Brock wandered through the streets, his thoughts swirling with frustration and uncertainty. The weight of his investigation pressed down on him, the lack of progress gnawing at his resolve. As he passed the opulent facade of the "Golden Crown" tavern, a thought flickered through his mind.
Why not? he reasoned. A little indulgence wouldn't hurt. And it's on the guild's tab, after all. He'd been working hard, and the investigation had dragged on long enough. A moment of respite, a taste of luxury, might just be what he needed to clear his head.
He paused, considering the warm glow emanating from the tavern's windows. The "Golden Crown" was known for its refined atmosphere, its expensive liquors, and its discreet clientele. It was a far cry from the rough-and-tumble atmosphere of "Papa Tits."
With a shrug, Brock decided to treat himself. He stepped through the ornate doors, the sounds of laughter and music washing over him. He was going to enjoy a drink, maybe a good meal, and forget about the investigation for a little while.
Brock stepped into the "Golden Crown," and immediately, the atmosphere shifted. Soft, plush chairs beckoned, the air was filled with the gentle strumming of a lute, and the waitresses, adorned in elegant attire, moved with graceful efficiency. He settled into a comfortable chair, a sense of relaxation washing over him.
He ordered a drink, and when it arrived, it was a masterpiece. The aroma was intoxicating, the taste exquisite. He savored the liquid, letting it warm his throat and ease the tension in his shoulders.
"This is the life," he murmured, a contented sigh escaping his lips. Then, he asked the waitress for the bill.
"One silver coin, sir," she replied, her voice soft and polite.
Brock's eyes widened. He reflexively spat out a small portion of his drink, his face contorting in shock. "One silver coin?" he exclaimed, his voice rising slightly. "Holy…!"
He remembered the prices at "Papa Tits." One copper coin for a drink. One copper! He blinked in disbelief. His salary as a senior hunter was only three silver coins a month. One drink here was a third of his monthly salary.
"Are you sure?" he asked, his voice strained. "There must be some mistake."
The waitress smiled politely. "No mistake, sir. The 'Golden Crown' prides itself on its quality."
Brock stared at the drink in his hand, his initial enjoyment replaced by a sense of dread. He was going to have to carefully ration his remaining two silver coins. This was a very expensive mistake.
Brock settled back into his plush chair, a battle raging within him. He had initially planned to down his drink and make a hasty retreat, his hunter's budget screaming in protest. But then, he looked around at the opulent surroundings, the soft lighting, the elegant patrons, and a sense of "carpe diem" washed over him.
When am I ever going to get another chance to experience this? he thought, his gaze lingering on the crystal chandeliers. I'm on guild business. It's practically an expense.
He took a slow, deliberate sip of his exorbitantly priced drink, savoring the flavor. He decided he would savor this moment, this brief taste of luxury, while he still had the means to do so. He might as well enjoy the guild's funding, maybe he could even write it off as research for the case. He would enjoy his time at the Golden Crown Tavern.
As Brock relaxed, trying to ignore the gnawing guilt of his extravagant expenditure, he overheard a murmur from the table behind him. The word "Oakhaven" caught his attention, snapping him out of his reverie. He subtly shifted his position, pretending to adjust his chair, and sharpened his hearing, eager to glean any information related to his investigation.
"Heard anything about that weird sickness in Oakhaven?" the first man asked, his voice low, a hint of unease in his tone.
"Oakhaven? Nah, just rumors, I reckon," the second man replied, taking a long sip of his drink. "Probably just some village folk getting the sniffles."
"Nah, this is different," the first man insisted. "My cousin's friend, works as a sentinel, you know? He got sent to Oakhaven to investigate."
"A sentinel? For a sickness?" the second man raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued. "Sounds serious."
"That's what I'm saying," the first man continued. "He said people are getting… strange. Real strange. Like, acting all confused, seeing things that aren't there. Some even say they're feeling… hateful."
"Hateful?" the second man scoffed. "Sounds like a bad temper to me."
"No, no, he said it's different," the first man said. "Like a dark cloud hanging over the whole village. He said the sentinels are worried it might be something… magical."
"Magical? Now you're talking nonsense," the second man chuckled.
"I'm telling you, it's what he said! He was all serious, said they're looking into it, trying to figure out what's going on. They said they've never seen anything like it. It's not just a sickness, it's something more."
"So, what I'm saying is," the first man concluded, his voice laced with concern, "you might want to steer clear of Oakhaven for a while. Just in case."
"Alright, alright," the second man conceded, a hint of apprehension in his voice. "I get the picture, it's just a village in nowwhere anyway."
The men continued to chat, but their conversation drifted to local gossip, no longer holding Brock's interest. He had gleaned no useful information about his investigation, and the idle chatter held no appeal. He sighed, taking a final sip of his expensive drink, and decided it was time to leave.
Gordon set out for his patrol, his usual morning routine tinged with an unusual anxiety. He kept glancing around, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow, a nervous energy thrumming through him. He was dreading an encounter with Bertha.
He couldn't believe what he'd done. The memory of the fleeting kiss, the shock on Bertha's face, replayed in his mind like a broken record. What was I thinking? he berated himself. That was insane!
He'd barely slept a wink, his heart pounding in his chest, a strange mix of exhilaration and terror keeping him awake. He'd replayed the scene over and over, trying to understand his own impulsive action. He'd never done anything like that before, and he didn't understand what had come over him. He was afraid Bertha would be furious, or worse, that she would just look at him with disdain. He just hoped to avoid her today.
Gordon arrived at the hunter guild, his apprehension about Bertha momentarily pushed aside. He was immediately summoned by Elias, the guild leader, who delivered shocking news. Their mutual friend, Elias (the younger hunter with the same name), was dead.
"What? How?" Gordon stammered, his voice laced with disbelief. "He was fine yesterday!"
"It's that strange disease," the guild leader said, his voice heavy with grief. "It took him quickly."
Gordon was stunned. He couldn't wrap his head around it. Elias was young, strong. How could he have succumbed so quickly? A wave of guilt washed over Gordon. He remembered the lingering hate he had felt in the village, the dark energy that had permeated the air. He had chosen to avoid the village yesterday, to patrol the forest instead.
Maybe, he thought, a sense of regret gnawing at him, maybe if I had patrolled the village, if I had absorbed the hate, he wouldn't have died. He sighed, the weight of responsibility settling heavily on his shoulders. He couldn't help but wonder if he could have prevented this tragedy.
Seeing the guilt etched on Gordon's face, Elias, placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Don't blame yourself, Gordon," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "There was nothing you could have done."
He waited until Gordon's expression had softened, until the storm of guilt had subsided, at least somewhat. Then, he turned and left the room, leaving Gordon alone with his thoughts.
A moment later, Elias returned, accompanied by a young man. The newcomer had a striking appearance, blond hair that shone like spun gold, piercing blue eyes, and flawless, pale skin. His features were classically handsome, almost ethereal.
Gordon stared, his brow furrowed. He couldn't place the young man. Who was he? And why had Elias brought him here?
"Gordon," Elias began, his voice filled with a newfound energy, "I'd like you to meet Souma Silenthill. He's a young sentinel, an expert in magical investigations, sent here by the higher-ups to help us with this… dreadful sickness."
Souma stepped forward, his blue eyes sparkling with eagerness. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Gordon. I've heard you're quite skilled." He offered a polite, almost formal bow. "I'm eager to get to the bottom of this."
Elias beamed. "With Souma's expertise and your… unique abilities, Gordon, I'm confident we can finally put an end to this nightmare! You two working together… it's just what we need!"
Gordon's stomach churned. Unique abilities? he thought, his gaze darting between Elias and Souma. He wasn't sure how he felt about this. On one hand, help was welcome. On the other, he was wary of Souma. What if he discovered Gordon's ability to consume the lingering hate? What if he saw him as a freak, a danger?