A letter with no name: Mother, we will not return for midfest this year, nor do I expect us to return for the next. I am doing fine. The weather up here is not all that different from back home, but the people are let's just say harsh. I hope you are doing well and give my greetings and gratitudes to the others, Sincerely your second son.
In the early hours of the day in a darker, more sinister part of Catlercarn. Just behind one of the old stone harbours workshops. A Grass folk with a duel eye tattoo just beneath his left eye shoves his fist into the stomach of a hill-folk by the name Tristin. His friends stand by the building's corner and they make sure no curious sailor or traveler takes the wrong path.
"Twenty silver a month, is that so much to ask for?" The Grass-folk is twice Tristin's size. His build is impressive like an old Aarysh sculpture come to life. His face ugly and ruined by two scars, one that splits his lips and one which cuts up his chin towards his right eye. Between the tattoo and his scars it is hard to tell what has ruined his face more. He gives the wheezing hill-folk a good kick into the shadow cast by the village palisade.
"You know i feel for you i really do, you got no friends, no girl, no family left to help you and a debt which likely won't be paid until your death," The man presses his foot down on Tristin's spine. He struggles to move. "But even all the pity in the world can't save you from the guild, you know how it is"
Struggling to catch his breath Tristin finally speaks. "Thirty.. I'll get you thirty coins for next month" The man seems to entertain the thought for a moment before pushing his feet down once more. He wonders how much force it would take to break the small creature's ribs. "Forty! I'll get you Forty silver by next month!"
Satisfied, the man lifts his foot. Signaling for Tristin to get up which he does reluctantly. Only to receive a fist right into his jaw. He drops down once more. Luckily nothing got broken, nothing important that is.
"Lesser folk like you should stay close to the ground where they belong" It is a struggle for Tristin to not grab the dagger hidden within his boot. It is a struggle to lie there and take it for the alternative would be worse. It is a struggle to live a life like this, on an island like this in a port like this.
"I'll see you next month, same place, and remember to bring the coin next time" The man left the alley with his comrades. They talked of what they would do for the rest of the day, hit up the pubs along the port. Visit the guild hall for a report, and drink away the night. They were a brutish kind of people.
"And Pigrings like you should be buried by the gutter" Thankfully the debt collector was too far away to hear. If he had heard the nasty slur then he might have just turned back and beat Tristin to a pulp. Pigring was a slur used to refer to Grass folk. Since both Hill folk and Earth folk saw pigs as unclean and refused to keep them while grass folk gladly had several on their farms. Grass folk were sometimes seen as an unclean and dirty race and the name Pigring reflected that. Tristin was not a broken man, there was still a fight within him. Still a withering light against the wind.
Tristin picked himself up, brushed off the dirt from his black tunic. In the dusty glass of one of the village's older houses he could see his face. One cheek was red and it stinged as he drew his finger across it. Hopefully it didn't leave a mark. His face was too handsome to be ruined or at least it was by Hill folk standard.
His home was a rented out room in the basement of a run down tavern called the Sour Roe. The tavern gained its name from one of the island's local delicacies called as you might guess Sour roe, It was fermented roe atop a stale brown bread. It didn't look appetizing and it smelled just as bad as you would imagine. And its taste was as unlikely as it would seem, both sweet and sour but with a pungent aftertaste that made all but the island's natives steer clear from the dish.
He washed his face in the barrel by his door. The water was changed weekly but the barrel stayed the same as it had been when he and his brother moved in. A year ago he had arrived on the island with his brother to scale the then thought to be grey dungeon.
Things haven't really worked out as planned. His brother's bed stood empty in one corner. Perfectly tucked in like it was still waiting for its master to come home. A small bit of light shined in from the street level window. From it Tristin could see the shoes of adventurers. Boots, Greaveses and some who were barefoot. He wondered which population was larger, the islanders or the Adventurers?
If the island's population continued to increase at the current rate then things might get ugly. This island could not sustain a larger population then what it currently had yet its population was growing almost daily. If things continued as they did then a guild could sweep in to take control or a larger foreign nation could use restoring order to the region as a valid cause for war for control of the archipelago. Although the real reason for such a war was likely just control over the dungeon, not the land. In any such scenario he doubted if the island's incompetent count could do anything more than kneel over.
Laying on his bed he counted the coins he had hidden away for personal use. twelve silver. What he had hidden away to be used for food supplies. Fifty silver made one Gold coin. Twenty copper made one silver. That was the base currency used throughout the world during the time of the Orrain dynasty. Now that there was no dynasty to rule the lands some countries had tried to introduce their own currencies which had more often than not failed except for in that faraway southern continent of Ezro. A land he knew so little of the place might as well be a fairy tale.
Some countries had tried to introduce their own tongues as the basic go to language but that had never taken off. Everyone was too used to talking in the common tongue both when traveling outside their home lands and even when talking to friends and family. Which was established even further back then the Orrain dynasty, Indeed it had been established by the most prestigious and glorious fourth dynasty known as Vassakilin.
Tristin's only belongings was his wardrobe, His old passed down armour from his pops. The two knives he had been given by his uncle as a child. And the book on lockpicking given to him by his brother. Hill-folk valued their family greatly. It was said that a hill-folk apart from his family was like a single small bird in the sky doomed to be devoured by the hawk as it flies, doomed to be taken by the fox as it lands.
He had of course some more belongings, some odd trinkets, like cutlery and of course his own deck of cards. The adventuring parties of the town wouldn't take him most knew or had heard rumors of his money problems. An adventurer with a past was of no use. That was a sad truth of this world.
What he could rely on was the few jobs the villagers could give him. Standing guard at one of the entrances to the dungeon, Which his dream was to explore. Catching fish with the fishermen to feed the adventurer party's he wished to be part of. Herding sheep while watching out for the small wolf population which prowled within the island's sparse forest. And of course he could gamble, a far more risky venture but by far the most fun and lucrative one.
There was a knock at the door, before answering Tristin hid his pouch of silver in the water filled barrel. There it was hidden away from any prying eyes. It gave Tristin a sense of relief knowing that he at least had something if the worst were to happen.
On the other side of the door stood a woman commonly referred to as just Pobossa by both the islanders and adventurers. She was of earthfolk descent, a race short like a hillfolk. But covered by muscle and hair. With a deep voice and rough hands. Pobossa herself was an example of these traits both with her more than muscular arms and her short height which made her stand on the same level as Tristin. Other than that she seemed tired undoubtedly from the stress of managing the inns in the busy season.
"The coin for the week" A bit reluctantly Tristin handed over two silver which he had kept from the pouch as he knew almost instinctively who would be at the door even before he opened.
"Do you have any work for me?" Tristin asked almost reluctantly. Pobossa owned the island's three inns and she partook in many other businesses around the island's coast. She was perhaps the most influential islander except for the island's count Sir Kvist. Who by some sort of twist of fate was a Hill-folk just like Tristin.
"The McIlven family has gotten a new sailor for their ship so you can't count on fishing for them in the future. The Adams have had a bad crop produce this year so they likely can't afford a stable boy, the guard is always asking for new recruits as the population of the island continues to grow" Pobossa answered his question as best as she could, albeit with tired eyes.
Tristin clicked his tongue, he absolutely did not want to work for the guard again. One week by the dungeon door was enough. He couldn't stand to see the look of the adventurers eyes, with the shame he felt when he couldn't stand by them.
So he grabbed his deck of cards and the black cloak by his door and headed upstairs for his usual spot. Gambling could at least be fun, at least when you won.
Pobossa sighed as she closed the door he had left open and returned to her duties. It wasn't on her to make sure he stayed out of trouble. All peoples' fates were their own. But she dropped one of the silver coins she had received by his door, just one and just this once.
The gamblers table wasn't the nicest. But Tristin had a spot reserved for him. Most of the fellow gamblers knew his tale by this point. And the fact he never cheated was seen as a plus by many. They played a few games of Twohorse. After about an hour Tristin had both lost and gained. Small bets for small prices he had recovered what he had lost to Pobossa and stood at a win with fourteen coins. Then the mage arrived.
Fourteen silver lost in a moment. To some dirty old, clearly homeless, cheating grass folk who hadn't even said his name. His only option was to chase him down and retrieve the coin. By whatever means necessary. Surely not even a mage would strike someone down in the street.
And to his surprise the mage returned his coin, he even gave him a smile. And asked "What's your name?" While checking the coin he gave the brief answer " Tristin, Tristin Daehult." He didn't want to engage the old crone in a conversation he had too many troubles as is. But the old mage continued nonetheless.
"Is that your real name?" What a stupid question, but in truth Daehult was not his real last name. In the culture of his homeland one took on the last name of their home village as their last name whenever they left it. That way if they died in a land far far away their corpse could still be returned to their home. "Of course it is, what's yours?"
But before the strange mage could reply they were interrupted by a large commotion down the street. A Tanngrisnir or as someone unfamiliar with monsters would call it, A giant white four horned goat. Charged up the street with a tent lodged onto one horn and a hound holding on to the other. Tristin took a step to the side ready to throw himself into the ally beside him like so many other villagers and adventurers. The enormous creature came from the now called fourth floor of the dungeon, the moss grave. And it was known to kill but not eat adventurers who wandered into its stomping grounds. Most of the deaths on the fourth floor came from such a beast.
But the old mage did not run. He wanted a challenge. He threw his rag-like coat onto the dirty road. Stretched out his arms like an athlete preparing for a sprint and began to whistle a merry tune. "--(/(o)\)--"
The light on a lantern set up by one of the stalls selling practically worthless jewellery began to twist. It formed an open circle, which within small magical glyphs formed like crystals of salt would form on a glass shard. Although most mages needed a torch, a physical staff that could connect them to the fire in order to start their spell casting. Jakurk could do it as long as the fire was close enough to hear him sing.
With a confident smile Jakurk activated his spell. Yet he forgot to account for his aging eye sight which misjudged the distance between him and the charging beast. For within just a second just as his spell was about to activate the full force of the enormouse goat-like creature rammed its full brunt force into his body. Like a child's doll Jakurk was thrown into a wooden stall causing it to collapse atop of him. Tristin felt sorry for the poor man. Until he realised what sort of a situation he himself was in.
The great beast let out a puff of hot air from its nostril as it turned its two yellow eyes upon the hill-folk still standing in the street still within arms or hoofs range. What Tristin felt was fear, a sheer primal fear towards the creature which could end him within a second. But even he was an adventurer. An indebted, incompetent and laughably weak one but still an adventurer. He drew one of his crooked daggers from its hilt and held it definitely as the beast watched with only rage in its eyes.