"I can't believe Sarge had to go back to Pullomia already," Wren complains before draining his mug of beer. The brew is only slightly cooler than the warm air of the guild's tavern and he contemplates getting another.

Fyrg uses a long, hollow reed to drink hers through her visor, "What could he do? He was called back to his platoon. We paid to have him tutor us for as long as he was off-duty and we were lucky to have him for so long."

"I know." He waves down a bar maid who takes his order, "Still, maybe Vine could've done something to get him to give us a discount. I think Sarge has a thing for elves."

The elf in question offers him a very rude hand gesture that another elf at a nearby table catches. They spray their mouthful of drink at their dwarven companion and Fyrg's table erupts in laughter.

"Right nice of him to replace your shield, Fyrg." Vine knocks on the new tower shield sitting next to her as if it had its own place at the table.

"I know, I was so embarrassed. We even tried to give him the strength card we looted last week, but he said we could use or sell it ourselves."

Wren removes and re-ties his dark blue bandana, "I say sell it. We could have a pretty good night with the money we make."

Vine scoffs at this idea, "Don't be stupid, idiot. Obviously, either you or Fyrg can slot it. Maybe then she can swing a stick at the same time."

"Even if I could, my Phalanx images are purely defensive and they'd be conjured without a weapon. What about you, Wren?"

"Tier one's full, I'm afraid, and I don't have Brawler. I could put it in Rogue, but that seems like such a waste, you know? I won't get the class bonus."

Wren's beer arrives, along with three small shot glasses filled to the brim with emerald green liquid. Another bar maid comes up from behind and sets down a loaf of bread in the center of the round table and a bowl of stew each.

Vine off-handedly points a torn piece of bread at Wren, "Why don't you blank something? You need all y'all's cards in Armist?"

With each name Wren lifts a finger from a hand, "Polearm, Attack Up, Flurry, and Health Up. I'm not breaking up the Prial from the first three. The bonus increases my attack speed."

"Pfff, the hell you need Health Up for? You're a back liner. You won't get hit s'long as Fyrg's shield don't crumple."

"Mid liner, thank you very much," Wren argues, "Just a couple steps behind the front line. You're in the back, hiding in trees."

Vine shrugs, "Hey, that's how my Ranger job works. I need distance and nature."

She glances over at Fyrg who leans as close as she can to her bowl, cracks her visor up just enough for her spoon to slip under, and gives a hearty "Mmmm" before letting it clink shut.

"You know there's no such thing right?" Wren asks, "Everyone just makes up job titles to feel special."

He tears off a hunk of the bread and lets it sit in his bowl, soaking in the thick and savory liquid before fishing out the soggy lump.

"Does 'Ultimate Thruster' make you feel special? Y'ain't overcompensating for something are you?"

Fyrg giggles as Vine waggles knowing eyebrows at him.

"I'm a spear user! It's what I do and I'm really good at it!" His words come out in quite the defensive tone.

"What about twig twirler?" Fyrg asks, "I've seen you spin it around before?"

Vine shakes her head, "Nah, those are casters. Freakin weirdos."

"Stick? Branch? How do you manage to do that anyway? Spin the spear around like that?"

"That's it!" Vine practically jumps out of her seat, wieliding her spoon like a rapier and sending stew everywhere. "Branch Manager Noa Wrenford, keeper of the four of coins!"

Wren tries to interrupt Vine's laughter with a hesitant retort, "Don't just shout out my Core for the world to hear you-- uh-- Junior trainee-- Amberfalls Dela'Vine-- not so good archer?"

She stops immediately, staring at him with wide eyes and lips parted. For a moment, it seems like the whole tavern is holding it's collective breath.

Then, Vine erupts with teary-eyed, side splitting laughter. She falls to the floor, gasping for air and soothing her cheeks with her fingertips.

A few drinks and quite a lot more insults later, Fyrg's group is discussing their next adventure. Without the help of another front liner, they would have to go somewhere with fewer, stronger monsters so they would have less chances of encountering overwhelming numbers. All three are at least a little buzzed, with Wren being the most drunk and trying not to slur his words too much.

The tavern is almost empty now except for another table with a young couple making out. The bar man hasn't announced last call yet, but he's close.

"Mountains," suggests Wren without further elaboration.

Vine has her hair down and her feet up on the table as she puffs on a wooden pipe, "Nah, man... We still gotta go through the forest, messing with goblins and shit again. What we need is a fourth body. That shit was almost perfect."

Fyrg looks around, reaches for her helmet, and drops her hands quickly as the young couple gets up to leave.

"Um, we should go, too, guys. We can discuss our plan in the morning."

Vine takes a long beat, turning to look in her direction, "What's wrong, Fyrginia?"

She lets out a frustrated sigh, "Please don't call me that. And nothing's wrong. It's just late and I wanted to get up early to do some more hunting."

"What's... the rush?" Wren asks, turning his mug upside down and wondering why nothing is coming out.

"Fyrginia wants to know if the stories are true, which they ain't." Vine dumps her ashes on the ground and cleans out her pipe. "Ain't no such thing as a magic tower in these woods. We been all over the damn place these past couple months, up to my skinny, pale ass in mud, goblins, and those freaky dark pixies. Bitches give me the willies."

"Tch, goblins," Wren scoffs, remembering that particular day months ago. He glances around, hoping to spot another bar maid, but gives up when he realizes how late it must be.

Fyrg brings out a map and three, hand-sized, square pieces of paper, "There's one place I want to check and a few three star quests that put us in that area."

"Ugh... They all fetchers then?"

Fetchers, or fetch quests, are basic quests the adventurers guild puts out when people are in need of materials, but have no means of doing it themselves. Depending on the what, where, and when the star rating, as well as the rewards, go up accordingly.

Difficulty, quality, and rarity of most things are based on the Tarot core rating system, with one being the lowest and nine being the highest. The stars also have unique colors:

Black, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, silver, and gold.

What no one else in the world knows, save for a very secretive handful of beings, is that the tenth and highest rank for the Tarot cores is for some unknown reason, also black.

Or at least, it looks black. When Tarot cards are inspected only a single star with their respective color is viewable with an irridescent sheen. The black of the tenth star is actually all the colors at once with the same veneer, trying to manifest in the same space.

Two of the holders of such cores currently live in the same tower, although one is widely known and the other is completely under the radar. Only one person knows about River and his Fool core. And, only one person knows why he's there in the first place.

---

River (no last name given) is no fool. He may be young, unafraid of death, and impressionable, but he is no fool. Sometimes, however, he would do foolish things.

His master and sort-of mentor has given him free run of whatever ended up stored on his floor of the tower as well as any first tier cards he could find lying around.

Now, if River were to take just the small box of cards he's been keeping on his person and the three door cabinet full of heavily enchanted armor and clothing sets and miscellaneous magical equipment to the nearest adventurer's guild where he could get a wide range of tutoring and experience, the young boy could probably take on a small army or at least a "teenage" dragon. Not a mature, adult dragon yet, but one at least older than a yearling. It would still be a very impressive feat for a fifteen year old.

Without dreams of overthrowing the aristocracy or fantasies of slaying eldritch beings, River is still a young lad with access to things developing nations would feud over. Normally, the boy would seek advice from someone who knows better than he, but Agmu Mak has been busy.

Rediscovering books about brooding warriors and lusty bar maids, experimenting with his vast pantry of liquors, and making sure his furniture is able to withstand repeated, extensive naps takes a lot out of him these days. A few nights a week he would teleport somewhere and come back in the early morning, mostly alone although once or twice he would return with a guest.

So, River did what anyone in his position would do; he stacked the first tier of his deck with the rarest and most interesting cards he could find and put together the most powerful looking gear he was able to equip.

Any player, adventurer-- the terms are interchangeable-- who spends any amount of time with their peers would have been given "the talk" regarding not doing what River has done.

Explaining to them the intricate dynamics of the cards he should use to bolster his unique style while highlighting the bonuses created when setting certain types of cards together side by side.

A Prial, for example, is when a player sets an action, support, and then another action card in a row. The three cards synergize, granting a bonus to the player.

They would go on to explain how relying on one's gear while lacking in training and experience is a ticket to an early, if not painfully permanent retirement.

Had he have been given "the talk," maybe he wouldn't be hiding in a smelly, dark, damp crevice from the cave full of angry goblins.