“You don’t look so good,” says Basil, glancing at Fresh who is sitting on the staircase, leaning sideways against the wall. “You really are a rather sickly person..” Basil thinks for a moment. “Should I go pick up some medicine?”

“Ah! I’m fine! I just didn’t sleep well,” says Fresh, sitting up for a moment only to slump back against the wall a second later. “Thank you.”

“Again?” asks the priestess, looking a little worried.

“Told you,” chimes Jubilee’s voice from the other side of the store. “She’s afraid of the dark.”

Fresh crosses her arms. “I am not!”

Basil laughs. “It’s okay, I used to be afraid of the dark too, you know?”

“I’m not afraid of the dark, though!” argues Fresh. She looks over to Jubilee who is restocking the shelves during their midday lull in customers. She hadn’t been able to explain her dream to them. Not in any coherent sense at least. Jubilee had apparently chalked it up to her having had night terrors and scolded her for making a ruckus while they were trying to sleep. But Fresh knows better. It wasn’t just a bad dream. It was a warning from the black-fountain, a prophecy.

The powers that be are shifting in the world. The stage is being set and great events are slowly coming into play. Events and happenings far, far greater than the little pinprick of the world that they are, that she is. The rising tide is coming and it will flood the world and wash them all away. Like the surge from a broken dam, rushing over an ant-hill.

Fresh’s head nods down forward, her eyes closing sleepily, as her tired thoughts meander into such dramatic imagery. Her body rests in the midday sunlight which is shining through the windows. The bright, early summer sunlight floats inside of the house, lazily drifting through the thin glass. The air is warm, yet still carries the lightness of the spring with it.

A hand touches her forehead. “You’re ice cold!” says Basil, surprised. Fresh opens her eyes, looking up at the priestess who stands there with the look of a worried mother hen. “Are you sure I shouldn’t go get some medicine? Are you coming down with something?” she asks.

“No fraternizing during work hours!” barks Jubilee at them. “You! Get back behind the counter!” Basil yelps and retreats a few steps back to her spot. “And you! If you’re not going to work, then go upstairs and go to bed!” Fresh raises her head to look at Jubilee who is standing there with their hands on their hips. “It’s bad for business if people see your ugly corpse laying on the stairs, first thing when they walk in!”

A pair of heavy boots crashes into the store, as if summoned by Jubilee’s words. All three of them look up at the towering man in the dark-cobalt armor, who is walking into the store, faster than usual. His pace is just as heavy and thunderous as his gigantic presence.

He looks around the shop and grabs two more greatswords from the shelves, walking over to the counter and placing them both down, as if they weighed nothing, without saying a single word. Basil yelps and jumps back a step, as the counter shakes from the weight of the two, large weapons.

“What happened to your sword?” asks Fresh, looking up at him from the stairs curiously and a little sadly, seeing that his weapon is gone.

The back of his metal helmet scrapes against his armor as he turns his head a few inches to face her in a quick, sharp movement, the single eye facing her is wide and possessed, shining out from the shadows of his obscured face with an ominous spark. “I killed monsters.”

“Oh..” she scratches her cheek. “I could have just repaired it for you again?”

“Impossible,” is all that he states as he slaps a single gold Obol down in front of a terrified Basil.

“Why?” asks Fresh, as he picks up both swords and leaves, not even taking his change.

“I killed monsters,” repeats the man from the sect, as he stomps back towards the dungeon, a greatsword held in both of his hands.

Basil lets out a deep breath, finally releasing the air in her lungs, her tense shoulders falling slack as the man exits the store.

“What a hero,” says Jubilee, watching the giant vanish into the dungeon.

“Don’t say that!” cries Basil abruptly, with surprising energy to her voice, her body leaning forward over the counter. “Don’t sully that title!” protests the priestess, her hands pressing down against the wood.

“Basil..?” asks Fresh, surprised at seeing the priestess’ outburst.

Jubilee turns around and tilts their head, apparently just as surprised at Basil as Fresh is. “That man there? He’s more respectable than any of those fuck-offs,” replies Jubilee, waving the priestess off, who gasps in shock at the statement.

“That’s beyond crass!” argues Basil. Fresh is surprised that the priestess, who is usually terrified of Jubilee, isn’t backing down now in the least.

“Zealot,” states Jubilee dryly.

“I am not a zealot! But there are lines!”

“Not in this shop there aren’t.” Jubilee points over their shoulder with their thumb. “There’s the door if you want out.” Basil fidgets, but then lowers her gaze.

Jubilee doesn’t say anything else, dropping the issue and then turning around to adjust the glass-chickens. Fresh scratches her cheek, her gaze wandering back and forth from one of them to the other as she tries to read the room, but fails to do so entirely. “Should I go to town and buy us some lunch?” asks Fresh, hoping to defuse the situation.

“I’m not hungry, thank you,” says Basil, crossing her arms.

“Pass,” says Jubilee.

Fresh sighs and gets up to go upstairs instead then. She isn’t going to be able to sleep now, even if she wants to. But there are other things to do. “Basil, please start buying green mushroom-caps whenever they come in, okay?”

Basil looks up towards her and nods. “Okay.”

Closing and locking the door behind herself, she sets to work, wanting to make a large batch of stamina-potions for the store, as well as a series of small, non-adventury tools. Locking herself in the pantry, she looks at her new storage boxes with some small pride and makes a mental note to finish the walls in this room next time, when she gets the chance. But today she just wants to make new wares for the shop.

The stamina-potions are quick to make as she still has a decent amount of the green cap left. Since she is making a mixture of normal and high-quality potions, she is getting more out of each cap than before. Apparently, having a higher crafting skill not only makes the items themselves better, but also makes the crafting process itself more efficient. Fresh thinks, trying to remember back. Before, she was getting about two to three minor soul-potions from a blue cap. Now, with some luck, if they all turned out with a good quality, she could make four from a single cap. The normal soul-potions cost more to make than the minor ones and so averaged in at about one potion less per cap.

The same applies to her antidotes now, which she is really happy about, as they were her first big idea.

The craftsman’s hammers are the easiest thing to make. Half of an iron-bar and some solid wood is enough for one. Taking some of their glue, she mixes it in with a few drops of an antidote for color, making a bright, tannish colored tincture that she dips the handles into, giving the porous wood a sleek, hard feeling as if it were coated in a dried resin. Then, she places the hammerhead onto the wet thing, setting it down onto the floor to use her ability.

The girl smiles, looking at the little hammer. She had made one like this the other day, but the tincture coating the handle, that is now dried, gives the material a sleek, sheen look and while she isn’t quite sure just yet, she feels like it will make the wood more durable as well as more exciting to look at.

Using the other half of the iron-bar, she splits it into a further half and then flattens both pieces with her abilities, setting them on top of each other and holding her hands above the two small sheets of pressed metal.

Fresh looks at the pair of scissors in her hands, feeling a great pride at seeing her own newest creation.

“Making things really is satisfying,” she beams to herself, closing the scissors and listening to the satisfyingly sharp snapping sound they make. Smiling, she opens and closes them a few more times, just for emphasis. Fresh spends the next few hours making as many of those three different items as she can manage.

“I need to work more,” mumbles the girl to herself, blinking with her tired eyes. Something is coming, maybe not today. Maybe not this week or even this month. But somewhere, somewhere in the world or in the cosmic planes beyond it, great gears are turning.

She sets the next pair of scissors down, straining herself greatly to pull over another iron-bar. She has to prepare. They needed to be prepared. Power. Power is what keeps people safe in this world, right? She thinks of the man from the sect, untouched by the church simply due to his own individual power.

Fresh sets the scissors down onto the pile, the clanking metal reminding her of the sound of coins. The merchant’s guild has power, not through sheer brute strength, but through money. Through influence. Through connections.

She swirls the potion around in her hands, looking at the matte glass. The only reason this venture has been possible is because of her friend. There is a power in that too, having friends. Fresh sets the bottle down to the side, continuing her work as she thinks. She needs to get ready for whatever is on the distant horizon. She needs to become stronger and more capable. But she just isn’t quite sure how to, just yet.

The girl purses her lips, reaching out to grab another piece of glass.

She’s not going to let this life slip out of her hands. No matter what it takes. No matter what she has to do. Fresh promises herself that.

Razmatazz

Thank you kindly for reading!

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