B4 Interlude 18: Strangspine, pt. 1

Bronwyn held his head high and kept his gaze fixed ahead as he walked down the streets of Deadacre at the head of their team. At his age, with more than a few years at Silver, he was long used to the looks they got out in public.

Word had gotten out that they were leaving on another expedition — this time to investigate the mysterious problem of all the local beasts vanishing.

As they headed for the eastern gate, more and more people gathered to watch them pass. It wouldn’t go so far as to call it an impromptu parade or anything of the like — more that people filtered out of shops and eateries to watch them pass. Such was the life of a local celebrity, he supposed.

It wasn’t that much of a surprise, fully suited up as they were. That, and there weren’t all that many with beast-driven carts in this part of the city. Theirs moved alongside them — a heavy thing of inscribed oak and steel with armoured, reinforced siding and wheels.

It had an awning, but the front and sides were open. With their strength, they didn’t need the extra cover; it was far better that they had an undisrupted view of their surroundings when out in the wild.

As heavy as it was, their cart couldn’t have been pulled by a mundane horse — not that those existed anymore. Theirs was pulled by an earthen dauntle, a beast of burden prized in Greenseed the lands beyond for their strength, surprising speed, and steadfast calm and intelligence.

It looked similar to an ox, albeit nearly twice the size and covered in stone-coloured shaggy hair. Four horns arced from its blocky head — two large ones pointing to the sides, as thick as Bronwyn’s calf, and two thinner, pointed ones jutting directly forward. He knew that in wild specimens, their charges could shatter stone.

It had been pure luck they’d managed to acquire one several years ago. They’d rescued a merchant whose caravan train was piloted by dauntles exclusively.

The man had been waylaid by a pack of direwolves on his way to Mystral, and once they’d saved him, he’d insisted they take a calf as payment. Caring for the damn thing had been a burden at first, but Bronwyn couldn’t deny the stoic beast had grown on him.

They weren’t riding in the carriage while they walked through the city. As the operational leads of the local guild chapter, they had a certain image to maintain.

People looked to them for security.

Hence why he did his best to look confident and steadfast as he trekked toward what would likely be one of the most dangerous jobs of his career.

Putting on a smile, he waved to the people around him. Deadacre needed their confidence — needed that little moment of comfort that seeing his team could give them.

While he didn’t long for the recognition, it was part of the job.

Hells, he’d never met a Delver who enjoyed it. Or at least, the realities of the job beat the glory-chasing out of most people quickly. It was hard to imagine. The only reason he’d signed up to the guild so many years ago was to kill monsters, make some coin, and maybe keep a few people safe while he was at it.

Only a lunatic would join the guild for fame. It was a dangerous job, after all.

His team followed his lead, plastering on wide smiles as they trudged through the city. An hour later, they were out, growing a little less stiff as they picked up their pace to pull away from the city gates. Breaking quickly from the road, their dauntle kept pace with them — its strength and size more than enough to handle dragging their specially commissioned cart over rough terrain.

After another hour, Deadacre was little more than a thin line of grey on the horizon. Bronwyn sighed in relief, enjoying the fresh wind and the soft grasses beneath his feet once they were out of the circle of dead land surrounding the city. Some might have found that patch of earth ominous, but he found it exhilarating. It was associated with the excitement of a new job, or the blooming joy of coming home victorious.

“Nice to be back in the wilds again,” Dross said, hefting his windless crossbow to rest it on his shoulder. “Always feel like a bloody cut of prime meat when we’re in the city.”

Yanira laughed deeply, the bastion carrying her steel greatshield as if it were a feather pillow. “It’s not that bad,” the giantess replied. “I think it’s kind of sweet. It’s not like they come up and harass us — they’re only trying to get a glimpse.”

Dross snorted, looking back and up at the woman. “Well, yeah, of course you’re used to it. You don’t exactly blend into a crowd.”

Yanira sniffed, looking down her nose at him. “Did your mother never tell you it’s rude to comment on a lady’s height?”

Bronwyn could only grin, shaking his head. That was his favourite bit about the wilds — without the burdens of image to maintain, he could fall back into the kind of teasing that developed between a team that had fought together for years. At this point, they were family for all intents and purposes.

“Hey, even if it’s a little uncomfortable, at least we’re all used to it. Did you see that new team? Gods, they looked like they were ready to claw out of their own skin with all the staring,” Julis chuckled, the mage using his staff as a walking stick.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

It was true, Bronwyn thought to himself. Each one of them had walked around like they’d had a steel rod rammed down their spines.

“It’s quite a lot to deal with all at once,” Bronwyn said. “Not only have they hit Silver, which is rare enough out in the Frontier, they hit it so damn fast that everyone wants to know how. It doesn’t help that everyone already knows of them, thanks to all the hubbub about their capture.”

Yanira nodded in agreement. “Plus, the poor things haven’t had any time to get used to it. By the time we were High Steel, it had been years of our involvement in the guild gradually growing. They went from nothing to top dogs in what, a year?”