Goblin Slayer - Volume SS2.01 - Chapter 2.1

Step 2 - Wire-Frame Proving Grounds

There’s a girl of scant happiness.

Such is your first impression upon seeing her. The first thought you have upon opening the door of the famous Golden Knight, for she is the first thing you see.

Some adventurers fresh from the dungeon, their loot sitting before them, discuss the day’s take:

“Eh, it’s decent.”

“C’mon, it’s two hundred and fifty gold pieces. Not bad for a day’s work, I’d say.”

You can hear metal clinking against metal, some of it from coin, some from armor and weaponry. The footsteps of waiters and waitresses. The smell of food and wine. It all merges together into a wave of sensation that breaks upon you and then recedes, as if the dim tavern were an ocean unto itself.

The girl you spotted is in one corner, sitting with her shoulders hunched as if to make herself smaller. Even in the faint light and at this distance, you can see immediately that she has golden hair. She’s small in stature. By her clothing, you would guess a cleric of some description. She looks to you like a woman who would drown in the tavern’s sea of sound, sinking deeper and deeper until she disappeared completely.

You look at her, your vision obscured by your conical reed hat. She seems out of place among the rough-and-tumble types who populate the tavern—but indeed she, too, is an adventurer.

Without really thinking about it, you press the blade at your hip farther into its scabbard, making sure it’s still ready.

An adventurer.

That’s what you came to this fortress city to become.

And now you are one.

There’s a dwarf warrior, looking bored with a huge ax slung across his back. The lord of somewhere or other, complete with squire, is also lounging in shining armor. The one studying a scroll, struggling to memorize the words of a spell, must be an elf wizard. You even spot a rhea scout swipe some food off a table.

And on that same tabletop is a mountain of treasure the likes of which you’ve never seen.

So this is the fortress city.

“Hey, don’t stare too hard. You want them to think you’re a tourist?” a reproving voice says from somewhere just below your shoulder. “You’ve wanted to be an adventurer forever—don’t screw it up by getting careless.”

It’s your cousin. She clutches the short wizard’s staff she carries just in front of her bountiful chest. Despite her chiding tone, she’s looking around with considerable interest herself.

Going off to hone your skills with a girl in tow—it’s an embarrassment. That’s how you feel anyway…

“Gosh, you’d never survive without your big sister around, would you?” she says, even though she’s hardly older than you are, and even though you both left your home in the countryside for this city at the same time.

You sigh and shake your head. At least you have one companion you can count on. That’s your half-elf scout, who’s currently snickering to himself like you’d expect from a rhea. You jab his leather-covered shoulder with your elbow, and he responds, “Oops,” his accent noticeable even in that single syllable. “Hey, Captain, don’t get too worked up, eh? Just sit down and get a mug of ale—that’s the first order of business.”

“My, drinking at noon, are we?”

“Heh-heh! Listen, Sis, that’s what adventurers do!”

Confronted by your cousin, you can only sigh. Are you sure at least one of them isn’t a rhea?

“Well, elves and rheas are practically kin! Since I’m a half-elf, I guess that makes me a cousin.”

“Oh, just like him and me!”

You consider pointing out that as long as she’s keeping track, you’re second cousins. Instead, you just sigh again.

Nonetheless, you agree with Half-Elf Scout. Your throat is parched. You’ve been walking around outside, and it’s hot. You long for an ale. You nod at him, spot a convenient round table, and sit down on one of the barrels surrounding it. A waitress notices you immediately and comes rushing over, and you order three ales.

“Oh, if you have any water with fruit squeezed into it, I’ll take that instead…,” your cousin says.

You glance in your cousin’s direction as you revise the order: two ales and a fruit water.

The waitress responds with a smile and bustles off to the kitchen. A doglike tail peeks out from under her skirt.

“Padfoot, huh?” Half-Elf Scout says. “Makes sense. The pay’s good here.”

Padfoots, with their occasional animallike features, often find it difficult to make a living wage in civilized society. Just a glance at her makes it clear how much money there is in this tavern and in this city.

All because of an underground labyrinth—the Dungeon of the Dead. Endless loot and riches bubbled up from it, along with endless monsters. The rumors—and the king’s proclamation—were true, it seems. You nod again, adjusting the sword at your hip.

Shortly thereafter, the waitress reappears with three mugs, placing them on the table. You drink noisily. The ale is delicious.

“By the way,” your cousin says, smiling brightly, “what’s that girl doing?”

Argh.

Your cousin is pointing at the young woman you were looking at earlier.

“Hrm?” asks Half-Elf Scout, the one your cousin was consulting. He raises an eyebrow, then quickly says, “Ahhh. She’s doing identification.”

“Identification?”

“Stuff doesn’t come out of that dungeon with a convenient little tag attached, right? You gotta ask somebody what it is. Otherwise no one’ll buy it from you.” Half-Elf Scout sips his drink.

When you ask if identification couldn’t be done at a shop, he replies, “Yeah, but it’ll cost ya. If a poor little wizard goes down in the dungeon all by their lonesome, they’re almost guaranteed to die, even if they do everything right.”

“And that’s about the worst thing that could happen to you…”

“Sis, there’s no end of bad things that could happen to you…”

You could turn into a zombie or monster food. Or worse fates that he hesitated to speak of.

You nod sagely as Half-Elf Scout trails off.

But if she can identify items, that means…

“So she serves the Supreme God, who sees the truth of all things,” your cousin says. “And she’s a bishop at that.”

A bishop ranks at the top among clerics; it’s a title one cannot claim without considerable intellectual prowess. It’s always possible she’s running a simple swindle, but she doesn’t look like the type to you. Which would make her, you would think, in great demand…

“But if so, then she could have her pick of companions…,” your cousin continues. You suggest that perhaps she’s waiting for someone, but your cousin doesn’t listen. You sigh.

As much as you’re loathe to admit it in front of your cousin, spell casters possess crucial abilities. You know a few supernatural tricks of your own, but a warrior is no wizard. That girl at the table is in a position to pick and choose whom she adventures with—or at least, she should be.

“Good point,” Half-Elf Scout says with a nod. “Gotta make sure it’s someone you can trust.”

He’s right, you think. Adventurer has such a heroic ring, but in reality, many of them are broke, mendicant good-for-nothings. Especially now, with the dungeon to contend with, you hear that the standards of adventuring organizations have slipped. After all, even some of the most malnourished fighters can go down in the depths and, as you can see, come up with enough to fill their bellies and then some. All you need is a modicum of skill. That’s adventurers today.

You like to think you are different from run of the mill troublemakers, but objectively speaking, there’s little to distinguish you. You’ll just have to let your actions do the talking…

“So let’s take stock. I’m a scout, but I can handle the front row when I need to. Cap’s a warrior, and, Sis, you’re a spell caster…” Half-Elf Scout looks critically into his mostly empty mug as he speaks. “Usually, parties are four to six people—maybe another couple of casters would be nice.”

“Wow, you really know your stuff!” your cousin says, her eyes sparkling. “Wait… Have you been down in the dungeon before…?!”

“Wh-who, me? Nah, nah, this is just, y’know, stuff I’ve heard from people… Ha, ha-ha.” The scout chuckles half-heartedly and looks away. This is something about your cousin that you have unalloyed respect for.

“I’ve got an idea,” she says, clapping her hands. “If she doesn’t have a party and we need a spell caster, how about we ask that girl to join us?”

This is something about your second cousin that you are trying to have unalloyed respect for.

You’re just starting to think seriously about the idea when:

“Yo, identifier!”

“You finish that stuff we asked you about yesterday?”

The voices are so loud that they cut through the hubbub of the tavern.

“?” Your cousin looks surprised. When you follow her gaze, you see why. Two adventurers who look to be of poor quality—right down to the state of disrepair of their equipment—have cornered the girl. Warriors, you suppose. Or perhaps scouts. They seem to lie vaguely somewhere in between.

The young woman flinches, then turns her head as if seeking the source of the voices. Finally, she replies stiffly, “Yes, sir. The items from yesterday are right here.” From a bag beside her, she places several pieces of gear on the table, no less battered than the equipment the men are wearing themselves.

“Pig-Iron Sword? Rusty Chain Mail? Rotten Leather Armor?!” one of the men demands, his eyes getting wider with each item. “Hey, identifier, are you makin’ fun of us?”

“I assure you, sir, I’m not! I would never…!” The woman denies it with pitiful vehemence, clutching her chest. In another time and another place, to question a bishop of the Supreme God in this manner could result in punishment for sheer impertinence.

“Sure hope you ain’t. You know what’ll happen to you if we find out you’ve been playing us, right?”

“Yeah, so make sure you identify our stuff right. Got it?”

“Yes, sir… Of course…” Then the girl silently turns and begins to work on the fresh pile of loot the men toss on the tabletop. She has a beautiful, almost dignified aspect, but her every movement seems hesitant, unsure. That by itself appears to annoy the men, for they audibly click their tongues several times. With each sound, the woman tenses, but she reaches assiduously for the gear, brushing her fingers over it.

“…They’re a nasty bunch, huh?” your cousin whispers from behind her hand.

The tavern had gone quiet but only for an instant. The buzz soon returns, and the young woman’s voice is lost in the chatter.

All this is perfectly normal, you figure. After a moment’s thought, you call out to a waitress with long, rabbitlike ears who’s passing by, pressing a small coin into her hand.

“Hoh,” Half-Elf Scout says, raising an eyebrow in your direction. You ask the waitress about the young woman.

“Oh, her…,” the harefolk waitress says. She tucks the coin into her ample bosom, takes a look around, and then continues in a conspiratorial tone. “She’s an especially sad story. On her very first adventure, well, she got things a little bit wrong. That led her to come to the fortress city, but rumors of her failure spread.”

“Common enough,” Half-Elf Scout murmurs.

Your cousin’s lips are pursed as if she can’t quite accept the whole thing. “If at first you don’t succeed, just try again, right?” she says.

“Adventurers are a superstitious lot. Luck’s the coin of the realm, see,” Half-Elf Scout replies.

“And so her companions left her behind,” the harefolk waitress continues. “Now she makes her living identifying items…”

“Can’t go adventuring all by herself. Bet she’s lucky to make enough to eat, in fact. Rough times.” It’s hard out here.

You nod, then look once more in the girl’s direction. Her voice still just barely carries over the chatter in the tavern.

“I’m sorry… I don’t know what they are.”

“Well, keep workin’ on it till you do know. Damn worthless…”

“Yes, sir… I’m sorry, sir…”

“Betcha this is why she screwed up so badly, eh?”

“Yeah, you’re right. It was a goblin hunt, wasn’t it? Talk about worthless…”

“Yeah, in more ways than one!”

The men’s lecherous cackling mocks the young woman. She curls into herself like a mouse.

You murmur something about their truly vile attitudes, but the waitress cocks her head and remarks that this is rather strange. “Those two are always a little rough, but they’re not usually so aggressive.”

“Hey,” says your cousin, who’s been listening silently, tugging on your sleeve. “The girl… How about we bring her on board?”

This is something about your cousin that you have unalloyed respect for.

“Hoh, Captain. Gonna make a move?”

You nod at Half-Elf Scout, then slowly stand up from your seat. You ask him to keep an eye on your cousin for a few minutes, to which he smiles and offers you these words of encouragement: “Put on a good show, Cap.”

As you walk across the tavern, the eyes of the other adventurers settle upon you. You brush past waitresses and dodge legs stuck out to trip you up as a prank, never letting your smooth stride go interrupted.

The first one to notice your approach is the young woman, the one otherwise concentrating on her identifications. “E-excuse me, sir, but I’m currently busy with other customers. Perhaps you could wait a few minutes…?” Those words spill from lips that hardly form anything but a perfectly straight line: If her voice wasn’t so faint, it would definitely sound like the ringing of a bell. Now that you’re closer, you can see how petite the young woman is, her hands clasped uneasily in front of her modest chest.

Then your eyes open in surprise. Her eyes, set in that slim, lovely face—something must have happened to them, for they are clouded by a white mist and ringed by terrible scars. Maybe this explains her uncertain movements: She can’t rely on her vision.

You shake your head with deliberate slowness, indicating that this is not a request for identification, before you turn to the two adventurers.

“’Ey, who the hell are you?!”

“Get lost! You wanna end up at the temple with your face smashed in?!”

When you point out that the way they’re acting is no way to treat a woman, you receive only shouts of anger in return. Perhaps these people hail from some other land and don’t understand what you’re saying. You smile faintly.

“What a couple of brutes! Get ’em, Cuz!!”

Ah, dear cousin, always ready to pour oil on a fire. All the same, you sink down, angling your weight forward slightly, grasping the scabbard of your katana and striking backward with the ornamental hilt.

“Grgh?!” cries the adventurer you’ve just jabbed in the solar plexus. He must have gotten behind you in the couple of seconds you were distracted by your cousin. Nice move. You’re impressed.

“Why, you…!” The other adventurer reacts quickly. In a single fluid motion, you rise up again, grip the scabbard with your left hand, and thrust it forward. “Hrgh?!” Another jab, another solar plexus. But your opponent is a big guy. That’s not enough to bring him down.

And now he knows you’re an enemy.

The two men jump back, looking at you with bloodshot eyes, and you return your hand to the sword at your hip, reassuming a ready posture. You keep the young woman, who looks as surprised as anyone, at your back, your feet sliding in half circles along the floor as you get ready for whatever’s next.

“This bastard’s a warrior…!”

“Nah, look! Not a scratch on that armor. He’s more baby than warrior! Let’s show him the ropes…!”

Can you do it?

A bead of sweat runs along your cheek. You drop deeper into your stance, making sure you have a firm grasp on the hilt of your sword. To draw your blade is to kill; this is the way of things. If you fail to kill, or to die, once your blade is set free, you will never escape dishonor.

For your cousin, you have no concern. If things go south, Half-Elf Scout will help her somehow. But you might die. And the trouble you cause might become trouble for the young woman before you. Those are the only two things that weigh on you. Only now do you begin to realize what a profound responsibility you’ve taken on without even thinking. You’re facing warriors who have been down in the dungeon. Two of them, at that. You don’t know what they’re capable of.

Your opponents are wearing body armor. You don’t think you’ll be able to stop them just by lopping off an arm or a leg.

You do have some confidence in your technique. Your objective will be to score a critical hit with your opening stroke, decapitating the first adventurer, then killing the second on the return. If you don’t manage it, they’ll drag you down and gut you like a freshly caught fish.

You take a deep breath in and let a shallow one out. You feel around with your feet, clad in animal-skin socks and split-toed sandals, searching for footing. You grasp the scabbard firmly with your left hand, your right gripping the hilt. You can’t let sweat cause your hands to slip.

Draw? Don’t draw? You will draw. You will. Draw. Draw. Cut. Now—!

“Will you keep it down over here, you louts?!”

With that one shout, the hum of the tavern crowd comes back like a ringing in your ears. The explosive atmosphere dissipates, replaced by the collective murmurs of the patrons. You look over to discover that someone belonging to a party camped out at the backmost table in the building has gotten to his feet.

“Hmph.” He looks like a young lion to you with sharp, handsome features. His movements are elegant, aristocratic. The cast of his face is composed but slim; at first glance, he doesn’t look like someone who belongs in a tavern full of people looking to delve the Dungeon of the Dead. But behold: The man is wearing shining armor. It glints in the unsteady tavern light, clearly made of diamond.

More surprising still, it appears well used. Though it shines, it shows signs of wear, unlike your own chest guard; it completely changes your first impression of the man. You see now that he must be a knight of some renown.

“I-it ain’t like that, Lord,” stutters one of the men who had been menacing the young woman. “We was just teachin’ a newbie what’s what when he tried to butt in on our conversation…”

“Y-yeah, that’s right. We weren’t tryin’ to bother you or anything…”

The diamond knight doesn’t respond immediately, though. He looks at you, then at the pile of gear on the tabletop, then at the young woman, her face drawn in fear. Finally, his gaze returns to the adventurers, and he says softly, “I see all your items have been identified.” It’s not a question. The men nod. “Then you have no more business with this young woman. Sit quietly and have a drink or get out of here.”

The two adventurers look about to say something, but the knight’s menacing aura overwhelms them, and in the end, they stay quiet. Finally, with frustrated clicks of their tongues, they shove the gear off the table and back into their bag. “Very good,” the knight says, like a master acknowledging the work of his servants. The men slink away, their steps sullen, the young woman vacantly watching them go with her sightless eyes.

You have, it would appear, been rescued. You express your thanks, but the knight shakes his head. “I admire your passion, but not your methods. The gulf in strength between those who have braved the dungeon and those who haven’t is simply too great.”

You yourself have no choice but to acknowledge this. You had hoped to resolve things peacefully but quickly found yourself in over your head and had nearly had to draw your sword. Those men knew how to handle themselves. You aren’t confident things would have ended well for you if you really had drawn. Your inexperience is what got you into that mess. You thought you could control the situation. But this only makes you realize how far you are from being able to dictate the course of events.

The knight says “Don’t worry about it” and smiles, recognizing that your actions were honorable. “But don’t let your guard down, either,” he adds. “Those men were a party of six yesterday.” You cock your head at this, and the diamond knight continues as if it was of scant consequence. “Tonight, they’re two. The other four lost their souls.”

Consumed by the Death in the dungeon.

Someone snickers softly. Amid the burble of the tavern, the sound is like a bubble rising on a river and bursting. You understand now. Perhaps the men had meant to go back home. That was why they were so scared, so overawed. They didn’t want to admit that their spirits had been broken.

“Take care, good sir,” the knight says, slapping you on the shoulder, and then his eyes open a little wider, and he smiles. “That’s a fine saber you have there.”

At the far table, the diamond knight’s friends say something mocking about his actions. He shoots something back, then turns slowly on his heel and returns to his place. At long last, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding in and relax your grip on your sword.

What a scene!

You discover your palms are slick with sweat, and your heart is racing from nervousness and excitement.

And you haven’t even been down in the dungeon yet.

“Gosh, here we were gonna come and help, but I guess you didn’t need us.” Surprised by the voice behind you, you let out a great sigh. Apparently, you didn’t even notice Half-Elf Scout and your cousin coming up to you.

“That was a knight’s knight, huh? It would sure be encouraging to have someone like him around,” your cousin says.

“Eh, kinda feel like he stole our boy’s thunder, though. So?” Half-Elf Scout asks, and you nod.

“Ah, ahem…er…,” the young woman stammers in bewilderment.

The first thing that’s needed is a proper conversation with this girl.

You are an adventurer.

You heard the rumors about the infamous Dungeon of the Dead and came to the fortress city in hopes of delving to its lowest level. That’s all there is to your story thus far, so you recite your simple explanation with assurance.

Your cousin, after your rather brief tale, turns a smile on the young woman across from you and says, “See?” Almost a whisper. “He’d lose his own head if it wasn’t stuck on his neck. I had to come with him because I was afraid he’d never make it on his own.”

Well, who cares what your second cousin thinks? You shake your head gently. Much as you hate to admit it, she has learned a lot about magic—but who goes on an adventure in heels?

You ignore your second cousin—puffing out her cheeks and insisting that her shoes are perfectly cute—and turn to your scout.

“Ah. Me, I plan t’smoke out every secret in that dungeon and make my name known across the Four-Cornered World,” Half-Elf Scout says, a motivation more redolent of human than elf ancestry. He smacks himself on his chest, which he puffs out proudly. “That’s why the cap’s passion for testing himself against the dungeon connected with me, and I decided to go along with him.”

“I know it must’ve been rough for you,” your cousin says with a grin, “stuck up in that tree after that wizard you pranked cast a bug-attraction spell on you.”

“A-hem,” Half-Elf Scout says, mustering a dry laugh, and the young woman across from you visibly relaxes, albeit only a little.

“For me…” Her voice when she opens her mouth sounds so fragile. “I, too, once intended as much.”

“Intended what?”

“The dungeon… To do—something about it.”

History shows that peace inevitably ends; since the Age of the Gods, this has ever been the way of the Four-Cornered World. The shadows of the Dark Gods move behind the scenes; illness spreads. The world grows ever more disordered, and people’s hearts become ever more a wilderness. And then—the Death. Yes, that is the true problem.

Those who succumb to the plague arise once more in unlife to attack the living. Those living become one of the dead, and they, too, rise to consume other people, and the dead increase in number once more: Catastrophe grows and spreads.

If these were simply undead, perhaps a great muster of monks or clerics could have defended against them somehow. But it was found that prayer for the repose of their souls had no effect. It was not so simple. These were no mere wandering spirits.

The whirlwind of Chaos continued to spread. The forces of Order were swallowed up, and it seemed only a matter of time before all returned to darkness.

Find the source of this Death and destroy it: the king’s admonition—was it too late or just in time? It was not long after that some adventurers did in fact discover the Dungeon of the Dead.

It is said monsters emerge endlessly from the dungeon depths.

It is said in the dungeon there, likewise, await endless riches.

It is said in the dungeon’s deepest reaches resides a Demon Lord.

The king of the land immediately dispatched an army, but every man was swallowed by the labyrinth, and none came home. The military was never made to brave the traps and fearsome dangers of the dungeon. Their purpose is to stand ready to repel the savages from the north who range across the mountains, the barbarians from the southern reaches, and every neighboring country that constantly looks for an opportune moment to strike. They might even meet a great army of Chaos in the field—but dungeons? Those are for adventurers.

And thus the fortress city arose. A home base built hard on the mouth of the dungeon to serve those adventurers who ventured within. Adventurers who sought fame, fortune, and the head of the Demon Lord…

“Kill a few monsters, and you can earn more in a day than you’d see in a lifetime in your backwater village!”

“True, but you never know when you’re going to die down there.”

“Then what say we forget about the Demon Lord and just make our money farming those monsters?”

There is no sign as yet that the Dungeon of the Dead will be destroyed anytime soon.

You lay all this out, and the young woman replies “That’s right” softly and nods. “And I thought, rather than spend my life shut away in the temple…I wanted to at least try to do something to better this world…”

So she had come to the fortress city in the hope of finding companions and delving the dungeon. A splendid resolve. You tell her so earnestly. It’s not something that’s so simple to do. As a matter of fact, you yourself have not come here with any lofty ambitions of saving the world, so you are not one to judge. It is up to each person to decide how they will live and how they will die. It is not your place to debate the merits of their choices.

To still be able to act with others in mind when all that is the case—that is truly admirable.

But now you have a question. Surely, she need not sit here, identifying items, when she could be down in the dungeon.

The young woman tenses when you mention this, her breathing shallow. “I’m very sorry,” she says. She pours water from a canteen into her mug, some of it spilling onto the table, and then drinks. “I… I…” Then she takes several long, deep breaths and finally manages to get out the words. “I once—before I came to the fortress city, before I entered the temple—went on an adventure.”

You’re about to ask what that has to do with anything when a sharp pain runs through your side. Your cousin, never letting her smile slip, has jabbed you with her elbow. “Let me guess,” she says, trying to help the hesitant young woman. “Your companions…?”

Yes. The young woman nods, her slim shoulders trembling as she looks at the table. “They said someone who was once defeated by goblins… That the dungeon would be too dangerous for the likes of her… And so they left me behind.” She smiles, albeit fleetingly.

Goblins. Everyone knows they are some of the weakest creatures in the Four-Cornered World, hardly worth bothering with. They attack villages, destroy crop fields, abduct women, rape, and gorge themselves, and they are no smarter than nasty children.

No big deal.

In the Dungeon of the Dead, there is an endless array of creatures far more threatening than goblins. If you have a sword in your hand and a wish to save the world in your heart, goblins hardly merit a thought.

Of course, just moments ago, you were questioning whether you could even deal with two adventurers who had been down in the depths…

“On that…first adventure,” the young woman says, “I made…a mistake. That’s why I retired to the temple…”

Before you can say anything, your cousin has poked you in the ribs again. You glance at her with a That hurt, but your second cousin all but ignores you. You clear your throat and begin to open your mouth again. What need is there for her to stay here and be treated like a common item wrangler or to tell her story to anyone else? You know it sounds harsh to say, but surely she has no reason to remain here in the fortress city, this place of bitter memories.

“Well, I…” For a moment, she trails off, embarrassed. But then she squeezes out the words: “I want to bring peace to the world. Even if I can’t adventure myself, I thought if I could do anything at all to contribute to the end of that dungeon…”

So anything that might help save the world, you think.

The young woman looks at the ground and goes silent. She lets out only the occasional soft groan, her shoulders shaking. You say nothing about it but take a quick glance at your companions.

“Er, ah, r-right. I think it’s…just fine,” your cousin says, shooting a hesitant look at Half-Elf Scout.

“Good by me,” he says with a wave of his hand. “Heck, kinda feel like I’d curse myself if I complained. So why not?”

You nod at them, then inform the young woman that you’re searching for a bishop to join the party.

“What…?” she says, glancing up in surprise at that title.

You tell her that according to what you’ve heard, bishops are the only clerics granted the ability to identify items. To be a bishop, one would inevitably have mastered at least some magic, so to have one around would be heartening.

“Ah—ahem, there’s no need to fuss over me. I’m used to being laughed at…” She smiles weakly, almost sulking, and then her lightless eyes drift toward you. “If… If you would like to have an item identified, there’s no need for all this show. I’m more than willing to help you.”

From the way she behaves, you can imagine how this young woman has been treated. You shake your head—You misunderstand —and ask if she doesn’t know any bishops.

“I wish I could help you, but I’m afraid not. There are no bishops among my clientele…”

‘No, no.’ You shake your head once more. ‘Is there not a bishop before our eyes?’

This provokes a look of surprise from the young woman, and she stares at you. Her features, you note, are statuesque. Or would be without the wounds around her eyes— No, in fact, even so. Perhaps more so.

“But—but I’ve never even been into the dungeon yet… And I was defeated by goblins…!”

“Y’ain’t the only one who’s never set foot in the dungeon,” Half-Elf Scout reassures the terrified young woman. “But so what?” He laughs. “Neither has the captain or Sis here. Like little birds just leaving the nest, all of us.”

“He’s right,” your cousin says, calmly taking up the theme with a smile. “I’m an untested wizard, and my little brother—” Your cousin. “You can see he’s all talk so far… Sigh!” Your second cousin lets out a dramatic sigh but makes it look natural. “If we had a cleric around to put him in his place every once in a while, I’d sure feel better about things!”

………

You refuse to unreservedly agree with your second cousin, but it’s true that you need a healer. You limit yourself to giving your second cousin a good glare, then clear your throat before finally speaking again. You tell the young woman that if she’s willing, you would be happy to have her as a member of your team.

“—…!”

The young woman is flummoxed for a second by your suggestion, but then her lips draw into a line, and she reaches out uncertainly. You offer your own rough hands in response, feeling her slim fingers touch your palms. Their grip is weak, and they tremble slightly, but…

“If you’ll have me, then gladly,” she says, and for the first time, she gives you a heartfelt smile. You answer by clasping her hands firmly.

“So how about we have a little look-see at the temple?” suggests Half-Elf Scout when he judges that Female Bishop has begun to calm down. “Might be able to pick something up. Divine guidance, y’know?”

You don’t particularly have any better ideas, so you nod your agreement. You each take some coins out of your purses and pay, then leave the tavern behind.

“If we’re going to form a party, it’s going to be everyone’s money.” Your cousin, walking along in her high heels (!), has the frustrating habit of occasionally saying something insightful. True, the cost of gear—weapons and armor, items, and other things that will contribute to everyone’s collective chances of survival—will be a shared concern. With an eye on the future, you should probably pool your resources, and the first thing you’ll do is buy your cousin a new pair of shoes.

“Aw, but they’re cute. It’s fine. And the dungeon has a stone floor, right?”

Curse this second cousin of yours. It’s impossible to argue when you’re not sure if she’s joking.

You keep discovering more things you don’t know about this town and about the dungeon. Then again, you just got here. Maybe it’s not something to lose any sleep over.

“…I’ve been to the temple here once, to pay my respects,” Female Bishop says softly, interrupting your thoughts. “I remember it as a place overflowing with adventurers, so perhaps we’ll find someone…”

From the fact that the staff she holds depicts the symbol of the sword and scales, you know she worships the Supreme God. But which deity does this fortress city’s temple primarily worship?

“The Trade God,” Female Bishop adds pointedly. She almost sounds excited; maybe she’s pleased to be able to help. “The patron deity of wind, commerce, and travel. Ahem…” This second part of her speech is rather quieter, as though she suddenly realized how she might be coming across and grew embarrassed.

“Well, that sounds profitable!” Half-Elf Scout replies. “After all, travel and commerce mean meetings and money!” You look around, trying to decide which way to go. Every city and fortress has something—a shrine, a temple, or in smaller places, a chapel. The object of worship may vary from place to place, but there’s always at least one. It seems a refuge for prayer is needed wherever people go to battle. Even if you personally don’t completely understand it.

Your feelings as an individual, though, are not the issue; from a practical perspective, you fully comprehend the need for healers. It was your own good fortune that you met Female Bishop—the young woman who now trots along at the very rear of your formation. But spell slingers are few and far between. They are some of the only ones who can manifest their talent and intelligence directly into the world—in the form of magic.

“Look at all these shops. I thought it was just adventurers around here!” your second cousin marvels, gawking in amazement. Looking at her, you personally wouldn’t assume intelligence was a wizard’s primary trait…

Much as it pains you to admit it, though, she’s right. Most of the people milling around on the fortress city’s great main thoroughfare are bedecked in weapons and armor—they’re adventurers—but many aren’t. These other people, you suppose, must have been drawn to the city in the hopes of relieving the adventurers of some of the many riches they’d gathered out of the depths.

The streets of the fortress city are haphazard and hard to navigate; at first, you found it difficult even to go in a straight line. After five minutes of walking, it’s all too obvious that the city is a labyrinth unto itself.

It’s no surprise that the Trade God should have a temple here. After all, in the depths of the Dungeon of the Dead lies loot aplenty. Looking down the street, you see the obvious sorts of places: inns and taverns, armorers’ shops—but also places selling fancy clothes, restaurants, even the occasional gambling den. Yes, this makes sense. Without some way to spend your earnings, gemstones are just rocks, and gold coins are simply pretty bits of metal.

“C’mon—aren’t you embarrassed, gawking so openly like that?” your cousin says, elbowing you again when she catches you taking a particularly long look at what you suspect is a house where you might find female company. In her hand is an item you don’t recognize: a piece of cloth for tying hair back.

You question when she got it, to which she replies, “Just now,” and sticks out her bountiful chest proudly. “Geez, I know guys can be oblivious, but you’re worse than most. Here, come on.”

“Er? Oh…” Female Bishop looks confused after your cousin called out to her. “Me…?”

“Yes, you. Turn around, if you please.” Then your second cousin spins Female Bishop around and holds up the cloth. You think she’s about to tie back Female Bishop’s hair, but instead the cloth goes around her sightless eyes. “There, how do you like that? I tried to pick something that would feel nice.” Then your cousin takes Female Bishop’s hand and turns her back around. The vicious burns that robbed her of her sight are neatly covered by the bandage.

“I know I must have been…rather unpleasant to look at…” Female Bishop’s voice trembles with what seems like trepidation.

But your cousin sounds honestly puzzled as she shakes her head and replies, “Not at all. This way just makes you look mysterious—and pretty, to boot!”

Right? She smiles in your direction, looking for confirmation. From an expression of confusion, Female Bishop’s face scrunches up. Your cousin quickly puts a hand on her back. “S-sorry, was it wrong of me? If you don’t like black, we could get, uh, a white cloth, or blue, or…how about pink?!”

Female Bishop shakes her head, sending ripples through her golden hair. Half-Elf Scout grins. You let out a breath and smile. This is something about your cousin that you have unalloyed respect for, but…

Curse this second cousin of yours. You look well down the thoroughfare in an attempt to hide your smile.

That’s when it happens. A gust of wind blows down the street, carrying the stagnant air off into the sky. You close your eyes against the bracing wind, then follow it with your gaze as it rushes away into the heavens. That’s when you spot a spire towering beyond the nearby rooftops. They probably thought anyone would look up when the wind blew. For atop the tower stands a windmill, cranking noisily in the gusts of air.

Yes indeed. You nod once again.

This town did need a temple to the Trade God.