Chapter Fifty Four: More Murder Than Pancakes Lately

“Did she just say ‘kick her out of bread for eating biscuits’?” Rory leaned over whisper to Jack.
“Heh. Yeah. It was great,” he laughed.
“I should’ve known you’d like puns,” Rory groaned.
“Puns are the highest form of literature, bud,” Jack grinned.
“You’re a monster, and I’m not talking about all that black shit in your veins,” Rory winked at him.
“Hey, Hitchcock said it, not me,” he laughed again.

Jack leaned forward and picked up one of the honey puffs, then tore it in half and split the treat with Rory. 

“Oh, wow. That’s… really good,” he stared at the pastry in his hand, then sniffed at it. “Some kind of sweet pepper-infused honey, maybe? Definitely a butt-ton of butter. Rory?”

Jack turned to the salesman, but Rory wasn’t home at the moment. He had taken a bite of the pastry and was currently locked in orgasmic gustatory bliss.

“Jack,” he whispered. “How?”
“If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say she’s probably close to our level or maybe higher, with nothing but Cooking abilities. Just a guess,” he chuckled.
“Erin was right. We should’ve let you buy the pancake magic,” Rory looked up from the half-eaten pastry in his hand, gobsmacked wonder on his face.
“Sorry, bud, we’ve had a lot more murder than pancakes lately,” Jack threw an arm around Rory’s shoulder.

The girls turned from the counter, both of their faces smeared with honey-butter glaze, hands full of paper boxes overflowing with baked goods.

“We… umm… we need to find an inn,” Erin mumbled around a mouthful of bread.
“Yeah?” Jack laughed.
“Yeah, we’re not gonna be able to walk when we’re done eating,” Layla stuffed a cupcake into her mouth, whole.
“Scuse me, love. Honeybell, right? Which inn in town has the best beds?” Rory called to the technicolor-haired assistant.
“If you’ve the coin, the Olden Hart in the Upper Ward is likely the fanciest lodging in town, but Tilly runs the Molten Yam just down the street here. The beds are down, the food is better, and a week there costs less than a night at the Hart,” she replied sweetly, pointing down the main street.
“Sold,” Rory flashed his million-watt smile, dazzling the girl. “Thanks, Honeybell!”
“Welcome, sir,” she turned to help the next customer, fanning herself as Rory walked away.

Jack took a box each from Layla and Erin, and the four began to walk in the direction she had pointed.

“Have you noticed how all the buildings around here seem to be made of some kind of ceramic brick? Wouldn’t that be expensive?” Erin asked.

The other three slowly turned to her, three pairs of raised eyebrows.

“What? My dad was a general contractor. Shut up,” she scowled.
“It’s probably a local material they have in plentiful supply,” Rory sighed as he bit into another biscuit.
“Well, I’ve noticed something. Anyone else notice how... nobody is staring at us?” Layla continued to munch.
“A few people are. That guy. Those two women. That guy in the white robes down the street that looks like he’s wearing a sign over his head that says ‘Healer LFG’,” Jack replied.
“Yeah, but like… nobody is trying to burn us at the stake. It’s kinda… holy. Fucking. SHIT!” Layla had stopped in the street, mouth open.

A block down the street, a twelve-foot tall female giant emerged from the intersection, pulling a train of three wagons with a thick rope slung over her shoulder. She was dressed in supple leather armor and carrying a leaf-bladed spear with a thick crossguard in her free hand, her platinum blonde hair braided in finger-thick strands and bound with a leather cord. The wagons were loaded high with a motley collection of dead beasts in varying conditions. She turned onto the main street and began walking toward the Cross Gate, a few hundred yards behind the Chosen.

She closed the gap with surprising speed, and as she pulled the wagons up to the building across the street, the four remained frozen, openly staring at the giantess. She looked down as she dropped the thick rope and snickered at their dumbfounded faces.

From the building, a slim human in a deep brown Montrose style doublet and a pair of immaculate leather breeches emerged with a sheaf of paperwork and a stylus similar to the one they had seen at the Bureau of Letters in Isenmar. 

“‘Allo Vyrykka. Good hunting?” he greeted the giantess.
“Not bad. Tally me up, Renn? Need to get down to Saffron’s place before they sell out of hot loaves again,” she smiled at the clerk and handed him her silver rank badge, which was the size of a coin in her hands. The clerk began to rummage through the wagons and make notes on his paperwork.

Across the street, the Chosen had collected themselves, save for Layla, who was still staring.

“Snu snu,” she whispered.
“What’s that, El?” Erin leaned toward her.
“Don’t you say it again, you walking meme,” Rory scolded her. “Jack, help me… oh my giddy aunt.”

Rory had turned to enlist Jack’s aid in wrangling the succubus, but the nightbringer was halfway across the street already. They watched as he looked up at the sign hanging from the front of the building, which read “HUNTER’S GUILD”, then below that, “Moryven Branch”.

“Excuse me, sir, ma’am. Could you tell me where we could find a map of the area? And, apologies again for interrupting you, ma’am, but could you tell me how much it is to register here with the Guild? We’re new in town,” he beamed at them.

The giantess and the clerk looked between each other for a moment, then smiled.

“Maps are available inside, master…” the clerk trailed off.
“Jack,” he grinned.
“Master Jack. Maps are available inside for a gold stal, though the guild accepts currency by weight from any land, of course. Guild registration is one silver for your clay badge, your papers, and attunement to the Web of Records. Any other questions, master Jack?” the clerk finished with a gentle smile.
“Yes, if you don’t mind,” he looked up at the giantess.

When she shook her head with a bemused smile, he continued.

“What is the web of records?” Jack winced.
“The Web of Records is a magical bookkeeping system used by the guild across Austrvost, and I presume all of the guild’s locations in Ayrgard, though that is above my pay grade. The Web is a matrix of aether enchanted to your rank badge, which records the assignment, acceptance, and completion of official inquests issued by the guild to your person,” he lectured.

Jack: It’s a fucking quest system. They have a quest system for the adventurer’s guild.
Rory: It does seem that way. I wonder if it interacts with our panels.
Layla: Fucking, of course, it does, Rory. Big Noodle is clearly a gamer.
Erin: I don’t think it’s that simple. Maybe it uses our expectations? Like if we were book nerds instead of gamers, maybe it would appear as a journal or something.
Jack: That’s pretty good, Erin.

She smiled at Jack’s back as the clerk cleared his throat and glanced at the giantess sharply, twice, indicating to Jack that he should finish his business with haste.

“Oh, sorry. Thank you, and thank you,” he gave both of them a grin and turned to walk back to the other Chosen. “So, should we go ahead and take care of this now, while we’re here?”
“Unnnnggghhh… Noooooo… feet. Bread. Bed,” Layla whined.
“Here, put all that in my storage so it stays fresh. He’s right. We should do it now while we’re here,” Rory chided.
“Fiiiine,” and “Ugh, okaaayyy…” the girls replied at the same time.

They loaded the baked goods into Rory’s storage, the elaborate glowing blue mandala not even garnering second glances from most passersby.

Inside the Hunter’s Guild, it was decorated in much the same fashion as the location in Nafsbirg, dark, well-worn woods polished with care and numerous trophies from various beasts. Unlike the Nafsbirg location, the clerks here were a wild motley of races. Of the seven they could immediately see, two were human, one half-elf, two dwarves, one green-haired gnome, and one bright blue lizardfolk with a pale yellow belly and bright turquoise spots across the back of his head and down his back.

They were immediately greeted by the dwarven woman.

“Welcome home, Hunters,” she smiled.

Layla: Sus. I know that line from somewhere.
Rory: Stuff it, meme-lord.

“We’re not registered yet, love, but we’d like to take care of that today. What’s your name?” Rory greeted her.
“Arright, dear, this way. I’m senior clerk Flintmane, but you can call me Brire. I’ll take care o’ yeh from start ta finish. Ev’ryone starts at Clay Rank, no exceptions, arright?” she walked toward the counter, where she stepped up onto some type of riser that brought her up to Layla’s height.
“Not a problem,” the salesman smiled at her.
“Arright, here are yer badges. We’ll need a silver each from yeh, and a bit o’ mana. Just a wee bit, so even yer warriors should be fine,” she laid out four fist-sized, flat clay badges, like giant coins, emblazoned with a pair of circles connected in the middle by an upside-down triangle, crossed with a single line. “Now, who’s first?”

The dwarf picked up one of the badges and began pouring mana into the item, nearly invisible sparks and waves sputtering off the item. After a few seconds, she looked up expectantly.

“I’ll go,” Layla grinned.
“Arright, dear. Take yer finger and poke it on this bit here, then put a drop o’ yer blood on the badge and give it a tiny bit o’ mana,” the woman explained as she pulled out an obalis similar to the one they had seen in Isenmar. 

Without any hesitation, Layla poked her finger and smeared the clay badge with her blood. They saw a stream of the succubus’s mana spark across the badge, then the crimson blood evaporated in a flash and the triangle and circles on the badge turned a deep black.

“Arright, lass, looks like the Web classes you black fer flame. Yeh deal damage and stand in the back, aye?” the dwarf looked up from the badge at Layla.
“Yes, but, how…” she started.
“Never seen all this before, then?” Brire smiled gently.
“Nope,” Layla grinned.

The dwarf returned Layla’s grin and stood up straight, adopting the stance of a teacher lecturing students.

“The Web o’ Records is a creation o’ the Soldaen empire o’ olde. Scholars believe the Web was created fer Soldaen hunters, as we know they valued adventures even more’n modern towneships. Each badge is enchanted by a Guild craftsman… or woman… and linked ta the Guild’s Webheart. The Webheart is a reposit’ry of all the Hunters that have passed through Moryven and their deeds. Each time yeh take an inquest and turn one in, the heart remembers. If yeh carry yer badge ta another Guild branch, when yeh take yer first inquest there, that heart’ll learn yer story as well. Every few years, the Guildmaster for each branch carries a copy o’ the heart’s records ta each nearby branch, in case the worst should happen,” she explained.

The four exchanged looks.

“So, what all does the Webheart learn about us?” Rory asked.
“Well, the eggheads think it works like an auditor, reads your soul and all that, but none o’ that stuff is stored in yer badge or in the heart. Signs, nobody’d use the thing,” she laughed. “Can yeh imagine, expectin’ gold an’ adamant rank Hunters ta just hand o’er the secrets o’ their arts.”

She giggled again and wiped away a tear.

“The heart reads yer soul and colors the symbol on yer badge accordin’ ta one o’ four paths. Grey fer path o’ smoke. That’s those o’ yeh who are sneaky or subtle. Thieves, scouts, alchemists, the like. Black for path o’ flame. That’s ones who’re big and loud wit their damage, but dinnae stand up front. Mages and whatnot. White for path o’ light. That’s yer healers and supporters. And red fer path o’ blood. Them’s yer front liners and vanguards, whether magicky types or nae,” she paused for questions, but when the four were silent, she continued.

“We dinnae really know why the Soldaen divvy Hunters up like so, but the Web takes care o’ it, and Hunters seem to like bein’ able ta verify yer skills before they step out inta the wilds wit yeh. Yeh should keep yer badges out o’ sight when yer not here, o’ course. Don’t want bandits killin’ yer healer first,” she smiled.

“Who’s next?”

 
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