4. Alcohol
It was already early evening, but thanks to the hanging oil lamps and torches everywhere, the streets were as bright as day.
It was around the time when the men who had just finished their work in the mines would be heading out to town in search of wine, food, and women. A rowdy good time would be had by all.
No, it wasn’t just the mines. This town had an ironworks, too. The ironworks was still in operation, and smoke rose from its chimneys, so the fires in the furnaces probably never went out. The day shift would leave at night, and the night shift would surely go out to drink in the morning.
This was a town that never slept.
Orcs, goblins, kobolds, undead, and more—the roads were filled with men from the minority races, and the area around the pubs and eateries was especially packed.
In one place, someone was singing cheerfully, and in another, two fools were fighting. There were people watching that scene with raucous laughter, too.
Ranta was not so innocent as to let this chaos overwhelm him.
That said, when he saw a furry giant that stood around three meters tall stomping along half-naked, yes, he was obviously surprised.
“Is that a troll?” Ranta muttered, astonished. “I’ve heard they exist way up north, in the Great Icefield, and the Iceleaf Forest.”
Whatever the case, no one was paying attention to Ranta and his mask, so he was grateful for that. Of course, he’d boldly set foot in this town figuring he’d probably be all right. He was correct.
“But...”
Wasn’t there anything that could be done about this smell? Their body odor was so strong that it made his eyes water, and combined with the harsh smell of puke from the drunks and other excrement, it formed an incredible stench that filled the entire town.
“I’m sure I’ll just stop noticing it at some point,” he told himself.
A guy could get used to anything, after all.
He went down a somewhat wider road, and encountered a chain gang of gumows sitting along the roadside.
They were for sale. They likely existed to do the most dangerous jobs in this town, the ones no one else would do, no matter how well they were paid.
Some piece-of-shit, like that orc with his hair dyed in three colors, would buy them.
They were slaves.
They were bound by chains soaked with their blood, sweat, and tears, being led off to the place where they would be worked to death.
There were gumows among them who were no older than Pat.
“This is reality... huh?”
Ranta quickened his pace. He passed the line of slaves, and approached the orc with the tricolor hair.
The orc with the tricolor hair must have been pretty well off. As if to show off his wealth, he wore necklaces, earrings, bracelets, and all sorts of other jangling shiny golden trinkets. The bag around his waist was especially gaudily decorated, and it looked good and heavy.
“Personal Skill, Black Light,” Ranta murmured.
He passed by the orc with the tricolor hair. Beneath his mask, he smirked.
In his right hand, he held a wallet made of lizard skin. It wasn’t Ranta’s. With a move too fast for the eye to follow, he had pilfered it from the orc with the tricolor hair’s pouch.
“So long,” he said in a whisper, then entered an alley.
Checking the contents of the wallet in the darkness, there might not have been any gold coins, but there were five silver ones, and ten copper.
“Too easy. But that’s what happens when you’re me.”
The wallet itself would probably fetch a good price, but he had no desire to use it himself, and selling it off would be too much hassle. He discarded it in the alley, and went looking for a bar.
There was no shortage of places where it looked like he could get a stiff drink. Many stalls sold alcohol, and business was booming at all of them.
Ranta made a point of choosing the largest place he could find. It had an iridescent sign, the kind of thing orcs probably loved, and text written in the undead script, which looked like a mass of snakes had laid a large number of eggs. That was the place’s name, no doubt, but he couldn’t read it.
He pushed past some orcs who were shouting at one another by the entrance, and went inside.
It was a large establishment, with a high roof. Half of the first floor had an alcove that reached up to the ceiling, and there was a second and third floor, too.
Not every seat was full. The building was maybe at eighty or ninety percent of capacity, but it was still incredibly lively. It was so noisy, he could barely hear the multiracial band that was performing on the stage on the second floor.
The clientele were downing zwig, the green, foaming drink which was favored by the orcs, and dubrow, the milky, sour drink beloved by the undead, along with beer and distilled spirits, at an incredible pace.
Ranta held a copper coin between his thumb and forefinger, as if showing it off as he walked around the pub. He did this to prove he wasn’t penniless, and he had come here with money and the intent to drink. If he didn’t do something like that, then if the staff watched him closely, or if a rough customer picked a fight with him, he couldn’t object.
In one corner of the pub, there was a gray elf drinking. The table sat three, but he didn’t seem to have company. It looked like he was alone.
They were called gray elves because their white skin had an ashen tone to it. Their hair was silver, almost white, and their eyes were blood red. Their mouths were like simple slits. This one wore a mixture of pelts and chain mail, and he had a large pile of luggage at his side. The fingers that held his mostly transparent glass bore many rings, and his talon-like nails had a luster like obsidian. He looked incredibly ominous.
Ranta sat across from the gray elf without hesitation, then put the copper coin on the table as if pushing it towards him.
The gray elf glared at him. Then again, his face was practically expressionless. He might just be looking at Ranta. Still, he was inscrutable.
After some time had passed, a small waiter came. “Hey, hey, fatchoo doin’?
The waiter was a korrigan. They lived in the Plateau of Falling Ash, and their race was like humans shrunk down to half the size, with ash and rust rubbed into their skin for some reason. As far as Ranta knew, when they formed into groups, they could get uppity and cause mischief. They were noisy, ridiculous, easygoing guys.
Ranta pointed at the gray elf’s cup, then held up two fingers. “This, two.”
“Jyah?!” The korrigan waiter jumped up, and banged on the table repeatedly. “Dahh, jen, johh!”
Was he pissed, maybe?
Ranta laid out a second copper coin on the table. That still didn’t quell the korrigan’s anger.
“Dohh, dahh, johh, gihoa!”
He pulled a knife and swung it around, and looked ready to strike at any moment. Seriously?
Ranta kept putting copper coins on the table. At the eighth coin, the korrigan finally settled down. The waiter snatched up the copper coins, and skipped off humming.
“Four coppers apiece. Damn, that’s expensive stuff.” Ranta spoke in the human language despite himself.
The gray elf’s eyes narrowed. You... You, yuma... human?”
“What if I am?” Ranta asked.
“I... report you. Here and now. Raise voice... Everyone hear. What happen to you?”
“Try it.” Ranta put his elbows down on the table, weaving his fingers together. “You know what’ll happen, I bet.”
“You... die. Here. Get killed.”
“Maybe I do. But before that, gray elf, I’ll be taking you with me.”
“Tch, tch, tch, tch...” The gray elf’s shoulders shook with a creepy laugh. “Business... with me? Human.”
“I want to go south.”
“...South. To Oortahna, I see.”
“Yeah.”
“Why... come to me?”
“You’re a shaman, right? You must travel around. I know there are gray elves like you, at least.”
“I am... not cheap.”
“I’ll bet.”
“I not know you. I am... very expensive. It cost you.” The gray elf tapped his nails on his cup.
Without taking his eyes off the gray elf, Ranta read the room around him. He could feel them. Eyes. Multiple pairs of them, too.
His skin tingled. This sensation. It made his throat feel awfully dry.
The korrigan waiter brought two cups, and left them on the table.
“Thanku,” Ranta called out after the waiter, then hurriedly looked around.
There were at least two orcs looking his way. They weren’t dressed like the laborers, the slaves, or the modestly wealthy folks of this town. If anything, they were travelers like Ranta or the gray elf.
Ranta took his cup in hand. The cup was still half full of amber liquid. As befit its price, it looked like hard liquor.
“Looks like you’ve got your own situation,” Ranta said.
“Everyone does... until they die.”
“Well, yeah.”
“Wezelred,” said the grey elf, as if introducing himself.
“I’m Ranta, Wezelred. Mind if I call you Wezel?”
“’Kay, Ranta. I leave here... this pub.”
It didn’t feel sudden.
“You do, and you’ll get attacked,” said Ranta immediately.
Wezel nodded. “Then, afterwards, I hear your story. How that?”
“Fine.” Ranta shifted his mask, and took a swig.
His dry throat burned with pain, and the smoky fragrance came out his mouth and nose.
His esophagus, and his stomach, they were hot.
He took a breath.
“You drink, too, Wezel. This one could be your last. Take your time, and enjoy it.”
Wezel smiled slightly, raised his cup, and took a sip.
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