CHAPTER 18 - BOMB...TOMBABIL?

  [ Post-Battle Recap Summary ]

  > Slain: Lost One Hunter

  > Slain: Lost One Hunter

  > Item Gained: 5x Lost One Scales (Damaged Quality)

  > Item Gained: x4 Lost One Keratin (Common Quality)

  > You have learned a new Recipe Set!

  > Recipe Set: Lost One Hide Armor

  > Recipe: Armor Reinforcement Padding (Scale, Keratin)

  Levan stood over the two fallen creatures, Mental notification rained through his vision and mental landscape. They appeared one after the other in quick succession, each with a satisfying “thunk” sound until they passed. The bodies of the creatures naturally dematerialized, until the only things left were five patches of rough skin and four distinct talons, detached from reptilian claws that, like the rest of the creatures, was rapidly beginning to fade from reality.

  “Uh,” Levan started, aether-irritated eyes going wide at the forest floor. “What’s—“

  [ Codex > Ability Core: Crafter > Gathering Materials | Materials from fallen foes will automatically be separated and collected, unless intentionally canceled ]

  Levan thought of the soldier he’d killed in the alleyway. Had the body dissipated? No, it hadn’t. Maybe an animal versus human thing?

  He didn’t spend too much time thinking about it. Recipes for armor were exactly the kind of thing he was looking for.

  As the expression went—don’t look a gift lizard-flatworm in the teeth shovel.

  He scooped up the materials.

  “That was well fought.”

  Levan froze.

  The voice came from behind him.

  He turned to find an old man a head and a half shorter than he was, with a crown of balding scalp and messy grey-black hair. He wore a coat of heavy fabric, rough-hewn and looked to be made from what looked like a collection of patches, rather than cut one single piece. Dirty, hairy hands curled around a walking stick, and when he took a step toward Levan, a few small chains at his pocket, a few small tools at his belt, and a frying pan on his hip all made various metallic sounds.

  “Thank you,” Levan said, trying to strike that fine line between friendly but not too friendly. Every new meeting was a guessing game that Levan felt often more wrong than right about.

  “Are you a warrior?” the old man, a curious expression on his weathered face.

  “Umm, no,” Levan answered, after briefly considering lying.

  “Ah,” the old man said, and nodded.

  The old man didn’t say anything, and Levan shifted his feet.

  “Well, I should be off, thank you for the kind words.”

  “Oh, off?” the old man asked, climbing down from the slight hill of soil he’d been standing on. He was even shorter than he’d seemed—probably barely crested five feet.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  But the man was solidly built, like he had the body type of a bowling ball and the density to match.

  “Yeah, I should get going,” Levan said. “Sun going down.”

  The man turned, full body, and stared like a kid into the sky.

  “So it is,” he said, “So it is.”

  Levan nodded once, and pressed on. “Be careful out in the woods.”

  “Oh, shall do!” the old man said. “You as well, erm—what was it?”

  “…Levan,” Levan said after a moment.

  “Erm, yes, sorry, Bill—I’m Ol’ Bill Weatherin’, that’s me,” the old man said, with a small bow of his head.

  Ol’ Bill Weatherin’—as he was apparently called— was constantly opening and squeezing shut his eyes, like a child told to close them as he talked.

  Some kind of tic, maybe?

  “Where is it you’re going, is erm, what I meant to ask,” Bill asked.

  Good question.

  Levan hesitated and Ol’ Bill saw his chance.

  “If I may, erm, that is to say, perhaps I might,” he began, a curled index finger leaving his walking staff to hold above his head like an apprehensive student asking a professor. “I’ve a bit of guilt, you see, tinge, bit.”

  Levan frowned and paused.

  He felt a tingle at his spine, he wasn’t sure why. Something instinctual.

  Goosebumps on his arm.

  “Guilty for doing what?” Levan asked carefully. He still held the short sword. He hadn’t aetherized it yet.

  And here I am, covered in bloody priest robes, with seemingly zero belongings, standing with a sword and a pile of scales and claws.

  “I’ve shamed my village,” the old man said. “Ol’ Bill Weatherin’,” he said, tear welling up at the corner of his eye. “Shamed the village.”

  Maybe he’s got the Predator Ability Core.

  “How so?”

  “I had to leave, ‘ad to,” he said.

  Had he always had that “Woe is me, blimey, I ne’er meant to ‘urt no one,” accent?

  Had it just gotten heavier.

  Bill took a step forward and Levan an equal step backward, the two still smiling at each other.

  “Weary ain’t yeh, yeh, yes, troublin’ times, troublin’ times,” Ol’ Bill Weathering said to himself.

  How in the world do I excuse myself from this conversation and get back to fighting lizards?

  “I couldn’t fight another night,” Bill continued. “They need strong lads, not like me. I’m no soldier, not anymore, no ser, not anymore, no ser, no ser.”

  “Strong…lads?” Levan asked with a gulp.

  I need a little sign that says, “I don’t know how to end conversations,” that I can hold up for emergencies.

  [ Recipe: Oak Sign | 1x Charcoal, x1 Wood Plank-- ]

  Not now, he snapped at the Codex.

  “The village,” Bill continued as if he never stopped. “There’s this…old tradition. You never put down the sword, you just give ‘em to someone else. Not truly followed you understand, but people looked to those like me, like Ol’ Bill, yeunderstan’, for such traditions.”

  “Give someone else your sword?” Levan asked, frowning.

  “I’m too old, and with the army coming…” Old Bill said with a shake of is head.

  He looked in the direction Levan thought was westward.

  “Perhaps just for the night, you could stay, and help. Especially if you’re…new to these woods. Might be a bit safer, yeh?”

  Levan blinked.

  “Go to the village?” he asked. “To stay the night?”

  It sounded almost too good to be true.

  “Oh! Erm, yes,” Bill nodded sagely. “I realize you may be a priest and—”

  “I’m not a priest,” Levan said automatically.

  “Jus’ as well,” Old Bill said with another nod. “Then the town’s clothiers will fix you with a decent pair of clothes, the tanner and armor smith can get you some protection. You’ve got a sword already, but the smithy for a shield—”

  “Yes,” Levan said, almost too quickly. “Yes, yes, sure,” he said, nodding.

  “Oh!” Bill Weathering said, holding his heart and taking a deep breath out. “Relief! That is. Yup, yes, that is a relief! Old Bill Weatherin’ has left Garrow’s Claim, and he’d upheld tradition,” he said with a sniff, standing up a little straighter.

  “Will you be alright?”

  “It’s Bill, lad—I kid! Ha, I kid with you. Hope that’s alright…I will be, oh no doubt, I know the woods well, know how to leave ‘em. Hardest part.”

  “Sure,” Levan said, trying an encouraging smile. “Garrow’s Claim?”

  “That’s the one,” the old man nodded once more.

  He gave Levan a series of directions, muttered with apologies.

  He made Levan repeat the instructions and clapped his hands together with a smile when he was satisfied.

  “Better walk quick, then, lad,” he said, and “Nightfall soon. They’ll need a bit of time to fit ya.”

  “Fit me?”

  “For armor,” Bill said.

  “Oh, right,” Levan said with a smile.

  There was a small glimmer in those old eyes. Something that raised hackles.

  Did he trust ‘Ol’ Bill Weathering’?

  No.

  Had the man’s bumbling and affable persona charmed him?

  Not completely, no.

  A bit, maybe.

  But Levan was no fool.

  Just desperate.

  “I’ll be off, then,” Bill said with a curt nod, and just started walking.

  Is it really that easy to leave a conversation?

  “Oh,” Bill called. “If you survive the night, ask about my old workshop!” he called to Levan.

  “You’re old wh—”

  He turned.

  He thought for a second he’d find the man already gone, vanished into the forest, as if he’d been a phantom, a magical hermit he’d hallucinated or a god in mortal disguise.

  Nope.

  “Workshop,” Bill called back from over his shoulder, with one leg on a tree stump, credit-carding his ass crack through his patchy trouser with the flat rim of his frying pan.

  “Itches!” he yelled in explanation to Levan. “I’ll wash it! The pan! And the arse! After I use the handle in private! Har-har! No, but of course, I kid! Just itches, is all, you know how it is!”

  “Yeah, yep! No…worries!” Levan called back.

  “Goodbye!”

  “Goodbye!”

  What the hell was that?