My Homies Have Turned into Gorgeous Babes?! (13) - Intro to Adventuring (Patreon)

"I'd like to thank all of you for saving us." Isolde, the leader of the Silver Talons, told us while we sat around the campfire. Lyra and Elara dipped their heads in acknowledgement and gratefulness as well. "If you hadn't shown up when you did, well... let's just say it probably wouldn't have ended well for us."

Jeremy, who had been humming an old pop song from back home while polishing her bow with a scrap of leather, finally looked up. "Think nothing of it, my dear ladies." She said with a wink. "It's what we do. We save people. We kill things. It's a living."

Oliver rolled her eyes. "It's not a living. It's a desperate attempt to not die."

"Semantics." Jeremy waved a dismissive hand.

Isolde forced a tight, but genuine smile. "Regardless, we are in your debt."

"So, Silver Talons." I said, leaning forward and ignoring the sharp stab of pain in my ribs. "How did you three end up as goblin chow?"

Lyra flinched. Elara squeezed her hand reassuringly.

"We were overconfident." Isolde admitted, her gaze fixed on the flames. "We'd taken on a few smaller jobs. Rats in a cellar, retrieving a lost cat, tracking a lost caravan. We thought... we thought we were ready. The Guild posting said a small goblin tribe, a dozen at most. An extermination contract. Easy money for our first real combat mission."

"Most importantly—we'd finally advance our grades. I'm tired of being called Tin Can." Elara continued, a bitter taste in her mouth. "We wanted to prove ourselves." She looked at each of us. "It wasn't small. There must have been forty of them. And the hobgoblin... we'd never even seen one in person."

"If it wasn't for that hobgoblin..." Lyra muttered.

“I doubt we could’ve subdued forty goblins either.” Isolde shook her head.

I turned towards them, watching their faces and listening carefully for any dishonesty. While they were downcast and fearful, their body language conveyed only the truth. Of course, I wasn't arrogant enough to think I had any super powers to discern truths from lies. They simply told it the way it was, and my instincts backed them up.

"Is this something common?"

Isolde looked at me. "Goblin hordes have become more aggressive recently." She explained, the fire reflected in her amber eyes. "Goblin tribes usually just lurk in their territory. Recently, however, they've been bolder. So, more jobs, more contracts." She continued, her shoulders dropping slightly. "Even the Guild can't do much about it. Goblins are like insects. Hobgoblins even more, because they’re harder to squash." She frowned.

I nudged the fire with a stick, and its flickering light carved hollows beneath the girls' eyes. It was the haunted look of survivors. They looked scared, exhausted, and hungry.

And also grateful.

Now, how do you ask questions that'd likely be considered common sense without raising suspicion? Then again, is anything truly common sense? Would it be possible that in this world there is some backwater tribe, living as isolated hill-folk, that is unfamiliar with the concept of adventurers and guilds?

After all, if even the rudimentary rules of basic fantasy game tropes were there, a civilized community not knowing about adventurers might be plausible as well. So, would asking what adventurers were and how to become one sound dumb?

But what if there really was no other option and adventurers were the local equivalent of skilled lumberjacks, except a tad deadlier? Would revealing I had no idea what a job would be was an outright lie or, simply a consequence of living at the asscrack of civilization and lack of knowledge?

I licked my lips, an action that, for some reason, had Isolde slightly avert her gaze. I turned towards Oliver—now, wouldn't our resident gamer extraordinaire know what adventurers were all about? It didn't escape me how this world was turning out to be a lot more akin to an RPG game.

Problem was that we couldn't simply proudly stand on the pretense that a single game was a source of absolute, undeniable knowledge of how this whole system operated.

My thoughts raced through several alternative responses, dismissing one and then another. Eventually, I realized my most efficient strategy would have to rely on honesty. Asking would seem the only obvious thing to ask, if we weren't, indeed, in on it.

"So, Silver Talons—I've heard about adventurers and guilds." I coughed. "But we don't know much."

Lyra cocked an eyebrow while Isolde's eyes bore straight into my head. Elara merely blinked in surprise. "Where are you guys from?"

"Uhhh... a village called California?" Jeremy filled in helpfully. "Not sure if it rings any bells." She leaned forward, and I saw a glimpse of those perfectly shaped breasts, still bound beneath her bloodied shirt.

Theo stifled a giggle while Oliver sighed.

"California?" Isolde hummed in thought. "Never heard of it."

"Me either."

Lyra and Elara shook their heads.

"It's a very remote village on the far west." Oliver explained. She kept it vague, letting the Silver Talons fill in their own assumptions, most likely related to isolated communities and uncultured bumpkins.

I nodded along. "That's why we asked. We're fairly ignorant to the outside world." I doubted these girls were geography geniuses that could pinpoint exactly where a town was with just the words 'west' as an orienting context

"How did you come this far then?" Lyra asked.

"Well, I didn't wanna come—I was dragged along!" Oliver still seemed to hold a grudge against us regarding the situation. Well, she'll come around at some point... or so I hoped.

"There, there..." Theo gently rubbed her arm. "It'll get better."

Oliver clicked her tongue.

"We came because... of the opportunities!" Jeremy chimed in, smiling widely, if not a bit awkwardly. 

Isolde gave an absent nod before shrugging. "I see. Sorry for prodding into your origins, it's... understandable why someone would want to explore the world if it's as remote and isolated as you claim."

I raised a palm, dismissing her concern. "Ah, it's alright." I explained. "Such is the nature of curious people. We couldn't have gotten to where we were without some knowledge and curiosity. And a bit of misfortune along the way..." I trailed off. We've gone through hell the moment we were ejected into this world, but we were still alive and that counted for something.

Isolde looked deep in thought before finally taking a deep sigh and facing all four of us. "As you've saved our lives, we'd be more than happy to inform you of what you seek."

I was glad she didn't really prod further into our circumstances, because I didn't know how strong the lie would hold under scrutiny.

...

The Q&A had wrung them dry. After picking at the last of the jerky, the girls folded into each other and passed out, too spent to even rinse the piss and trail-dust off their skin.

I sat watch, feeding the fire, letting its glow smear their faces into a strangely intimate, hazy glow. I leaned forward, eyes closed, as I tried to formulate a mental map. What the Silver Talons had said fell in place with what we assumed of the world.

In many RPG games, a guild was established as an information-seeking institution. One could find quests in there, hire guards, and in some instances even act as an official banking place to stash valuables.

In our case, adventurers were likely to serve a similar role, except I reckon the risk-reward ratio was definitely leaning closer to the dangerously lopsided side. There was no reliable quest giver. The Silver Talons nearly ended up as breeding stock before their doom would've come about one way or the other.

So far, the world seemed to operate like a fantasy videogame. My expectations would make the comparison to modern fantasy roleplaying games inevitable. While this was only based on experience and speculation, and, thus, entirely speculative, I was already developing the initial concept.

Goblins extermination, bandits elimination, lost item retrieval, the list of things adventurers might deal with went on and on.

Those were simple subquest-styled assignments that gave small quantities of money upon completion. It would allow us to amass capital through dangerous but short term activities, and it was an overall idea that gave us direction towards society's proper functions.

The higher the adventurer's rank, the harder the mission would be, the greater the reward.

"This is basically a game." Oliver hissed as we huddled together, keeping it on the low. The fire's flickering light heightened the excited spark of life in her gaze. "This is all a stupid fucking RPG!"

"I mean, it does look like we're living a real-life RPG..." Jeremy scratched her chin, going along with my conjectures. "How do we go about it, though?"

"Are there going to be other types of quests aside from this simple, eliminate x number of goblins, or kill a random troll quest?" Theo pointed out. "I imagine those can't really bring in that much of a big payoff."

"We're in a fucking game, guys!" Oliver hissed again, her smile too wide and toothy to be considered sane. 

"That's great and all, and while the analogy holds, let's not lose sight of reality." I sighed. Oliver was shaking in excitement. I turned towards Theo. "And no, Theo, those are the starter quests, I guess." I poked the fire again, sparks spiraling up like cheap particle effects. "Not a lot of money to be made there, but they'll keep us fed as we grind through the ranks. Then, who knows? Maybe we'll get to escort an important Lord's daughter, maybe kill a corrupt magistrate? A dastardly conspiracy here and there..."

Oliver was practically vibrating. "Ranks! See? Ranks! Tin Can to Bronze to Iron to—"

"Calm your tits, Ollie." Jeremy muttered, stretching until her spine cracked. "We’re not speed-running." Then she blinked. "Unless..."

I stifled a groan. The sheer power that motivated people when faced with their dream fantasy had both Jeremy and Oliver squeal in delight at the prospect of 'speed-running' this brand-new world we've found ourselves in.

The phrase implies to play games at the fastest possible rate, sometimes exploiting features that make one bypass certain mechanics, essentially bypassing the actual content presented in an effort to find an efficient solution, and reach a desirable outcome as fast as humanly possible.

While fun and exciting, we were playing this as life. Our livelihood depended on us dealing with the consequences of our decisions. In a life and death RPG scenario, any mistake meant certain, if not a very near, death.

Still...

I had to admit that, deep down, for some reason, my blood boiled when Jeremy had coined this wonderful, ridiculous phrase. Speedrunning.

I was a simple man of simple needs. My brain craved stupid, nonsensical things, and was wired to react appropriately and feed me the sweet, dopamine-inducing sensation of reaching an objective—be that eating that cookie or killing a troll, there was a strange synergy that made me feel both simple and complex.

"So, are we going to be adventurers?" Theo mused.

"Absolutely. Who doesn't love a little profit?" Jeremy grinned. "After we spend enough on actual armor and better weapons, we'll be good as any, huh, Oliver, my dearest?" She gave our favorite pessimist a wink.

"Why did the crazy ones have to make the best suggestions?" Oliver growled, but grinned right after. "Yes. Let's take these stupid beginner missions and grind our way to glory and fame."

I couldn't believe the ease at which Oliver had been willing to let this development shape her perception of a once insurmountably impossible future.

It was incredible to see how, like magic, our desires shifted.

For a moment, it felt strange how reality would bend under the power of such insignificant wishes as mere material lust and dreams of luxury.

But then I reminded myself that nothing was going to be handed to us free of charge. I refused to live a life of a coward, hiding and scraping through to survive day by day, year by year.

The old Sebastian, the one back on Earth, the cowardly, spineless man, had a final request before dying in the real world. He was never given what he wanted because of his apathy, fear, and comfort in mediocrity.

But the Sebastian here had made his choice, and he had three incredible, badass ladies at his side—

And he had this baseless confidence, arrogance, that we'd all do the impossible.

This Sebastian was going to get his shit together and become, well, someone—and there was a greedy, ambitious voice telling me that that 'someone' could even end up being great.

That, or a smattering of chopped up parts decorating some road.

But hey, It's all about being a visionary, baby.

As such, despite the pain gnawing at every joint, and the blood burning my throat, I stretched and, waiting until all of my friends fell asleep, I grabbed my blood-stained sword, rose from the log, and slinked away. I heavily insisted I’d be the one on watch for the first couple of hours.

I didn't know why I was doing this. Seriously. It was a bad idea, because every medical expert and even common sense said that moving around while so severely hurt was bad, especially if those wounds were recent.

But a weird sense of conviction guided me, my legs still stiff. I felt an itching sensation, something that told me not to sit idly by. I’d heal even with a sword in hand. 

My ribs were one big pulsing knot. A deep, throbbing pain burned in my stomach and shoulders. The swelling of my left arm would slow my every movement, my grasp unable to flex and grab ahold of my sword correctly. So, why was I doing this?

3 AM motivation?

Was it even 3 AM?

As I kept limping around, getting reacquainted with the simple, primal concept of putting one foot in front of the other, I pondered over what my action was supposed to convey.

A sound practice session?

Torturing myself into believing I was useful?

Stupidity?

All of the above.

But you know, I kind of liked holding the sword. Made me feel safe. Perhaps it was like having your phone or a wallet nearby, giving you a sense of comfort from the knowledge that this stupid, fragile thing gave you so much power over the wild, hostile and terrible environment you existed in.

My sword was made of steel. I loved steel. This damn sharp metal was the sole thing keeping the scary monsters from attacking me.

And I could've done better back then.

Against that hobgoblin.

Against these stupid, nasty little goblins and their ugly-faced brothers.

The regret would gnaw at me like a wolf chewing at an old, dusty bone.

Inhaling deep, a raspy, breathy noise left me, blood coating the back of my throat. I coughed.

"Tsk."

I spat red into the dirt.

The blade felt heavy. Wrong grip. Fingers numb.

I raised it anyway.

One swing.

It was slow. Pathetic.

How could I possibly survive if a single hit turned me into an absolute puddle of broken bones and guts? I had to do better. So, I swung it again and again, every inch of movement shooting pain through every nerve.

The air hissed.

Again.

My ribs screamed. My shoulders wailed. I winced but persisted. Again. Swing after swing. The movements felt clumsy, awkward.

I had to focus. I closed my eyes, finding myself back in time, to a couple of hours earlier, when I delusionally believed I could stand as a firm shield against that monster—I almost died. 

My sword blurred. Steel cutting the darkness of night like a streak of white across black.

Inhale. Swing. Exhale.

Harder, sharper.

Wing, block. Parry. Step forward.

Something warm ran down my arm, trickling like drops of honey onto the forest floor. I paid it no mind. I knew it was stupid. I knew I’d get heavily scolded for this. 

But at least my blood belonged to me. I decided the fate of this blood, of my own, instead of the damn goblin leader who almost gutted me.

Stance, block. Parry, step, thrust.

Swing.

That didn't sound right at all. Was this really the proper way to wield this weapon? I cursed under my breath as I continued to practice, adjusting my grip as I went. 

My entire body groaned in agony, begging me to quit. I could still swing the weapon but moving around was already taxing the limits of my body, the pain paralyzing.

I spat more red into the dirt and saw with disgust how it collected, sticking like paste to the dry leaves that littered the earth. My feet dragged through the wet soil, blood-soaked and worn out, just like the soles of my boots.

Focus.

Wing, Block, Parry, Step, Thrust, Swing!

A coughing fit.

Splashes of spit and phlegm joined the crimson as they soaked into the soil, dyeing the barren ground a sickly, grotesque shade of burgundy.

Fuck this place.

It was quiet now. Aside from the noise I made practicing, and the faintest crackle of flames back at the campfire, this part of the forest was empty.

Ah, but of course, monsters could still be lurking around, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Hazy. The scenery blurred for a moment.

Then my heartbeat rose, loud and frantic. My head buzzing, the noise filled me, drowning out even my rasping breathing.

The weight of my own flesh pulled me down, dragging me. I barely managed to stand.

Keep swinging!

Wasn't I here for practice?

One swing.

Two, three...

After a certain amount of time, you became numbed by the sheer absurdity of your current circumstances.

"Sebas."

Theo's voice. She sounded alarmed.

A touch on the shoulder.

I blinked, surprised by this strange sense of being drawn back into reality, as if I had stepped on the surface of some gelatinous, thick liquid.

A/N: To be revised