Volume 1, Chapter 23: Finally, Some Paid-For Free Time (Patreon)

We sat in silence for a while after those profound thoughts the strange people had shared with me, until the awkwardness finally pressed hard enough that I cut through it with a few well-placed words.

“Do any of you happen to have some local coins? Bri and I landed out in the wilderness, and this is our first contact with civilization. I can trade you something I have with me if you’re interested.”

“There is no need.” Khufu’Ri placed one massive paw on the table, which had been made from a hollowed-out mushroom trunk. The coins beneath it clinked as he pressed them against the surface. Once they settled, he lifted his hand.

Despite its size, the paw had five fingers. I was almost certain I had counted only four toes on his bare leonine feet, and I had expected the same number on his hands, but until now I had never gotten a clear enough look.

When he folded his arms across his chest again, three bronze coins with holes through their centers remained on the table.

“Three bronze drachmas.”

“Thank you. I’ll repay you at the first opportunity.”

“May fate forever spin in your favor and in mine. Repay it to someone who needs it.”

“That might be me, keep that in mind,” Eli joked.

“I’m going to walk around the camp and replenish my supplies and tools before we head toward Frogflower, if you don’t mind. I assume you’re going as well.”

“Yes. Every opportunity to increase our advantage must be used,” Nicky replied.

Khufu’Ri and Mara nodded in agreement, though judging by Sophie’s expression, she was considerably less enthusiastic about the expedition.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll leave Bri with you while I do that. Bri, what do you think?”

“That would be, um… super!”

“I would welcome the company,” Sophie replied. “I’d like to know you better, Brigid.”

“Getting to know both of you will definitely help me manage the group better. I shall start with you Bri,” Mara added.

I noticed, however, that both Eli—who grimaced to himself right after taking a sip from his canteen—and Nicky, who cast a glance at the black-haired woman, seemed to have a different opinion about who exactly should be in charge of the group.

“Mhm.” Bri’s entire form brightened, and the flames of her hair elongated. “What can I tell you, you know, um, about myself?”

“I apologize for prying, but were you born like this?” Sophie asked.

“I, um, actually don’t really know.”

“You don’t know whether you were born?”

“No, I don’t, well, really know,” Bri said, dimming as white smoke drifted from where her ears should have been.

“Does your ability let you tell which injured person needs help first?” Mara asked her, changing the subject.

“Um, no. Not really.”

“I think that should be the first thing you learn, my dear. In my line of work, we call it triage…” she began, sharing what she knew with Bri, who listened to every word with wide-open eyes.

They continued talking as I rose from the table, picked up my improvised magical staff, and headed toward the far end of the camp, leaving the Earthlings behind to talk in peace while I turned my attention to the inhabitants of this world.

Watching them dressed in clothes reminiscent of the medieval Middle East, gesturing and talking among themselves while carrying things from one tent to another, I felt like an extra in some fantasy movie, or someone attending a themed festival.

It was only when I saw beings with pointed ears, their skin marked by strange tattoos that looked as though someone had pushed grains of sand beneath the surface, or dwarves whose heads barely reached above my waist despite being otherwise perfectly proportioned, that I reminded myself that what I was seeing was real.

I chose one of the stalls where an elf sat in the shade of his tent, cross-legged and leaning against cushions arranged behind him, reading something that resembled a book. I approached and stopped beside him, pointing toward the object in his hands.

“Forgive me, but I’m not from around here. Is that a book?”

The pages seemed to be fastened at the top between two thin wooden boards, bound together with string threaded through numerous holes drilled into them. The paper—if it even was paper—was yellowed and appeared fairly thick, though the pages hanging over the upper binding bent in a way that suggested they were flexible.

“No. I don't have any books. I'm writing a travel journal.” The elf spared me a single glance before returning to his work.

It was only after I stepped closer that I noticed his right hand, which had previously been hidden behind his body, resting on a piece of leather. In front of it stood a small jar filled with dark liquid. The tips of three of his fingers were stained the same color.

“May I take a moment of your time, good elf?” I asked, my gaze shifting toward the sandy tattoo above his eyebrow, which resembled a flower woven from tiny stones spreading across his skin.

“Sure… inspiration hasn’t been willing to visit me. Maybe a conversation will stir my imagination. What do you need?”

“How does this caravan work? I see all sorts of goods and people selling things, but mostly to one another. Aside from travelers like me, that doesn’t seem to make much economic sense.”

“When we stop, we trade among ourselves. Most of the people here are merchants. The rest are soldiers. We set out for a city in Underrock where we intend to sell our goods—Gicelium. We’re delayed now because the orcs and goblins established a raiding base in Frogflower, and we have to deal with them first.”

“What exactly is Frogflower?”

“An old abandoned temple. Once you see it, you’ll understand why it’s called that. Unfortunately, it lies beside the road we’re traveling, so the soldiers have to take care of the problem.” He set his journal aside.

“Thank you for explaining. Is there anywhere around here where I could buy a journal like yours, only empty?”

“Wait.”

He stood, pulled aside the entrance flap, and disappeared deeper into the tent. Barely a moment later, he leaned back out through the curtain.

“How many do you want?”

“Depends on the price.”

“One drachma for four.”

“How many pages are in one?”

“What do you mean, how many? Eight, obviously. One for each day of the week.”

“I see. And how many weeks are there in a year?” I asked, only to immediately realize that the language I was speaking seemed to contain no concept corresponding to a year. Something my Daimon let me know.

“What?”

“You don’t combine weeks into larger units of time? A season, maybe?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, human.” He scratched his chin.

“I’ll take five for a drachma,” I tried bargaining.

I lightly tapped the staff against the ground, pulled out a coin, and let it travel from my closed palm across my knuckles until, after weaving smoothly between my moving fingers, it came to rest between my thumb and index finger.

“Five,” the elf said, disappearing into the tent. He returned shortly afterward carrying five blank journals.

He handed them to me, and I examined each one, slowly flipping through pages that felt more like leather than paper. Once I had made sure they were actually empty, I paid him, with a coin toss he caught with agility.

After tossing my purchase into the backpack, I kept walking, looking for somewhere I could get a moment of peace while also keeping an eye out for rope and something I might be able to hide Bri inside.

Barely half a minute later, I came across a stall where two large men with impressive bellies and curled mustaches were rearranging several overturned crates. Among the goods, I found coils of rope, along with plenty of metal items serving various purposes: hammers, knives, shovels, hooks, and also lanterns similar to the ones I had tied to my staff, except about half again as large and seemingly made from sturdy cast iron, with hinged doors secured by small hooks on the outside.

Bri would fit perfectly inside one of them.

“Gentlemen,” I said, looking over the ropes and picking one up to inspect the quality of the workmanship. “How long are these, how much do they cost, and why are they so expensive?”

“One drachma for two. Each one is thirty feet long,” one of them replied. In addition to his mustache, he wore a long goatee, which he began twirling around one finger the moment he realized I was interested.

“I only need one. Throw in that lantern and I’ll take the deal right now.”

“He’s lost his mind. Look at him,” the man said to his companion with a chuckle, pointing at me. “He wants iron for a drachma, and rope on top of it.”

“I’ll give you two working gas lanterns,” I said, pointing toward the ones hanging from my staff, “for that one and the rope.”

“And one drachma.”

“Two lanterns for one lantern and one rope.” I held my ground without raising my voice or even looking at the man speaking. Instead, I glanced toward the other merchant, who was glaring hard enough at his partner to bore a hole through him. Judging by the expression, he seemed considerably more interested in getting rid of the merchandise.

“No. One drachma and the lanterns, or there’s no trade between us.”

“Suit yourself.”

I turned away, looking past the wall of tents toward several campfires surrounded by benches made from mushroom trunks. It looked like a decent place to rest for a while, especially since people were roasting meat over the flames. I also saw Eli standing behind one of the tents and the people gathered there. It looked like he was watching me while trying to stay hidden.

I forced myself to give him only a passing glance, so he wouldn’t realize that I had noticed him too.

“Fine! Have it your way, but know that you’re a swindler and a cruel man!” the merchant called after a brief exchange with his companion.

I quickly detached both lanterns and, using the neckties, fastened the single larger one to the metal rod. Then I tossed the coiled rope into my backpack.

“It’s a pleasure doing business with you, gentlemen!” I said as I headed toward the area I had noticed earlier, where a small group of humans and elves were spending time, listening by the fire to an elf who was singing and playing an instrument similar to a guitar.

Eli finally stepped out into the open and, after a few strides, caught up with me, matching my pace.

“Can I take a look?”

“No.”

“The rope.”

“I know.”

“Then give it to me.”

“Were you watching me for some specific reason, or are you going to hide behind workplace safety regulations?” I held his gaze, waiting to see whether the accusation would get a rise out of him.

“I wanted to see what you’d do when left to your own devices. Better to know who you’re traveling with. Like it or not, I’ve been tied to the others by a common goal. I’ve also seen that they’re capable of working together. I don’t know you.” He held out his hand again. “I do know ropes, though. I can help you assess it.”

“I’m not handing it to someone whose abilities, as far as I understand, might alter it. I know enough about ropes myself, so unless you want something else, piss off.”

He grimaced at my response and, after another few steps, waved a hand dismissively and headed off in another direction.

Soon after the exchange I approached the cooks tending the meat over the fire and, following the example of what I had earlier spotted another man doing, paid them a drachma and sat down nearby to wait for my portion. The music wasn’t really my style—too slow and melancholic—whereas I preferred fast rock and metal—but most of the people here clearly liked it, as evidenced by their rhythmic swaying to the melody.

Meanwhile, I pulled out the first of the notebooks I had just bought, while at the same time shifting the hook I had managed to steal from the merchants when I was looking over the ropes, to a more convenient position. They never noticed me palming it, which made me oddly proud of myself. Nonetheless, I laid the notebook out on the table, opening it to the first leather page and then immediately reached for the stringpen.

Holding it in both hands, I began examining it for the first time since receiving it. At first glance, it resembled an old-fashioned writing pen, ending in a sharp yet rounded steel element that collected the paint that apparently would flow out of the device. That tip, however, was mounted on a small plate that looked a little like a miniature cymbal. Holding the pen in my right hand, I lightly tapped that metallic element with the fingers of my left, watching the steel part rotate and spread open with the vibrations until both ends rested directly against the disc. A second tap on the upper side of the cymbal reversed the motion, causing both tiny arms to fold back together into their original position.

Running along the shaft of the whole device were seven strings attached very close to its surface, but with enough room that they could be plucked with a slight movement of the finger. Each of them ran fully around the shaft more or less parallel to one another, but perpendicular to the body of the stringpen. I plucked the thickest one closest to the cymbal, and the device produced a pleasant low sound, while a faint flash came from the dispenser located in the center of the metallic plate and a drop of violet paint appeared there—immediately catching on the steel tips.

I pressed it to the page, drawing the first line.

Trying out the device in different ways—sometimes tapping the cymbal, sometimes pulling different strings—I noticed that the strings corresponded to the colors of the rainbow, with the lowest closest to violet and the highest sounds to red. The length of the pull on a string, doing it on a different fret—a few ran throughout the whole length all around the pen—and whether I struck only one or several at once, made it possible to determine both the intensity of the generated color and the hue itself through blending shades. Running across all of them at once from highest sounds to lowest produced white, and in the opposite direction, black. The cymbal settings, meanwhile, changed the tool from something like a narrow brush to a thick one, and at its widest spread into a spray-like dispenser.

Pressing it against the paper or running it along the surface produced paint in the chosen color. When using it as a dispenser, I had to run a finger over the edge of the disc to make it spray.

There was also a button at the opposite end of the cymbal. When pressed, it closed the opening of the resonance box, dampening the sound and making the device almost silent, save for the vibrations. It still produced colors, though. Another press returned it to its previous state.

“This is fucking cool,” I whispered to myself as I experimented with all the settings, while at the same time painting the scene in which Bri and I, using her like a torch, had run across the sand dunes toward the mesa while fleeing the approaching storm. I placed particular emphasis on capturing the light radiating from the fire with which Bri fought against the approaching sandy—brown, gray, and finally very black darkness.

Every stroke of the stringpen in brush mode was a pleasure I had been waiting for ever since I arrived here. It was something that grounded me in this new reality, because for as long as I could remember, scenes from memory had taken on special significance for me whenever I transformed them through art into something more tangible. It helped me focus, draw conclusions, and set new goals for myself.

While creating now, however, I noticed something strange—the light followed my movements, leaving behind delicate rainbow ribbons that peeled away from my skin and from the stringpen and settled onto the painting, or were carried off by the wind like spider silk—vanishing as they dissolved into the air. It looked like Soma, but the color was different from the usual red-orange associated in my soul with fire.

I thought that perhaps painting fire itself, and being in its presence in full meditative concentration, had caused me to generate Essence of Authority, so I called up my counter and asked my Daimon about it.

[Current estimated balance: 231 Standardized Essence of Authority Units. Total Earned: 231 Standardized Essence of Authority Units.]

That meant that even though I had barely used fire in a magical sense at all since the last time I had checked, my Essence had still increased. Following that revelation, but not because of it, I continued my reflections, woven into the creative process, while waiting for the meal I had been looking forward to.