Morning broke with the crisp chill of early autumn, painting the sky in hues of rose and gold. The remnants of our skirmish lay behind us – discarded torches, the limp forms of the brigands now being efficiently stripped of anything remotely valuable by Bartholomew, and the surprisingly intact, albeit slightly rumpled, stolen jerky. Kaelen, ever vigilant, had already scouted the perimeter and confirmed no lingering threats.

  “A good night’s rest, I trust?” Bartholomew inquired, meticulously cataloging a tarnished silver buckle. His voice was as smooth and unhurried as ever, a stark contrast to the recent chaos.

  “As good as it gets when you’re dodging cudgels and dreaming of better loot,” I replied, stretching. The dull ache from the illusion was gone, replaced by a pleasant hum of well-rested muscles. My new skill, Wayfinder, was already a subtle presence, a shimmering beacon in my peripheral vision, a constant nudge in a specific direction.

  Nolan, meanwhile, was already engrossed in a heated debate with Kaelen about the optimal way to cook the pilfered jerky.

  “Honestly, Kaelen, if you’d just let me build a proper solar dehydrator…” he began, oblivious to the fact that Jerky did not, in fact, require further cooking.Kaelen just nodded politely, his focus already on the horizon.

  “Our objective remains the coast, Master Nolan. Speed is of the essence.”

  “And the sea air will do wonders for our complexion,” Bartholomew added dryly, flicking a piece of lint off his immaculate fur. “Though I suspect we’ll find more… vigorous forms of transportation than what you envision, Paige.”

  He was right, of course. The Wayfinder was already guiding me towards a village marked on my internal map as Pencook. Not a major port by any stretch, but it was nestled on the coast and, hopefully, would have a vessel that wasn’t actively sinking or captained by a crew of particularly unpleasant individuals.

  We mounted our horses, the familiar weight of saddle and reins a welcome comfort. As we rode, the landscape gradually began to change. The dense forests gave way to rolling hills, and the air grew heavy with the salty tang of the distant ocean. The Wayfinder’s beacon pulsed gently, a constant reminder of our goal.

  “So,” Nolan said, nudging his horse closer to mine, his voice a conspiratorial whisper, “about that ‘Minor Image’ spell you cast. Was that like, a cantrip? Or did you have to find a spell scroll for that?”I sighed, a practiced motion. “Nolan, it’s an illusion. And it’s not something you learn from a book. It’s just…” I trailed off, searching for a way to explain the inexplicable. The interface, the XP, the leveling up – it was all so foreign, even now. “It’s a skill I got from my last level up.”

  “A skill? Like… a natural talent?” he pressed, excitement lacing his tone. “That’s amazing! I never get magic spells with my levels. You’re basically a sorceress! You should totally rock the whole ‘powerful mage’ persona. We could call you Paige the Astounding!”

  “I’d settle for Paige, who doesn’t get ambushed on the road every five minutes,” I muttered. “Besides, ‘Astounding’ isn’t exactly my brand.”

  Kaelen, overhearing us, offered a rare, small smile.

  “Your abilities are indeed remarkable, Paige. I have only encountered such innate magical talent in the most ancient of texts. You possess a gift that could prove invaluable in our fight against the Shadow Lord.”Bartholomew, perched regally on Argent’s back, snorted softly.

  “Indeed. Though one does wonder if such potent illusions could be used for more… artistic endeavors. Imagine a holographic recreation of the Battle of Aethelgard, complete with spectral knights and roaring dragons! The guild would pay a fortune for such a spectacle.”

  “Right now, I’d pay a fortune for a decent inn and a hot bath,” I grumbled. My muscles were starting to protest the long hours in the saddle, and the peasant garb, while practical, was hardly conducive to comfort.

  The Wayfinder’s beacon intensified, and soon, through a break in the trees, we saw it. Pencook. It was smaller than I’d hoped, a cluster of thatched roofs huddled around a small, wooden quay. A few fishing skiffs bobbed in the gentle tide, their sails furled. It was hardly the bustling port of my dreams, but it was a start.

  As we rode into the village, a few curious faces peered out from doorways. Pencook seemed like a place that hadn’t seen much excitement in a long time. A weathered sign above what appeared to be the only tavern creaked in the breeze: ‘The Salty Siren.’

  Bartholomew hopped down from Argent with an uncharacteristic haste.

  “Finally. Perhaps they possess something more palatable than dried rodent flesh. And a privy that doesn’t involve digging a hole.”

  We dismounted, tying our horses to a nearby post. Kaelen approached a burly man mending nets, his expression serious.

  “Good sir, we require passage across the sea. Do you know of any vessels setting sail soon?”

  The fisherman looked up, his eyes narrowed as he took in Kaelen’s once-fine but now travel-worn armor, Nolan’s anachronistic spectacles, and my distinctly out-of-place modern mannerisms, even in my peasant garb. Bartholomew, of course, just looked like a particularly haughty cat.

  “Passage, ye say?” the fisherman grunted, wiping his hands on his rough tunic. “Depends on where ye be heading, and how deep yer coin purse be.”

  “We’re bound for the Dragon’s Tooth,” Kaelen stated, his voice low and even, betraying none of the urgency that had hounded us for the last three weeks.

  The fisherman’s leathery face tightened, the web of wrinkles around his eyes deepening. He spat a brown stream of what I hoped was tobacco juice onto the grimy cobblestones.

  “The Isle? Hah. That’s not passage, friend. That’s a funeral procession. No sane captain will take ye there. The currents are cursed, and the fog… it don’t just hide rocks.”

  “Nevertheless,” Kaelen pressed, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword—a gesture that could be either reassuring or threatening, depending on the angle. “We have coin. And a pressing need.”

  The man grunted again, seeming to weigh Kaelen’s resolve against his own desire not to be involved. Finally, he jerked a thumb toward The Salty Siren.

  “There’s only one man mad enough or deep enough in debt to even consider it. Name’s Crispin Croft. Look for the man with a face like a dropped pie and a temper to match. But I’m tellin’ ye, the sea ain’t the only thing he’s a pirate of. He’ll rob ye blind before ye even smell the saltwater.”

  With that cheery recommendation, he turned back to his nets, the conversation clearly over.

  “A promising lead,” Bartholomew sniffed from Kaelen’s shoulder, where he’d perched himself to avoid the fish-stinking ground. “A veritable paragon of nautical virtue, I’m sure.”

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  Kaelen ignored him, turning to the rest of us.

  “This Croft will demand a high price. We’ll need to liquidate our assets.” He looked pointedly at the bulging burlap sack tied to Nolan’s saddle. “Paige, Nolan. Find the village trader. Get the best price you can for… well, everything. Bartholomew and I will engage this Captain Croft, assess his vessel, and begin negotiations.”

  “Divide and conquer. Classic RPG strategy,” Nolan muttered, adjusting his glasses on his sweaty nose. “Let’s just hope this town’s vendor has a decent gold-to-item-value ratio.”I just sighed.

  “Right. Come on, Poindexter. Let’s go sell some monster guts.”

  Kaelen gave a curt nod before he and Bartholomew strode toward the tavern, the knight’s purposeful gait a stark contrast to the cat’s regal, swaying posture. Nolan, meanwhile, unslung his ‘loot bag’. The smell that immediately wafted from it was a potent cocktail of wet fur, decay, and something vaguely metallic.

  “Seriously, Nolan, what is in there?” I asked, holding the bag at arm’s length.

  “Well,” he began, his eyes lighting up with academic zeal, “we have three pristine Dire Wolf pelts, excellent for crafting cold-resistance cloaks. Seven sets of goblin ears, a standard proof-of-kill bounty item. A pouch of giant spider silk, which has a tensile strength far exceeding common rope. And a vial of questionable ooze from a Gelatinous Cube. I haven’t identified its properties yet, but it could be a valuable alchemical reagent!”

  “It smells like a backed-up sewer in a butcher shop,” I countered. “Let’s just find a place to dump it before I hurl.”

  Pencook was a small, tightly-packed village where every building seemed to lean against its neighbor for support. The air was thick with the scent of salt, tar, and drying fish. We passed a blacksmith hammering listlessly at a rusty anchor chain and a cooper wrestling with barrel staves before we found it. Tucked between two leaning salt-cod sheds was a shop with a shingle that read: ‘The Salt-Kissed Curio.’

  The moment we stepped inside, a small bell tinkled, and we were hit by a wave of new smells: dried herbs, beeswax, brine, and dust. The shop was a hoarder’s paradise. Shelves overflowed with nautical charts, strange shells, ship figureheads with chipped paint, and glass jars containing… things I didn’t want to identify. Behind a counter cluttered with scrimshaw and knotted ropes sat a woman who looked as ancient and weathered as the village itself. Her face was a roadmap of wrinkles, her hair a wiry gray bun, and her eyes were as sharp and dark as chips of obsidian.

  “Don’t get many travelers,” she said, her voice raspy, like shells grinding together. “What’s your trouble?”

  “No trouble, ma’am,” Nolan said, puffing out his chest a little. “We are adventurers, seeking to trade our hard-won treasures.”

  He unceremoniously dumped the sack on her counter. The vial of questionable ooze rolled out and clinked against a preserved crab. The woman didn’t even flinch. She simply poked a goblin’s ear with a long, gnarled finger.

  “Treasure,” she deadpanned. “Right.”

  “These are premium goods!” Nolan insisted. “This Dire Wolf pelt, for example, probably has a +2 resistance to cold damage!”The old woman raised a skeptical eyebrow.

  “Does it now? Funny. Looks to me like it’ll make a warm, albeit smelly, blanket. Five silver pieces.”

  “Five!” Nolan squawked, his face reddening. “That’s highway robbery! In Aethelgard, a pelt of this quality would fetch at least two gold crowns!”

  “This ain’t Aethelgard, tubby,” she retorted, her gaze flicking to me. “This is Pencook. We don’t fight a lot of Dire Wolves. We fight cold, wet nights. It’s a blanket. Five silver.”

  I stepped forward, placing a hand on Nolan’s arm before he could launch into a full-blown lecture on fantasy world economics. Time for that Communications degree to earn its keep.

  “Look,” I said, leaning on the counter and giving her what I hoped was a disarming, ‘we’re-all-just-trying-to-get-by’ smile. “My friend gets… enthusiastic. We know we’re not in the capital. But we also know this is good stuff. The silk alone is strong enough to moor a small boat. And the pelts are thick. No holes.” I pulled one out to show her. “Winter’s coming, right? A few warm blankets would probably sell well to the sailors before they head out. We’re not looking to get rich. We just need enough to buy passage out of your lovely, rustic town.”

  She watched me, her obsidian eyes unblinking. For a long moment, the only sound was the distant cry of gulls. Then, a slow smile crept across her wrinkled face, revealing surprisingly white teeth.

  “You’re a smoother talker than him,” she said, nodding at Nolan. “Fine. For the lot… one gold crown and ten silver pieces. And you take that stinking jar of slime with you. I’ve got enough unidentified muck in here as it is.”It was less than Nolan had hoped for, but more than I expected.

  “Deal,” I said quickly, before Nolan could object.

  She counted out the coins with practiced efficiency, her fingers surprisingly nimble. As she pushed the small pile of currency across the counter, she leaned in conspiratorially.

  “Word of advice. If you’re dealing with Crispin, don’t let him see the color of your coin until you’ve agreed on a price. And don’t, for the love of the sea gods, drink anything he offers you for free.”

  With our purse significantly heavier and our bag mercifully lighter, we headed for The Salty Siren. The tavern was even grimmer on the inside. The air was a fog of pipe smoke and unwashed bodies, the floor was sticky, and the patrons were a collection of hard-faced men and women who looked like they’d wrestle a kraken for a stiff drink.

  We found Kaelen and Bartholomew at a corner table, a half-empty mug of ale in front of the knight and a saucer of what looked like day-old milk in front of the cat. Bartholomew looked utterly scandalized by his surroundings.

  “The sheer vulgarity,” he muttered as we sat down. “I saw a man clean his teeth with a splinter. A splinter, Paige.”

  “How’d it go?” I asked Kaelen, ignoring the cat’s hygiene complaints.

  “As expected,” Kaelen said, his eyes scanning the room. “Our fisherman was accurate. Captain Croft is… a character. We have agreed, in principle, to a voyage to the Dragon’s Tooth.”

  “Great! We got the money,” I said, patting the coin purse at my belt. “One gold, ten silver. How much does he want?”Kaelen’s jaw tightened.

  “He wants five gold crowns.”My heart sank. Nolan choked on the air he was breathing.

  “Five? That’s… that’s insane! We could buy a small ship for that!”

  “He is aware of this,” Kaelen said grimly. “He knows he is the only captain willing to make the journey. He calls it hazard pay.” He gestured with his head toward a man sitting alone at the bar.

  I followed his gaze. Crispin Croft was everything the fisherman had promised. His face was a lumpy, scarred mess, with a nose that had clearly been broken more than once. One of his eyes was milky white, and a thick, grey-streaked beard failed to hide a nasty scar that ran from his temple to his chin. He was nursing a dark liquor and staring into the cup as if it held all the world’s misery.

  “However,” Kaelen continued, lowering his voice, “he offered an alternative. He says coin is good, but the Isle of Whispers has its own appetites. He is missing a piece of equipment, something he claims is vital for navigating the treacherous waters around the Isle. A Lodestone of True North, he called it. He says it was stolen from him by a nest of Cliff-Drakes that lair up the coast.”

  “Let me guess,” I said, a wave of exhaustion washing over me. “He’ll waive the fee if we retrieve it for him.”

  Kaelen nodded. “Precisely. We kill the monsters, retrieve his stolen property, and he gives us passage.”

  “A fetch quest,” Nolan whispered, a manic gleam in his eyes. “It’s a classic fetch quest!”

  I just buried my face in my hands. Of course. It was never as simple as just paying for a boat ride. In Eldoria, you always had to go kill something first.