Fresh and Jubilee stand inside of the entrance to the dungeon. Jubilee had dragged her in here after her speech. Their eyes burn with the same intensity that they had, back when Fresh had thrown the piece of bread at them. They make a noise as they begin to speak, a finger raised to point at her from a shaking, tense arm.

“I… -” Jubilee doesn’t say anything else, but doesn’t lower their arm either. Apparently entirely lost for words, but still angry enough to try.

“Sorry,” says Fresh, rubbing her arm. But then she looks back to her friend with a shine in her eyes. “But it was the best thing to do!” She leans in forward, clenching her fists. Jubilee still doesn’t lower their arm, but their pupils shift. Fresh realizes that Jubilee hasn’t blinked once yet. “I messed up with the fountain. I’m sorry,” says Fresh. “But if we didn’t get ahead of it, this would have come back to bite us later!”

“Why are you like this?!” yells Jubilee, finally managing to make a coherent sentence.

Fresh ignores their question. “Because we got ahead of it and thanked the merchants’ guild, they get a boost in prestige and we have an entire swarm of adventurers who know about us and our connection to them now,” explains Fresh. “That makes us safer than if we tried to keep it a secret.”

Jubilee twitches, finally lowering their arm. “Maybe. Or maybe we’ll just die in our sleep tonight?” they suggest. “That is if we aren’t scooped up and tortured to death before we even get back across the plaza!”

Fresh tilts her head. “There’s too much pressure on them now.”

“Huh?! If there’s pressure on anyone, it’s on us! Dumb-ass!” shouts Jubilee in frustration.

Fresh leans back, tapping her head. “We promised to start selling the potions next week.”

Jubilee glares at her for a while. But then takes a deep breath, holding their hands out at their sides to calm themselves down. “If I wasn’t already dead inside from what you’re putting me through, I’d be really depressed by being around you, you know?”

Fresh grimaces, scowling at her friend that obviously doesn’t get it. “Jubilee. People are going to talk about this. It’s going to be all around town by tomorrow.”

“How is that relevant?! Shut up! Just… shut up. Please.” Jubilee sighs and falls down to the steps, placing their head in their hands. Fresh crosses her arms, closing her eyes and ignoring the damp feeling beneath them. The two of them are quiet for a time. The only sounds present are the strange, dully howling ambient winds of the dungeon below and the crackling of the fire of the many torches, which line the rock walls.

Jubilee’s head lifts from their hands, looking up ahead of themselves as they mumble. “If we don’t deliver… then the merchants’ guild will look bad.” Their head snaps towards the girl. Their eyes wide in shock. “Their reputation will be ruined, at least among the casters…” Jubilee jumps up to their feet, scrambling as they point to her in disbelief. “Did you think of this?! You?!”

Fresh smiles tapping her head again. “I’m party-leader after all, I have to keep my party safe!”

Jubilee clenches their hood in disbelief. “What the fuck?”

“Jubilee!” Fresh leans in forward, her eyes wide again, happy that Jubilee has understood her plan. “I hav-“

“- If you tell me that you have an idea one more time, then I’m going to shove you headfirst in the mushroom’s den and leave you there for the slimes to find!” threatens Jubilee, interrupting her.

Fresh frowns, puffing out her cheek and letting out a grumble, looking to the side. “…a plan…”

Jubilee sighs and everything is quiet again. “…Okay. Let’s hear it.”

“Huh?” asks Fresh, somewhat surprised as she looks back towards her friend.

“Your plan, let’s hear it,” relents Jubilee, looking away and waving a hand at her.

Fresh’s eyes go wide in delight, seeing that Jubilee is willing to accept her ideas. “You focus on farming the blue-caps for now,” she explains. “The antidotes aren’t worth much until I make them better, but the minor soul-potions are perfect!” exclaims Fresh. “If we make enough to meet the demand, we’ll make a bunch of money!”

“Go on,” says Jubilee, now interested, looking her up and down.

“We’ll make our share and the merchants’ guild will get their cut, plus the good will of the casters in the city!” beams Fresh. “That’s what’s going to keep us safe. We’ll just be too valuable to get rid of!” she explains. “If the merchants’ guild is backing us from above, even the other vendors won’t come after us.”

Jubilee blinks, staring at her for a second. “Fuck me… did you get a brain with your class?” Fresh scowls at them again, grumbling just the same as before. Jubilee thinks for a time but then digs into their pocket, pulling out a slip of paper. “- Here.”

“What’s this?” she asks, taking it curiously.

Jubilee waves them off and begins heading down the staircase. “I was going to surprise you with it, but I guess I have work to do now,” they say, heading down towards the first floor of the dungeon. “So go pick it up yourself, it’s right next to the adventurers’ guild.”

Fresh looks at the slip of paper curiously. There’s nothing on it but a handwritten number. “Huh? For me?” she feels bad, why is Jubilee always doing things for her? “Please stop giv-”

“- I’m not giving you shit, goo-brain!” yell Jubilee at her, as they vanish down into the distance. “It was your boss-drop from the flower, I just asked them to make it into something.”

Her boss-drop? Jubilee had mentioned something like that before. Fresh looks at the note in her hand. With that, Jubilee vanishes into the darkness below, presumably off to collect more blue mushroom-caps.

Her eyes lift back up from the slip of paper. “Good luck! See you at home!” she shouts down after them.

Nothing comes in response, she’s not sure if Jubilee heard it at all. But she’s glad that she said it nonetheless. Fresh turns and leaves. A moment later, she finds herself out on the plaza again. It’s bustling with as much activity as ever, if not more, as more adventurers now make their way past her into the dungeon and others going around towards the fountain, being dragged there by their excited compatriots.

Fresh smiles, seeing the buzzing, active world around herself. The mood of the many people in the streets is more than befitting of the brilliant sunshine coming from above them all, realizes Fresh, as she walks down the main street, towards the front plaza by the entrance gate to the city. Looking around herself curiously, she sees the thing. This must be what Jubilee had mentioned.

Her heart thuds just a little, in a flutter of excitement as she looks at the window of the tailor’s shop, which is filled with all manner of equipment and clothing for casters.

Clenching her hands together, the note held tightly in between them, she rushes in through the door.

A tiny bell jingles out, welcoming her arrival.

The vivid sunlight shining in through the large windows inside of the store silhouettes the many large dolls and mannequins adorning the space, all of them wear all manner of cloth outfits, which range from simple-dresses to ornate-robes, to plain-trousers and button-ups. The air inside of the store is surprisingly cool and, while not damp, certainly on the edge of being called so. Fresh looks around the room, somewhat nervously, her joy from a second ago subdued by the two dozen odd, human-like figures around herself. The fake-people, the mannequins, face all manner of direction, as if mimicking the busy crowd outside on the plaza. Some stand, posed as if talking to each other. Others sit alone in the distance, leaning against the backdrop like wallflowers.

A strange smell of a sweet smoke fills the air, like slowly burnt wood from a cherry tree. Her boots thud out against the thick, red, decorative carpet beneath herself, as she walks up towards the counter, which nobody sits behind.

“Hello?” asks Fresh, looking around and then back at the note in her hand. This is the right place, she assumes so at least. Feeling a little antsy, the girl fidgets and looks around herself again, back towards the mannequins, who she now notices all have one thing in common. A single, whisper-red string spans from each of them off to the next. A single thread, which ties them all together, looping only once around each figure in a hidden place. The string wraps around their wrists, just beneath the cuffs of their sleeves, over their throats, just below scarves and wraps, which bury it, as if to hide it from sight.

Fresh scratches her cheek nervously, looking at them. One in particular stands by the window and is faced to look outside, towards the shining day being born anew.

“I’ll be there in a second,” calls a voice from the back of the store, coming from a small, curtained doorway, just behind the counter. Fresh’s gaze turns towards it and she sighs a breath of relief. Apparently someone is here after all. A figure comes out from behind the curtain. Fresh cranes her neck to look up at them, feeling her legs get a little wobbly and her sense of relief leaving herself immediately. The figure is extremely tall and, plainly put, rather ominous in their appearance. Their androgynous face is pale and indistinct, though Fresh leans towards guessing that the person is a man. A ghostly man, but a man. His limbs are long and spindly like the legs of a spider. He wears a long, gray, slim-fitted outfit. Pressed into his lips is a long wooden straw, at the end of which something burns. A cigarette? No. But something akin to it.

“H- hello,” she says nervously and holds out the slip of paper to him.

The strange man takes the note from her and looks at it. “Ah, yes. Hold on. We just finished this one last night,“ he says, taking a draw of the smoking stick. The man vanishes into the back and Fresh wonders what he means by ‘we’. Looking around, she sees nobody but herself and…

- Fresh’s eyes narrow, as she looks at the mannequins. Weren’t they all facing a different direction just a moment ago…?

“Here we are,” calls his voice out from in front of herself and her head snaps back forward. She didn’t hear him coming back. “As agreed, we processed your boss-core into this.” The man holds out a black-cloth bundle and Fresh takes it from him, looking it over with shining eyes as it unravels in her hands.

[Plant Fiber Robe]{Black}(Normal)

A robe woven out of plant fibres from a giant pink-flower. Offers little physical protection, but is sturdy and comfortable.

The original springtide pink threads of this robe have been dyed a deep black.

+2 Poison resistance

+2 Lightning resistance

Weight: 0.56kg Durability: 30/30 Value: 125 Obols

It’s a robe, black. This one has actual shoulders and sleeves. A cheerful cry escapes her closed mouth, as she looks at it in delight. The material is soft, but it feels sturdy and airy. Was this made out of her dropped ’boss-core’, whatever that was? She’s not sure. Though judging by the name and description, she comes back around and assumes that it is.

The man speaks. “Despite my protests, we opted to make the fabric black, as requested by the customer, so that, I quote -” The man looks over a ledger and clears his throat once, as he recites what is written on the page. “’She can get her fat hands dirty and pull some fucking weight, without being a constant embarrassment to me.’” The man lowers the ledger and Fresh looks at him uneasily. “- End quote.”

She laughs meekly. That certainly sounds like something Jubilee would say. “Do I owe you anything?” she asks the man.

The strange man looks back to her curiously and waves a hand. “No, as per our agreement, we took twenty percent of the boss-core as our fee.”

Fresh has no idea what that means, but nods to him. “Can I try it on?” She asks eagerly, not that she was ever really big on clothes. But after a week in the same dress, the prospect of something new is more than exciting for her.

The strange man points to the side, to a curtained stall. “You may. But the measurements are correct. We’re certain, we checked again when you came inside.”

She stares at him blankly for a second, not sure what he means with that. She never gave anyone her measurements, not that she even knows what they are to begin with. Pushing that aside for now, she goes to the cabin and pulls the curtain shut to change, sighing as she escapes the creepy man and the feeling of being watched for just a moment.

With some relief, she takes the old white dress off and works her way into the new one, taking a second to look at her body, which she now notices is covered in bruises, scuffs and sore spots. But if that’s the only price of admission for this new life, then as far as she sees it, she’s still in the clear. With a smile, Fresh works her way into her new robe, setting the old one down to the side.

It’s a stark contrast to the white one that she had had on this entire time. But she likes it. In her old life, she only ever wore black-hoodies and sweatpants. Though in a sense, maybe that’s why she liked the white dress too. Sort of. It was so radically different from her comfort zone that she was forced to adapt to it. But…

- She rolls her shoulders and straightens the fabric there, pulling it taut. The robe really does fit perfectly. Fresh looks down at herself.

But it seems befitting of a witch. Plus the white dress did get dirty very easily. This dark color will be good, she realizes, especially if she does a lot of dirty potion-work and crafting. Or if she’s being dragged through the dungeon by Jubilee. Besides -

She grabs her collar, straightening the rim and pulling tightly on the little red ribbon that adorns the front.

- This was different too. She would have never worn something like this before.

Looking up, she stares at a foggy mirror in front of herself and looks herself over once.

“Bubble-bubble!” says Fresh, not too sure why. But it just seems like the right thing to say, when she sees the witch in the mirror. Her smile grows wider. She wishes that she had a big, pointed hat. But maybe that’s too on the nose?

With that bright expression, Fresh exits the cabin and spins around once proudly to show the ghostly man. But once she opens her eyes, she sees that he is already gone. Perhaps he was so confident in his trade, that he had already vanished into the back room, knowing that the new robe would be perfect? Fresh rubs the back of her head, but then shrugs to herself. It is what it is.

She looks around, still somewhat uneasily now though. With a quiet “Hmm,” she packs her white dress into her bag and goes to leave.

Fresh’s hand clutches the door and she pulls it open, though her head turns one last time to spare a glance back inside of the tailor’s workshop. She sees two dozen mannequins, all turned her way, some of them have a single hand up in the air as if to wave goodbye, some of them seem to be clapping. All of them are bound by a single red string.

Fresh screams and runs out into the sunlight, slamming the door tightly shut behind herself.