It was a wet, miserable night, and Owyn was descending deeper into insobriety. In truth, it was misleading to call it a descent, as that implied both intention and control, neither of which were present. No, it would be more honest to say that Owyn plummeted into being drunk. He hadn’t exactly intended to get there, though he had admitted to himself at the first step that it was a possibility. He had taken his first drink of the night when the rain had started, his party’s Avarwards heading forcing them directly into the storm. His second drink had come a half hour after that, when the first bottle running out had coincided directly with a crack of thunder overhead. Twenty minutes after that, the third bottle had emerged in an attempt to erase the nagging sensation of his mana being drained, the pull a constant tug on his will. After that, he had lost count.

At this point, the tall, swarthy Human man was leaning heavily on his boyfriend’s shoulders, his other hand holding a bottle of Nidian liquor, some of the contents splashing on his dark goatee and down to his green, shin-length robe. The shorter man, Khyr, his face as placid as usual, dabbed at Owyn’s mouth with a cloth. Khyr was a Drow, the most reclusive of the five races of Gedrost. Their most unusual characteristic was not their dark purple skin, red eyes, tusk-like lower canines, nor even their uniformly white hair or pointed ears. No, the Drow were famous for their ability to alter those characteristics, gradually molding any part of their body to their desired form. Khyr was relatively conservative among his people, only altering his eyes, to be yellow and slitted, and hair, to a muted shade of red. As befitting his profession, he was barely armored, dressed mostly in light cloth, with leather padding over his chest, back, and forearms.

The third member of their group was a Nyanga, a tall, grey-skinned woman with bull-like horns erupting from her crown amidst a close cropped shock of pale, silvery hair. Approaching eight feet, not counting her horns, Valsthena was a warrior, through and through. Her skills and attributes hardened her skin far beyond any armor she could reasonably afford, and she wore simple hide and fur clothes, short and worn from repeated repairs. The parts of her skin that weren’t covered by cloth displayed the body of a veteran. Her corded muscles were covered in long since healed scars, streaks of white marking her experience on her otherwise smooth skin.

“Rain always makes mah neck ache,” she said, rubbing the base of her skull, “Y’all are lucky not ta ‘ave horns.”

Owyn grunted and took another sip. “I’m not drunk enough to take that bait,” he said, not quietly enough.

She purpled in embarrassment as she heard, falling silent and dropping her hands. She coughed, hurriedly changing the subject. “Eh, ah, so, Khyr! Yeh said yeh couldn’t afford to refuse this mentor of yers?”

Khyr nodded once, a quick, sharp motion just large enough to be identifiable, then paused. Straining himself to be heard over the rain, he spoke. “Got letter. Said, ‘Be discrete, come escort.’”

The warrior whipped her head around, her skin flushing the bright yellow of shock. “Escort?” She asked, horrified.

Leaning on Khyr, Owyn rolled his eyes. “Not that kind of escort. He means we’re guiding someone from one place to another. Honestly, Val.”

Val huffed and crossed her arms. “Yah could be nicer ‘bout it. Nah everyone understands ‘im as well as you do. It’d help if he weren’t so… so…”

The drunk mage raised an eyebrow. “Laconic?”

Val scowled.

Before she could open her mouth to respond, Khyr cut in, “Sorry,” he said, “Can try harder.”

Val looked away, guiltily, while Owyn simply tightened his grip on Khyr’s shoulders.

“S’not your fault,” she said, “Sorry.”

There was an awkward pause, then Khy spoke up, his hears twitching. “Hear something. This way.”

Without hesitation, Val changed tacks to where Khyr had pointed.

“What’d yeh hear?” She asked, picking up her pace.

Khyr shrugged. “Scream? Unsure. [Sense Monster] pinged.”

Val nodded seriously, swiping her hand across a small, silver box tied to her waist. As she touched the dark blue stone embedded in it, it glowed briefly and a two handed hammer appeared in her hands, nearly as tall as her Drow teammate. It had a long handle and an unadorned head, one side square and flat and the other tapering to a sharp point. She only needed one hand to hold it, resting it on her shoulder as she used the other to shield her eyes from the rain and brush aside branches.

Khyr’s preparation was simpler, occupied as he was with supporting Owyn. Of the four short swords fastened on his waist, he drew one, holding it pointed down next to his leg. His pupils widened with an activation of a skill, and his eyes began darting side to side, ready to move at the first sign of danger.

Owyn pinched the bridge of his nose and titled his head up, trying unsuccessfully to sober up.

The Drow scout reached out and grabbed Val’s arm, pulling her to a stop. His eyes fixed on something in the distance, he whispered softly to her. “Lightning monster. Second evolution, maybe? One visible.”

Val nodded, and whispered back. “Between level twenty-five and fifty then? No problem for us. Owyn, got any spell- nevermind.”

The mage groaned softly. “I hate mana storms SO much.” He let go of Khyr and took a stumbling step towards a tree, resting his weight against it. “I’ll be right behind you.”

As soon as he was unburdened, Khyr blurred, dashing forwards. In barely a second, he was out of Val’s sight, barely even leaving a footprint in the mud as he weaved between trees. She grumbled but hurried after him, her long, heavy strides ill-suited to moving quickly or nimbly in the dark.

She arrived just in time to see Khyr facing off with the monster, a yellow qiqirn, swaying gently back and forth. His first sword outstretched in front of him, his other hand was clenched at his waist, wrapped around the handle of his other sword. The yellow magicite gem embedded in the sword was glowing softly, primed to activate by a current of non-attributed mana from the Drow.

Val stopped short of the two, leaning forward onto the balls of her feet, ready to step in and strike.

Khyr stopped her with a half whispered “Quiet.” He continued his movements, body tensed and prepared for…

Without warning, a bolt of purple lightning flew from the qiqirn’s mouth, followed by the monster pushing forwards with its back legs. Khyr reacted instantly, tossing his sword off to the side and dashing forwards, ducking and pulling his second sword out. The lightning shot over him, curved up and to the side by the gem in the weapon, giving Khyr a clear shot at the dog-like creature.

As the lightning curved to follow his thrown weapon, Khyr struck upwards, his blade slicing through the monster’s neck and neatly severing it. The Drow ended his dash with a barely noticeable stumble, quickly catching himself and shaking the yellow bits of magicite off his sword. He sheathed it with a small, satisfied smirk, looking around for its discarded twin.

“Khyr,” his companion said, her voice hushed, “Khyr, there’s someone there!” He looked over at Val, his brow ever so slightly furrowed to indicate confusion.

She whispered again. “By yer feet!”

Only then, after looking down and seeing the mud covered thing on the ground, did he hear the sound of chuckling, interspersed with fits of coughing. Barely audible in the rain and lightning, it had been completely drowned out by the blood pumping in his ears and the late qiqirn’s attacks. He leapt backwards in shock, staring at the shape.

As Val rushed forward, he caught her arm, holding her back. “Wait,” he said softly, “Could be monster. Entrapment.”

She shook his hand off. “If that’s a monster pretending to be a person then we’ll fight it. If it’s a person, they’re dying.” She marched over, bending down to where she estimated the figure’s arms were, then hoisting, pulling him up to his feet.

The figure revealed was clearly a Human, their stature too tall to be a Nidian and far too short to be a Nyanga. The hints of pale skin visible through the mud ruled out being a Drow, and their lack of fur was a clear indication that they weren’t a Beast Folk. The fact that the Spring Belt was almost entirely Human dominated was also a fairly large clue. Gently, Val brushed the mud off the figure, revealing a teenager with frighteningly pale skin.

“Feh,” Owyn spat into the mud, having caught up to them. “Must be some rich kid with those clothes. Probably had a temper tantrum and ran away from home.” He sneered at Val’s careful efforts to wipe the mud off the boy’s eyes, her large fingers making the task difficult. “I say we leave him.”

There was a pause as both his teammates turned to look at him. After a moment, Val spoke. “You get kind of nasty when you’re drunk, Owyn.”

He sputtered. “I- I do not! Shut up! Khyr! Tell her she’s wrong!”

His boyfriend frowned. “No. Get mean. Should stop drinking.”

There was a thump, as Val absentmindedly dropped the boy and he fell back into the mud, unable to support himself.

As Owyn watched from the side, Val and Khyr stood over the kid. “Oops.” She winced. “Is he awake? His eyelids are twitching.”

Khyr shrugged. “Was laughing? Sleep laugh?”

Owyn grumbled at them. “Can’t happen. If you wanna save the brat, just go do it. I’m wet and cold.”

Val scowled at him, then turned to the kid on the ground. “Fine, Mr. Grumpy, I’ll just- Woah!” She jumped backwards as a glob of solid darkness shot upwards, just barely clipping her one of her horns.

She looked down at the boy, a contented smile on his face, then back at Owyn, frozen in place, halfway through leaping to her defense. She saw the panicked expression on his face and started chuckling.

The mage’s ears turned red and he turned away, retracting his outstretched arm and coughing. “Just… get on with it,” He said, as Khyr and Val shared a look behind his back.

Longshot Gil, in terms of levels, was barely a Ranker at all. Out of… perhaps 100,000 people over level 100 in the continent, he would be somewhere near the bottom. It was, in a way, a limitation of the System, not that he would ever say that out loud. He had chosen to pursue the path of an archer through the System, so he leveled when he improved on that. When he had picked up healing magic in his thirties, he hadn’t gained experience for that. When he spent a few years as a traveling chef, he hadn’t leveled once. When he had worked as an assassin, as a teacher, as a rogue, as a thief, his level had remained stagnant.

Gil sat in his empty guild hall, long after the bar crowd had emptied out, and brooded. No, he thought, I’m not brooding. I’m ruminating. He imagined himself explaining the difference to a room full of people, all the faces those of his pupils throughout the years.

He placed his hand on a table. “Now Chief,” he said, addressing the empty room, “Can you define ‘ruminate’ for me?”

His imaginary Sam replied, and he chuckled. “No, it has nothing to do with cows,” he said, “But good try. It means ‘to think deeply.’”

He turned towards another table. “Now, Khyr,” he said, facing an imaginary Drow, “How about brood?” He paused. “Take your time, we’re all friends here.”

He waited, imagining the taciturn Drow steadily and slowly forcing the words out, then shook his head. “I’ve got to say, Khyr,” he remarked, “You’ve made pretty incredible progress on that speech issue of yours. I remember when we first met, you could barely get a word out! And yes, you’re exactly right! It means almost the exact same thing! Can anyone tell me what makes them different?”

He looked around the room, then casually made a throwing motion, an imaginary piece of chalk flying from his palm and hitting one of his students. “Elthoc!” He chided, “Wake up!”

He imagined the Nidian girl, no, that’s right, woman, now, sitting up and apologetically nodding at him. Of course, she would stick out her tongue when she thought he couldn’t see, but that was just what she was like. “The difference,” he continued on, pacing past rows and rows of kids, teenagers, and young adults, “Is in connotation. If I’m brooding then I’m unhappy. If I’m ruminating, well, then I’m just thinking. Last question for the day; why is this distinction important for adventurers?”

He let out a small laugh as he imagined his students glancing at each other in confusion. The vast majority either never had or never would meet, of course. Some had died, some had retired, and even among those still adventuring, there was a wide disparity. Elthoc, for example, had spent the eighty years since he had taught her rising up and up, becoming one of the hundred highest leveled people on the continent, along with her team. On the other hand, Khyr, who he had taught a mere six years ago, was barely out of his swaddling clothes, not even level 80 yet.

“The reason,” he finished, “is because being an adventurer is about subtlety.” He clasped his hands behind his back, taking a pose like that of a traditional lecturer. “Not everyone chooses to raise their level through risking their life. Many are content to toil away, leveling through persistence and gradual effort, but not you. You risk your lives every day for those bursts of levels. For the riches of magicite and artifacts. For the glory of victory and the pure exhilaration of combat! You, who walk on the precipice of- Yes, Chief, what is it?”

He glared at the teenager, then rolled his eyes at the imagined question. “Yes, yes,” he said, “You’ve somehow got this idea that you’re not going to be an adventurer. Face it, Chief, anyone who obsessed over adventuring as much as you do is gonna end up as one. No more questions!” He shook his head, trying to recapture his train of thought that he had interrupted.

“The point is,” the old man started again, “That even the smallest distinctions could mean life or death. Is that monster a Paralysis type, or a Control type? They might seem similar, but your approaches will be completely different. Is that guy in robes with a stick a martial artist, or a caster? If you can figure that out early, you’re better prepared for his first attack. It’s all about the little details, and you’ve gotta understand the difference.”

He looked over the room, filled to the brim with figments and faces, then let his imagination die down. One by one, his pupils vanished, the room emptying out until it was just a tired old man, covered in the scars of age and experience. He sighed, a deep, weary sound.

“Icharsus’s nuts,” he said, “I’m gettin’ old.”

His brooding was interrupted by the door to the guild hall slamming open, a large, booted foot nearly knocking it off its hinges. Barely a second later, a woman yelled into the hall, “Guild Medic! Someone ge’ me the Guild Medic!”

Immediately, Gil hunched over and tilted his face, emphasizing his eyepatch and making him look much more withered than he was. “Yer’ speakin’ ta’ him,” he said, faking a heavier accent, “What be ailin’ ya’?” He cast a careful eye over his guests. The speaker was a tall Nyanga woman, the callouses on her hands and her armor type making her seem like a frontline warrior, wielding some kind of two handed weapon. There was a Human man by her side, tall and dark with a thick black goatee, dressed in a green robe. Gil smelled the fumes roiling off him and turned away, sneering to himself. No adventurer worth their salt drinks on the job. The third person, following nervously behind them, was Khyr, his old student. Gil slowly blinked his eye at the Drow and was met with a short, uncertain nod.

The warrior woman gently placed a body on a table, pulling a blanket off. “We found this kid in the forest, hunted by eh lightnin’ qiqirn. When we found ‘im, he was nearly unconscious.”

Gil’s eye widened as he saw Sam’s face, his heartbeat skyrocketing until he heard the faint breathing. In his relief, he couldn’t stop himself from muttering. “Now what was the Chief doing out there in a mana storm?”

“You say something?” The drunkard asked him.

“No,” Gil replied, his voice terse. “Git yer drunk arse away from my patient.” He tapped Sam’s chest, then his bicep, paying close attention to how the boy’s skin and muscles reacted to the touch. “So,” he said, “Why’d ya’ take him here?”

The Nyanga rubbed one of her horns awkwardly. “Well, from the clothes ‘e’s wearing, ye know, ‘e seems like he’s froma rich family-”

Gil suppressed a snort. Shoulda known Chief would immediately ruin his one nice set of clothes.

“-so we figured it would be best to get him healed up before returning him. Just to be safe.” The woman grabbed a handful of metal disks out of her bag, dropping them on the table next to the boy. “I’ll take care of payment.”

Maintaining his persona, Gil took a second to look over the coins, as if he were counting the amount. Internally, he considered the party before him. Are they paying me because they think they’ll make it up later? Or because they want to make sure he gets healed?

“Bah,” Gil croaked, “He’ll be fine with a wee bit of heals. Just a mite of chills and snifflin’.”

With a deep breath, he laid his hand on Sam’s forehead, channeling as much healing energy as he was capable of, equivalent to about a tier 2 spell.

You have cast Minor Restoration! You have gained experience in the Medium Healing Magic dynamic skill!

“He’ll be fine soon. Might have a bit of a residual cold,” Gil said, finally dropping his accent.

The Nyanga woman sighed in relief. “Thank yah, really. Oh, Ah should introduce myself. My name is Valsthena. Mah mage friend here is Owyn. He’s more bark than bite. And that quiet one o’er there is Khyr, who-”

“We’ve met, yes,” Gil grinned wryly, beginning to straighten up.

Val paused, looking between the two. “What’d yeh say your name was, again?”

“Giltoris,” he said, his grin growing wider and more mischievous as he watched the woman’s eyes widen, “They call me Longshot Gil.” At that, he finished adjusting his posture, tilting his chin up and striking a pose as if he were holding a bow.

Val and Owyn gasped, babbling over each other.

“Ah grew up on yer stor-”

“It’s really an honor-”

“-never told us ‘e was mentored by-”

“-a living legend!”

“Kids, kids!” Gil raised his hands, quieting them both down almost instantly. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk while we wait for the Chief to wake up. Let me just say, I’m very grateful that the three of you came to accept my request.” He walked over to his erstwhile pupil, who had yet to say a word since he had entered the building. “Khyr,” he said, placing his hand on the swordsman’s shoulder, “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

The man took a deep breath, then spoke, each word carefully enunciated so as to avoid stuttering or biting his tongue. “It is. Good to see you. Again. Teacher.”

The old adventurer beamed, and pulled his student into a hug.