Eric couldn’t deny it. With some armor, a new sword and shield, and a night to think it all over and grow accustomed to the idea, he was feeling a little more confident about his current circumstance. Truth be told, as long as he thought of this as a game, he was more comfortable, even excited. One of the greatest joys in his time as a gamer was finding a new game he’d never experienced, and mastering the new challenges that came with it.

Putting aside the eerie circumstances that brought him here, as well as the dramatic idea that he was destined to fulfill some hidden purpose, Ahya was exactly that; a new challenge. A whole world, filled with quests, dungeons, magic, and adventure. It was a dream to someone who lived off of such things, and Eric was such a person. So, as he had no desire to stay miserable, it was time to explore.

He decided to stay in Milagre for a while. Surely there was no lack of work in the area. Arcana had told him to get accustomed and see what opportunities were there for him, and that’s exactly what he intended to do. Studying his appearance in the mirror, making sure that his clothes were fitted properly and his armor on right, he gave his reflection a quick nod and headed downstairs to the taproom.

Mandra, of course, was already working at the bar when he appeared. She looked him over quickly, noting the clean clothes, straight posture, and brand-new armaments, and gave him a nod of welcome, smiling brightly. Before he could ask, she slid a plate holding his breakfast down the bar, along with a glass of cold milk. He took a seat at the bar, thanked her for the meal, and began to eat with gusto.

“I must say,” she commented, still studying the shining leather that covered his body. “You seem to be raring to go this morning.”

Eric nodded, not able to reply at once due to the mouthful of hot eggs. He swallowed it quickly, wincing as he felt like he could feel the back of his throat burning. “Yep. I’ve had a few days to rest and relax, now I’m off to find some work.”

“Good for you,” she said, wiping a clean glass with a white cloth to dry it off. “A strong young man like you should have no trouble finding work, I reckon.”

The way she said it confused him slightly, as she couldn’t be more than five or six years older than himself. She seemed mature for her age, though that could possibly just be the strain of hard work, but she was still very good-looking. Eric, who had a special knack for guessing age, would have put her in her mid-twenties. Though he reminded himself, some people could appear young while being ancient, like Samuel Bragg. But Mandra was a bartender, he assured himself. There was nothing extraordinary about her, apart from the work ethic.

“That’s what I’m hoping,” he finally said, realizing that she was waiting for his response. “I figured I’d try to build up a little rapport, then see if I couldn’t find a permanent job.”

“Good thinking,” she agreed. “Well, you enjoy your breakfast. If I don’t see you go, good luck dear.”

She headed off around the bar, moving to greet a small group of people who had just entered from outside. They responded to her questions jovially, laughing and smiling at her as she took their orders. Eric watched her as she went to the bar, filled five large mugs of beer, and carried them to the table, winding her way through the tables with the speed of long practice.

Eric wolfed down the remainders of his breakfast, downed the cup of milk in one go, and got off the stool. Judging by the light coming through the window, dawn had passed, and it was fast approaching true daylight. If he didn’t get going now, he might not be able to find work. Readjusting his belt and patting his stomach lightly, he made his way out, nodding silently to the other patrons he passed.

He paused just outside the Heron to look around for a moment, noting the steady flow of people already passing back and forth along Queen’s Road. Deciding on a whim, he joined the side of the road mostly filled with people heading deeper, towards the Market District. Today was Market Day, as Emma had said, so surely there was already a substantial amount of activity within the District, as new merchants were calling out to the crowd, pitching their wares.

He quickly found a line of stalls set back from the others, along what seemed to be a small path on the side. The merchants at these stalls were not calling out for customers, but working quietly on projects they hoped to sell. Blacksmiths, potion makers, jewelers, and even what looked like a man selling magic items all had their heads down, preoccupied with something. He approached the first of the stalls, attended by a burly man with a black apron.

“Good morning, sir,” Eric said as he came to a stop in front of the man. “How is Market Day treating you so far?”

“Fair enough,” the man replied, without looking up from his task. “Been making steady business, enough to make the trip here worth it. What can I do for ye?”

He had a lilting, Celtic-like accent to his voice, marking him immediately as a foreigner. Well, everyone in Ahya was foreign to him, he thought with an inward laugh, but this man clearly wasn’t from Tyrman. Eric wondered briefly where he could be from, and how far he’d traveled just to sell his wares here in the capital of another country.

“Well, I was wondering what I could do for you,” Eric said, assuming his best customer-service voice. “I’m wandering through the Market District, looking for some spare work. Anything you need doing, I’m your man.”

The smith let out a rough bark of a laugh, but it wasn’t a scornful sound. He sounded rather amused. “Sorry, lad. You seem eager, but I got no work that I can’t do myself.”

“That’s understandable,” Eric said quickly. He hadn’t really expected the man to agree. It was just the first step. “I’m new to this country, just like yourself. Where do you think I might find some work?”

The smith shrugged, but the potion brewer, who seemed to have finished her product, had been listening to the exchange with mild interest, and leaned forward now, addressing Eric. “Well, as it’s Market Day, they’ll be hiring guards for escort work.”

Eric turned to face her, his smile widening. “Oh? That sounds like some promising work. Where might I sign up for this?”

She smiled faintly at his stiff and formal tone, then pointed vaguely towards the center of the district. “Over by the town center, there’s a stall where you can throw your name in. There are a lot of guards needed, and lots that want in on the coin, so they organize hopefuls there.”

“Thanks for the tip,” he said. “Even more so for your time.”

She nodded in reply, but as he turned to go, called him back. “You seem like the fighting type. Want a potion for your work?”

Eric walked over to her booth, looking idly at the dozens of bottles displayed there. “What kind of potion?”

“Well, I’ve got a lot for the more combat-oriented,” she said, slipping into her own professional mode. “I’ve got a draught to increase your strength, to make you more resilient, and several to mend injuries.”

Oh, healing potions, he thought. That made sense. “I could definitely do with the last option. How much?”

“For these small ones, just two gold coins,” she said, pointing with the pinky of her right hand. “For the medium, five, and for the largest, ten. Also, if you buy three, I’ll give you one for free.”

“That sounds like a good deal,” he said courteously. “I’ll take that deal on the smaller ones, then.”

She grinned as he dug out eight golden coins from the pouch at his side, and quickly snatched up four of the potions, putting them into a small cloth sack for him. He took them, tucked them into the satchel, and turned to leave after a friendly. He just hoped they didn’t break in there. Two gold was a lot for him at this stage, after all.

It didn’t take him long to find the stall the potion maker had mentioned. It was easily identifiable by its central location, the men in official uniforms sitting beside large stacks of paper, and the men in various types of armor lingering around it. Standing out from the other colorful stalls with its basic wooden design and large white sign on a black background, it wasn’t easy to miss.

“Hello,” he said cheerily, coming up to the stall. “I’d like to register for an escort of one of the merchant caravans.”

The attendant, already tired despite the early hour, glanced up from the thick register he was reading. “Are you already a member of the guild?”

“Guild?” Eric questioned. “No, I’m afraid not. I’ve been in Milagre for less than a week. Is there some kind of fee?”

“No,” the attendant sighed. He leaned away from the register and picked up a piece of parchment from a nearby stack and set it down. “What is your name, and where do you come from?”

“Eric Breeden,” Eric said promptly. “I’m from Welsik.”

“From the Welsik Isles, eh?” The attendant asked distractedly, jotting down the information with a quill. “Not every day a Welsik comes to Milagre looking for guard work. What experience do you have with guard work?”

“Not much,” Eric admitted. “I’ve done one job since I came here, but I’m mostly fresh. I hope that’s not an issue.”

“Not at all. It just means that you’ll be put on the D-List until we can give you more proper training. There will still be plenty of jobs, but the pay won’t be as good.”

“Gotta work my way up from the bottom, eh?” Eric said, smirking slightly. “That’s fair, I suppose.”

“Yep. Since you’re from Welsik, you may not know our organization, but it’s very simple.” The attendant took a breath, and plunged into the explanation, sounding as if he was reading from a script. “We are the Guard’s Guild, and we keep a large roster of men, and put them onto jobs throughout the country. We’re owned and sponsored by Everyone and the Black Hand, but we operate fairly independently. If you complete jobs without screwing up and get the proper training, you can get even better jobs, even possibly be hired by the Black Hand. Understand?”

The Black Hand? Eric had to suppress the urge to laugh at the oddly sinister-sounding name. It sounded like the kind of name a terrorist organization would use. But judging by the fact that they were allowed space within the Market District, and their prompt, military appearance, he was willing to bet that their outfit wasn’t that nefarious.

“What is the Black Hand?” Eric asked. “And how can a guild be sponsored by everyone?”

“Not everyone,” the attendant corrected him. “Everyone. It’s the organization that oversees fair trading throughout all of Tyrman and in port cities around the world. A common mistake, don’t worry. And the Black Hand is much the same, but they are a mercenary group. They’re based in Rabanul, and they’re the largest private fighting force in the world.”

“Sounds good,” Eric said jovially. “Sign me up.”

“Very well,” the attendant said. “Here is your member badge. Come back at the close of the District, and we will give you your assignment if we have one.”