The tale that follows is not from the time line we know—but it might have been, had the dice fallen differently...
One Full Henderson ver0.6
1.0 Hendersons
A derailment significant enough to prevent the party from reaching the intended ending.
The Trialist Empire was home to many a tavern whose name was known throughout the land. Yet there was one on the frontier known to its regulars to be a cut above the rest. True, that was in part because they knew no other, but none could deny that it boasted peerless quality.
A strong, but not overbearing mystic glow illuminated the floor in a show of class scarcely seen in noble mansions. Not a speck of dust could be found on the caramel floors, and the only thing that ran across the snow-white wallpaper was a gorgeous gold pattern. The matching tables and chairs were in mint condition, as were the plates and cups of pure sterling silver.
Of course, the drinks within were no less immaculate: a delicate aroma danced off their surfaces, frosty enough to cool the throat in the blaze of summer and cozy enough to warm the soul in the desolation of winter.
Meats too soft for knives lined the patrons’ plates, ready to fall apart at the slightest jab of a fork. Beside them were vegetables that had never learned how to impart bitterness upon a tongue.
The bar counter meant for solo customers had been carefully made out of a single unbroken slab of cedar. Rumor had it that the heavy-bottomed glasses used here could slide from end to end across the perfectly polished surface.
Only a few locations in the imperial capital, tailored to the most tasteful of the upper crust, could boast such magnificence. For this establishment to be found in the western borderlands, in the oft mocked “ends of all earth” that was Marsheim? Who could ever believe it?
Yet here in the frontier city’s southern side, in a quiet little alley, was the bar. Placed in a dead end, the knotty path to reach its door had become a natural barrier of sorts for those who knew not its precise location. Even those who’d heard the rumors would struggle to navigate the labyrinthine network of streets without directions.
No chic sign advertised its presence. Although it was a touch cleaner than the buildings around it, it wasn’t so much so that it would catch an observer’s eye. Many guests bemoaned the subdued exterior as the establishment’s only flaw, but the owner’s response was ever an audacious grin and a sly “This is what a hideout should look like.”
One might think the proprietor a fool unsavvy in the ways of a customer-facing business, but that was hardly a problem here. For this location engaged in a practice practically never seen outside aristocratic circles: it turned away uninvited guests at the door.
Indeed, the meticulous interior design, superb food, and first-rate drink were not enough; only a select few adventurers were allowed entry. This was, undeniably, the only one of its kind in the whole of Rhine. So of course it didn’t need an accessible location or an eye-catching sign—it wasn’t that sort of place to begin with.
Yet in spite of its strange business strategy, the lounge found itself livening up just as any other did when evening set in.
The visitors were invariably experienced, high-ranking adventurers: leaders of famous clans, heroes known for their one-man exploits, up-and-comers blazing through the ranks, and so on. Not a single one was poorly put together. Even parties who’d stopped by after work were clad in the finest of armor, and their courteously wrapped weapons were legendary artifacts that would make a collector’s mouth water.
A graying but sharp mensch man handled the bar with grace, and a crew of smartly dressed waitstaff filled out uniforms of every shape and size as they hurried about greeting guests. The service, too, was designed to be perfect for its guests.
At times, individuals broke off from their tables and ventured across the floor to mingle with familiar faces. Every adventurer needed to keep up on recent events and regional affairs, and such topics flew back and forth.
Pubs were ordinarily the scene for baseless rumors and tales exaggerated to keep others’ attention, but this place was reserved for the cream of the crop. Socialization here was a game of strategy, each topic a playing piece; the gossip here was more than dressing to accentuate one’s drink.
While none here were particularly refined in etiquette, neither were they barbaric: the roaring laughter and desperate mood-making found at usual drinkeries was absent. On top of the requirements in adventuring, the members of this exclusive club had to have character fit to impress the establishment’s owner. The calm, relaxing atmosphere was a joint endeavor curated by proprietor and customer alike.
“What do you recommend today?” An adventurer sat at the counter and called out to the barkeeper polishing glasses on the other side.
The customer looked very young for his age. More childlike than childish, his features were capped off by his trademark head of spiky hair and a scar that ran down his cheek. Beside him was a woman who smelled faintly of herbs. A single look at her robe and the countless catalysts hanging from her person sufficed to mark her as one of the few mages in this line of work.
“Let me think...” Faced with a request for recommendation, the grayed man looked over the wall of bottles behind him and brought one down from its shelf. “How would you like a Franziscus? It comes from the priests at the Sylvius Monastery, who stumbled into the recipe while experimenting with a distillation device. The herbal blend and juniper berries make it go down real smooth and leave you feeling refreshed.”
“That sounds good to me. How’s it best served?”
“Well, let me see... What do you say to an Anvilcrusher Sven? It’s a mixed concoction that heightens the alcohol’s flavor while keeping it easy: Franziscus with bubbled water, and a few drops of lemon juice for fragrance. It’s the perfect first drink of the night—really wet your whistle.”
Sold on the premise, the adventurer ordered two—one each for himself and his partner.
“Come to think of it,” the adventurer said, “this is the Anvilcrusher, huh? He was a weird guy... Never heard of a dvergar going outta his way to water down booze like him. It’s been, what, half a year?”
“Indeed. He gave up his life defending a riverside canton from the son of a giant who’d come down from a nearby mountain. I hear the half giant swung at him with a house’s foundation, and yet he still managed to hold his war hammer high, trading blows until both of them fell. A true shame to lose a man like him.”
“At least the guy went out in a blaze of glory. Wouldn’t want him to end up being the next Knifeslinger Dimo.”
The spiky-haired adventurer’s laughter drew out a scolding from his apothecary partner, but the bartender seemed not to mind, instead mentioning that he could prepare a Dimo if that would so please them.
This was a tradition at this establishment: when famous adventurers drank here, their go-to mixes were christened with their epithets as a show of respect. What had begun as a little game when the proprietor heard of a friend’s death was now a trend that had spread throughout Marsheim.
But of all the merry drunkards ordering Anvilcrushers across the city, it was hard to say how many knew the drink got its name from a fallen adventurer.
Adventuring was, in a way, a career in public image. Once one’s days of journeying were over and their songs were no longer sung, they were quick to fade from the zeitgeist. Those whose exploits survived tens or hundreds of years were not just heroes, but the mythical champions who stood a cut above the usual living legend. Most were forgotten, just as the minstrels who sang of them slowly lost their tale as it bounced from one to another.
One day, even their tombstones would crumble away. Whether living on in the city’s traditions as the name of a drink was what they truly wanted, the living would never know.
The ridiculed Knifeslinger Dimo had been a floresiensis man famed for his expertise in slinging knives...but he was better remembered for his unique fetish of lying with women who hailed from the largest races. Eventually, his proclivities had gone too far: chasing greater and greater “opponents,” he’d gallantly fallen in a very different sort of battle.
Naturally, the man had been a regular, and countless Knifeslingers had been raised in his honor in the wake of his passing—all accompanied by a cackling roar of laughter, of course.
The drink itself was made with the bar’s famous chilled ale, white wine, and a dash of cinnamon. It was a strange mixture, but unlike the story of the man’s death, the concoction sat easily on the tongue. In the far future, tales of its origin would be forgotten as people enjoyed the recipe throughout the Empire; for now, though, it remained the starter to a crass joke.
Of the place’s clientele, the younger adventurers tended to order strange drinks—that were often followed by a scrunched-up face—with the hopes that they, too, would one day leave their mark on history. But the adventurer at the bar didn’t seem to have much interest in such games.
“Never a dull night around here, huh?”
Though his drink would have stung taken straight, a mellow flavor hiding a hint of refreshing fruitiness danced on the man’s tongue. Munching on a platter of dried meat, cheese, and boiled beans for his supper, he looked out at the bustling hall.
“It’s been some time since your last visit, hasn’t it, Mister Siegfried?”
“Guess it has. We made our way pretty far out for our last job. But this place never changes—the regulars here’d make a poet froth at the mouth.”
An ogre with two blades on her hilt was treating her subordinates to a round of good liquor; a waitress was sheepishly asking a zentaur warrior about her outstanding tab while simultaneously delivering the woman another bottle of whiskey; a mage clad in draping robes with a long staff crowned with golden bells who was too gorgeous to belong here was slumming it in a corner. Each and every face was one known throughout Ende Erde, whether through the townsfolk or the deeds in their sagas.
As for why they were all gathered here, it was because this was one of the few places they could truly unwind. Few other places could offer reprieve from poison and interfaction strife.
“That said, it’s been the same cast of characters for the past few years...”
As if to punctuate the adventurer’s statement, the merry atmosphere burst at once. The door blew open with a splitting noise; the guests rose, wondering if the crown itself had come to take over their sanctuary. Yet all the chaos was the result of one unmannered kick.
“The hell’s this ‘invitation required’ shit, anyway? Who the hell do you think I am?”
The intruder was a young man. He was not very well put together, nor did he give the impression that he was in the habit of bathing. However, the same could not be said for the longsword at his hip: even sheathed, its utilitarian design was of blatantly impressive quality.
A few of the customers knew him. He was a reckless new adventurer who’d moved to Marsheim half a year ago and had earned a name for himself on account of two things: his immense talent for the blade, and his propensity for picking fights with those who stood above him.
Although he hailed only from some backwater town even farther west than Marsheim proper, he claimed to be a noble’s bastard son in broad daylight; he was so short-tempered that any who dared question the veracity of such claims were quickly cut down. No matter how true his skills, the question of his character had given rise to a reputation that was, bluntly put, not very good.
Ever since a handful of middling veterans had fallen to him after trying to put him in his place, the community at large had begun to leave him alone—no use in chasing a fight that didn’t come with a bounty, after all.
Having recently dusted off his soot, he had apparently decided that tonight was the night that he would grace the elusive bar of legend with his presence. Where he’d gotten the details was anyone’s guess.
Being denied entry by the bouncer creeping in the shadows out front had soured his mood significantly, if the forceful entrance was anything to go by. The wailing hinge barely managed to hang onto its fanciful door, but the graying barkeep furrowed his brow all the same—just beyond, in the doorway’s shadow, the bouncer was hunched over clutching at a bloodied arm.
“Heroes have the privilege of drinking here, right? Then who the hell could you be serving booze if not me?”
The hubris was palpable. His arrogance stemmed from the presumed invincibility of youth, but alas, the true tragedy here was that he had been gifted with enough genius to overpower a man the proprietor trusted to guard his front door.
Until now, the man must have always gotten his way. Perhaps he’d been born to a family privileged enough that his audacious self-reported lineage could go unpunished; but worse was that his bloody talents prohibited any from righting his course. Unchecked, he had lived a life never learning the consequences of a sword drawn at the wrong time, in the wrong place.
Two more guards slipped out from behind a pillar near the entrance, drawing their weapons.
“Hey, now. I don’t remember ordering any steel. Or is it tradition for the house to treat its guests?”
Every now and again, an overly ambitious youngster came knocking on these doors. Fueled by adolescent dreams and infinite confidence, they showed up ready to join the ranks of legends. Such recklessness was cute; any adult would surely see bitter memories of themselves in their naivete and simply tell them off with a smile.
And, until this point, the rare unsolicited visitor had indeed been easily shooed away by the bouncer. Of course they had: those who manned the front door were handpicked for their exceptional strength by the owner himself. Being told off by someone who was clearly stronger usually sufficed to scare the average kid. At most, they would run off swearing to one day earn an invitation and make the bouncer bow at their feet.
A few idiots tried to muscle their way through, but they’d all been sent packing...except tonight’s. On this day, the fool was more foolish than any who’d come before, with terribly unbefitting power to match.
While the bouncer was ordinarily enough to keep the peace, two guards were perennially stationed within as a safeguard against drunken adventurers causing a scene. This made the first ever instance that they had to fulfill their duties.
Neither of them offered the customary warnings of a guard. No “Are you sure you have the right location?” preceded their joint attack; the need to hold back had evaporated as soon as they’d seen their comrade slumped over outside.
Their swords lunged for the vitals with precision enough to impress the skilled clientele looking on. Perfectly in sync, they sliced...through thin air.
“Wha?!”
“Too slow, pals. Just pathetic.”
The pair were surprised to find the voice coming from their backs. In what seemed like a cosmic prank, the young man they were supposed to have chopped in two had outflanked them. His blade remained undrawn, and no weapon could be found in his hands—yet something had slashed them in the chests.
“So this is all it takes to get a job around here? Not all it’s cracked up to be, eh?”
“Ack...”
“Gah...”
The guards collapsed, unable to believe the blood bubbling into their mouths. Two low thuds echoed across the room.
“There. Plenty of proof that I’m ‘worthy’ of this pub, don’tcha think?”
The newcomer’s unwavering assurance that he’d proved his case caused the regulars to hang their heads.
“Oh, man... You’ve done it now, kid.”
“The hell? Done what? You gotta be strong to come here, yeah? I don’t see the problem with showing that I fit the bill.”
Still sipping his Anvilcrusher from a barstool, the adventurer didn’t even make an effort to hide his disgust at the events that had transpired. Meanwhile, the apothecary next to him rose with a hand in her inner pocket, blue in the face at seeing the injured.
“Lemme tell you: I’ve got a bone to pick here. The hell’s some bar owner got a fancy title for? Who’s he think he is to pick and choose his customers?”
“You’re free to be as stuck up as you want, brat. But I can’t think of anything worse than spilling blood here.”
Anyone and everyone who spent their time here knew there were only three rules. Simple and clear cut, there was no getting around them, and the adventurer graciously listed them out for the rude trespasser.
Rule one: Vomit shall be cleaned by the vomiter.
Rule two: All will be gentlemen regardless of gender.
Rule three: Spill no blood.
Never had anyone broken one of these rules without incurring the owner’s wrath. It didn’t matter how famous, experienced, or well regarded the perpetrator was.
“Isn’t that right, Fixer?” As the adventurer downed the last of his cocktail, the target of his words had shifted away from the arrogant young man—and to the group who’d shown up at the front door. “Almost like you were waiting for your big entrance.”
“Oh, please. I’ll have you know I don’t appreciate the God of Cycles’s little jokes.”
“Master!”
The graying man at the bar raised his voice. How could he not, when he had never once failed the proprietor to this degree in all the years he’d managed the floor? Had all gone smoothly, the master of the business would have been busy negotiating the procurement of quality liquors at a local Wine God temple until well into the night. That would’ve forced the bartender to offer his apologies at a later time, but would have also afforded the opportunity to right the wrongs himself.
Alas, the owner had returned.
“To begin with, do you really think I’d stand idly by as an untamed mutt gnaws on my men?”
Proprietor of the Golden Fang; the Fixer of Ende Erde; the Untouchable—many were the names of the adventurer who reigned over Marsheim. With a crew of bodyguards at his back, he looked the part of a noble—not to mention his refined garb: over his left shoulder hung a half mantle made from the dragonskin he’d won on an outing still sung of; at his hip was the legendary Schutzwolfe, said to have sampled as much blood as there is life; adorning his head was a shimmering waterfall of gold no less vibrant than when he’d earned his first epithet.
Though removed from the realm of youth, Erich of Konigstuhl’s thin visage had hardly changed since he’d first arrived at the ends of all earth. Despite being a head shorter than the bodyguards surrounding him, his presence was as large as the best of those gathered inside.
He was a walking bundle of might, with countless stories to his name, perhaps the most infamous of which was how he’d matched the Saint of Marsheim. To this day, people whispered about the Nightmare at the Tent Grounds in fearful awe—the incident that had solidified him as the living embodiment of Marsheim’s balance of power.
“So you’re Erich? Hmph... Smaller than I thought. From everything I’d heard, I woulda thought you’d be tougher.”
Yet the young man did not yield an inch. Maybe he thought that to acknowledge the strength of the legend in front of him would be to lose, in his own way. Whatever the case, he walked over until the two were nearly touching, and looked down with a dauntless sneer.
The guards were seeing red from the sheer audacity, but their master raised one hand to keep them at bay.
“I think I’ve seen enough.”
“What, you can already tell? I’m stronger, aren’t I?”
“Not quite.” Slipping past the boy with a diagonal hop, Erich elaborated, “I’ve seen enough to know you aren’t worthy of our service. We don’t keep scraps to feed stray dogs around here.”
Faced with an insult that went beyond mere taunting, the young man froze. His brain simply refused to comprehend what he’d heard.
The onlookers made faces. Anyone would have gotten upset at a slight like that, and the moody greenhorn was sure to erupt in fury.
Yet things did not turn out quite as he’d hoped.
“...Huh?”
He couldn’t feel the weapon in his hand. When he looked down, he saw nothing: not his hand, and not even his body.
His forehead hit the floor with a dull thump, but it didn’t hurt. Before he could process what had happened, his vision began to blur, and it faded entirely before he ever got a chance to understand.
The man died ignorant—both of his own stupidity and of the power of the foe whom he’d antagonized.
Perhaps this fate was his greatest solace. His long life of violence had finally come to an end, without pain, and without the bitter realization that the world was bigger than he could ever have imagined.
[Tips] The Golden Fang is an exclusive bar in Marsheim open only to two kinds of adventurers: proven heroes and promising talents who catch the owner’s eye. Despite the classy interior decor and high-quality food and drink, the prices remain reasonable. Of particular note are the establishment’s unique specialties: ice-cold drinks in the middle of summer, and a kind of water that bubbles from within.
Yet beneath the surface, the location doubles as a pillar of balance upholding the delicate scale of interclan relations in the city. When clan leaders need to gather for a confidential meeting, it becomes a fortress wholly separate from the outside world.
How many years had it been since I’d stopped caring about how insolent and boorish it was to smoke a pipe without using a hand? Or since I’d begun letting my underlings take off my outerwear when I entered a room without causing a fuss? Many, I supposed, was the answer.
“Sorry to make you work, and thanks for lending a hand. Will my men be all right?”
“...Yes, I think they’ll all make it. He seemed more interested in showing off than anything else, and the quality of their armor has made the difference.”
“I’ll leave it to you, then. Note the expenses here.”
One of my regulars was an apothecary, and she must’ve rushed to treat the wounded before anyone else. Along with a word of thanks, I slipped her a paper check with the amount left blank. She was around my age, and we’d spent a lot of time working together in our youths; I’d seen the potency of her healing potions and knew my men were in good hands.
As much as I hated to admit it, the unthinking moron whose head I’d lopped off had been a skilled swordsman; the silver lining was that his precision cuts would probably give my first subordinate outside a chance to reattach his arm. The wound had been hauntingly perfect, to the point where even the mages I personally kept on hand would be able to graft it back on. It would take a lot of time and effort for him to get back to his original skill, but I’d spent even more time and money raising him up. I hoped to see him make a full recovery.
“You’re a generous man, Fixer.”
“I like to think I know where to spend and where to save, Luckstrong.”
“Hey, knock it off. That name makes it sound like I got to where I am with just dumb luck.”
Tease and be teased. I’d learned my lesson twenty years ago: to lose one’s composure was to be made light of. He’d called me by an annoying nickname, so I’d simply returned the favor; I’d long since made this sort of response second nature.
“And to my dear guests. I’m terribly sorry to have soured your nights by subjecting you to the reek of blood on your off hours. Let me shoulder the blame and repay you—tonight’s bill will be solely on me. Please, enjoy yourselves to your hearts’ content.”
Navigating turmoil was another skill I’d picked up along the way. Apologizing to my patrons for letting some numbskull spoil their fun—on second thought, I shouldn’t have let him off so easily—I ordered the reinforcements who’d shuffled out from the back to take care of the body and clean up the blood.
In less than an hour, a nameless body would fall down a deep hole until it could say hello to the slimy sewer keepers that lived within. No one would ever know that blood had been spilt here tonight; those who did would choose to forget by daybreak.
When the haves spoke, the world listened.
Goodness. I’ve gotten so used to all the worst things.
I sighed at how the adventurers unanimously celebrated the unexpected free liquor—but don’t you think I forgot about your tab, Dietrich—but I could understand. My time at the game table had taught me that spending every penny on gear and provisions was the prerequisite to heroics, and that was as endless a cycle as rats running on wheels. I couldn’t blame them for celebrating charity.
That said, the leaders of big clans had enough money that they didn’t need to be calling for more of their crew to join them. I’m looking at you, Miss Laurentius.
In the back of the room was a couch and a low table used to seat our most esteemed guests—but it was also my usual perch. I didn’t like it, but I sucked it up because claiming a seat like this was an easy way of looking important.
Speaking of which, I’d figured that if I had to sit on an overblown sofa, I at least wanted it to be comfortable. That had led me to spend fistfuls of gold to deck it out with the best trimming and stuffing imaginable. It gently caught me as I planted myself on it, but to be honest, it didn’t really do much for my mind.
I’d been so pleased with how smoothly negotiations had gone too. Having to cut down some impious brat, paying needless expenses, and even letting my own get hurt had thoroughly ruined my day. I wanted to tell the gods that fortune and misfortune didn’t need to be balanced out like a ledger; even if they did, there was clearly a deficit on the books.
My trick of piercing the heart to stop his movements before severing the neck had managed to keep gore from spewing everywhere, but I wasn’t the type of person who could knock out for a full rest the night after killing someone in cold blood.
“Master, I’m terribly sorry for all the trouble.”
“You don’t need to apologize. I’ve already made the culprit pay with his life. All I ask is that you clean everything up without any noise.”
“Of course, sir... Shall I bring you the usual?”
“Please do. No ice or water needed—in fact, bring me the whole bottle. And just something to chew on.”
But no matter how upset I was, I had to buckle down and put on a tough front: otherwise, my sour mood would make all my subordinates shrivel away. Heaving my anger out in a puff of smoke, the man I always trusted to manage the bar—come to think of it, buying this tavern of his had been the beginning of this joint—came back around with my favorite golden courage to bring up my spirits.
I’d once again reached the age where my tongue longed for the amber glow of straight whiskey—or at least, something close to it—but if I went back and asked my fifteen-year-old self if this was what he dreamed of becoming, I suspected he’d spit at my feet.
Fair was fair: I would lay a hand on his shoulder and somberly say, “Haste makes waste.”
Honestly, what had been wrong with me to think that just because Mister Fidelio had done it, I could skip the tedium and wipe out the Exilrat by myself?
At that point, I’d already been utterly fed up with their meddling, and the subsequent Heilbronn and Baldur involvement had pushed me over the edge. Embarrassed as I was to admit, I’d really let my temper get the best of me. I mean, if I was going to go so far as to destroy an entire clan, I should’ve just put in a word with my old boss and saved myself the trouble.
The consequences of my actions caught up to me, and I now sat in the uncomfortable seat that was the Fixer of Marsheim. Had I known that blowing up a major clan out of sheer rage and slapping around another two for their troubles would land me here, I liked to think I would’ve cooled off a little.
To come clean, though, running rampant off nothing but my emotions had been pretty fun. Yet I hadn’t had it within me to let the city fall into chaos by my own hand when I’d only just decided to settle in; my commitment to uphold the bare-minimum amount of my own responsibility was what had led me here.
I knew I’d only reaped what I’d sown, but if the world was going to quibble over its aphorisms like that then I would have also liked to see it uphold the principle of karmic debt. If anything, as the innocent bystander trying to mind my own business until the fight came to me, I’d been the victim in the situation. Had they wisened up and apologized sooner, things wouldn’t have snowballed into the nightmare that had unfolded...or at least, that was what I liked to tell myself.
Alas, the more I thought about it, the more I was made to know that it had been my own damn fault. I cursed the gods who’d given me only enough good sense to know my own folly after the fact.
Is this what it means to be an adventurer? I’d buckled under mounting provocation, rampaging against the thought of being used and leaving a trail of bodies in my wake. No, this is my ultimate shame.
“You’re making that face again.”
My furrowed brow was suddenly squished by an index and middle finger. Taken by surprise, I was unready for them to split both ways and iron out the crease between my eyes.
“...Margit.”
Had these fingers been a dagger, I would have been dead. But, as ever, it was just the hand of my lifelong partner—who hadn’t gotten sick enough of my antics to leave my side despite all that had happened.
“Those wrinkles will stick. You aren’t young anymore, you know. Do be careful.”
“Sorry.”
Appearing out of nowhere, Margit was lavishly dressed to match my formal attire for the day. Cute beyond her years, she pulled off a look most women her age would struggle to own: thin, dark fabrics exposed swaths of her shoulders and stomach, and the white coat of a massive wolf served as her outerwear.
The look embodied the term “yakuza lady.” Although I found the antithetical air of dangerous allure to suit her well, I had no doubt there would’ve been much murmuring over the depravity her looks no doubt betrayed if she hadn’t also made it so clear that she’d been molded in the city’s shadows. The object of the rumors, of course, being me and not her.
Sigh. Honestly, how had it ended up this way?
If I had at least gone crying to Mister Fidelio after the incident, we could have cooped up at the Snoozing Kitten and ridden out the chaos. That way, when the Baldur Clan and Heilbronn Familie had come to try and use what they saw as a weapon to crush their enemies with, I wouldn’t have snapped back and dug myself a deeper hole.
Then, maybe I wouldn’t be burning my days keeping the delicate balance between the underground players of Marsheim—maybe I could actually go on an adventure.
I’d crawled through too much urbanity. I should have known better: where were all the lessons I’d learned from those hapless PCs, stuck and struggling to escape draconic schemes as they danced in the alleys?
My whole ordeal was just a good example of lying with the dogs and waking with fleas. If some poet out there ever decided to write a parable to mock me, I would have nothing to say in my own defense.
“You’ve been drinking too much lately,” Margit said.
“Do you think? But this is still my first glass of the night.”
“Your first glass of something that a regular person would water down. Or do you think yourself an ogre or dvergar?”
I tried to make my case that a properly aged whiskey was best savored for its own qualities, but I could tell from her expression that she was wholly unconvinced. Standard fare in the Empire was to dilute even wines, and the recent Rhinian trend of mixology made straight liquor even less popular than it had once been.
Back in my twenties, I’d turned to the bottle as one of my few reprieves from the mess I’d made for myself. That had led to a craving for highballs and gin fizzes and the like, so I’d gotten my people to invent club soda—to my own detriment. Although it had started as an unappreciated novelty, the refreshing sparkle had slowly gained ground until it escaped Marsheim’s orbit and spread across Rhine as a bona fide fad.
Controlling the production had led to a tidy profit that I knew I shouldn’t complain about, but I remained cross about how my preferred style of enjoying whiskey had been reduced to a “base” and “uncultured” habit.
“But it’s good...”
“Personally, I have a difficult time considering something a ‘drink’ when one sip would be enough to knock me out cold.”
“Doesn’t that say more about you than me?”
“Oh? Take a look around, darling. Do you see anyone else partaking in unmixed whiskey as you do?”
I scanned the tavern; the only ones pounding back raw liquid gold were Miss Laurentius and a handful of others whose bodies naturally came with strong livers. Speaking of which, don’t think I don’t see you, Dietrich. I know the bartender explicitly told you that bottle’s off-limits—I’m not treating you to something that expensive. You better remember this.
A-Anyway, I, uh...couldn’t really find any examples to support my case. I was reminded of a soap opera I’d once watched where I heard that whiskey hadn’t been popular in early Japan due to its strong odor and flavor; maybe it was like that.
“There, I win. Now won’t you please drink like a normal person?”
You know, I’d put a lot of investment into skills and traits that let me steer a conversation, but I could never seem to come out on top against my other half. Margit poured out some carbonated water that she’d apparently had on her all along, and I was powerless to stop her as my whiskey bubbled into a highball.
“You know... I really can’t ever say no to you,” I sighed.
Margit was kind, but not soft. When I’d gotten so sick of it all that I’d turned to violence as the solution to our problems, she had joined me...but when it’d come time to pay my dues, she had offered no solace as I wallowed in the inevitable consequences.
Though, I supposed, she was still here by my side after all I’d done.
“Set aside saying no to me for a moment. What do you intend to tell Margrave Marsheim?”
“Come on... I don’t want work to follow me all the way here.”
“Don’t tell that to me. It isn’t my fault one of his illegitimate children has decided he wants to set off on an adventure.”
“Waaah... That’s it, I’m getting drunk.”
Honestly, what was I supposed to do? People liked to tout me as the “Fixer” around town, but that just meant that the nobility saw me as a convenient handyman to toss their problems to. I would suck it up and keep my head down if they were just asking me to handle dirty work that I could be done with as soon as a target was dead, but playing daddy’s cleanup crew for the margrave’s parental oopsies was threatening to drive me mad. My reputation might have achieved the original plan of warding off reckless meddling, but it’d come with the unwanted assumption that I’d figure out any problem if it came my way.
I wanted to be an adventurer. City settings were well and good, but my preference was for the tried-and-true, hack-’n’-slash, save-the-world type stuff.
But look at me now. Here I was, snooping on affairs and breaking up gang fights caused by clan leaders deciding to date—every damn request that came my way was some stupid mediation. Tearing down the Baldurs and Heilbronns had mostly put an end to the bloodier side of my work, which was great, but everything else was just meaningless fucking chores!
And to top it all off, the doting buffoon we called a margrave wanted me to find his bastard son who’d run away from home. That moron. Just let the kid get a cruel taste of reality, and he’d come back home of his own accord in no time—where a fist to the face should be waiting.
Why couldn’t this fool of a father just make his son reconsider himself, like a parent? Why did he have to task me with shattering the boy’s dreams peacefully and without letting him get hurt?
“Ugh... Maybe I should just drag the kid out dragon hunting. Or to an ichor maze.”
“While it’s perfectly fine that you’re confident in your ability to protect him, I suspect his mind would never recover from the trauma.”
“But I can’t just sic a bunch of thugs on a margrave’s son... And it’s not like I can put him down like that brat from earlier if everything goes south...”
As loyal a client as Margrave Marsheim was, I avoided his obnoxious busywork whenever I could. He loved to praise me for “improving public safety” or whatever, and I appreciated his generous loans, but I swore the man had me confused for some kind of private investigation bureau. When he’d come crying about his lawfully wedded wife sneaking around behind his back, I’d found her preparing him a birthday surprise—the number of times I had to deal with these sorts of ridiculous punch lines was itself a joke.
These weren’t my kind of sessions. My old tablemates had been loony fellows who would’ve appreciated the convoluted messes here; I could just hear them shouting, “This isn’t a comedy night!” through wheezing laughter now. That these zany situations managed to miraculously end with a happily ever after was a miracle beyond me.
If only I could find a spell to drag over souls from my old world. I wanted nothing more than to outsource all these ludicrous chores and flee to a faraway land.
“Ugh, dammit. At this rate, we may as well change our job descriptions.”
“He he, you have a point there, darling. It’s hard to call this line of work ‘adventuring.’”
“I mean... The part where we’re marching headfirst into trouble hasn’t changed.”
I responded to my partner’s cheek-poking teasing with my best retort, but her smile let me know that she’d seen through my tough front.
Argh, I want to throw everything away and set off on a fun adventure...
But for now...the gods-awful weight of my responsibilities had me stuck and anchored down.
[Tips] Erich the Fixer is an adventurer known for exerting influence over every clan in Marsheim. In recent years, however, he has become a semiofficial peacekeeper of sorts, deputized by the powers that be for his ability to prevent strife between adventuring factions. More than a few people have already forgotten that he is technically an adventurer in his own right.
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