Raven's Grime

The path from the goblin skirmish to Raven was less a journey and more a forced march—at least for me. Rovy, ever pragmatic, had quickly stripped the goblin corpses of anything remotely useful—bones, crude weapons, even some surprisingly intact scraps of leather. Bane, meanwhile, had managed to secure the last, whimpering goblin's head, presumably for proof of their 'heroic' deed. I simply watched, offering no assistance. My disdain for manual labor remained consistent across dimensions.

The sun was steadily climbing, casting long shadows behind us as we walked. The forest around us slowly thinned, the trees giving way to more open stretches of land, though still wild. It was during this trek that the inevitable questions began.

"So, Einar," Rovy started, her voice surprisingly cheerful despite the recent bloodshed, "you're not from around here, are you? I mean, your clothes are... well, they're certainly something." She gestured vaguely at my dark hoodie and pants, which felt utterly out of place amidst their leather tunics and practical cloaks.

"No," I replied, my voice flat. "I am not from 'around here'." My mind quickly sifted through a myriad of evasive answers.

How does one explain a world with skyscrapers, internal combustion engines, and the internet to people who probably think a cart is cutting-edge technology? It's pointless.

Bane grunted, his heavy shield strapped to his back. "Never seen anyone dressed like that. No armor? No proper weapon?"

"My attire serves its purpose," I stated, ignoring the implied criticism. "As for weapons, I find them… inefficient." I could feel their eyes on me, trying to decipher my stoic expression, my odd responses. They didn't understand. Good. The less they understood, the less they'd expect.

"So, where are you from?" Rovy pressed, a hint of curiosity in her voice. "Some far-off kingdom beyond the mountains? Or maybe a hidden village no one knows about?"

A far-off kingdom? A hidden village? How quaint.

"A place," I began, choosing my words carefully, "where the sky is often obscured by structures taller than any tree here. Where light comes from unseen currents, and information travels faster than any bird." I watched their faces for a reaction. Rovy's brow furrowed slightly, Bane merely blinked. They dismissed it as poetic eccentricity, perhaps. Predictable.

"Sounds... complicated," Bane mumbled, scratching his head.

"It was," I agreed, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor of distaste in my voice. "Complicated, and utterly pointless."

The conversation continued, though I found myself steering it more often than not. "These creatures," I prompted, gesturing vaguely towards the direction of the goblin encounter, "are they common? What is their primary threat beyond crude numbers?"

Rovy, quick to speak, launched into an explanation. "Oh, goblins are everywhere! Especially around the forest edges. They're mostly just annoying, but if you get too many, they can be dangerous. They raid farms, steal livestock. Sometimes they even try to ambush travelers."

"And what of their... internal components?" I asked, my gaze fixed on the path ahead. "The bones, the hides. Are they of significant value?"

Bane chimed in, "Depends on the quality, and what the Guild's buying. Raw materials, mostly. Some smiths use the bones for crude tools, the hides for cheap leather. Nothing fancy."

So, a basic resource economy. Primitive, but functional. No complex supply chains or global markets, just local demand and supply. A stark contrast to the intricate, over-engineered systems of my former world, where even a single screw had a dozen manufacturers and a hundred distributors. My mind drifted to the endless, convoluted supply chains of my past, the pointless complexity of it all. Here, it was simple: kill monster, get parts, sell parts.

"And the towns," I continued, my voice flat. "Are they all structured similarly? What governs their populace? Is there a centralized authority or a more… fragmented system?"

Rovy shrugged. "Most towns like Raven are pretty self-sufficient. There's a lord or a mayor, guards, and the Guild. Bigger cities have kings and nobles, but that's far from here."

Interesting. A decentralized power structure, yet with clear hierarchies. No massive, interconnected surveillance networks. No digital footprints. How… quaintly inefficient, yet undeniably simpler. And the language… it’s spoken exactly as I speak it, yet I’ve seen no written word. How does knowledge persist? How do laws disseminate? An absurdity, yet here it is.

The questions I posed were direct, extracting information. Their answers, though often lacking the depth I sought, provided a basic framework of this world's mechanics: its simple economy, its local governance, its mundane threats. The more they spoke, the more I compared it to the world I had left behind—a world of overwhelming information, of endless, manufactured desires, of complexities that served no ultimate purpose. The simplicity of their concerns, the directness of their lives, was almost laughable. No existential dread, no endless pursuit of fleeting happiness, just survival and the pursuit of coin. How primitive. Yet refreshingly simple.

Soon, the treeline broke, revealing a cluster of buildings in the distance. Raven.

The gate of Raven was a sturdy, if unremarkable, wooden structure, flanked by two guards in worn leather armor. They eyed my modern attire with the same mix of curiosity and suspicion Rovy and Bane had displayed.

"State your business," one guard grunted, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

"We're adventurers, just finished a goblin hunt," Rovy chirped, holding up the goblin head. "And this is Einar. He's... new to these parts."

The guard's gaze lingered on me. "New to these parts, indeed. Never seen clothes like that." He paused, then waved us through. "Just don't cause any trouble."

One of them muttered under his breath, "Freaks dressing like shadow-priests now?" I said nothing, but memorized his face. Curiosity could evolve into threat.

"What is the standard procedure for entry?" I asked the guard, my voice even. "Are there tariffs? Registration requirements for new arrivals?"

He blinked, surprised by the directness. "No tariffs for common folk. Just don't bring in anything illegal. If you're staying long, you'll want to register at the Town Hall, for taxes and such."

"Taxes. Of course. Some things transcend dimensions." I acknowledged, a flicker of something akin to weary amusement in my mind. A bureaucracy, localized and basic. Far less insidious than the digital tendrils of my past—no facial recognition, no biometric scans. It was inefficient for control, certainly, but functional enough for order. Almost quaint.

As we stepped into Raven, the air immediately thickened with the scent of woodsmoke, damp earth, and something vaguely like stale ale. The streets were unpaved, a mix of packed dirt and uneven cobblestones, and not particularly clean. People bustled about, dressed in simple tunics, roughspun dresses, and worn leather. Their faces were etched with the marks of labor, their movements purposeful. My gaze took in their clothing styles—practical, layered, designed for function over form. No synthetic fabrics, no mass production. Each garment seemed to bear the mark of individual craftsmanship, or at least, individual wear.

"So, this is Raven," Rovy said, a proud sweep of her hand. "Not the biggest city, but it's home."

"It's... functional," I conceded, my gaze sweeping over the buildings. Mostly two-story structures of timber and stone, tightly packed. The layout seemed organic, grown rather than planned. No meticulous grid systems, no grand urban planning. Just accretion. A chaotic efficiency, perhaps. My eyes snagged on a building with a wide, open archway, its interior lined with shelves packed with what could only be books. A bookstore. A tangible source of written information. Finally, something to properly analyze.

"Come on, Einar," Rovy pulled at my sleeve. "First, we get you some food. Then, we sell these goblin parts."

We stopped at a small stall where a burly woman was selling freshly baked bread. Rovy handed her a few small, dull metallic coins. Copper, perhaps? Or some base alloy. The exchange was swift, uncomplicated. No digital payments, no credit cards, no convoluted banking systems. Just the direct transfer of physical pieces of metal for tangible goods. Primitive, yes, but undeniably simple.

"Here," Rovy said, breaking off a generous chunk of the bread and handing it to me. "Eat up. You look like you haven't had a proper meal in weeks."

I took the bread, the warmth seeping into my cold fingers. The smell was earthy, yeasty. I took a bite. It was coarse, but satisfying. Basic sustenance, I noted internally, the thought devoid of pleasure or complaint. A fundamental requirement, regardless of the dimension. I chewed slowly, my eyes still scanning, processing. The coins, the bread, the raw simplicity of the exchange—all new observations in the surprisingly straightforward system of this world.

After the bread, which served its purpose of silencing my body's inconvenient demands, Rovy and Bane led me to the Adventurer's Guild. It was a squat, stone building, less imposing than I'd imagined, yet radiating a certain rough-and-tumble energy. The air inside was thick with the scent of sweat, cheap ale, and stale parchment. A dozen or so individuals, clad in various states of worn armor and practical clothing, milled about. Some were gathered around a large wooden board covered with pinned notices, others huddled in small groups, their voices low and conspiratorial.

I observed the 'adventurers' with a detached fascination. Their postures, their gear, the way they interacted—all provided valuable insights. There were obvious distinctions: the heavily armored, slow-moving types; the lithe, quick ones with daggers or bows; and a few who seemed to possess a strange, almost ethereal glow about them, likely the 'mages' or 'spellcasters' of this world.

Rovy and Bane approached a counter where a bored-looking man with a quill tucked behind his ear was taking notes. Rovy presented the goblin head. "Goblin hunt, completed," she announced, a hint of pride in her voice.

The man grunted, barely glancing up. "Standard. Two copper per head. Anything else?"

Rovy pushed forward the bag of bones and hides. "These too. Good quality, mostly."

He weighed them, then pushed a small pile of coins across the counter. More of the dull metallic discs, along with a few slightly larger, shinier ones. A tiered currency system. Predictable. I watched the exchange, noting the values, the ease with which goods were converted to capital.

"So, Einar," Rovy began, turning to me, "are you an adventurer? Do you have a Guild card, or... an identity?" Her expression was curious, but not overtly suspicious.

"I am not an adventurer, nor do I possess a 'Guild card'," I replied, my voice flat. "As for identity, I have what you observe." My gaze flickered to the mission board, then back to her. Vague enough. Let them draw their own conclusions.

Bane grunted. "He's quite particular, isn't he?"

Rovy just shrugged, a small smile on her face. "He'll come around. Everyone needs a party eventually."

I ignored them, my attention fully on the mission board. The notices were written in a script I didn't recognize, but the crude drawings and the numbers scrawled next to them were universal: "Goblin Eradication - 5 copper," "Bandit Suppression - 1 silver," "Lost Item Retrieval - 3 gold." The missions were simple, direct, and revolved entirely around the acquisition of resources or the elimination of threats. A straightforward risk-reward system. No complex algorithms, no market fluctuations beyond basic supply and demand. How transparent.

My mind began to process the implications. If I were to engage in these 'missions,' I would need to understand the 'threats' more intimately. And to understand the threats, I would need to observe them in action.

Yes. This would be a logical next step. To witness their 'missions.' To gather more information.

"What is your next 'mission'?" I asked Rovy, my voice cutting through her low conversation with Bane about their earnings.

She looked at me, surprised. "Oh, we were just about to pick one. Probably another goblin hunt, or maybe some wild boars if the pay's good. Why? Thinking of joining us?" There was a hint of a playful challenge in her voice.

"I am considering it," I replied, my expression unreadable. "Not as a participant, but as an observer. To gather information on the local fauna and the efficiency of your methods."

Bane snorted. "An observer? What good would that do?"

"Efficiency can always be improved," I stated, my gaze sweeping over the bustling guild hall. "And information is the foundation of improvement. Consider it a... consultation."

Rovy exchanged a look with Bane. A silent conversation passed between them—doubt, amusement, perhaps a touch of curiosity. Finally, Rovy grinned. "Alright, 'consultant.' We're heading out first thing tomorrow morning. Meet us at the East Gate. Don't be late."

First thing tomorrow. Good. More information to acquire. I simply nodded, turning my attention back to the mission board, already mentally categorizing the various 'threats' and their potential 'rewards.' This world, though unwanted, was proving to be a surprisingly rich source of knowledge. And for a mind like mine, knowledge was the only currency that truly mattered.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of mundane observation. Rovy and Bane, after securing their next mission—another goblin eradication, predictably—spent their remaining time at the Guild exchanging pleasantries with other adventurers, discussing tactics, or simply boasting about their recent exploits. I remained a silent sentinel, positioned near the mission board, my eyes scanning, absorbing. I noted the different tiers of missions, the frequency of certain threats, the apparent hierarchy among the adventurers. Some carried themselves with an air of seasoned confidence, others with the nervous energy of fresh recruits.

Later, they led me to a small, unassuming inn. The common room was dimly lit, filled with the murmur of conversations and the clinking of tankards. Rovy and Bane ordered a simple meal of stew and ale, and I was given another portion of bread, along with a bowl of the watery stew. I ate slowly, my senses still processing the cacophony of sounds and smells. The food was bland, but served its purpose.

As they ate, Rovy and Bane discussed their strategy for tomorrow's hunt. Their plans were rudimentary, relying mostly on brute force and their limited experience. I listened, my mind already formulating more efficient approaches, identifying potential pitfalls they completely overlooked. The urge to interject, to correct their obvious flaws, was almost overwhelming, but I held back. Not yet. More observation is required. Let them make their mistakes. It provides better proves.

Eventually, exhaustion, a sensation I was still begrudgingly familiar with, began to set in. Rovy secured a small, shared room for the three of us. It was cramped, with two straw mattresses on the floor and a single, flickering lamp. Bane was asleep almost instantly, his snores a low rumble. Rovy, after a moment of quiet contemplation, also drifted off.

I lay awake, staring at the rough wooden ceiling. The unfamiliar energies in the air felt slightly different here, muted by the stone and wood of the town, yet still present. My mind replayed the day's events: the goblin fight, the entry into Raven, the Guild, the currency, the missions. Each piece of information was meticulously filed, cross-referenced, analyzed. This world was primitive, chaotic, yet it operated on discernible patterns. And patterns, I knew, could be exploited.

This 'afterlife' may be unwanted, but it is not entirely without its... opportunities. For a mind like mine, a blank slate is merely a complex puzzle waiting to be solved. And I, the unwilling participant, am nothing if not a solver of puzzles.

Unconsciously, my right hand lifted, fingers playing as if reaching for something unseen in the dimness above. It was an old habit, a gesture I'd made countless times in my previous life, often when deep in thought or attempting to grasp an elusive concept.

As my hand stretched towards the rough wooden planks of the ceiling, a faint tremor ran through the air. For a fleeting instant, I felt it—a presence, a subtle shift, as if someone or something had just moved directly above me, on the other side of the ceiling. My eyes, which had been idly tracing the wood grain, snapped into sharp focus. The sensation vanished as quickly as it came, leaving only the quiet hum of the unfamiliar energies and the rhythmic breathing of Rovy and Bane. I lowered my hand slowly, my stoic expression momentarily replaced by a flicker of something akin to intrigue. 

An anomaly, Interesting.