I woke up, immediately realizing I did not have that nightmare, something that rarely happened as of late, so I was in a good mood. After a hearty breakfast, I decided to explore the city of Wexlow, seeing it in a new light now that I roamed its streets during the day.
The city bustled with energy, its cobblestone roads and narrow alleyways filled with the clamor of daily life. Tall, weathered buildings with charmingly crooked roofs leaned over the streets, casting long shadows that danced with the movement of people below. The air was thick with the scent of fresh bread, blooming flowers, and the occasional whiff of the canal that wound its way through the city like a silver ribbon.
Despite being just a random city in a random duchy of the Wiedenfeld Kingdom, Wexlow had an undeniable charm. It was a blend of old and new where history seemed to whisper from every stone, yet there was a lively pulse of modernity in its vibrant market squares.
To tell the truth, I realized that the city might not be as praiseworthy as I saw it; it was most likely just me who had a warped view of it.
Coming from a much more modern world, where cities were either mazes of towering buildings or literal deserts of garbage, my experiences had shaped my perspective. Since being brought to this world and ultimately unleashed upon Fiendfell, I had spent most of my life in small villages, if not outright somewhere in the woods. As a result, I had very few opportunities to see what this world’s "cities" were like.
Wexlow seemed modern to me, and it was fair to say that it looked new because I was more or less discovering things for the first time.
As I wandered deeper into the heart of the city, the sound of vendors calling out their wares grew louder, mingling with the chatter of townsfolk and the occasional laughter of children darting between stalls.
Eventually, I found myself in what I believed was the mercantile section of Wexlow. Stalls lined the streets, overflowing with colorful produce, fragrant spices, and finely crafted goods. The market was a riot of color and noise, each vendor seemingly trying to outdo the next with their displays and calls to passersby. It was impossible not to get caught up in the atmosphere, my eyes darting from one intriguing item to the next.
I moved from stall to stall, marveling at the variety of goods on offer. There were fruits and vegetables in every shade imaginable, barrels of spices that perfumed the air with exotic scents, and textiles so finely woven that they seemed to shimmer in the sunlight. Artisans displayed their wares proudly, from intricately carved wooden trinkets to gleaming metalwork. The sheer variety and abundance were overwhelming, but also invigorating.
As I continued to stroll through the market, I noticed a workshop that stood out from the rest. It wasn’t a forge or a grand armory, but rather a humble shop displaying an assortment of used swords, shields, and even broken lances. The place had a rough-around-the-edges charm, with items stacked haphazardly and an air of history clinging to each piece.
Just as I was about to move on, a boy of about eleven years old darted across the street towards me. He had tousled brown hair and a face smudged with dirt, his green eyes bright with determination. "Hey! You should come inside," he said, his voice carrying a hint of eagerness marred by his bluntness. When I hesitated, he took a step closer and grabbed the edge of my cloak, tugging insistently. "We have everything. What do you want? Swords, shields, anything. Come on, you'll find something interesting."
His rough attempt at persuasion was far from polished, but there was something endearing about his persistence. With a slight shrug, I decided to follow him into the shop. The interior was dimly lit, the air cool and filled with the scent of old leather and metal. The boy called out, his voice echoing off the walls, "Grandpa! Someone's here!"
A moment later, an elderly man emerged from the back of the workshop. He had a wiry frame and a full head of silver hair, tied back in a loose ponytail. His face was a map of wrinkles, each line telling a story of years gone by. Despite his age, his eyes twinkled with a mix of curiosity and warmth as he approached. He wiped his hands on a grimy cloth, the stains of his trade evident on his rough, calloused hands. "Ah, welcome," he said, his voice rich with years of stories untold. "What brings you to my little corner of Wexlow?"
"I wasn't looking for anything in particular," I replied, glancing around the dimly lit shop.
The old man glanced at the boy, raising an eyebrow. The boy shrugged, as if to deflect any responsibility. "She looked interested," he said, his tone defensive.
The old man chuckled and turned back to me, his eyes crinkling with a warm smile. "Well, you're welcome to look around. You might find something interesting with enough luck," he said.
I nodded, my curiosity piqued. The shop had a certain vibe that reminded me of the common shops in the place "we" were initially born. There, countless little stalls sold, for some reason I'd never understood even as an adult, rusty bolts or chipped hinges, and bent nails. This workshop had that same feel, except instead of stalls it was a shop, and instead of bolts, hinges, or nails, it was filled with shields, lances, and swords, which were respectively faded and dented, worn and splintered, nicked and scratched.
Looking toward the graveyard of discarded dreams laying around me, I couldn’t help but chuckle. This place was a treasure trove for someone, with the right kind of eyes, someone like me,
Activating my Identification skill, I scanned the room. It was like opening a secret window into the soul of each object.
Applying the skill on everything in the room would guarantee me a headache so I had to go through them one by one. First up, a slightly twisted sword that looked like it had seen better days but still looked better than most things around there. My skill flared to life, projecting an interface only I could see:
—
Identification: Dad’s Sword
[Status]Name: Dad’s Sword
Object: Longsword
Material: Unrefined Iron
Condition: Poor
Age: 47 years
Creator: Unidentified
Owner: ???
Special Attributes
None
Value
Estimating…
—
I shook my head. Nothing special about this one. Moving on, I picked up a bent shield, its once shiny surface now dull and pitted. The interface appeared again:
—
Identification: 279?-worth Shield
[Status]Name: 279?-worth Shield
Object: SteelShield
Material: Reinforced Steel
Condition: Damaged
Age: 15 years
Creator: Unidentified
Owner: Heavy Damy
[Special Attributes]
Imprinted Abilities
- Heightened Durability: Enhanced structural integrity
Value:
Estimating…
—
Better, but still not worth much. Sorry Heavy Damy, your shield must not be worth 279? anymore. A quick thought on what could’ve been Heavy Damy’s ultimate fate, I continued through the piles, until something caught my attention. It was a dagger, but unlike any of the other decrepit weapons, this one didn’t look as rusted, and instead was covered with a layer of dust and grime that I was confident could be salvaged with a quick wash. There was however one thing that certainly didn’t look like it could be salvaged. The blade, or what remained of it, was broken, almost reduced to a jagged stub, yet it still gleamed under the grime. The hilt was a work of art in itself, wrapped in a twisted, textured grip that felt secure in my hand. Intricate, almost lace-like patterns adorned the guard and pommel, hinting at a craftsmanship that spoke of a different era. Activating my skill, the interface displayed a wealth of information:
Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.
—
Identification: D?rmalkrin's Blade
[Status]Name: D?rmalkrin's Blade
Object: Dagger
Material: Grondite Steel, Mithril Inlay
Age: Estimated 250 years
Creator: D?rmalkrin's
Owner: N/A
Condition: Damaged
[Special Attributes]Imprinted Abilities:
Recommended Use:
Best suited for those specializing in close-quarters combat, particularly effective against elvish foes.
Warning:
Blade Fragility: The broken blade may not withstand prolonged combat. Recommended to repair the blade before heavy usage.
Value:
Estimating…
—
Having read what there was to be gleaned from the interface, I looked down at the damaged blade in my hands. Of all the details usually revealed to me through [identification], the ones that intrigue me most are those about artifacts, objects that possess non-conventional properties, either "infused" or "imprinted"
Infused properties are purposely grafted onto the object turning them into artifacts, while imprinted properties are acquired through, usually, battles. This happens when skills are applied to the object, and after repeated use, just like skill levels up, the object can get imprinted with unique properties. Now, this dagger had an ability imprinted onto it: Bane Elvish. It’s not something conventionally seen. Bane-type abilities are usually acquired along with a "-slaying" type title. For instance, if someone has a Demon Bane ability, they must have at least a Demon-slaying title along. That's conventionally how it is, but there are likely exceptions out there.
Anyway, that is to say that for such an ability to be imprinted onto this dagger, the wielder of this blade, this D?rmalkrin, must have had an Elf-slaying title, which suggests that he’d killed a lot of elves with it.
The moment I came to that conclusion, I knew exactly what I wanted. I wanted that blade. Turning toward the old man and the boy, I asked, "Excuse me, do you have the other part of this blade?"
***
Later in the day, after being told by the old man that the blade came to them like that without the missing half, I remained in the shop for another hour, applying Identification on all the junk in the room. I was hoping to find something of equal value to the dagger, but ultimately it turned out that the blade was one of a kind. After bargaining for a price for the dagger, I eventually left the shop with one broken dagger and my purse 1.37? lighter.
Continuing my stroll, another shop caught my attention. Unlike the chaotic mess of the previous place, this shop stood out for its neat and orderly appearance. The exterior was adorned with colorful fabrics, each piece draped and displayed with care. Standing guard over the exposed fabric was a girl of about fifteen years old. She peered at me, trying to see what I was like under my hood. When she noticed that I was a girl, she approached with a big smile.
"Hello."
"Hi."
"Are you interested in what we have in our shop?" she asked politely.
"I have to admit I'm intrigued," I admitted.
The girl beamed and gestured for me to follow her inside. "Welcome to our shop! My name is Liana."
"Please, come in."
As we stepped inside, the room exuded a welcoming and cozy vibe. Shelves were stacked high with bolts of cloth in every imaginable hue, and a large wooden counter at the back was cluttered with sewing tools and spools of thread. The walls were adorned with intricate tapestries and sketches of dress designs, giving the place an air of creativity and craftsmanship. The air was filled with the faint scent of lavender, likely from bunches of dried flowers hung among the fabrics to keep them fresh.
Liana led me in to see a woman sat focused on a task at a large weaving machine. "Mom, there's a client," Liana called out.
The woman finished the delicate stitching she was working on and looked up with a warm smile. "Welcome to our shop," she said, rising from her seat. "My name is Mariel. How can we help you today?"
"I'm not sure," I replied, glancing around the shop.
I felt a sense of ease in this place. The organized space, the polite greetings, and the skillful work all combined to create an inviting atmosphere. As Mariel approached, I glanced around at the various pieces of clothing, each one a testament to the skill and dedication of the artisans here. This shop, with its orderly presentation and clear attention to detail, was a stark contrast to the cluttered chaos of the old man's workshop, which I guess also had its charm.
"How about we try something on?" she suggested with enthusiasm. Without waiting for my response, she led me to a section of the shop in front of a large mirror, and had me try out several dresses.
"This one would look perfect on you, especially with your black hair," she said with a knowing smile.
I looked at my reflection in the mirror. The dress, completely black in color, did look fantastic, hugging my figure in all the right places. It was sleek and elegant, with a hood that added a mysterious touch. The tailor's praise wasn't misplaced; the dress indeed looked great on me. "It’s beautiful," I admitted, smoothing the fabric over my hips.. "I love the hood, but it doesn’t do much to hide my face. If anything, it makes me stand out more."
The woman nodded, her eyes gleaming with understanding. "You need something practical for the road, yes? Something that allows for swift movement and doesn’t draw too much attention."
"Exactly," I said, with a nod. "I travel a lot, mostly on horseback. This dress, as lovely as it is, isn’t quite suitable for that."
"I see...Let's find you something that caters to your needs," she said, moving towards another rack of clothes, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
The memory of another time, another place, another world literally, surfaced. Back in the day, we loved a particular style, suits. They were the epitome of elegance and power. Those with money dressed in them, and once I had the means, my wardrobe was filled with them. Sadly, my work required quick mobility and swiftness, leaving little opportunity to wear them.
In this world, I, at times like this one, longed to don a suit like I did back then, but such attire seemed nonexistent here. But even if it did, a suit would make me stand out even more, and blending in was something crucial to me, at least for now.
The lady returned, carrying a new set of clothes. As I tried them on, I couldn't help but smile. They reminded me of the knight training outfit I’m usually wearing. I didn’t today. Today, I had opted for something less conspicuous, a simple outfit requisitioned from bandits some time ago.
The new attire was far more practical than the dress: a sturdy leather jerkin, soft linen shirt, and fitted trousers. Perfect for travel and blending in. I admired the fit in the mirror, satisfied.
"This is perfect," I said, turning to the woman. "It’s just what I need."
She smiled, clearly pleased with herself. "I'm glad. You have a keen sense of what works for you."
***
Half an hour later, I left the shop with a bag containing seven variations of the same knight training outfit, guaranteeing me one for each day of the week, and my purse 2.21? lighter. Despite carrying a bag full of clothes, I continued my stroll through the bustling streets of Wexlow. The day was wearing on, but the city's energy seemed inexhaustible.
At some point, I found myself standing on a bridge that arched gracefully over a canal winding through the heart of the city. The water below reflected the clear sky and the buildings flanking its banks. I rested my elbows on the stone railing, setting my bag down beside me. Reaching into a leaf-bag out of which I pulled out a beignet I'd bought earlier. As I took a bite, the sweet pastry's powdered sugar dusted my fingers.
As I chewed, I pondered my next plan of action.
It was decided in my mind that I would leave the city and get back on the road the day after tomorrow. Initially, I'd considered leaving tomorrow, but an additional day of rest wouldn't be all that bad. Plus, it would give me time to prepare everything I needed for my journey.
One thing came to my mind: "I should go visit them," I said, gobbling my last beignet. I had planned to visit the local temple tomorrow, but since I was already out and about, it made sense to do it today.
With a renewed sense of purpose, I picked up my bag and got back on the move, making my way toward my next destination: the local temple.
