“Huh?” Fresh looks around herself at the empty, square room, obviously feeling somewhat lost.

“Joining the guild makes you an official adventurer, instead of just some schmuck from the streets,” explains the stranger. “That opens some doors. But the guild is serious business, dumb-ass!” they exclaim, placing their hands on their hips. “That’s why everyone who joins has to take the shot. So everybody falls in line and makes an investment. Nobody wants to do business with a bunch of drunk wackos running around the city, rampaging out of control with their swords and magic!”

The small figure sighs, defeated, lowering their arms and head as they walk towards the only furnishings in the room apart from the bed. A single table and two wobbly looking chairs.

“We’re a party now, whether I regret my decision or not, so we get a cut-off space for ourselves,” they say, waving a hand to the room around themselves, as they climb up onto a chair. Their face flops down onto the table a second later. There is a loud thudding sound, as the two wooden surfaces meet each other. Fresh’s eyes open wide as she moves towards the table.

“We bought a house?” she asks.

“We bought membership,” snaps the sharp voice in an incredulous tone. “It just so happens to come with a party-space,” they explain. “Only you and I are allowed to enter inside of here. It’s like the dungeon, but only more miserable,” groans the figure, still not having lifted their head.

Fresh stands next to them, holding her own arm nervously. What did she do? Her rushing in blind got her into a lot of trouble this time. Not just her, but someone else too. She looks down at the hooded figure. “Thank you…” mutters Fresh, looking meekly away to the side and out of the foggy, yellow windows. Light shines in through them but nothing distinct can be seen of the outside world. “- for helping me,” she finishes, feeling a deep shame at herself, at her own naivety.

Did she use to be like this? She feels like since this new life of hers has begun, that her mind has become… fuzzy. Sure, she was never smart. But she was also never this reckless and impatient, right?

The figure sighs again, their shoulders falling deeply slack, as their upper body presses itself flat against the table, as if this was the last thing they had wanted to hear.

“So we’re a party, now?” asks Fresh.

“Yeah. I’m looking forward to working with you,” groans the smushed face, muffled from down beneath the mask.

“What does that mean?”

The wood of the mask scratches against the table as the figure raises their head to look back at her confused face. “I…” they pause. “It means that you and I are going to be working together to pay back our debt. Ideally, so that we can keep working together after that,” they say, staring at her quizzically. “That’s the idea at least.” They place a hand under their mask, rubbing the bridge of their nose. “But let’s not assume there’s going to be an after.”

Fresh thinks, sitting down. They could run? Leave the city. But… she looks down at the table herself now. She doesn’t want to do that. She doesn’t want to run. Her fists tighten as her eyes meet the figure’s. “Let’s do it.”

“Huh?” asks the figure, pulling back a little.

She clasps her hands together. “Please help me to learn how to do something useful and let’s go to the dungeon together and get to work!” pleads Fresh, leaning in forward with a rather spontaneously generated amount of determination, towards the uneasy figure who pulls back a little, as their faces come uncomfortably close.

They sigh. “You have no health-points. If you die in the dungeon, which you will, I’ll be saddled with your debt. That’s obviously not going to work,” says the figure, crossing their arms.

If she dies? Didn’t she already die? Fresh thinks for a second. Do adventurers not usually respawn? If they died, is that it? Is she the exception? Her mind goes to the image of the babbling fountain. She closes her eyes and quietly thanks whatever spirit decided to have this mercy for her, despite everything else.

“What if I learn to heal and stay in the back?” she asks, still not willing to give up so easily.

The figure lets out an unsure groan and thinks. “I don’t even know if you have any soul-points to cast spells to begin with. Besides, if you’re cursed…” they look to the side before turning back to face her. “The only healers around this city are from the church,” they explain. “They teach adventurers white-magic and stuff like that for free, if you listen to their sermons in exchange,” says the stranger, shaking their head. “That’s how they hook you, at least.” Fresh’s eyes light up. The stranger lifts their hand to cut her off, seeing that she was getting hopeful. “But… you wouldn’t want to go to the cathedral. They aren’t fond of cursed people,” explains the obscured person. “They take their existences rather personally, you know?”

There was that word again. ‘Cursed’. “How am I cursed?” asks Fresh, scratching her cheek.

The figure shrugs, leaning back on their chair. “Dunno? Shouldn’t you know?” they ask. “I can just see it. My folk are perceptive of these kinds of things,” they say, locking their fingers behind their head and looking up towards the ceiling. Fresh wants to ask what race or species they are or whatever the implication here is, but she stops herself. It somehow seems rude to ask and she doesn’t want to insult her benefactor.

Her eyes catch the coin on the floor, which has rolled towards the table. She leans over and picks it up. Her only coin. Does that make this one lucky? She laughs to herself quietly. Although, she stifles herself right away, feeling somewhat embarrassed, once she feels their eyes looking back towards herself. The coin was her last gift from Mr. Mushroom, apart from -

Wait…

Fresh sets the coin down onto the table with an audible ‘clack’ as an excited look grows in her eyes again. “What about crafting skills?”

“What?”

“If I can’t fight then… then what if you fight? What if you fight and I make things for us to sell?”

“…What?” repeats the figure, not changing their muddled tone. Their eyes gaze at her very skeptically.

“How much does a mushroom-cap sell for?” asks Fresh.

“Uh… an orange one? About five Obols, I guess?” they say. Fresh winces.

“What do they do with them?” she asks, not letting it get her down.

“They sell them to the alchemists. Or they grind them up or they make whatever else out of it. Fuck, I don’t know, I’m not a mushroom-person.”

“But they have to make a profit off of it, right?” she asks. “Otherwise it wouldn’t be worth buying?”

“Yeah?”

“So.” Fresh leans in. “Why don’t we skip the middle-man?” The plan comes to her and her eyes lock on the unsteady gaze of the small person before her, who she now notices has a subtle, faded pinkish tinge to their gray irises; as if the spring morning sunlight were shining off of them, even inside this dingy room. “You go into the dungeon and collect stuff. You give it to me and I’ll craft it into something,” she suggests, lifting a finger. “Then we’ll sell that directly to the alchemists or whoever needs it. We’ll get more money out of it that way!” she beams. “A mushroom-cap has to be worth at least three times the buyout price, or else the street merchants wouldn’t bother, would they? So we can both pay our debts, plus we’ll have some extra!” she explains excitedly, not sure where this sudden spark of inspiration had come from.

The legs of the chair fall back forward, as the hooded person leans in, now somewhat more excited. The changing of their expression is visible through the slits of the mask, where their eyes shine vividly outward, larger than before. “Why didn’t you tell me from the start that you could craft things?!” they say, their palms striking the table as they lean in forward again towards her. Their knees on the chair like an excited child’s. “What’s your profession and crafting level?!”

Fresh scratches her cheek idly, smiling weakly. “Ah… well… I have cooking at one?”

The room is quiet.

“You have cooking at… one…?” repeats the figure, as if not believing their ears. “…and craftsmanship? Alchemy? Metalworking?”

Fresh is quiet for a moment. “Ah… zero? Probably?”

They fall back down, now entirely defeated. A pang of guilt flows through Fresh as she looks at the small figure who is clearly close to breaking down in some manner. She reaches forward, wanting to grab their shoulder and console them, but her fingers float in the air, as she isn’t brave enough to push forward over that last gap. “But I can raise it! I know some stuff!” she says, leaning in and lowering her hand back down to her own lap, not entirely sure if that was true. The figure doesn’t bother raising their head anymore.

“So please, let’s work together! I know we can do it!”

The room is quiet.

“I know that I owe you, so I’m willing to work hard to make this right!” says Fresh, leaning in further.

The room is quiet.

“Please!”

The room is quiet.

Fresh’s expression tenses, as she feels her own eyes grow damp, but she purses her lips and presses that feeling back down into her gut. Slowly, she leans back and sinks into her own chair again, about to sigh in defeat.

“I’m Jubilee,” says the small voice. Fresh looks down at the mask and the very tired eyes that are staring back up at her own. The obscured stranger sighs. Their chin, which is pressed against the surface of the table, raises up an inch as they speak. Jubilee stands up. Fresh watches as they go and walk towards the door of the room. Stopping there, they turn back towards her. “Are you coming, shit-for-brains? We have work to do,” is all they languidly say, as they step out into the mist, shaking their head.

With wide and surprised eyes, Fresh jumps up and sprints towards and out of the door. Promising herself that this time, it will work. This time she'll be careful, this time, she isn’t going to blow it.