HOUSE
XVII. Hill-Furt
The
hills gradually leveled out, the dead heather giving way to
cultivated fields — though, "cultivated" was a generous
term to describe the pathetic rows of stunted vegetables struggling
to grow in the grey, hostile soil, as if they regretted ever
sprouting in the first place.
— Regretted
ever sprouting? Zik repeated. Vegetables can’t feel regret.
— It’s
a poetic metaphor.
— It’s
a stupid metaphor.
— You’re
really a pain with my descriptions.
— You’re
really bad with your descriptions.
In
the distance, on a the top of a hill, a massive silhouette loomed against the eternally grey
sky, like a promise of civilization in the midst of the surrounding
desolation. Stone walls. High. Thick. Battlemented. Watchtowers at
the four corners, with guards visible even from this distance —
tiny silhouettes etched against the sky like sentinels frozen in the
grey eternity—
— Frozen
in the grey eternity? Kael interrupted. They’re moving, look. One
of them is scratching his balls.
— Thank
you for that poetic clarification.
Smoke
rose from hundreds of chimneys, forming a brownish fog over the city
that blended with the natural grey of the sky in a symphony of
depressing shades.
— Symphony
of depressing shades? You’re really pushing it now.
— It’s
descriptive!
Hill-Furt.
— Finally,
Kael exhaled with profound relief. A real city.
— A
large fortified town, Zik corrected, adjusting his pack. But yeah,
it’s infinitely better than the shitty village we came from.
They
quickened their pace. The road widened, better maintained, with
paving stones in places — some missing, others crooked, a few
upside down because the municipal workers clearly didn't give a damn—
— Is
the narrator criticizing workers now? a voice remarked from a wagon
passing them.
— I
am stating objective facts.
— You’re
stating them with condescension.
— It’s
my narrative style.
Other
travelers appeared on the road: merchants with their canvas-topped
carts, farmers driving lean herds toward the market, a few solitary
adventurers recognizable by their mismatched gear and the wary gazes
of people who had seen too much shit.
The
main gate of Hill-Furt rose before them, massive, made of wood
reinforced with carefully forged black iron. Two guards stood on
either side, dressed in standardized chainmail and tabards in the
city's colors — grey and dark blue, obviously.
— Obviously
what? the guard on the left asked, looking up at the sky.
— Obviously
the colors are grey and dull like everything else in this world.
— These
are the Duke’s heraldic colors, the guard replied, clearly
offended. They have symbolized strength and loyalty for three
generations.
— They
mostly symbolize chronic depression.
The
two guards examined Kael and Zik as they approached. Their
expressions shifted from professional boredom to active suspicion
when they noticed Zik.
— Halt,
the guard on the left ordered, a man in his forties with a scar
crossing his cheek like a permanent, sinister smile. Declaration of
intent and identity verification.
Kael
stopped, Zik by his side.
— Kael.
Warrior. Level 4. I’m here to register at the Adventurers' Guild.
The
guard mentally noted the information, then his eyes settled on Zik
with hostility.
— And
the goblin?
— Zik.
My companion. Rogue level 2.
— Goblins
don’t enter Hill-Furt, the second guard declared, younger, with a
hand on the hilt of his sword. City policy. Too much trouble in the
past.
— Zik,
tell them you’re going to the Guild House. Insist on your
registered companion status.
— Wait,
Zik protested, following the suggestion. We’re going directly to
the Guild House. To register at the Adventurers' Guild. I am an
officially registered companion. Check my status in the System.
[VERIFICATION:
ZIK - REGISTERED COMPANION OF KAEL]
[STATUS: LEGITIMATE]
The
first guard hesitated, exchanging an uncertain look with his
colleague.
— We
certainly need people like you in these cursed times, he admitted
grudgingly. The roads are infested. But rules are rules.
— Kael,
suggest that a guard accompanies you. That will solve their
bureaucratic problem.
— What
if one of your guards accompanied us to the Guild? Kael proposed.
That way, it’s all official and there’s no problem.
The
two guards exchanged a glance.
— I’ll
go with them, the young guard sighed, leaving his post. Stay close to
me. No straying. No interaction with civilians. Understood?
— Understood,
they replied in unison.
They
passed through the massive gate and entered Hill-Furt.
The
city was... alive. Truly, deeply alive. Not like the dead village at
the Edge of the Grey Forest where three people constituted a crowd
and one cart was a traffic jam.
Hundreds
of people moved through the paved streets — properly paved this
time, with stones that actually fit together instead of being tossed
into the mud as an afterthought. Shops lined both sides, their
painted facades clashing violently with the omnipresent grey of the
rest of the world. Painted wooden signs swayed in the cold wind:
GRENN’S BAKERY, MARTHOS THE BLACKSMITH, THE LIMPING STAG INN.
— The
Limping Stag? Kael read aloud. That’s not a very good selling point
for a name.
— It’s
honest, at least, replied a woman passing by with a basket of
vegetables on her hip. The owner really does limp. Arrow to the knee
fifteen years ago. He was an adventurer once, too.
— Ah.
Okay. Sorry for asking.
Smells
assaulted the nostrils — fresh bread coming out of the oven, meat
grilling on street braziers, fresh horse manure dropped by teams,
concentrated human sweat, exotic spices imported from distant lands,
forming an olfactory blend that was complex and not always pleasant,
but alive—resolutely, aggressively alive.
The
guard led them through the main streets, carefully avoiding the
crowds, ignoring the curious — and sometimes openly hostile —
glares directed at Zik.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
— Do
you have many goblins causing trouble here? Kael asked to break the
heavy silence.
— Not
really, the guard admitted with a shrug. But twenty years ago, there
were raids. Villages burned to the south. People killed. Children
taken, or so they say. Since then, people have long memories and even
longer prejudices.
— Handy
for us, Zik muttered sarcastically.
— That’s
life. I’m just doing my job.
They
arrived before an imposing building that dominated the surrounding
structures like a stone giant among architectural dwarves. Three
stories of grey stone with massive columns on either side of the main
entrance. A gigantic sign hung above the door, creaking slightly in
the wind:
HILL-FURT
GUILD HOUSE
— There
you go, the guard said, stopping. You’re here. The Adventurers'
Guild is on the second floor. Stairs on the right as you enter. Good
luck. You’ll need it with those shitty levels of yours.
— Nice
bit of encouragement.
— It
was factual, not nice.
He
left without waiting for a reply, disappearing into the bustling
crowd. Kael and Zik looked at each other.
— Well.
Shall we?
— Lead the way.
They
pushed the heavy, iron-reinforced wooden door and entered the main
hall of the Guild House. It was a vast space, noisy, chaotic, and
absolutely fascinating in its disorganized organization. The ground
floor apparently housed several different guilds operating
simultaneously in controlled cacophony.
Dozens
of people moved in every direction like ants in a giant anthill —
adventurers recognizable by their mismatched military gear, merchants
in colorful robes carrying thick ledgers under their arms, artisans
bearing the marks of their trade on their calloused and scarred
hands.
— It’s...
impressive, Kael whispered.
— Yeah.
Welcome to civilization.
— Second
floor. Stairs on the right.
— We
can read the signs, thanks.
— I’m
helping.
— You’re
bothering.
They
climbed the stone stairs on the right, their boots echoing against
the steps worn smooth by thousands of daily crossings. With every
step, the noise changed — fewer polite commercial transactions,
more rough tactical conversations, coarse and vulgar laughter, the
metallic clank of weapons being stored or sharpened before a quest.
The
second floor opened onto a gigantic hall that clearly occupied the
entire level.
ADVENTURERS'
GUILD - HILL-FURT BRANCH
The
room was organized in a functional but visually chaotic manner. And
everywhere, people. Dozens of adventurers of all levels, races, and
classes, creating a visual and auditory cacophony that was absolutely
overwhelming for newcomers.
— Damn,
Kael muttered, impressed in spite of himself. There are really a lot
of people.
— Welcome
to the real life of an adventurer, Zik grinned. No more nice rats
apologizing before they bite you.
— HEY!
KAEL!
A
familiar voice rang out from the back tables. Kael turned around,
searching for the source. A young man was approaching.
Well-maintained leather armor, a longsword at his belt, and a face
that looked vaguely familiar with a fresh scar on his forehead.
— Uh...
do we know each other? Kael asked, uncertain.
The
young man stopped, slightly offended.
— Kassios.
We crossed paths when I saved your ass from three bandits three days
ago. Does that ring a bell?
— Ah!
Kassios! Sorry, I’m bad with faces.
— And
with names. And with social recognition in general. And validating good narration.
— Shut
up, narrator.
Kassios
extended his hand; Kael shook it.
— Glad
to see you’re still alive, Kassios said. Honestly, I thought you’d
be dead within two days. You had a face that looked like it would die
fast.
— Thanks
for the vote of confidence.
— It’s
not malice, it’s pragmatism. You had an 8 in Strength and a rusty
sword.
— I
still have an 8 in Strength.
— But
you’re alive. That’s something.
[KASSIOS
- WARRIOR - BEAR RANK - LEVEL 8]
[HP: 240]
— You’re
already level 8? Kael marveled. It’s only been three days!
— Yeah,
I grinded hard. Giant rats, bandits, caravan escort, wolves. When you
don’t stop, the XP piles up fast.
— Grinded?
Zik repeated. What is that stupid word?
— A
term for working intensively.
— Just
say worked then.
— It’s
less precise.
— It’s
less moronic, mostly.
Kassios
noticed Zik.
— You’ve
got a goblin companion. Not bad.
— You’re
the first one not to give me shit for it.
— Why
would I give you shit? A competent companion is a competent
companion. I don't give a damn about race.
— You
are officially my favorite human.
— Wait,
Bear Rank? What is this system?
— Oh
right, you’re new, Kassios explained. The Guild ranks adventurers
based on creatures. It gives an idea of relative power. It’s more
meaningful than just numbers.
— How
many ranks are there? Kael asked.
— Ten
official ranks, Kassios replied, counting on his fingers:
- RAT
RANK: Level 1-2
- GOBLIN
RANK: Level 3-4
- WOLF
RANK: Level 5-7
- BEAR
RANK: Level 8-12
- TROLL
RANK: Level 13-16
- STRIGOI
RANK: Level 17-20
- LICH
RANK: Level 21-25
- DRAGON
RANK: Level 25-30
- TITAN
RANK: Level 31-39
- LEGEND
RANK: Level 40+
— So
I’m Wolf Rank, Kael concluded.
— And
I’m Rat Rank, Zik added. That’s offensive.
— It’s
just a classification, Kassios reassured them. It doesn't change your
abilities.
— Still
offensive.
A
sudden and hostile movement caught their attention. A massive man —
TRULY massive, easily seven feet of muscle packed into black plate
armor, a gigantic greataxe on his back that must have weighed more
than Zik — was heading straight for them with an expression of cold
rage on his scarred face.
[GORTHAK
THE BUTCHER - WARRIOR - BEAR RANK - LEVEL 11]
[HP: 298]
— There’s
a fucking goblin in here, he growled in a deep voice that sounded
like rocks being slowly crushed. Who let this green piece of shit
into MY guild?
— Oh
crap.
— He’s
my companion, Kael replied calmly but firmly, instinctively resting a
hand on the hilt of his short sword — not the rapier, which was
still wrapped in rags. He has the right to be here. It’s in the
regulations.
— Goblins
have no rights, Gorthak spat, stepping closer like a walking
mountain, towering over Zik. I’ve killed hundreds of them. Maybe
thousands. It’s my professional specialty.
Confirming
the specialty, a female adventurer sitting at a nearby table, an elf
with a composite bow on her back and ritual scars on her arms, added:
— Gorthak
the Butcher. Specialized in the systematic extermination of goblins,
orcs, and other green creatures. It’s even written on his guild
card. "Certified Racial Exterminator, Level 3."
— Great,
Zik muttered, backing away cautiously. A racist with an official
license. Brilliant.
— It’s
not racism, it’s professionalism, Gorthak corrected with chilling
conviction. Goblins are a festering plague. I eliminate them the way
one eliminates rats. Simple. Efficient. Necessary. , as they
say these days. Ah! What a noble trade.
Kassios
stepped calmly but firmly between Gorthak and Zik, despite the
ridiculous difference in size.
— Gorthak,
this goblin is registered as a legitimate companion. Article 12 of
the regulations. You know that perfectly well.
— The
regulations can go fuck themselves deep.
— Then
go ahead, Kassios insisted, not backing down an inch. Attack him.
Violate the regulations in front of witnesses. Lose your status and
all your privileges. See what happens.
— Kael,
grip the hilt of your weapon. Show that you’re ready to fight.
Kael
obeyed, a subtle gesture, yet perfectly visible to the entire hall now
watching.
Silence
gradually fell. Several adventurers watched the scene with morbid
interest, some even placing low-voiced bets on who would survive.
Gorthak
clenched his massive fists. His knuckles cracked like dead branches
snapping. Then he chuckled — a sound devoid of humor, just pure
concentrated threat.
— You’ve
got balls for a Wolf Rank, kid. I respect that much. But watch your
piece-of-shit goblin. If he makes ONE wrong move, I’ll carve him
into pieces and send them to his family. Regulations or not.
He
turned on his heel and stomped back toward the tables in the rear,
his axe clanking against his armor with every step.