, head inclining toward the scout. "Why are we in a clothing shop, anyway? Don't you already have everything you need, and even more coming from the Steelbloods?"

Aaric allowed for a smile that did not reach his eyes as he ignored the healer's question. "What I found was exactly what you're contracted to do. How you're supposed to be contributing to this party of ours. Did you know that you are contracted 'to accompany the young master in any dangerous circumstance,' with the only real restriction being to 'limit your capabilities to match those of the young master's level, limiting his reliance and maximizing his growth,'" he said, quoting the phrase from the contract directly. "That means you should be in any dungeon I'm attempting, outputting at least upper Tier 2 levels of healing!"

The usually blank face of the shifter manifested two eyebrows specifically to pinch them together as they faced the scout. "You got him a copy of my contract. Really?"

"It's my responsibility to provide Aaric with good intelligence, and I don't shirk my responsibilities."

Aaric wanted to applaud the man for the implication, but he was too furious. Quinn was showing a complete lack of care about missing their dungeon run, and their overtired replacement had nearly cost Aaric his head. He'd only managed to get away from the final boss's bite because the last hit of his desperation [Ice Barrage] had hit the lucky 1% [Fingers of Frost] roll and reset his [Frost Nova]'s cooldown early.

The shifter shrugged. "I suppose I may have misinterpreted that clause in my contract. But now that I've been made aware of my oversight, I will adjust my actions going forward."

Aaric bit his tongue and forced himself to stare at the eyeless aide's face, keeping his own face as blank as possible. It almost felt like the shifter was intentionally provoking him, so Aaric chose to rise above it. Why risk losing further face by calling attention to his attendant's lack of an apology? It was simply another detail Aaric tucked away for later, another issue he might eventually use to bury Quinn's reputation.

The scout broke the uncomfortable silence first. "Are we done in here, then?"

Aaric tossed the silky blue cape he'd been 'trying on' at Quinn. "Yes, I've decided I don't want this after all. See that it's put back properly."

Quinn's face remained blank, but their head did bow slightly. "Of course, sir."

"Then it's time to find a tank for our next dungeon run," Aaric continued quickly, not allowing the shifter to have the last word for long. "Or perhaps longer than that, if they prove themselves. This, of course, assumes the healer won't struggle with a tier 2 dungeon."

The scout scoffed at that, but it was much quieter than it might have been a year before. He turned his eyes to Aaric. "So which of the dungeons have you chosen to tackle next?"

Aaric mentally sorted through the various dungeon options the scout had presented him with all those days ago, before their last run, and a devilish determination seized him. "Pendragon's Stone."

"That's the hardest available in the area at your tier," Quinn called over their shoulder as they draped the cape back around the shoulders of the floating bust where it had previously been prominently displayed. "Might I recommend you consider alternatives since you have not yet secured a tank?"

"That won't be a problem," Aaric assured them, "since Pendragon's Stone also happens to offer one of the best tanking swords for this tier."

The scout nodded appreciatively, as he did each time Aaric proved how much he'd gleaned from the man's incredibly detailed reports.

Quinn faced the scout. "He knows that dungeon's meant for a full party, right? It's not even advised for most until level 19."

Aaric's fingers tightened around his staff. "I'm standing right here, and I can answer for myself."

"And you won't help him no matter what?" the shifter asked, addressing the scout while crossing his arms.

"He helps me exactly as much as he should," Aaric said defensively. "What's the matter, Quinn? Are you really that scared of rolling the dice healing a peak tier 2 dungeon?"

Quinn stared silently at him for an uncomfortably long time. "You have no idea what you're talking about. But I suppose I'm contractually obligated to support the young master even when he charges in, heedless of the risks."

"You clearly don't know me at all," Aaric said as he turned and walked straight out of the shop, much to the chagrin of the owner who had no doubt felt assured of a sale.

Aaric immediately opened a private message with the scout.

Aaric: What are the best and nearest locations where I might hire a worthwhile tank? Scout: Are you spending your money or your father's? Aaric: Mine. Scout: Alright then. Two blocks east of here, take the back alley behind the fruit seller's stand, then the 3rd descending stairwell on the right. It's called Two Crossed Sabres. Knock exactly twice. This week's password is 'quixotic'.

Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings. Aaric: It requires a password? Scout: Yes.

Aaric waited a handful of seconds for any additional information, but it wasn't volunteered.

Aaric: Why, exactly? Scout: To keep assholes and rich pricks from ruining an otherwise enjoyable bar for truly capable contractors.

Aaric tried not to let the words sting too much, telling himself that the scout wasn't really talking about him. Just people like him. People like he had been, and was still trying not to be.

He followed the scout's directions precisely and without any further questions. He wouldn't dare make the man repeat something so simple. It took a few minutes, but the door Aaric eventually knocked on was painted a dark, almost charcoal gray. It wasn't black, but just light enough that it nearly blended into the bottom of the shadowed stairwell. A single sliding panel, made of dark metal, at eye level reassured him that he'd come to the right place.

Scout was hanging back, standing a few stairs from the top of the well, keeping an eye on Aaric and Quinn while also making sure he could see any others that might approach.

Aaric knocked twice.

Nothing happened, at least not at first. The three of them simply stood there, waiting in the early afternoon shadows. Then a private message came directly to Aaric.

Scout: Say the password.

Not seeing any reason to doubt the man, Aaric said, "Quixotic," and the doorway immediately swung open.

"I was wonderin' how long you all were plannin' to stand out there," a cheerful voice sang out from within. "You looked like you might belong, but you never can tell these days. Well come on in, and what're ya havin' to drink?"

The scout was the first to respond as he strode straight past the other two and into the establishment. "That depends entirely on who you've got behind the bar, Halsey."

A short, pudgy man with an absolutely immaculate, braided beard chortled at that. Aaric was amazed by the man's completely relaxed air--nearly as much as he was by the beard. Featuring all the colors of the rainbow, it was woven with all the techniques and patterning of a fine tapestry, yet it still managed to nearly touch the ground.

Just how long would it be if allowed to hang freely?

As soon as Quinn and Aaric made it past the door, the short man proceeded to walk side-by-side with the scout, totally ignoring their sizable height difference and making jolly conversation. "It's Gretel today--but don't let that put you off, Seeker. She's just as capable as the others, I swear by it. And she makes a far nicer portrait!"

It took Aaric a moment to realize that the 'Seeker' the man was talking to was the scout, who was apparently genuinely known here. He'd never heard anyone call the scout anything other than 'the scout.'

Meanwhile, the scout replied, "Pretty or not, she's messed up my order three times now."

"Is it her fault you're always orderin' such exotic and complicated libations?"

Then came an action more surprising than anything Aaric had experienced in weeks: the scout laughed. "I suppose I can give her one more chance. But only on your word! If she cannot handle even a simple screwdriver--!"

The little man chortled again, cutting the scout off. "Then she'll still be worth the pittance I'm payin' her. I mean, look at her! With her assets, she brings in more business than the booze! She might even make more than me some nights, and that's nearly all tips!"

Aaric trailed behind the pair, and he was only reminded that Quinn was following silently behind him when the shifter actually whistled while glancing at the bartender.

Gods above, Aaric thought, is my new attendant going to act the fool in the presence of every pretty face?

Looking at the woman, Aaric had to admit she was incredibly attractive, but that was no reason to abandon one's wits or manners. Appearances mattered, but there had to be a limit. First impressions were notoriously difficult to overcome if botched.

Apparently Quinn thought otherwise, as they sidled up to the bar, putting on a false face for the first time in front of Aaric. In seconds, Quinn had a perfectly symmetrical face, with a square jaw, deep blue eyes, and a shock of quaffed blonde hair. They leaned against the bar.

"Hi," the new face said in a voice deeper than Aaric had heard Quinn use before. "I'm a traveling underwear model striving to make ends meet with my perfectly chiseled abs. Would you like to wager on how long I could--"

"No," she replied, moving to pour new drinks for a woman with a big axe who'd just approached while holding up two fingers.

Pushing past the shifter, Aaric moved in front of the bartender and asked, "Excuse me, but may I get a--?"

She cut him off by sliding him a glass full of clear liquid. "Water for you. You're clearly underage. Though maybe if you keep your creepy friend there away from me," she indicated Quinn, "we could renegotiate those terms."

Quinn's new face suddenly looked legitimately shocked. "But my lady, I don't know what you mean."

A few paces away, the bearded Halsey clapped his hands three times. "Look how clever she was! Two correct orders in a row!"

"Sure," the scout said dryly, "she's on her best game while the boss is present."

Aaric lifted and swirled his water. "I would have preferred tea."

"Yeah, they don't have that here," the scout responded.

Aaric huffed. "Then what am I supposed to do in here? Clearly it's not intended for someone so--"

The scout lifted an eyebrow, as if daring him to finish that thought. "Maybe you should remember the reason we're here."

Aaric took a sip from his glass, quite properly, and nodded. "You're right, of course. We need to find a suitable tank."

Down at the far end of the bar, a somewhat scrawny, red-skinned man looked Aaric's way. "If you can pay, I can tank whatever you need."

Aaric took him in with a measured glance. Tall but thin, with a build that didn't scream "physical powerhouse," yet there was something about his eyes that spoke to Aaric of trials passed, traumas weathered, and much more besides. Perhaps that was why he was confident enough to make so bold a claim, without knowing anything about Aaric or his needs. That kind of confidence usually was born from genuine proficiency and should not be outright dismissed. He was also drinking something hot enough that the mug was still steaming.

Aaric's interest was piqued. A quick [Identify] proved surprisingly helpful.

[?, Elementus, level 19]

Aaric appreciated that the man wasn't hiding any of his information, and the man's level was perfect for what Aaric had planned. He locked eyes with the bartender before nodding in the man's direction. "Get him another round of whatever he's having." Then he walked down the bar to interview the would-be tank properly.

- - - - -

Marrik

The armorsmith trudged out of his forge, stripped off his apron, and dropped it unceremoniously on the empty chair at the table. He rolled his neck to get rid of some of the tension lingering there. Then, with a sigh, he walked the rest of the way through the kitchen. He wasn't really distracted by the smell of his wife's famous garlic bread this time. She'd been making it every day for... had it really been a year now? A long year. And today had been a tough day.

He'd been trying to bend tier 5 adamantine ore to his will for a very lucrative commission. It was a stubborn material normally--part of why it was sought after realm-wide. That Marrik was only Tier 4 made it that much harder to work.

He sighed again, ignoring the blinking notification at the edge of his vision, not willing to rehash that old debate again.

Opening the outside door, he took a moment to enjoy the fresh air--and the quiet--of Woodsedge. Even now, after all these years, he was still glad that this was where they'd settled down. The town had grown, a bit, and the Longblooms would see that trend continue. It didn't matter. Woodsedge would still be his home.

At least until Azura's domain encompasses it, Marrik reminded himself. But that was not a problem for today.

He flipped open the mail slot, expecting the usual nothing--and was pleasantly surprised when a letter met his hardened fingers. Those same fingers tore open the end, careful not to rip the contents. At least not until he was sure whether they were precious or not.

He didn't get past the first four words before his eyes began to blur from tears.

Dear Mom and Dad,

He was already back inside the house before he realized he was running. "Christha!" he yelled, especially careful now not to ball up or even crease the blessed paper more than was absolutely necessary. "CHRISTHA! CHRISTHA!" He couldn't stop himself from bursting through the laundry room door, nearly tearing it from its hinges.

All that could be replaced.

This moment could not.

He found her arm-deep in a tub of hot, soapy water. His favorite shirt was in her hand. "What are you doing, bursting in like that?" she asked. "You nearly scared me to death!"

With a smile as big as the sea, Marrik held out the letter. "Christha, our boy wrote to us!"

She was up, drying her hands on her own dress, and at his side in a flash. "Really? What did he say? What did our boy say?!"

So he began to read it to her. Slowly. Carefully. The first of what would doubtlessly be countless times reading through it. This first time, where his voice choked up, and he was still surprised by all the outcomes, was the best. The one where his wife went from clutching tightly to his arm when the boy explained what he was doing on the Ark, to whooping with joy at the first contest's outcome, to cursing--yes, Christha Hammerson actually cursed--at the second. She even let Marrik explain the difficulties of what their boy had done, his own voice swelling with pride, talking about how hard it was for a Tier 2 to even use the materials they'd sent him, let alone combine it with Tier 3 black mithril!

When he got to the end, they both stood silently for a moment. Their hands intertwined as much as their hearts. Then Christha pulled up two chairs, and they sat down.

"Read it again, Mare, please," she said.

And like that, Marrik's tough day was no more.

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