The journey south was a crash course in the inherent weirdness of Siennus. The flora was more vibrant and occasionally carnivorous, the fauna ranged from the surprisingly docile (six-legged deer) to the actively hostile (flying squirrels with razor-sharp claws), and the general customs of the small villages we passed through were… well, let's just say my understanding of basic etiquette was constantly being challenged.
One particularly memorable incident involved a village where the traditional greeting was a synchronized series of three loud claps followed by sticking out your tongue. My initial reaction of startled silence was apparently a grave insult, resulting in a tense standoff involving a very stern-looking elder and a basket of suspiciously spiky fruit. Thankfully, Arthur's quick thinking (and surprisingly adept tongue-wagging skills) diffused the situation.
"They just appreciate enthusiasm," he'd explained afterward, a faint blush on his cheeks. "And a good, solid clap." Note to self: practice enthusiastic clapping and tongue protrusion. It might just save my life.
Luan, ever the pragmatist, mostly grumbled about the lack of decent ale outside of the major towns and the inferioor quality of the local jerky (which, to be fair, did taste vaguely of saddle leather). Francis, on the other hand, found spiritual significance in everything from the oddly shaped clouds to the surprisingly vocal insects, offering blessings and prayers at every unusual occurrence. It was a bizarre, yet somehow endearing, traveling circus.
After several days of walking, punctuated by near-misses with strange creatures and cultural faux pas, we finally arrived at a town called Dustwind, the last bastion of civilization before the vast expanse of the Whispering Desert. Dustwind lived up to its name, a dusty, windswept settlement with buildings that looked like they were perpetually battling the encroaching sands.
Arthur suggested we resupply here and gather any information about navigating the desert. It was in Dustwind that I first encountered the concept of dungeons and adventurers in a formal capacity.
We stumbled upon a bustling building with a large, intricately carved sign depicting a crossed sword and staff: the Adventurers' Guild. The common room was a chaotic mix of individuals clad in various states of armor and wielding an assortment of weapons. Some looked battle-hardened and grim, others were younger and more eager, but all of them seemed to possess a certain air of competence that I sorely lacked.
"This is where people register as adventurers and take on quests," Arthur explained, his gaze sweeping over the room. "It's a way to earn a living, gain experience, and help the community."
Luan snorted. "And occasionally get themselves killed for a few shiny coins."
Francis, ever the optimist, added, "But also to do great good and vanquish evil!"
My inner otaku perked up. Adventurers? Quests? This was straight out of a game! The thought of finally finding my niche, even if it wasn't as an overpowered mage, sparked a flicker of excitemen.
"Can… can anyone become an adventurer?" I asked, my eyes wide.
Arthur looked at me thoughtfully. "Anyone can register, yes. But the rankings reflect their skill and experience." He then proceeded to list the ranks, the hierarchy sounding both impressive and slightly intimidating:
Legend, Ascendant (SSS), Master (SS), Diamond (S), Platinum (A+), Gold (A), Silver (B+), Bronze (B), Iron (C+), Rock (with its various sub-tiers of D, E, and F for the truly… geographically inclined), Wood (for students, apparently still learning how not to impale themselves), and finally…
"And then there's Dirt Rank,"
Arthur finished, his tone carefully neutral. "It's… more of a formality. A registration that acknowledges you're not really equipped for adventuring, and the Guild isn't responsible if things go wrong. But you can still take on very basic tasks, like fetchig supplies or… well, things that don't involve danger."
Dirt Rank. Useless and unable to be an adventurer. It sounded… remarkably fitting for my current skillset.
Despite the rather unflattering description, a strange sense of determination bloomed within me. Even if I couldn't wield magic or swing a sword, maybe I could still contribute something. Fetching supplies sounded… manageable.
"Arthur," I said, a newfound resolve in my voice. "I want to register as an adventurer."
Arthur looked surprised. "Lauren, are you sure? It can be dangerous."
"I know," I said, thinking of the judgmental pig and the razor-clawed squirrels. "But I want to try. I want to… be useful."
Luan grunted approvingly. "Can't hurt to have another pair of hands, even if those hands mostly just trip over things."
Francis offered a supportive smile. "It's good to have a sense of purpose, my dear."
So, with Arthur and my surprisingly supportive (if brutally honest) companions looking on, I approached the registration desk. The Guild receptionist, a no-nonsense woman with a severe bun and eyes that seemed to have seen it all (including, presumably, countless aspiring adventurers who were in way over their heads), eyed me with a familiar blend of curiosity and skepticism.
"Name?" she barked.
"Lauren Emily Peterson," I replied, trying to sound more confident than I felt.
"Rank?"
Arthur cleared his throat. "She's… just starting out."
The receptionist's gaze sharpened. She sized me up, taking in my Earth clothes and my general air of bewildered normalcy. With a sigh that seemed to convey the weight of a thousand failed adventurers, she stamped a piece of parchment and slid it across the counter.
"Dirt Rank," she announced flatly. "Do't expect any glory. Or survival, for that matter. Here's a list of basic tasks. Don't lose it."
The list was indeed basic, featuring such thrilling opportunities as "Deliver message to Old Man Fitzwilliam (beware of his overly enthusiastic geese)" and "Collect five sacks of desert moss (avoid the stinging variety)." My adventuring career had begun with the promise of avian-related trauma and itchy foliage.
Despite the less-than-glamorous start, I felt a small sense of accomplishment. I was officially an adventurer, even if I was at the very bottom of the very bottom. Dirt Rank. I had arrived.
Our preparations for the Whispering Desert also involved a rather… eye-opening experience with local cuisine. In Dustwind, "food" seemed to be a very loose term. We ate things that were vaguely meaty and suspiciously chewy, vegetables that tasted like they'd been grown in gravel, and a bread-like substance that could probably double as a blunt weapon.
One evening, we dined at a local tavern, and Arthur, ever the gracious host, insisted I try some local delicacies.
"This is a sand-worm skewer," he said, presenting me with a long, thin skewer threaded with what looked like giant, slightly charred grubs.
My stomach did a nervous flip. "Sand-worm?"
"A local delicacy," Luan chimed in, already munching on one with gusto. "Good source of protein."
I eyed the wriggling remnants on Luan's skewer with considerable unease. "It… looks very… protein-y."
Arthur offered me one with an encouraging smile. "Just try it. You might be surprised."
Hesitantly, I took a bite. The texture was… surprisingly chewy and slightly gritty. The taste was… vaguely earthy with a hint of something I couldn't quite place, but definitely wouldn't describe as delicious.
"Well?" Arthur asked, his eyes expectant.
"It's… unique," I managed, forcing a smile. "Very… of this world."
Then there was the "sky-jelly," a shimmering, gelatinous substance that tasted vaguely of blueberries but had the disconcerting habit of jiggling independently on the plate. And the "sun-dried tubers," which were so hard I was convinced they could crack teeth.
The only thing I found remotely palatable was a fruit called a "moon melon," which had a refreshing, slightly watery taste. I clung to those moon melons like a castaway to a piece of driftwood.
"Fantasy food is… certainly an experience," I commented to Arthur one evening as I discreetly spat out a particularly stubborn piece of sun-dried tuber when he wasn't looking.
Arthur chuckled. "It takes some getting used to. But there are some truly delicious dishes in other regions. You just haven't tried them yet."
"I'll take your word for it," I said, eyeing a passing waiter carrying a tray of what looked suspiciously like fried insects.
As we finalized our preparations for the desert trek – acquiring large waterskins, wide-brimmed hats for everyone (even Luan, who grumbled about it obscuring his glorious beard), and a surprisingly detailed map from a wizened old desert trader – I couldn't help but feel a growing sense of trepidation. The Whispering Desert sounded vast, dangerous, and devoid of anything resembling a decent cheesburger.
But I also felt a strange sense of camaraderie with my newfound companions. Arthur's unwavering optimism, Luan's gruff protectiveness (hidden beneath layers of cynicism), and Francis's quiet faith created a surprisingly comforting dynamic. Even in a world where the food tried to fight back and the local wildlife had a vendetta against ankes, I wasn't entirely alone.
Dirt Rank adventurer Lauren Emily Peterson, armed with a walking stick, a half-eaten bag of Earth potato chips, and a rapidly expanding collection of bizarre cultural experiences, was heading into the desert. What could possibly go wrong? (I had a very bad feeling about that question.)