V2C3 - Rookie Mistake

Lucen grunted as he shoved open the guild hall doors with his shoulder.

The air inside was warm, buzzing with chatter and footsteps, the scent of old parchment, firewood, and leather lingering like a second skin. He stepped in, dragging something behind him—a boar carcass, wrapped in dusty burlap and tied tight with coarse rope. Blood had soaked into the fabric, darkening it from the underside. One hoof stuck out limply, rocking with every bump in the stone floor.

A few adventurers lounging near the job board paused mid-conversation.

One scoffed. Another let out a short laugh.

Lucen ignored them. His arms ached, his gloves were stained red, and his boots were caked in dirt from the half-mile forest trail he’d wrestled the thing through.

He reached the reception counter and gave it a final tug. The burlap bundle thudded to a stop beside him with an unceremonious squelch.

Eyla looked up from her paperwork, quill in one hand and a steaming mug in the other.

She stared for a moment.

Then her nose wrinkled.

“…You carried that the whole way?”

Lucen wiped his brow with the back of his arm. “Didn’t have another option.”

She leaned over the counter, inspecting the lump like it might crawl off. “You know most adventurers use magic bags, right?”

He blinked.

She gestured at the stained cloth. “That thing could’ve fit in one. Easy. Would’ve saved you from dragging half a forest into my lobby.”

Lucen glanced behind him and winced at the trail of pine needles, blood, and dirt he’d left behind.

“Didn’t know I needed one,” he muttered.

“Yeah,” she said, frowning, “you’re definitely new.”

Her eyes narrowed further. “Is that… fur still on it?”

Lucen nodded. “I figured the whole thing would be worth more.”

“Oh no,” she whispered, like she’d just witnessed someone throw a sword at a fish.

Lucen stood straighter. “What?”

“You didn’t skin it?”

“No one told me to.”

Eyla slowly set her mug down, then buried her face in one hand.

A few adventurers nearby chuckled, one elbowing another and whispering, “Fresh meat.”

She groaned into her palm. “You don’t just haul the whole beast in unless you’re feeding the guild. You field-strip it. Skin, carve, drain the blood. The meat and pelt are what you want. This”—she jabbed a finger at the tarp—“this is just… wet disappointment.”

Lucen sighed. His pride deflated like a punctured wineskin.

“But,” she said, shaking off her exasperation, “you did complete the quest, and you brought something back, so you’ll still get paid.”

She reached for a glowing crystal glyph embedded beside her ledger and tapped a sigil pattern. The faint blue glow pulsed once.

“Three silver,” she said. “It’s been added to your sigil account. Check your balance if you don’t believe me.”

Lucen glanced at the back of his hand where the small guild mark shimmered. A thin projection flickered to life—his name, current rank, and beneath it, his balance: 3 silver. He sighed.

“Actually,” he said, lifting his gaze, “could you forward part of that to Rivvy? I bought some armor earlier, and she said the guild would handle the tab.”

Eyla nodded without missing a beat. “Already flagged it. I’ll deduct it from your next few payments unless you want to clear it all now.”

“I’ll pay as I go,” Lucen said.

“Fair,” she replied, then pointed at the now-stained floor. “Two more things, rookie.”

He tilted his head.

“One—get yourself a magic bag. Timberrest Provisions near the market sells basic-grade ones. Nothing fancy, but they’ll carry a corpse without you needing a stretcher.”

Lucen gave a tired nod.

“And two—there’s a butcher named Marlo. Big guy. Teaches rookies how to actually dress what they kill. You’ll want to learn how to skin without looking like you fought the boar with your teeth.”

“Got it,” Lucen muttered.

“Oh—and get a dagger. Your sword’s great for slashing—not skinning.”

Lucen gave a faint half-salute as he turned to leave.

“Welcome to adventuring, rookie,” she called, already reaching for her mug again.

The streets of Falridge bustled under the early afternoon sun. Market stalls clattered with moving goods, and the scent of roasted onions and fresh bread drifted lazily on the breeze. Lucen shifted the empty burlap sling over his shoulder, still faintly stained from the boar.

He followed the curve of the cobblestone lane toward the southern market square. Just as Eyla described, Timberrest Provisions stood tucked beneath a crooked awning, nestled between a black-tiled bakery and a faded tailor shop. The sign above the door creaked in the wind—Timberrest Provisions—with a symbol of a satchel and campfire etched in old paint beneath the lettering.

Barrels of rope, flintboxes, and dried herbs sat out front beneath the shade, alongside stacked crates of travel rations. A worn chalkboard leaned against the doorframe.

TODAY’S SPECIALS:

Lucen stepped inside.

A faint bell jingled overhead as the door creaked open. The air was cooler here—dense with the scent of leather oil, dry wood, and crushed sage. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, packed with supplies in every category imaginable: camp cookware, torches, iron stakes, flasks, trail mix, and even a shelf of beginner spell scrolls sealed in wax tubes.

Hanging from the beams above were coiled ropes, lanterns, and bags of all shapes and sizes.

A gruff voice called from behind a glass counter.

“You the one that dragged a full boar through the guild hall this morning?”

Lucen paused. “…Word travels fast.”

From behind the counter stood a broad, slightly hunched man with thick arms, a worn apron, and a beard that looked like it had wrestled a bear once and lost. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, revealing an old shoulder scar and arms like tree trunks.

“That’s Falridge for you,” the man said, grinning as he polished a lantern with a cloth. “Name’s Brennar Holt. I run this shop—and I make it a point to know every rookie who stinks up the place with blood on their boots.”

Lucen gave a sheepish smile. “Guilty.”

“What can I help you with, rookie?”

“I need a magic bag,” Lucen said. “Basic grade.”

Brennar raised a brow. “You plan on stuffing another pig in there or just want to carry your shame around in something lighter?”

“…Definitely the first one.”

The older man chuckled and turned to the back wall, grabbing a pouch no larger than Lucen’s palm. It looked like ordinary leather, stitched with rough thread and capped with a glowing rune clasp.

“This one’ll hold up to a hundred kilos. Lightweight, reinforced, won’t tear unless you’re dumb enough to put firewood and potions in it raw.”

Lucen leaned in. “How much?”

“Eighty silver.”

Lucen hesitated, flicked open his Arcane Sigil, and saw his total still hovering at 3 silver.

“…I’ll be back.”

Brennar raised a brow. “Well then, what can you afford?”

Lucen sighed. “A dagger. Preferably something for skinning, not stabbing.”

“Ahhh. You’re learning.” Brennar turned again and reached beneath the counter, pulling out three small blades—curved, sleek, and all of them well-maintained.

“Steel, not enchanted,” he said, tapping one. “But it’ll slide through fur like butter. Fifteen silver.”

Lucen’s shoulders slumped.

“…And the beginner special?”

Brennar smirked, reached below again, and placed a simpler one on the counter—short, with a rougher grip and a slight nick in the handle.

“Seven silver. Doesn’t look pretty, but it gets the job done. And,” he added, “first purchase discount. Five.”

Lucen lit up. “Deal.”

As Brennar wrapped the blade in cloth and slid it across the counter, he added, “Come back when you’ve got coin. That magic bag’s not gonna wait forever.”

“I will,” Lucen said, gripping the wrapped dagger.

“And hey,” Brennar said as he leaned forward. “Next time, skin the damn thing before you carry it across town, yeah?”

By the time Lucen left Timberrest, the sun had started its slow dip toward the western ridge, casting long amber shadows across the street. The dagger at his side felt strangely significant—not just because it was his first real purchase as an adventurer, but because it represented everything he didn’t know.

He walked through the quieter end of town now, toward the southern alleyways where the clamor of shopfronts gave way to narrower roads and older brick buildings. The smell of fresh bread and roasted meat faded, replaced by salt, iron, and something faintly sour.

Then he found it.

A wooden placard swung above a half-open stone shop, the words carved in deep strokes and faded with time:

MARLO’S BUTCHERY

The scent hit him immediately—not rotten, but raw. Blood. Hide. Old steel and animal fat. A butcher’s smell.

He stepped inside.

The room was cool, dimly lit by a single glow orb hanging from the rafter. Wooden racks lined the walls, some holding dried meats and others hooks with skinned carcasses of varying sizes—boar, deer, and something reptilian Lucen didn’t recognize.

At the back, a man stood behind a thick chopping block.

Marlo.

He was built like a bear—broad, bald, with dark eyes and a thick apron stained in shades of red and brown. His hands were massive, and one of them gripped a cleaver so casually it looked like an extension of his arm.

He didn’t look up as Lucen stepped in.

“You Eyla’s boy?” the man said, voice deep and gravel-rough.

Lucen hesitated. “…I guess I am.”

“She sent word. Said a rookie dragged half a boar through her front hall like a damn wagon.”

Lucen cleared his throat. “That would be me.”

“Of course it was.” Marlo set the cleaver down and finally looked up. His stare was sharp but not unkind. “You got a knife?”

Lucen unwrapped the simple dagger Brennar had given him and held it out.

Marlo nodded once. “Good. You’ll ruin it in a week if you don’t learn how to use it right.”

He stepped out from behind the block and gestured toward a long bench set beneath a row of hanging pelts. A cleaned boar carcass lay across it, half-prepped.

“Start here,” he said. “Tell me where you’d make the first cut.”

Lucen approached slowly. The animal had already been drained and cleaned, but its size was still daunting. He crouched beside it, studying the hide, the thick legs, the curve of the belly.

“I’d… cut along the belly?”

Marlo grunted. “Not the worst answer. Most rookies try to start at the spine and end up hacking through the meat.”

He stepped closer, took the blade from Lucen’s hand, and moved with careful precision—marking the cut lines with the tip.

“You follow the grain of the muscle,” he said, “and always with the fur, not against it. Otherwise you waste good pelt.”

He handed the knife back.

“Now you try. Slow.”

Lucen nodded, kneeling beside the carcass. The dagger felt clumsy in his hand—nothing like the balanced weight of his sword. But he focused. He followed the lines. When the blade met resistance, he adjusted.

It wasn’t elegant.

But it worked.

Marlo watched in silence for a time before nodding.

“You listen. Good.”

Lucen exhaled, shoulders easing slightly. “Thanks.”

“I didn’t say you were good. I said you listen.” Marlo cracked a faint grin. “That’s the first step to getting there.”

Lucen smiled back.

“Come back in the mornings if you want real practice. Payment comes in cuts. You keep what you carve, so long as you don’t butcher it like an idiot.”

“I’ll be here,” Lucen said, feeling something settle in his chest—progress.

As he left the shop with the faint weight of blood on his gloves and the butcher’s words still echoing in his head, he glanced down at the dagger on his belt.

This was just the start.

But it felt like the right one.

The sky had turned golden by the time Lucen reached the eastern edge of Falridge. The streets here were quieter—stone paths bordered by thin trees and wind-worn shrines, the air carrying hints of cedar and mineral steam.

Tucked against a low ridge, half-wrapped in moss and climbing ivy, sat a wide timbered building. A gentle curl of steam drifted from small rooftop vents. The painted sign above the door read:

Mistveil Springs

Lucen pushed the door open, stepping into a warm wave of moisture and light.

The lobby was simple—smooth stone floors, soft amber lanterns hanging from carved iron fixtures, and the faint scent of lavender and mint in the air. Shelves lined one wall, stocked with neatly folded towels and polished wooden tokens.

Behind the front desk stood a woman in slate-gray robes, her auburn braid resting neatly over one shoulder. She looked up as he approached, hazel eyes flicking briefly over the state of his boots and worn sleeves.

“First visit?” she asked.

Lucen nodded. “Just came back from a hunt.”

“I can tell.” She gave a dry smile and pulled a folded towel from the shelf behind her. “No wounds?”

“Just a bruised ego.”

“That’s a common one in here.” She handed him the towel and a simple wooden token marked with the bathhouse sigil. “Wash area’s to the left. You scrub before you soak. Skip that and the water spirits will drown you in your sleep.”

Lucen blinked. “…Is that a rule?”

“Not officially,” she said, tone deadpan. “But I like to believe it.”

He let out a small chuckle. “Thanks.”

“Nelyra,” she added as he turned. “I run things around here. You look like someone who’ll be back.”

Lucen paused, smiled faintly. “Lucen. And… probably.”

He made his way through the stone hall to the washing area, where buckets of warm water waited beside stacks of soapstone and soft cloths. He sat, peeled off the day’s grime, and scrubbed hard—until the blood, sweat, and dirt swirled away beneath his feet.

By the time he stepped into the spring chamber beyond, the light had dimmed outside. Mist hovered above the water, swirling gently around the natural stone pool carved into the floor.

Lucen lowered himself in with a quiet breath, letting the heat soak into his bones.

His arms ached. His shoulders burned. But his mind—strangely—was still.

He’d survived his first solo quest. Made mistakes. Got paid. Bought a dagger. Learned the difference between hauling and butchering.

Tomorrow? He’d probably mess something else up.

But for now…

He let himself sink just a little deeper into the water, staring up at the fading glow above the bathhouse roof.

This felt right.

He didn’t feel like a real adventurer yet—not quite.

But it was a start.