A Sort-Of Date With Ravela

Having Ravela with me would never be a bad thing. It caught me by surprise because I thought today would be a Meredi day, but I was happy to go with the flow.

It worked out for me, too, because it gave me a chance to flesh out my understanding of the setting further.

The marketplace buzzed with layered noise—bartering voices, clanking carts, and the occasional barked warning from a market guard. The air was thick with the smells of spiced meats, burnt oil, wet stone, and the faint metallic sting of mana leakage from a cracked pipe.

It was funny—all the constant moving, old fans at every stall, and fragrances actually made the market one of the cleaner places on this Saint Giselle layer.

I glanced toward a patrol squad idling by a corner post. “How dangerous would you say the Saint Giselle layer is?” I asked.

Her eyes scanned everything but me. “Safer than the three layers below the Slants, not as safe as the layers above. If you’ve got a good rep and good eyes, you’ll be fine.”

“Hmm. Hope people know I’m associated with you.”

“They do.”

I snorted, but I was also taking mental notes. In the game, this part of the city was just a glorified setting detail, so I never really thought about how it worked day-to-day. It was a gritty, overly dark setting, but a place like this couldn’t run without some kind of order. Meredi’s shop wouldn’t survive if people couldn’t walk home without being stabbed every night.

“I can’t help but notice all the guards.”

“Wow. Look at you,” Ravela replied dryly. “Finally opening your eyes to the world around you?”

I seized the chance and looked over my shoulder at her. “I’ve definitely opened my eyes to what’s around me.”

Her eyes widened, and she looked away. “Tch. Watch where you’re going.”

“Would you say guards are reliable?” I asked, stopping at a stall selling lamp-grown nightshades.

Ravela greeted the owner and stood beside me. “Are you kidding? What a stupid question.”

“Humor me,” I said, buying an assorted bag of nightshades.

“Yeah. They’re reliable. The outfits have good leaders. The Captain of the City Guard is a great lady. Came up from the layer above us. The Captain of the Patrol is a great man. The Guild Master of the Merchants and Salvagers guild is a great man. The Paladins of the Bastion are annoying, but they’re passionate about their work. The nobles can run their mouths, but it’s the Paladins keeping the order…” Ravela spat, her nose wrinkling. “But the Captain of the Noble Guard’s a piece of work.”

I quickly dissected what I could of what I had been told. So, the city had three people Ravela believed in… 

The Captain of the Patrol… If I recall correctly, the first game mentioned him. But the direct superior of the MC was the one you interacted with. That guy seemed really honest, strict, and reliable. He wasn’t a hateable character the way Cynthia was. It sounded like he was a reflection of this leader Ravela talked up.

We stopped by the next stall that sold mushroom spores. Memories flashed before my eyes as I greeted the kindly old couple behind the counter and waved at their adult son standing by with a sword on his hip. This body had visited this stall many times.

“These are the ingredients for my stimulants,” I mumbled.

“Yeah, I know, Tim. I pay attention to your shopping trips,” Ravela spat.

I chuckled. “Hey, Rav, how easy would it be to sneak into the upper layers?”

She gave me a look like I’d just confessed to licking public railings. “What?”

I laughed and looked over at the son, who was listening in. “Hey, man. What would you say? Is it easy?”

He let out a laugh and took a second to think about it as his parents made jokes about how tight a noble’s britches are.

“I had a body who went up there for a delivery—so it was honest work. The guards arrested him within an hour because he was having trouble finding the address.”

I nodded. “Thanks. That actually tells me a lot.”

Ravela nudged my arm. “Hey, don’t get any ideas. The nobles have all kinds of depths magic tech. They’ve got fewer security personnel, but they’ve got way more means of keeping their shit under lock and key than we can even fathom.”

“Interesting,” I said as I paid the family.

We went down an alleyway. I greeted the guys standing outside the doors of the brothels in this area. Evidently, Timaeus had gone here a lot, because it was one flash of memory after another. But it wasn’t sex that he had come here for. We reached a dead end, with only the door to an old alchemy shop to our left.

“You know, this guy could have made so much more money if he weren’t in such a sketchy neighborhood,” I said.

Ravela scowled. “What does that say about you, who seems to know every half-naked man down here?”

I looked at her. “That I’m friendly?”

Ravela rolled her eyes and walked into the shop.

The alchemy shop’s door let out a squeal that could wake the dead.

Inside, it was dim, humid, and filled with the smell of vinegar, charcoal, and pressed flowers. Jars lined every wall—brown glass, green-stained corks, crooked paper tags. Near the back, behind a metal-mesh counter, sat an old man with a wicked widow’s peak, hunched over a broadsheet paper stained with something purple. A studded monocle glittered on one eye.

He didn’t look up. “If it ain’t the scrawny one-handed junkie.”

“Morning, Oltan,” I said brightly. “I’m glad the memory of me coming in with a frozen hand keeps you company so well.”

His eyes flicked up. “Still not dead. Can’t decide if that’s a blessing or a divine oversight.”

I went to a counter with a bunch of ingredients sorted on it. “Just had to get one more in, huh?”

Then his eyes slid past me to Ravela.

“No smuggler trash allowed,” he muttered, and snapped his newspaper taut in front of his face. “Not unless you’re bringing me the good whiskey this time.”

Ravela walked around like she owned the place. “Why so gruff? Just tell me you want to get your wife some of her favorite contraband whiskey. I don’t judge.”

“You talk too much,” he grumbled.

“You love the sound of my voice, you old coot.”

I left them to it and drifted toward the shelves, embracing the gentle buzz behind my eyes. Every shelf was labeled with narrow tin tags, and beside each cluster of product jars was a little slip of paper under glass, outlining the name, effects, volatility risk, shelf life, and usage suggestions.

I slowed to read them all.

Every single one triggered a memory.

Flickers of a younger Timaeus bubbling things over a scorched pot. The first time he got a flame catalyst just right and leapt like he’d won the Saint’s Lottery. Oltan’s scolding voice. Notes written in tight script. I remembered the exact smell each of these ingredients provoked mid-reaction. The recipes were in my head now too, like they never left. 

Timaues had never bothered writing about these products. I would never have known about them on my first read of his stuff. But it wasn’t because they were not important; it was because they were basic.

Timaues had only written about the ambitious, difficult concoctions. Everything else had been assumed knowledge—like writing a cooking book and skipping over how to boil water. But now, with each label I read, those early steps were returning. I was rebuilding my foundation. Every bottle here was a reminder that Timaeus had once started from scratch, too.

I glanced at Oltan as he and Ravela traded verbal jabs at the counter.

This foundation was what this place sold. Not the flashy, thrilling breakthroughs. 

I gathered what I needed: salt crystals, dissolvers, a small bag of fire element mana crystals. I’d love to make them all myself, but the truth was, these things took time to prepare. That’s why Oltan was a hero to alchemists. Buying from Oltan meant we didn’t have to waste time doing the boring, foundational stuff.

Oltan had given up on the wild pursuit of alchemical greatness a long time ago. His joints didn’t like heat, his breath rasped too much when he handled volatile fumes, and his eyes were too weak to judge color shifts in reactions. But he’d found his purpose in supplying those who hadn’t given up.

And Timaeus—well, he’d written about him.

Tucked between the bitter, dry rants and footnotes of trial runs were whole pages of Oltan anecdotes. His cranky advice. His love of bad newspapers and terrible gossip. His obsession with keeping notes public-facing, even if no one else cared. That’s how I knew to come here. Because the original Timaeus had written: “If I’m ever reborn as a brat, remind me to thank Old Oltan. His fundamentals are still better than mine.”

I carried the reagents to the counter. “Thanks, Oltan. Your stuff’s still better than mine.”