Branson's voice cut through the noise of the Adventurer's Hall like a rusty blade. The drunk adventurer sprawled at the bar, his bloodshot eyes locked onto Caleb's entrance, a sneer twisting his lips.
Caleb held his course, his stride steady and his gaze fixed forward. The insult was just another sound in a loud room, and it had nothing to do with 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. Adventurers haggled over contracts at scarred wooden tables. The smell of stale ale mixed with leather and steel. Monster parts gleamed behind glass cases—trophies and commodities in equal measure. But Caleb's focus narrowed to a single point: the half-elf woman behind the counter who held the key to his immediate future.
Without a word, he 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 the relevant line was clearly visible:
SKILLS
Combat
- [Breaching Thrust (F) - Adept]
Felicity's brown eyes scanned the display, expression neutral. After a moment, her composure cracked, then vanished completely. She leaned forward, mouth slowly dropping open, and stared so intensely Caleb thought she might try to touch the projection.
The professional mask snapped back into place as she leaned away. She looked at him, searching his eyes for a few seconds. Eventually, her face softened, and she gave him a warm smile. "Well done, Thal."
She leaned past him, glaring directly at Branson.
"Looks like some investments pay off better than others." Her voice carried just enough to reach the bar, where Branson's face darkened like a thundercloud. She gave Caleb a quick, conspiratorial wink. "Come on. Let's get you equipped."
She led him through a door behind the counter, leaving the common room noise behind. The transition was abrupt. The hallway beyond was narrow and utilitarian—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. Lost two fingers to a mistweaver spider because he was too drunk to see the web. 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 skins. Swords and axes gathered dust on their stands. The air tasted of old oil and older regrets.
"This is the unclaimed gear," Felicity said, her voice dropping to match the room's somber atmosphere. "From adventurers who had no one to collect their effects."
Her eyes landed on a heavy tower shield leaning against the far wall. It was made of dark wood, reinforced with bands of steel. Three deep gashes were raked across its surface, the metal peeled back like parchment where massive claws had connected.
"That," Felicity said, her voice lowering, "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 'scales'." She shook her head. "Some monsters aren't worth the potential bounty."
She moved to a rack holding several spears, her movements reverent despite their efficiency. Three weapons came free with gentle tugs, each telling its own story through wear and craftsmanship.
"This one"—she held up a spear of dark wood with silver filigree worked into the grain—"belonged to a Mycari scout named Aelyth. She pushed her luck in the deep woods, hunting alone. The search party found her spear. Not her."
The second weapon was utilitarian to the point of anonymity. "Legion deserter donated it. It's standard issue, batch-forged. Probably changed hands a dozen times before ending up here."
The third spear looked rougher than its companions. "Local smith made this one. Kid who carried it wasn't much older than you. Joined the Guild with big dreams, died his first winter when a sporecap shambler caught him off guard."
She laid all three weapons on a nearby table. "Take your time. The armory doesn't like returns."
Caleb approached the weapons, his mind shifting into high gear. He moved with purpose, testing the weight and balance of each spear while cataloging the details.
The Mycari weapon was first. It was beautiful, 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 integrity. The tip, worn thin from repeated sharpening, was fragile.
He moved to the Legion spear. It was a model of military efficiency. Standardized dimensions, well-balanced. When he clasped the shaft, it felt inert, a device separated from its purpose. The weapon lacked character, an instrument forged for formation fighting.
The last spear drew him. It looked rough, but the smith had paid attention to what mattered. The grain of the wood was straight and true. The weight was distributed with a careful, intuitive balance. When he hefted it, the weapon settled into his grip as if made for him. It made him eager.
"The Mycari spear is damaged," Caleb said, setting it aside. "Hairline fractures where the filigree was pressed into the wood. Beautiful, but it'll fail under real stress. The Legion weapon is solid, but it feels... impersonal. Like fighting with a number instead of a weapon."
He lifted the third spear, feeling its eager balance. "This one is simple, reliable, and feels right."
Felicity nodded once, approving. "Sound reasoning. Most pick the pretty one."
"Pretty doesn't keep you alive." The words came out harder than he'd intended.
"No," Felicity agreed quietly. "It doesn't."
Caleb tested the spear's balance again, 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 a cuirass to have a realistic chance of completing the goblin contract." He met Felicity's eyes directly, pitching his voice to project confidence rather than desperation. "I'm currently broke. Can the cost of a used one be taken as an advance against the contract's bounty?"
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
Felicity's eyebrows rose slightly. "Standard cuirass runs over a gold new. Used?" She tilted her head, calculating. "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 investments. You've shown good judgment so far. Let's see if that continues."
She led him to another section where armor hung like molted shells, navigating the cluttered aisles with an easy familiarity. Caleb tested each, checking straps and joints while his [Appraisal] skill catalogued 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 not impede movement—critical for someone relying on agility over strength.
"This'll do," Caleb confirmed, already familiarizing himself with 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."
He passed a rack of polished armor and caught his reflection in a brass cuirass. The face staring back was still a stranger's—angular jaw, high cheekbones, the faintest point to his ears. But the sight no longer sent panic through him.
It’s just a face. His jaw tightened. And this face is going to keep breathing.
They returned to the main counter where the Hall's chaos continued unabated. Branson still nursed his ale, shooting poisonous looks their way. Other adventurers conducted their business with varying degrees of sobriety and success.
Felicity filled out and handed the contract to a bored-looking clerk who didn't bother glancing up from his own paperwork. The man dipped a stamp in ink mechanically.
"Contract 734," the clerk announced, his monotone voice carrying across the Hall with practiced volume. "Target: feral goblin. Threat designation: Low F. Objective: culling."
He paused. "Bounty: ten silver for each pair of untrimmed feral goblin thumb claws submitted. Contract accepted by Thalorin Caldorn. 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.
"Kid's gonna die for pocket change while starting nearly a gold in debt. These new ones get dumber every 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 grip and the protection across his torso.
Felicity leaned in as he collected the stamped contract, her voice dropping to a whisper meant only for him. "Feral goblins are weak, but also fast and they swarm. Don't fight the pack—they're aggressive and stupid individually, but coordinate in groups. Make noise, use the terrain, separate one from the others. A lone feral goblin is a scared feral goblin. Scared means sloppy."
"Understood." Caleb gave her a grateful nod. "Thank you. For all of it."
"Save your gratitude. Thank me when you return with my coin."
The concern in her eyes belied her stern words. He recognized the look. It was the quiet grief of someone who had filled the armory's racks one tragedy at a time.
Caleb gripped the worn wood of the spear shaft. The cuirass pressed against his ribs with reassuring firmness. These tools were the manifestation of his decision to 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 rather than have it chosen for him.
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 confident steps, ignoring Branson's continued glare and the whispered predictions of his demise. Outside, Deadfall's streets buzzed with afternoon activity. The usual bedlam of commerce and survival that 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 before he faced the feral goblins.
The Hearthsong Inn's kitchen was in its usual state of controlled chaos when Caleb slipped through the back entrance, after a quick detour for some fried mushrooms. The 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 didn't look up from her figures. "I heard about your contract. The whole Hall did, apparently."
Caleb raised his eyebrows. "News travels fast."
"Faster when it involves someone young starting their adventuring career in debt." Now she did look up, her brown eyes taking in his new equipment with a mother's instinctive assessment. "Felicity has a good eye for talent, but seventy-five silver is a significant advance."
Caleb stepped into the office, closing the door behind him. The sounds of the kitchen faded to a distant murmur. He 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. To spread your wings a little."
Her expression seemed to shift through several stages—surprise at his initiative, pride in his confidence, and then the inevitable worry that came with sending someone she cared about into danger. "The way you handled that sale for me yesterday—you didn't just bring back the coin; you brought back more. It proves you have a good head on your shoulders, and that I can trust you."
She leaned forward, her tone shifting from reflective to serious. "But intelligence doesn't stop claws or teeth. This is dangerous. Feral goblins might be stupid individually, but they're pack hunters. Numbers can overwhelm even experienced adventurers."
Cassia was quiet for a long moment, weighing him. Then she opened a drawer in her desk, producing a small iron key. This unlocked another drawer, from which she withdrew a small vial filled with crimson liquid that seemed to glow with its own inner light.
"We figured you would plan to go through with it. Your job will be here when you return, but I won't have you going out there without this." She set the potion on the desk between them. "Superior F-tier Healing Potion. It's 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 terms, she was already moving, pulling a leather pack from a shelf. Her hands danced with maternal efficiency, filling it with supplies.
"Trail rations from the kitchen—the good ones we charge adventurers extra for," she said, wrapping a parcel of smoked meat and a loaf of dense travel bread in oilcloth. She tucked a small clay pot beside them. "Preserved fruits. 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 leather sheath. "Gareth insisted you take this. Said you'd need a proper tool for the messy part. Don't lose it; it's his favorite for deboning fowl."
The motherly care in her actions made his throat tight. 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 tone brooked any disagreement. "This is insurance, nothing more. I protect my investments."
Her eyes said differently. Her protection was for someone she'd grown to care about, another lost child who'd found shelter under her roof.
"Thank you." The words came out rougher than intended, carrying more than simple gratitude for supplies.
"Don't thank me. Come back alive and in condition to work the dinner rush tomorrow night. That's thanks enough."
Caleb collected the pack. The cuirass across his torso, the spear in his fist, the supplies on his back—each represented someone's faith in his potential. Felicity's professional assessment. Cassia's maternal concern.
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 he has to prep vegetables himself."
The attempt at humor couldn't quite hide the worry in her voice. But she made no move to stop him, recognizing that this was his choice to make. His risk to take.
He left the room, the supplies a comforting presence on his shoulders. Each item was a token of Cassia's concern.
At forty, it's a bit late to be getting a packed lunch from a worried mother. Especially for my first battle. But he smiled, her actions having warmed him nonetheless.
He pushed the thoughts aside, stowed his gear under his cot, then he turned 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 Dominion’s laws were replaced by the law of the jungle.
The hunt was set. His path was clear.