A Talking Sword

Chapter 4 - "Warm Welcomes"

Now, a huge jump in time must occur for this tale to remain exciting. I wish I could tell you that we encountered skeletons, or mogs, or—at the very least—wuzzards on our way to Rhone. The unfortunate truth is that, barring mind-numbing dialogues with Circa, nothing entertaining occurred for approximately two days, give or take the difference between two days and the time it took us to reach Rhone from our previous camp site.

What I'm trying to say is, nothing remotely important happened until we reached Rhone, which is a sign of safe roads and prospering kingdoms, but a straw on the camel's back of this narrative, as it were.

One interesting thing that I did notice was the change between roads when we stepped off of the main road (to Manshelm) onto the Main Road. The Main Road was twice as wide, so it could fit four wagons traveling side by side instead of, you guessed it, two. And instead of a curb of dirt, the edges of the road were made of stone (the rest of the pavement was still packed dirt, but it was nicer dirt).

Now that no reader could possibly protest jumping forward a couple days in time, let me tell you about Rhone.

Rhone is much larger than Manshelm. It sits on a hill and has a river running a mile north of its northernmost walls. The walls are about the height of three men combined, with walkways and intervaled towers. The city benefits from a successful lumber industry, but it has never grown much. It survives simply off of the surrounding farmland and maintains a healthy population. It's worthwhile to note that the city is rarely threatened by monsters, but it is a greater target than Manshelm.

The most disorienting part of traveling to a new city is the change in guardsmen. I was plenty used to waving to Brayer's post back in Manshelm and calling out a quick salutations. In Rhone, the guard's shack responded.

"You bunch look to be new here. Any chance I can get your names and intent of visiting Rhone?"

I turned to see a short man of at least 50 years wearing a brown helmet lopsidedly. He wore a white tunic and a leather jacket with a wooden badge shaped like an oak leaf pinned on the breast. He stepped further into view of the window in the tiny booth. Already he had put in more effort than Brayer had in all the years I lived in Manshelm.

"Yes, hello. My name is Aranth," I said. "These are my friends, Haut, Circa, and Ulith."

The guard peered suspiciously at each of us. "Circa?" He finally asked. "What kind of a name is that?"

To my surprise, Circa blushed. "It's elvish," she said defensively. "It means eternal."

The guard nodded skeptically. "And tell me this: what does a band of your unique makeup have to do with this glorious city?"

"We're heroes. Adventurers," I answered quickly. "Protectors." I was going to add something along the lines of "And we're productive members of society, just like you!" but that one felt like a lie.

The guard laughed. "Rhone doesn't need protectors! We already got enough heroes."

"I'm sure our group has some worth to Rhone," I replied quickly.

He scoffed. "We already got Dugan and Ammeress. And Grety." He frowned. "I don't like that last one too much, though, to tell you the truth. He sort of smells."

"Good sir," Ulith said stepping forward, "if I may ask—do the leaders of Rhone really place the responsibility upon you to decide whether a band of heroes would be good for a city or not?"

"Actually, yes!" The guard said, taken aback. "I remember every man, woman, and child to have walked through these gates in the past 21 years. I know who's good for Rhone and who isn't!"