"When I was a wee lad, folks always said Rot was only good for dirty things, war at best. Oh, how those tongues that waggled end up putting their own foot into their flapping jowls." -Braumeister Orloff Himmelsbrau, in his acceptance speech after being granted nobility for the crowning achievement of having brewed the best damned ale any dwarf had ever tasted using Rot affinity.

Cal decided as she just shelved the absurdity she had been witness to in a deep corner of her mind in the end.

 

Not like there were any regulations that forbode trade with gigantic monstrosities anyway, and not like it hurt anyone - except maybe Silas's competitors, but it's not like that'd be something she cared about.

 

And nobody would have believed the tale anyway. Hell, she would not have believed it herself had she not been there and witnessed the whole thing.

 

At least Silas hadn't exaggerated when he said they would have a good dinner. The grilled deepmaw fin they served that night won accolades from literally every passenger on board, with one enterprising merchant who even went as far as to have negotiated the purchase of one creature's worth of jerky for resale further inland after he had a bite of an old jerky from their previous batch.

 

Some of the passengers were more averse to the stew full of various organs harvested off the creature however, which just left more for everyone else - Cal included - to polish off.

 

It was with an overly full stomach that she laid down in the hammock that served as her bed that night.

 

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The remaining three days of the trip proved uneventful, the weather blissful for a sea voyage, with plenty of good winds that helped and hastened their pace towards Port Serda, their destination on the Alcidean Continent.

 

Not part of any "country" so to speak, Port Serda was part of a local polity comprised of an alliance of approximately forty to fifty city-states - the number tended to fluctuate often.

 

As a port town it naturally thrived on maritime trade, and its relative proximity to the archipelago made it the first stop for any ship travelling from Al-Shan to Alcidea.

 

The fact that Port Serda was actually located on the tip of a peninsula that jutted out of the continent proper, easily half a day's worth of travel by sail away from the closest ports next to it, also played a factor of course.

 

As their ship docked, Cal bid Silas good bye, as she intended to head further inland. She would miss the brawny sod somewhat, but chances were they would meet again in the future, as long as neither of them met an unexpected premature end.

 

She walked down the wooden plank that served as the walkway between the ship and the pier with just her usual clothes, though this time she also wore one of the leather armor sets. She kept her halberd in the pendant, but openly displayed the four sheathed machetes on her belt, and weighted down the end of her long, tightly braided hair - which fell nearly to her waist - with a modified spearhead crafted for that exact purpose.

 

No reason to go into a city she had never been to while she looked like an easy target after all, and not like she wouldn't attract attention either way with her white hair and red eyes.

 

People of elven descent were not rare, much less in a port city where folks from all walks of life and races mingled, but albinism was by its nature rare.

 

"Name and purpose of visit?" Asked the tired-looking middle-aged woman who stood by the end of the pier as she approached. She both looked and felt like a bored official just in the midst of another day's menial job, which she likely was.

 

"Celeysria Ambervale, just passing through enroute to the next city over. Maybe staying a day or two at most."

 

"Any dangerous item to report? Explosives that can level the city? Ritual tools for mass blood sacrifice? Actually, nevermind that question. Nobody is ever daft enough to say 'why yes, madam, how do you know?' to that, still got to ask for formality's sake." She grumbled.

 

"I'm actually tempted to say yes to that after hearing that, but sadly no, no world ending artifact of some lost eldritch deity to report here." Cal answered with a slight chuckle.

 

"Bureaucracy! I never understood why they bother making us ask questions nobody in their right minds would answer to anyway." Replied the woman. "But I digress, any forms of identification to offer, or would you like the aid of the registrar?"

 

Identification was something typically registered in guilds related to whatever a person's profession was. Silas for example, as a seafaring trader, has his registered on a merchant's guild, and the identification issued there would be considered valid elsewhere, though there might be difficulty when he needed its authenticity ascertained should a town somehow have no merchant's guild. Typically nobody bothered to double check with the guilds themselves unless the individual in question was embroiled in some sort of trouble however.

 

Cal herself was registered as a healer, - something her affinity allowed her to do, as limited as it was. And as a herbalist -, a craft she learned from her late mother. She was also registered in the adventurer's guild, where every soldier was registered by default. It was considered the most likely career they might partake in once their soldiering days came to an end one way or another. Being registered in multiple guilds like her was the norm in the world.

 

"Healer, Herbalist, Adventurer, good enough?" She asked, as she handed over three metallic tags taken out from her storage. Each tag had a hidden pattern meticulously crafted that allowed their respective guilds to easily have its authenticity ascertained.

 

"Plenty." Replied the woman, before her eyebrows rose at the color of her adventurer tag, and the implication it signified. In the end, she shrugged and handed the tags back. "Should anyone try to cause trouble with you in town, I would like to ask you to please refrain from damaging them too badly. Regardless, most troublemakers should just hide with their tails between their legs should you flash that shiny tag of yours."

 

"Can't promise that, depends on whether someone actually pisses me off or not." Cal replied nonchalantly while she placed the tags back into her storage.

 

"Oh, dear, I actually hope a certain someone does." Replied the woman with a savage grin on her face. "While I would not want you to trouble yourself over our local brats, if you do happen to run into him? Let's just say some people are far overdue for a good spanking."

 

Cal laughed in response. It wasn't her problem, but should said problem choose to make itself her problem? She definitely wouldn't mind doing a little good deed that needed to be done. "We shall see, I guess, any inn you can recommend? Preferably one with good food as well."

 

"If you want to try some local cooking I'd recommend The Hungry Wench. Good portions for the price and last I heard nobody ever complained of rats or bugs there. Take the main road heading for the city center till you hit the fountain, then a left, can't really miss it."

 

"Sounds perfect, thanks." Cal said, as she lightly tossed a silver piece as a tip for the woman, who deftly caught it and made it disappear into her robes with a smile.

 

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As inns went, The Hungry Wench was a good and reputable one. The fare they served - a local specialty of various kinds of seafood stewed together in a rich stew - was definitely tasty and plentiful. The straw in the bed was clean and dry, and her room free from rats and bugs as advertised.

 

Cal had a good night's sleep, woke up refreshed the next morning, and left after she partook in some breakfast - a local seafood porridge with some chewy bits she thought looked a bit like snails, good food either way.

 

It was not until she reached the gatehouse that she saw any sign of discord.

 

Everything in the gatehouse looked fine at a glance, the guards processed the travellers as they went in and out of the city, everything except the richly-dressed man to the side who repeatedly proposed his intent to a pair of young women - lower rank adventurers by their looks - who very clearly wanted nothing to do with him.

 

Some travellers gave the situation a questioning look, while most of the ones who were about to leave the city behind just looked exasperated and disgusted, a look shared by the guards on station. Even the two rough-looking types who stood behind the richly dressed fop - she assumed them to be his hired bodyguards by their stature and manner of dress - looked on with distaste evident on their features.

 

From the looks shared by many of the people who watched, this sort of situation was likely not the first time it happened. She watched it unfold as she progressed through the line of outgoers, with an ear kept to the situation as it escalated.

 

The older of the two female adventurers had bodily shielded the younger one as the fop became more and more aggressive in his approach. At a glance, she suspected the two were related due to the similarities of their facial features, sisters, perhaps?

 

Cal just watched, at least until the younger adventurer accidentally ran into her in her retreat.

 

"Ah! My apologies!" The girl sounded surprised and distressed. Probably surprised because when she ran into her, it must have felt much like she ran into a wall - or it could be the still-present scars on her face and arms, - those wouldn't properly fade for another month or thereabouts.

 

"Three is better. You! I grant you the privilege of serving my noble self! Be grateful that your unsightly visage shall be graced by nobility! Now carry these two wenches and follow me to my mansé!" The fop interjected before Cal could speak.

 

For a moment she stared him straight in the face, baffled both by the absurdity of the situation and by the fact that someone just said those lines she only ever heard of in stories and plays in real life. Even his bodyguards cringed as he spoke.

 

"You were talking to me?" She asked, her finger pointed to herself, still half in bafflement. Around her, the other travellers and guards nearby all gave a look of equal amounts pity and exasperation.

 

"Of course you! Are you daft, woman!?" Said the fop.

 

"What do you even want with me? And them?"

 

"Wench! It is a privilege for a peasant like you to serve as bed-warmers for a noble scion of house-"

 

His words abruptly cut off into a high-pitched pained squeal, a sound not unlike a pig being butchered. Everyone in earshot thought they heard a noise akin to an egg that had violently cracked open just before that.

 

Everyone also saw that Cal's right shin was pressed right against the fop's crotch, where a wetness spread visibly. Said fop was also no longer in contact with the ground, his feet, even on tiptoes, just barely hovered above the ground.

 

The moment Cal retracted her leg in disgust, the fop crumbled onto the ground, curled up in a fetal position with his hands clutched around his nether regions, and still squealed like a pig all the time.

 

Most of the spectators looked on with wide eyes at the unexpected violence in broad daylight, many among them however, sported satisfied smiles, as if someone scratched an itch that had long annoyed them.

 

"Ma'am, I apologize but we are obligated to-" Started one of the bodyguards before Cal cut him off mid-sentence, her adventurer tag tossed at him.

 

To his credit the man didn't fumble and caught it cleanly, before he gave it a quick inspection.

 

His eyes widened as if they tried to escape his face the next instant. His fellow bodyguard caught the expression and glanced over before her expression immediately aped that of her fellow.

 

"Our deepest apologies! Our contract just requires us to respectfully ask that you spare this worthless piece of trash's life, ma'am!" Said the bodyguard rapidly, as he now respectfully bowed and proferred her tag back with both hands.

 

"Quick on the intake, aren't you kids." She teased back. "He should live, though I doubt you would get certain… things ever functioning again unless you have a saint nearby."

 

"What brings you to work with this sort of trash, though? You kids seem decent enough?" She added after a quick thought.

 

"City lord hired our whole band to safeguard his extended family from assassination while in the city premises. We drew the short straw on who gets assigned to who this week. To be honest, were it not for our contract forbidding us from harming or interfering with our clients I think some of us might have beaten you to the punch. Much appreciated regardless." Answered the other bodyguard, a tall, shaggy haired, broad, muscular woman of clear orcish heritage evidenced by the tusks that jutted out from her lower lip. Clearly more talkative than what her looks suggested. Neither took offense at her calling them "kids".

 

Cal glanced at the fop on the ground who still squirmed and squaled with a questioning look on her face.

 

"Son of a cousin, loves to parrot on his 'relations' and drop their names where he can, utterly useless as a male." Answered the orcish woman to her unspoken question. "Doubt anyone's going to feel suicidal for his sake."

 

"And them?" Cal queried, her hand pointed at the still-baffled pair of female adventurers that in some way caused this situation.

 

"Only thing stopping them from leaving is currently curled up and cradling his family jewels, ma'am, which by your account seems damaged beyond repair. Truly, a loss for this world." Replied the first bodyguard, a tall, fit human with a bald head, and a thick mustache, his voice almost literally dripped with sarcasm and schadenfreude. "I bet he doesn't even know their names anyway, they should be fine."

 

"Oh look, he fainted." Said the orcish woman in a deadpan tone as she prodded the fop rudely with the tip of her boot.

 

"Well, I guess you kids have it in good hands then, since its my turn, it wouldn't do to hold the line any longer." Cal said, her eyebrow curled in amusement.

 

After she had left their sight, one of the nearby guards approached the two hired bodyguards, who had apparently debated on how to carry the fop back - neither of them wanted to carry him on their shoulders, not with how he had both wetted and browned his pants.

 

"Who was that woman?" Asked the guard, his voice kept low.

 

"Don't know." Answered the orcish woman. "Saw her tag, waaaaaay above my paycheck right there."

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"You didn't see it, but she had a black tag, with platinum borders. That's basically as high a rank as it gets anywhere. The only other time I ever saw one, it was a Royal Mage." Explained the bald one. "I would much rather piss off the city lord himself than anyone of that caliber. They ain't paying me enough to die."

 

"Someone that up high? Here?"

 

"Heard the civil war by the archipelago recently ended. She might be from there." Said the orcish woman.

 

"Might be, can't be that many of that caliber out there. For all we know that was the Blood Demon out on vacation or something."

 

"Hah! Good joke."

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Note: Since this world has no such thing as levels, the so called "ranking" issued by the various guilds are simply based on practical considerations. For healers, simply how proficient they are at healing (for reference, Cal is barely at the second-lowest rank in this case due to the quirks of her affinity), for herbalists (Cal is around mid rank for this), their knowledge on the various herbs and its applications. Merchants are ranked based on their assets, whereas adventurers/soldiers/mercenaries are ranked based on their known deeds and their "threat" should they be crossed.

A detailed listing of each rank with adventurers as an example:

Iron - fresh meat, minimal threat.

Copper - slightly experienced, maybe a little threatening.

Bronze - getting used to the job, somewhat threatening.

Silver - an experienced person, a valid threat

Gold - a veteran, could likely beat up everyone in a barfight while drunk and with one hand tied behind his back.

Black - either someone who has lived decades on the job or someone who did a *lot* of some really amazing things, or both. Cross at your own peril.

Black with silver lining - applies as black, but signifies someone of a current guild-related position. Even worse than a regular black when crossed for obvious reasons.

Black with gold lining - same as above, but for someone with nobility background/position instead.

Black with platinum lining - see above, but for those of military background/positions. Probably the worst type to cross due to the excess of hot-blooded meatheads in that demographic.