Chapter 25:
Vagrants of Aeridor Valeria
Her gaze drifted over our little company, her appraisal lingering on the simple cut of our clothes for a moment before she arrived at her conclusion: novices. In retrospect, her assessment was flawless. A slow pan across the cavernous guild hall served only to confirm her judgment; we were anomalies in this gathering of hardened professionals. Every other soul present was outfitted in gear designed for defense, for battle, for the unforgiving truth of a life spent on the highways and in the wilds. Their attire was a functional mosaic of cured hides, boiled leather, and the telltale glimmer of chainmail visible at the cuffs and collars of well-worn tunics. Even more revealing were the weapons they bore, carried with the same casual ease that we carried our own naivete. Longswords rested against wooden chairs, unstrung bows were slung across armored backs, and intricately designed daggers were strapped securely to their thighs. My eyes widened for a beat. Was that gentleman across the hall truly securing a throwing glaive to his back? It was an instrument of deadly elegance, its short pole crowned with a wickedly curved blade. When measured against them, we might as well have been taking a casual stroll through a weekend bazaar.
"Is our equipment truly such a deciding factor?" I inquired, motioning ambiguously toward our party. "Is there not a bulletin board for more common labors or straightforward deliveries?"
The elderly woman stationed behind the desk released a sigh, a tired expression that spoke of countless identical conversations. "Even something as simple as collecting herbs from the nearby forest demands a certain level of preparedness," she declared, her voice devoid of inflection. "The world beyond these gates is indifferent to whether you consider your task 'routine.' Return when you appear ready for the part. At a minimum, acquire some respectable weapons."
She was on the verge of turning us away when a shout from a table deep within the hall fractured the ambient calm.
"What in the hells do you think you're doing, you whelps? You mistake this for a playground?" The voice was a resonant boom, thick with derision. "This is no place for soft-bellies!"
A veritable mountain of a man pushed himself up from his chair, towering over Voktah by at least a full head. His thunderous voice, layered with sarcasm and an unearned sense of superiority, commanded the attention of the entire room. He was a bull of a man, likely in his thirties, with a powerful, muscular build and a scalp that was already conceding defeat to baldness. His torso was sheathed in a formidable half-plate crafted from some manner of burnished, bronze-colored metal, with pauldrons and poleyns of a matching design protecting his shoulders and knees. A brief, appreciative glance told me the plates were no less than two millimeters thick—a significant and weighty defense.
The man lumbered in our direction, a wide, snarling grin stretched across his face. It was a flimsy disguise, a transparent attempt at intimidation that failed to conceal the malevolent glint in his eyes.
His predatory gaze slid past the rest of us, fixing upon Amara with a lecherous quality that made my flesh crawl. "You lot should scurry along and play your little diversions somewhere else," he sneered. "But you could always leave the pretty one here. I'm certain we could find some… employment for her. She could provide us with some entertainment."
His insolent tone and the foul, proprietary nature of his stare sent a current of revulsion through me, a feeling I could see mirrored in the faces of my companions. Amara flinched as though she'd been physically struck, her features hardening into a mask of pure contempt. The children, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, pressed themselves tightly against her legs, their small faces paling with a dawning, terrified comprehension of the situation's menace. Tears began to well in their eyes as they sought refuge behind her. Was this truly the sort of welcome the Explorer's Guild extended to its new prospects?
"And there it is!" Kyoto exclaimed, his voice a strange fusion of thrill and exasperation. It was a remark that had become his trademark, reserved for those moments when a well-worn fictional cliché materialized before our very eyes.
I spared a glance for Kyoto, momentarily disregarding the approaching brute. "You're acquainted with this man?"
"Not personally, no," Kyoto replied, raising his voice just enough to ensure the bald man would overhear him. "But I recognize the archetype. The arrogant posturing, the dramatic timing… it all signals the classic adventurer whose ego is vastly inflated beyond his actual abilities. To put it plainly, he's a blustering, weak-spined lout."
"What was that!?" The man's face flushed a deep scarlet, his eyes bulging with fury as he glared daggers at Kyoto.
"Oh, you're referring to the stereotypical meathead?" I added, deliberately addressing Kyoto while pointedly ignoring the man himself. "The type whose roar is far more fearsome than his claws?" My reinforcement of Kyoto's analysis caused his face to darken even further with rage.
"That's it! I'll—" His muscles coiled, his temper finally boiling over as he readied himself to lunge.
"Halt!" I shouted, my voice sharp and commanding enough to make him pause. He froze in the middle of a stride, his enraged expression shifting to one of astonishment.
"Don't move another inch," I commanded, slowly sliding a hand beneath my shirt as if reaching for a hidden weapon. "Or I will draw."
"What's this? You have the audacity to threaten me?" he hissed, contemptuously closing the distance with another defiant step.
"You've left me no choice," I declared with a theatrical flourish. "You've forced my hand!" I whipped my hand out from under my shirt and aimed it directly at the arrogant brute—my middle finger extended in the universal signal of disdain.
"What?" He stared blankly at my hand, his brow creased in genuine bafflement. "What is the meaning of that?" It seemed the gesture had not yet been imported to this world. A true pity.
"It means 'go to hell,' you imbecile!" I spat. "Must I draw you a picture?"
"You bastard!" he roared, shedding the last of his restraint. He threw himself toward me, his powerful legs propelling him forward in a blind, rage-fueled charge.
We were separated by barely five meters, and his immense weight, compounded by the heavy plate, thundered across the floorboards with terrifying velocity.
Rather than drawing the firearm I did not possess, I retracted my hand and casually slipped it into the pocket of my absurd, pizza-patterned trousers. I allowed my body to relax, ignoring the charging behemoth who was moments away from running me down.
Why would I be concerned? Hadn't I said it before? I had absolute faith in him.
Just as the brute was about to collide with me, a thick, powerful hand shot out with deceptive swiftness. It locked around his throat like an iron vise, halting his forward momentum instantly. A heartbeat later, he was hoisted clean off the floor and slammed unceremoniously onto the hardwood planks.
It was Voktah's breathtaking, unexpected chokeslam. A thing of absolute beauty.
Voktah, pinning the man to the floor with a single hand, glanced over at me with a sly, knowing smirk. I grinned in return and offered him a thumbs-up. Superb work, old man. What a magnificent cover. He never ceased to amaze. It required a staggering amount of raw power to lift a larger, armored man with just one hand.
"Gah—huk!?" the bald man gasped, more dazed by the sudden chokehold and forceful impact than genuinely injured. The floor was wooden, after all, and his armor was substantial. As he hit the ground, a brief cascade of peculiar, ethereal sparks erupted at the point of impact, disappearing as quickly as they had appeared. I mentally chalked it up to a trick of the light.
"W-wait, please stop!" a young man from the brute's table—presumably a junior member of his party—scrambled to his feet, pleading with frantic urgency.
What was happening now? Their earlier condescension had completely evaporated, replaced by a sudden, deferential panic. Could it be?
"That should be sufficient, shouldn't it, Granny?" another of his companions, a striking woman dressed in the practical attire of a swordswoman, called out to the receptionist.
"Tch. Fine, fine. That's enough," the old woman grumbled. "You can let him up, Brutus. They've passed."
As if on cue, a collective groan of disappointment, peppered with a few scattered cheers, rippled through the hall, emanating particularly from the patrons in the lounge and at the bar.
There was clearly more to this situation than I had first perceived.
"Alright, alright! Payouts for the 'pass' wager, collect them here!" a hunched-over old man shouted from his station behind the bar.
"See! I told you that formidable old man was the real article!"
"Your instincts were wrong! None of the others even blinked!"
"Dammit, I bet on them being the ones to get provoked, not the other way around!"
"My wife's grocery money! Nooo!"
The hall echoed with similar laments and pronouncements. I was reasonably certain I had just witnessed the settling of some very unusual wagers, but I decided it was best to disregard the specifics.
The swordswoman approached our group. Hearing the commotion and the official declaration of our "pass," Voktah had already released the bald man.
"We apologize for that disturbance," she said, offering a respectful bow. "But please understand, this is something of a standard evaluation for prospective members, especially for those who don't quite fit the typical mold. It's an informal custom to filter out individuals who lack the necessary fortitude for this line of work. Consider it the guild's unique method of saying either 'welcome aboard' or 'come back when you're ready.'"
So that was the nature of this charade. I'd harbored my suspicions, having once been subjected to a similar, albeit less dramatic, hazing ritual in a mercenary town. Still, it was a relief that the encounter had de-escalated without any further conflict.
"It's quite alright, we understand," I replied, adopting her courteous tone. "That's why we were holding back a bit ourselves." A flicker of disbelief crossed her face at my assertion, but it was the truth. Of course, my 'restraint' was owed more to the fact that I didn't actually own a gun than to any deliberate act of forbearance.
The swordswoman then knelt down to meet the children's gaze. They were still clutching Amara's shirt, shaken by the sudden uproar.
"I'm sorry, little ones," she said softly. "Nothing bad is happening. This is just how we grown-ups at the Explorer's Guild say hello to each other sometimes." Her gentle explanation appeared to calm them, and they offered small, tentative nods in response. The woman possessed an elegance that seemed out of place in this rough-hewn environment, a stark contrast to the louts at her table. A noble in disguise, perhaps? I filed the thought away to consider later.
"Need a hand?" Voktah offered, extending a hand to help the bald man to his feet in an uncharacteristically magnanimous gesture. This was certainly not his typical modus operandi.
"Sure," the man mumbled, accepting the assistance and allowing Voktah to pull him upright.
Voktah grinned. "That was a nice charge," he rumbled. "You've got some real force behind you."
Was Voktah actually paying him a compliment?
"You too," the bald man replied, rubbing his neck and grinning back with what appeared to be genuine admiration. "I never imagined you could stop me, let alone lift me. It seems you're the one with the real strength here."
What on earth was I witnessing? Was this the genesis of some peculiar, testosterone-fueled bond? They were adversaries one moment and allies the next. What a strange and volatile world this was.
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