Markets, Beer, and a Jealous Slime

The cobbled streets of Lowstone twist and turn between crooked wooden houses, stone cottages, and wattle-and-daub walls. The stones beneath my boots are uneven, worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. The air isn’t nearly as foul as I feared. Instead, it’s a surprisingly tolerable blend of manure, fresh bread, woodsmoke, and good old human sweat. Ah, the rustic perfume of fantasy countryside.

I even spot rudimentary sewer canals running along the edges of the streets, made of rough-hewn stone, leading toward small sedimentation basins. Primitive but functional. Someone in this town actually bothered with basic sanitation.

“At least they don’t shit in the streets,” I mutter under my breath. “That’s already a win.”

Pururun gives me a scandalized wobble, as if offended by my lack of poetic refinement. This slime has developed far too much personality for a lump of jelly.

***

My first stop is, naturally, the marketplace. Colorful stalls burst with local produce: vegetables piled high in baskets, meat hanging from hooks, bundles of herbs, pottery, rough linens. The lively noise is almost nostalgic — vendors shouting prices, customers haggling, kids darting between legs like mischievous ferrets. It feels oddly familiar, like a European street market I might’ve wandered through on a trip, if you ignore the occasional guy carrying a sword the size of a surfboard.

I head toward a butcher’s stall. The man behind the counter is short, broad, with forearms like hams and a cleaver to match. His eyes widen when I drop a chunk of smoked boar meat on the counter.

“By the Lord’s beard!” he exclaims. “This… this is Mist Boar meat!”

“Mist Boar?”

“A Class B Calamity, sir! These beasts are the terror of villages around here. Even seasoned adventuring parties think twice before facing one. Many never come back — or if they do, they come back missing limbs.”

I shrug nonchalantly, though inside, I’m starting to grasp just how close I came to being kebab meat.

“Got lucky,” I say simply.

“Lucky?!” He stares at me like I’ve sprouted a second head. “You’d have to be a madman to hunt one of those! But its meat… ah, the nobles pay a fortune for it. And the tusks — wait!”

I lay the ivory tusks on the counter. His eyes gleam greedily.

“Platinum ivory! Prime material for weapon forging. The blacksmith will sell his soul to get his hands on this.”

The negotiations that follow are surprisingly smooth. The man clearly knows value when he sees it, and I’m not here to play hardball. I walk away with a heavy coin purse — enough to live comfortably for weeks by local standards. He also throws in some valuable tidbits about the town’s infrastructure.

Apparently, Lowstone has a decently organized system for public hygiene. The public toilets are near the main inn and connected to the sewer channels I saw earlier. Wastewater flows into purification basins where magical stones neutralize impurities — basic stuff, but already more advanced than I expected.

“Of course, the burghers have their private facilities,” the butcher explains. “But the rest of us make do with the public ones. Marta, the innkeeper, manages the baths too. Tough woman, that one!”

Public baths. Now that is a system I can get behind. Efficient, communal, and probably less disgusting than medieval riverside washing.

***

After selling the tusks to the blacksmith — a bearded giant who nearly had a spiritual experience when he saw them — I head toward Marta’s establishment.

The inn, The Crowned Boar, is a two-story timber-framed building with green shutters and exposed beams. The sign creaks softly in the wind, depicting a boar wearing a crooked golden crown. Subtle.

The moment I step inside, I’m greeted by a woman in her forties with chestnut hair tied back under a colorful scarf. Her hazel eyes sparkle with intelligence and a hint of mischief. She wipes her hands on her apron and gives me a quick once-over.

“A traveler!” she says warmly. “And with quite the… interesting companion.”

Pururun shrinks slightly under her sharp gaze, wobbling nervously.

“I’m looking for a room,” I say. “And alcohol. The good kind.”

Marta bursts out laughing — a rich, genuine laugh that fills the common room.

“A man who knows his priorities! I’m Marta, owner of this fine establishment. And this is my daughter, Lena.”

From behind the counter emerges a young woman in her twenties, with bright green eyes and braided auburn hair. Her smile is friendly — too friendly. The kind of smile that says, Hi, I’m your future complication.

“Pleased to meet you, sir…?”

“Ethan. Just Ethan. Don’t bother with pompous titles.”

“Well then, Ethan, I hope your stay will be a pleasant one,” she says with a flutter of her eyelashes that could probably knock a less cynical man flat.

I suppress a groan. Romantic entanglements? Yeah, no thanks. I’ve got enough on my plate without adding medieval dating drama.

Marta seats me by the hearth as Lena disappears into the kitchen. The inn is cozy and lively: about a dozen patrons, mugs in hand, trading stories. The air is thick with the smell of stew and bread, making my stomach growl like an angry beast.

***

Lena returns with a frothy mug and a steaming plate. The amber liquid smells divine. I take a cautious sip — and my eyes widen.

“Holy — this is amazing!”

The beer is complex: malty, with honey and spices, like a rustic craft brew you’d find in a hipster bar… if hipsters carried swords.

“This is Lowstone beer,” Marta says proudly. “Brewed with our own grains. Best in the region.”

“This is honestly the best thing that’s happened to me since my reincarnation,” I mutter, before realizing what I’ve just said.

Thankfully, Marta just laughs it off as a joke. Next to me, Pururun starts vibrating indignantly. Apparently, beer has dethroned her as number one companion.

“Oh, don’t give me that look,” I tell her. “You’re still my favorite travel buddy.”

She sulks visibly, which Lena finds adorable.

“She’s jealous! How cute!” Lena giggles.

“Yeah. Adorable if you like your desserts possessive,” I grumble.

***

The stew is hearty, rich with vegetables and tender meat, seasoned with a surprising finesse for a medieval inn. Between mouthfuls, I learn that Marta has been running the place alone since her husband’s death three years ago. She and Lena also manage the town’s public baths — a profitable side business.

“Private baths are for the burghers up in High Quarter,” Marta explains. “The rest of us share the communal ones. Clean and well kept, though.”

“Thanks to your water purification stones, right?”

“Exactly! One of the perks of living in a proper town. Small villages aren’t so lucky.”

Lena refills my mug, brushing her fingers just a little too deliberately against mine. I ignore it, but Pururun doesn’t. The slime starts trembling menacingly, her blue hue deepening like a storm cloud.

“Calm down, slime,” I whisper. “Now’s not the time for a scene. I thought you were pacifist…”

Apparently, she’s unlocked “Jealousy Mode.” Each time Lena flashes me another coy smile, Pururun vibrates harder, even shifting color slightly. If she had arms, I’m pretty sure she’d be crossing them right now.

The afternoon drifts by peacefully. I pick up more details about Lowstone: its prosperity comes from being on a trade route; the feudal hierarchy is textbook; and the Temple, while influential, is less suffocating here than in some regions. It’s almost… comfortable.

***

When I finally head to my room, I find a modest but clean space. A bed with a halfway decent mattress, a table and stool, a basin for washing. Not exactly luxury, but after nights spent under the stars, it feels like a five-star hotel.

The only downside is the communal toilets: basically, a hole in a plank over a chute. But thanks to the purification system, it’s mercifully odorless.

“Charming cliché,” I mutter to Pururun.

She vibrates in agreement, clearly sharing my disdain for medieval plumbing.

Despite that detail, sleep comes easily. The sounds of the inn — muffled conversations, crackling wood, occasional laughter — wrap around me like a warm blanket.

For the first time since I arrived in Aetheria, I feel almost safe. Almost.

Because let’s be honest: in a world like this, danger doesn’t always wear fangs. Sometimes, it has green eyes, red hair, and a smile that spells trouble.