Misadventures Incorporated

We were celestials.

All of us.

Every single one of the 673 adults that lived in the mountains was only a step away from godhood.

But we could do nothing.

There was no warning.

He simply ripped right through the village.

Every house he passed was filled with the stench of death.

Every family he met was slain, consumed in his jaws.

It didn't matter if we were young, old, male, or female.

He simply ate us all.

___

Claire decided to wander the city after bidding farewell to her father. Donning a rogueish disguise, she lazily eyed the many shops she passed and scrutinized the wares on display. She imagined the gemstones, the togas, and the daggers on the fox, but nothing seemed to click. The ornaments were too flashy, the clothing was too silly, and the daggers would never see any use.

"What am I even doing? This is a waste of time," she grumbled under her breath as she stared at a bag of dog treats. "She's going to like whatever I get her." It was probably true. Sylvia was liable to jump for joy so long as the gift was anything but a blatant gag. "I should've just asked Father," she whispered. "He'd probably have a few decent ideas."

She frowned as the words left her mouth. It was difficult to say if they felt right or wrong after the hour they'd spent poking at each other's faults.

Breathing a sigh, Claire shook her head and tore her eyes from the wares that lined the windows. It was probably time for a bit of a break.

She focused her divinity into her ears and scanned her surroundings. Thousands of different establishments dotted the city, with thirty just on the street she happened to be crossing. After a bit of debate, she settled on one of the taverns on the corner. Though not quite upscale, it was on the better side of average. The building's overall shape was like that of a barn, but the wood was polished and freshly painted, and its windows were made of clear glass.

The interior radiated a warm light, bright enough for it to leak out into the street. But most important was its patronage. It was neither overly crowded nor desolate enough to suggest poor food and service.

Her senses picked up a few traces of magic as she passed through the entrance. Fortunately, she'd turned her ultimate off before it shattered the barrier.

"You can sit anywhere that's open!" One of the servers shouted as soon as she passed through the door.

Claire nodded, but said nothing. There were still a few open tables, but after a moment of consideration, the snoose wandered over to the bar and seated herself in a corner.

"Hey." The server, a cat-sith with an eye patch, greeted her with a casual wave. "Haven't seen you here before. First time?"

She nodded.

"All our shit's pretty much standard." He pointed a paw at the wall behind him. "Drink menu's behind me. For food, we've got all the classics, but not much else. Shout when you made up your mind and I'll get to you whenever I'm free."

"Okay," she said.

"Oh, and if you're here for work, it's on the board by the door."

"Work?" asked Claire, with a tilt of the head.

"I'm guessing you didn't see the sign." Another one of the guests, a heavily armoured cottontail, hunkered down in the seat beside hers. "This is one of the Blackshield Battalion's shops."

"Oh."

The Blackshield Battalion was one of Cadria's more famous mercenary bands. Like the Wings of Victory, the Shadowfangs, and the Hoppity Bastards, they were organised groups that often took on contracts from the people and government alike. Even among the renowned groups, the Blackshields were considered to be especially prestigious—they only allowed fighters over level five hundred to join them.

Though few groups were quite as stringent as the battalion—the government did nothing to regulate their behaviour—the bands were typically well received. They did far better work than unaffiliated adventurers and often went out of their way to ensure that all of their customers' reasonable demands were met. The only catch was their higher price tag.

"Really? All we get is an 'oh?'" The cottontail took off his helmet, revealing a moustached face adorned by a toothy grin. "Normally, we get a bit more of a reaction."

"Normally, people read the sign," added the barkeep.

"You shut the hell up. Stop trying to drive all the newcomers away." A lady on the other side of the bar chucked a bottle at the bartender, but he caught it and gently set it back down.

"Yeah, don't mind him. He's just grumpy," said the cottontail. "Anyone that can make it through the barrier is welcome. Only hard rule is not to bother people about who they are outside."

"What's it do?" asked Claire.

"It locks out anyone that isn't over five hundred, a part of the battalion, or on business."

"I see." Upon looking around and scrutinizing the crowd more closely, Claire found that it was indeed rather high level. Men from the castle—members of the royal guard included—were gathered in droves. Some ate and drank with their superiors, while others hung out with gladiators and high-level adventurers. There were even a few famous faces in the crowd. The lady that'd thrown the bottle, she recognized as Gladora the Bloodbreaker. She sat across from Tiberius, the champion of the Valencian colosseum, and Trambjorn, Allegra's most successful and well-known student.

Still, no one was making a scene. They were simply kicking back, relaxing, and complaining loudly enough for most everyone to hear them in spite of the foreign presence.

The bartender was the most obvious call-out, but there was a giant in a far corner drinking with a rat-man and a goblin. Their party had a fourth member, a strange creature with two upside-down heads growing between its six legs, but it was passed out on the floor with both faces leaking vomit.

"Do these places function like they do in the bards' tales?" asked Claire.

"More or less," said the cottontail. "You can find anything here besides whores and narcotics. You're welcome to bring both, if you don't mind starting a fight with everyone in management."

"Can I start a fight without breaking any rules?"

"I like your spirit." The man laughed. "I'm Throgg, Throgg the Backsplitter."

"That's not a nom de guerre, by the way," added Gladora. "They call him that because he likes busting the backs off the little rabbit boys he drills."

"Phrasing, Gladora. Phrasing," said the man, with a groan. "I'm a Cottontail Apocalypse Starseer. I happen to be the owner and manager around here, and as Gladora has so kindly mentioned, I happen to run a boarding school for cottontail boys, where I'm typically known for being a relatively strict instructor."

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"And I'm Gladora the Bloodbreaker," said the bovine. "Everyone's favourite gladiator to watch and the strongest full-time athlete in Cadria."

"She's making that last part up. She's only won about two-thirds of her matches."

"I gotta go easy. The audience'll get bored if I never lose," she said. "I mean, you saw how I was fighting today, right? No way any of those arena bastards would ever best me in a fair fight."

"Fuck you, Gladora! I'll kick your ass!" shouted Tiberius, from the other side of the restaurant.

Throgg, in the meantime, turned back to Claire and extended a hand. "It's nice to meet you."

The lyrkress paused for a second before accepting his shake. "Likewise. I'm Celestia Greenwood, High Elf Runeblood."

"Runeblood, huh? Bet that makes you a solid caster," said Gladora.

"Better than you could ever imagine," said Claire.

"Wait." The bartender frowned. "I call bullshit. What the hell do you mean, you're an elf? Elves don't have giant tails."

"Yes we do."

"Yeah, no. That's bullshit and you know it." Sitting up on the counter, the cat-sith groomed his face with the back of his paw.

"I'm a halfbreed. My mother was a lamia."

"Oh, you're one of those," said the cat-sith. "Unlucky that you got stuck with traits from both."

"The kid I've been training lately is the same way," said Gladora. "Oh yeah, since this is your first time here, I'd recommend asking for a haymaker if you're not craving anything specific. It's the one thing on the menu that's got actual flavour."

A haymaker was a common Cadrian sandwich that'd gained popularity a few dozen years back. Hay-based bread was generally known for being atrocious for anyone not centaurian thanks to its grainy texture and its all-too-strong taste, but soaking an old loaf in honeyed milk and baking it in an oven turned it into a fluffy dessert. Haymakers combined two slices with a breakfast sausage, a couple eggs, and a copious amount of butter.

"Okay." Claire looked at the bartender. "I'll have that."

"That'll be three daggers," he said.

Nodding, Claire warped the exact payment out of the castle's treasury and placed it on the counter. She could have flashed her medallion instead, but in the end, it didn't make much of a difference. The money was coming from the same place.

"Good choice," said Gladora. "How well do you hold your liquor?"

"Well enough."

"Alrighty then." The cow-centaur smiled. "Telly, grab her a liquid arson on me."

"It's Telemachus," grumbled the cat-sith.

"Is it really?" Throgg scratched his head. "I could've sworn it was Anya."

"Anya was my mother..." The cat-sith sighed. "How do you not know my name? I've been working here for nearly sixty years."

"Sorry. It's easy for me to forget people with only a few ascensions," he said, with a grin. "Anyway, Celestia, it was good to meet you. Feel free to grab me anytime if you have issues, or if you feel like you want to join the battalion."

Lightly waving, the armoured man got up from his seat and walked over to another table. It only took Gladora a second to walk over from the other side of the bar and take his place. Smiling, she propped up her face with her elbow on the counter.

"So? What's your story?" she asked. "This isn't exactly the kind of place that you'd just wander in at random."

"I was looking for a gift for a friend," said Claire. "But nothing was catching my eye, so I wandered in at random and sat down."

"Weird. Most people need more than just that to end up here." Gladora laughed. "So? What kind of friend? A boyfriend? A casual friend? A close friend?"

"An ordinary friend," said Claire.

"Doubt it's just that if you're making a fuss about it," said Gladora.

Claire paused for a moment. "My best friend."

"What's she like?" asked the pitfighter.

"Silly and loud."

"Those types will usually tell you what they want if you ask them."

"It'd be better if I kept it a surprise."

"Better for you, or better for her? If I know one thing about the rowdy type, it's that a lot of them like to get involved. I dunno how your friend is, exactly, but she might just like it better if you ask her directly."

Claire paused. "That's a surprisingly good point."

"Surprisingly?" Gladora raised a brow.

"Considering the way you fight, I didn't think you'd be quite so empathetic."

"So you were watching?" A grin spread its way across the cow-centaur's lips.

"Only when you fought Durham. Oh, and the fox."

"Really?" Gladora groaned. "Only the rounds I got my ass kicked?"

"Those were the only times you tried."

"I tried against the elf too," she said. "Man's an idiot, but he's tough as nails." Gladora glanced towards the door, which swung open right then. "Speak of the devil, there he is right now." She stood up from her seat and flagged him down with a wave. "Hey! Silverthorn! Over here!"

The elf made a bit of a face, but crossed the tavern and took the seat beside her regardless. He no longer wore the almost barbaric, topless outfit that he had for the duels, but an ordinary tunic beneath a ragged cloak. His oversized swords were gone as well, replaced by the tiny dagger he'd strapped to his belt.

"What?" he asked.

"Just thought I'd say hi," said Gladora. "You holding up okay? You were getting beat pretty damn hard."

"You make it sound like I don't heal it off the moment I get back up." The elf cracked his shoulders before pointing a thumb at Claire. "Who's thi—" He froze the moment his eyes started to glow. He would have opened his eyes wide and slackened his jaw had Claire not rearranged his face with her vectors.

"Celestia Greenwood, High Elf Runeblood," she said.

"Right." He took a seat before continuing with a strangled voice and a half-forced smile. "Leutgar Silverthorn. High Elf Mirage."

"What's got you so strung up?" asked Gladora.

"Nothing," said the elf, who immediately flagged down the bartender. "Hey boss, get me the same thing I had yesterday."

"What was that again? A gorger steak with six northern winds?" asked the cat-sith. "Want the drinks all at once in a big ass pitcher?"

"I'd rather you staggered them," said the elf.

"You inhaled them so quickly the ice didn't even have a chance to melt." Grumbling, the cat plopped Claire's drink in front of her. "Here's your liquid arson."

It was a dubious, colourful potion with an awfully wrinkly pepper sitting in it like a drunken cherry. The liquids within almost didn't seem to mix. Thick, yellow and pink ropes sat in the otherwise red drink, swirling to and fro without any hint of settling.

Claire spent a second curiously observing the liquid, watching as it went in circles, before shifting her mask and lifting it to her lips.

The flavour was surprisingly mellow, almost like an alcoholic fruit punch with a few hints of coconut. It wasn't until it went down her throat that she felt a faint heat, but it was barely present. It was more like a hint of spice than what the glowing orange pepper had otherwise suggested. If anything, the alcohol provided more of a burn. Still, the drink was quite well made overall. She immediately took another light sip, just to enjoy it while it was still ice-cold.

"Based on that reaction, I'd say you've probably got some decent fire resistance," said Gladora.

Claire tilted her head as she pulled her mask back down.

"That stuff usually burns the shit out of whoever's drinking it, but it doesn't work if you've got resistance," said the bovine, with a bit of a chuckle. "It's something of a right of passage around here." She pointed at the elf. "You should've seen him. He nearly vomited out his lungs."

"Yeah, that wasn't what I'd call fun," grumbled the elf. "With the way it sticks to your goddamn throat, you'd think the stuff was napalm."

"It was delicious," said Claire.

"You can ask for it pretty much whenever." The bartender retrieved her glass and propped her food down in front of her. "I can make other drinks with the added spice if you'd like as well. They're what adds that savoury flavour."

"Give me another." The lyrkress teleported three daggers onto the counter as she eyed her midnight snack. The sandwich was much larger than she'd expected. The bread was so ridiculously thick that it didn't look like it'd fit into her mouth, a problem only exacerbated by the six vertically stacked sausage patties. Perhaps if she were Sylvia, she might have been able to inhale it. Alas, she could only blink as the server set a fork, a knife, and a syrup pitcher down beside the plate.

She was half expecting it to be another prank item, but cutting into the dish, she found that it was surprisingly delicious. The meat was more savoury than it looked, and the bread had a rich flavour that screamed of bone marrow and black garlic butter.

"Good right?" asked Gladora. "I doubt even the castle can make haymakers as good as the ones served here."

"It's delicious," said Claire.

The bovine beamed. "It's been this damned good since I was a kid. It's the first thing I bought with my winnings in the ring."

Nodding, Claire cut off another small piece and immediately returned to her meal. She made sure to mentally mark the tavern's location as she did. With good food and drink, and interesting clientele, she was beginning to think it might just be worth another visit.