Chapter Three—Kita-ku Shinai

Before leaving Ribeauvillé, Jeanbleau had explored the city somewhat, found a clothier and bought an oiled cloak with a hood that was voluminous enough to cover his armor and sword quite well. The material was thick enough that he could use it as a shroud if he needed to camp for the night.

As well as the cloak, he had bought a backpack and some items for starting fires, such as a small dagger, a flint for making sparks, a bundle of shredded wood fibers and of course a small thicket of torches.

But fire starter items were the least of what he had bought with his remaining gold mark from Machazelle—which was the last vestige of his life from his place of exile. What Jeanbleau had purchased were dried breads and meats as well as a water skin for his journey.

However, among all these items, the most essential had been the map. He was assured that the locations were up to date, and the map did look newly drawn as well, so that he believed of the seller.

He had glanced at the horses in the stables, but knew he was far from being able to afford one. Perhaps he would buy a mount after saving the princess.

But the evening had set upon him, so Jeanbleau had stayed at the Adventurer’s Blade last night, woke up early in the morning and ate a hearty breakfast of porridge and set off.

Now he was on his way out of the Ribeauvillé territory and journeying toward Kita-ku Shinai. There were no proper province lines or borders of sovereignty. The entire country of Ōkina Basho was neutral territory except for the interior of the cities, it seemed.

What would this Kita-ku Shinai look like? According to the map, it was actually quite close. By Jeanbleau’s estimate, it would take him just over two days to reach the other city with Mount Odan just one more day’s journey north.

It would be easy.

Jeanbleau glanced up into the gray skies. It had stormed during the night, but now things were starting to clear up. A little, at least. Intermittent sprinkling rain still fell upon him, making Jeanbleau realize what a good find this sturdy cloak had been.

As he travelled the roads on foot, occasionally other travellers passed him by, some on foot, some on horseback. Even a luxurious-looking coach drove along the road, too fast for comfort as the driver bellowed something foul in Jeanbleau’s direction.

Most of the passersby were humans, some of which were Kokumin—probably travelling from Kita-ku Shinai.

The day wore on, and so did Jeanbeau’s strength. Occasionally he took breaks, but was careful not to become lazy. He needed to get to Kita-ku Shinai with all due hast so he could provision his stores once again and make for Mount Odan where the Pumpkin Princess desperately awaited him.

Jeanbleau wondered why they called her that. Did she do something special with pumpkins, or was her title more about locations? Perhaps her family owned a large plantation.

The hills tolled on with sparse tree cover and some rocks jutting up here and there, but for the most part these hills were occupied by very little, other than fields of grass and flowers and some farmland.

He passed a roadside inn during the latter part of the day, but didn’t stop. There were hours of travel yet and having no need to provision his stores at this time, he continued on.

Jeanbleau stacked the wood into a cone shape and put the soft wood shavings underneath. With his dagger, he struck the flint and sparks flew, but the shavings didn’t catch fire.

He struck the dagger against the flint again.

And again.

And again!

The shavings were not catching fire. He glanced up into the darkening sky which had cleared up somewhat since earlier in the day when they had been nothing more than a grey sheet with swirls of black mist.

He continued on, striking the flint with his belt knife, but instead of longer strikes of his blade, he changed his tactic and treated the flint more like a stick, and dragged his blade across it as if he were trying to peel off a particularly hard piece of bark.

Sparks shot forth, more than before, and since he wasn’t swinging his dagger like a broad armed barbarian, he could flick the edge of his blade against it quicker, making the sparks come more frequently into the shavings.

When smoke started to rise from them he realized he was doing it more correctly!

Oui! Oui!

They caught flame ever so slightly—more like a spark, and he bent down and blew on the bundle of dried wood shavings. They smoked furiously and he blew more—giving the sparks air to feed upon. He had seen others do it like that, and that was why he did it this way now.

Suddenly the bundle caught flame and he shoved it under the larger sticks where they could catch fire. The orange taper flickered and guttered, but slowly climbed into the larger pieces of wood where the flames took hold.

Before long, Jeanbleau’s fire was crackling merrily enough to sing a tavern jig around—assuming he was drunk and unguarded enough to do such a thing while out in the wilderness in a country he didn’t know.

No.

Inexperienced he might be, but Jeanbleau was no fool. He had chosen this camp site for two reasons. The first was that it had shelter from the elements, as it was under a bluff overlooking the countryside.

Where he currently sat in the dirt, it was completely dry. The other reason Jeanbleau chose this spot was that it was concealed from his relative south. No one from the hills would see his fire and had they been able to for some inexplicable reason, the hill protected his flank.

If any highway bandits or wild animals—or goblins, gods forbid—happened upon him, he would see them long before they could reach him.

With the road a half a league to his relative north and down the hills, this was an excellent spot. His only concern was that the fire might be visible as an orange fleck in the distance from the road.

For that reason he had taken rocks and piled them up in front of where he had his fire burning, though they probably weren’t enough.

That was what Jeanbleau was missing. A bedroll.

How could I be so stupid?

The ex-lord and knight had gone on adventures in the past, but not like this. This was rough and tumble adventurism which he had no experience in whatsoever. Being rich and of noble birth, he had used a tent in the past, and even then his men had erected it, had carried it, had guarded the camp sight and cooked his meals.

This was wholly different, another life that Jeanbleau was not bred to.

But he would adapt.

He had to adapt. It was that or face the executioner’s block, which he wasn’t planning on doing any time soon if he had any say about it. Goblins and night monsters might have another thing to say about his thoughts, he decided. For this reason he kept close to his sword and a careful eye out on the horizon.

But before too long sleepiness began to gnaw at him. He was tired from the day’s journeying. Perhaps he should have stayed at that inn he passed some time ago. It would have considerably slowed his journey.

But safety was better than recklessness and the possible consequences thereof, was it not? And yet the Pumpkin Princess needed him.

He pulled out the quest ticket from his backpack and looked at it. The part about the level five adventurers or above began to worry him. But what was an adventure without the risk of death? What was the matter with saving someone if there was no danger to oneself for such an action? If saving this princess was as easy as bending and lifting her up from a simple tumble, she would have no need to ask for aid, and no need to help the one who assists her.

In this strange and dangerous land, Jeanbleau needed friends. One found friends… how? By showering them with societal advantages and monetary bait?

That was what he had done before, and yet almost all of his ”friends” had shunned him in the end. They would have watched him hang in the afternoon and then went to a sumptuous ball the same night, completely oblivious and forgetful of their past relationship.

Even so, he had some few family members and true friends who defended him, who had come to visit him in his cells. One had even offered to accompany him to these lands. A true and loyal friend, that was. But Jeanbleau had declined.

No need to destroy two lives when the price of one would do.

As a newly minted adventurer, something within Jeanbleau spoke to him. He was now in a position to help others. Certainly he could have helped them before, but then, letting go of his wealth had been no easy thing.

His life as an adventurer was involuntary. The danger was involuntary. He would die, or he would go on to be a successful man-at-arms killing monsters for money and aiding those in need.

As before, this terrified him.

My old life is over—and it is not coming back. I must accept who I am now.

If he must die, then he might as well die trying to save this princess. His heart thundered inside his chest suddenly as the implications of his thoughts actually hit him. By this time in a few days, he could be dead on some mountaintop somewhere—his damsel in distress doomed to share his fate.

And who was this Andahl mentioned on the quest? Perhaps Luarr could have told him. He had forgotten to ask, and she had evidentially forgotten to tell him. But if she thought he would die, then did it matter who this man was? Highwayman, kidnapper, robber, sellsword down on his luck—the answer was irrelevant.

Jeanbleau would act the knight—even if he no longer was a knight—and he would save her. If he had to kill the man who held her captive, then so be it.

He had killed before.

With these thoughts of honor and adventurism, he drifted between sleep and wakefulness as his fire crackled.

Except when he opened his eyes, something was moving near him. He suddenly shouted as he lunged forward, his fingers tightening on the hilt of his sword.

The man—all in rags before him—shouted in a sudden fright as well and lunged away from his dying fire. Jeanbleau pulled his sword free of its scabbard and glanced about as the man and a few of his robber companions ran down the hill.

He had almost been—

Glancing down, he realized his backpack had been taken and he snarled. “Come back here!”

He lunged from his camp and sprinted down the hill after the robbers. He saw the one carrying his bag. As he caught up to the shouting and whooping thieves, his foot suddenly hitched over something on the ground and he flailed forward, slamming hard into the ground.

Luckily the grass was thick and the earth soft, otherwise he would have been knocked senseless. Even though his landing wasn’t overly rough, he grunted loudly as the air from his body was knocked out of him.

He gasped, rising and spluttering after the thieves, but had to take a moment to breath enough air in again. Without his pack, he would still make it to Kita-ku Shinai, but his last silvers were in there too.

Jeanbleau would have no money to provision his journey, much less find a bed for the night!

He picked up his pace, running after the thieves who were now small in the distance as they loped over the terrain. They must have been poor indeed, as they had no horses and their robes had been ripped and tattered from hard use of at least a thousand years.

With only a very fast glimpse of a dirty face with canted eyes, rotten teeth and wispy mustaches, he realized the thieves were only less than highway robbers and slightly more than corpses.

The run was winding him, but he was catching up to them quickly as they neared the road. Up ahead on the hills, a coach with bright lights thundered down the hill, the driver calling out with every crack of his whip.

The thief with the bag turned and saw Jeanbleau catching him and he tripped, rolling in the grass as his companions screamed at him and chortled like drunkards.

Perhaps they were drunk?

“Stop!” he called.

One of the thieves wrenched the bag from his fellow and turned into the road. The driver atop the coach screamed and so did the thief right before the lead horse rammed into him.

He flew to the ground like a lock tossed off a river barge and went face-first into the dirt and didn’t move after that.

The carriage continued on as the other thieves broke past the road toward a cops of trees. Gasping with every stride, Jeanbleau did not pursue the other thieves as he came upon the dead man with his bag.

Glancing after the carriage, he saw a woman cry out as she leaned out of the window, but then was quickly pulled back in by another as they continued trundling along the road at high speed.

His throat was still burning and he gasped desperately for air as he leaned over and rested his palms over his knees. He needed more exercise, otherwise he would be winded anytime he needed to pursue a foe or kill a monster.

As an adventurer, this was—at least he thought it was—unacceptable.

Let this be my first attempt at getting into proper shape.

Bending, he picked up his bag and searched it. The leather pouches hadn’t been opened or tempered with, which was good. His silver coins were still there as well.

Now for the man.

He grabbed the thief by the shoulder and rolled him over. He was definitely dead, as the shape of his skull had been… changed. His mouth hung open and so did his unseeing eyes.

Glancing at the wild man further, Jeanbleau realized how feral he truly was. He had no shoes or sandals and his sash was little more than a rough twine of rope, his once blue robes, now more soiled than a floor rag, were ripped and tattered.

With a heavy sigh, he realized the dawn horizon had just barely revealed itself. It had felt to Jeanbleau as if he had only just shut his eyes before being awakened by this thief and his allies, but in fact he had slept through most of the night.

I do not feel rested at all.

He closed his eyes shut tight and rubbed his face. As he opened his eyes, he caught something lying in the road up ahead in the direction that the carriage had rode off in.

He stalked toward the item and at once realized the woman within the coach had lost something. Was that why she had called out so suddenly?

As he approached the item, he realized it was an intricately-crafted leather hand bag with a pearlescent jewel on the front.

He picked it up and glanced about it. The color was white, pure like snow. It was an opulent hand bag. But with such a wealthy item, why had this carriage not had escorts?

Jeanbleau opened the bag and it clicked via a silver button with tiny inlaid filigree. Very fancy indeed. Within he found several sheefs of paper.

“Letters,” he muttered.

Gently shoving them back inside, he clicked the bottom shut again and regarded the item for a time. He could get some money for this—perhaps a lot of money.

Or I can read the letters within and find out who that woman was.

Surely she would want her item returned to her.

Deciding not to make a decision on the matter, Jeanbleau put the purse inside his bag, slung it to his back and set off along the road, stepping around the dead robber as he went.

But then he stopped and glanced back suddenly. What an ignoble death that was—to be starving and crazed. But it was not Jeanbleau’s responsibility to take care of this matter. However, he did decide to move the body.

He took the dead man by the wrist and dragged him off of the road. He didn’t want another carriage or rider to come across the body only to become beset by a fatal accident. Surely the lord or ruler—or whoever presided over this stretch of countryside godsdammit—would send some men to take care of the body.

As the morning horizon continued to brighten, Jeanbleau followed it along the road, holding to the straps at his front from his backpack. He had had no need to return to his camp, as he wore his heavy cloak and all of his possessions were within his bag.

It was still early morning when Jeanbleau crested one of the ever rising hills. But what sight greeted him was one that took his breath away.

With golden rays of sunlight streaming through the clouds and onto the city, Kita-ku Shinai was a reflection of some dream place. In a way, it was much like Ribeauvillé in that it was a city like none he had ever seen before.

The blue tiled roofs and the upturned eves near the corners were of a similar construction to the outpost he had come across when first arriving in these lands—when the goblins had attacked him and his escort of knights.

Even now, Jeanbleau wondered what Sir Ballzac was doing.

Being berated by Sir De Shan no doubt.

A flock of white birds with long wavy necks flew by over the sparkling water. It seemed the river came out of Kita-ku Shinai, dropping off into high falls below the city which climbed a rocky mountain.

On either side of the fall were large structures climbing into the sky with an arched bridge connecting them over the water. This must have been the main castle fortress of the city, as the other structures climbing up the hill, though impressive, were not as majestic as this structure hanging over the water with its many levels and squared eves with upturned corners.

Outside of the city walls were wet farmlands in small depressions of the earth with a kind of grain grass growing out of them. Situated around these watery farms were houses and huts on legs above the water.

In the fields Jeanbleau spotted workers and farmers, their voluminous trousers rolled up to their knees as they picked the plants with small scythes. As he strode up the road, he noticed their wide-brimmed conical hats made of straw.

There were other travellers on the road, some with donkeys and carts, interspersed with the odd carriage—and many, many others were on foot. Some of them looked to be travellers like himself, their bedrolls hanging from the tops of their packs.

He had thought the journey would take over three days, but it seemed Jeanbleau was less of a map reader than he thought, and even less of an experienced traveller. He just hoped that his adventuring skills weren’t indicative of his other apparent failings.

It was very early spring—more akin to late, late winter, and yet these crop growers were harvesting their yields. Jeanbleau knew next to nothing of farming and crops, but perhaps these grains were a colder-weather verity.

With very little coin left, he took note of his provisions within his bag. He had plenty of the food left, but could stock up on a little more just in case. What he decided to do was get a bedroll and perhaps a second cloak, a smaller, thinner one that could go over his armor first to keep him warm.

Glancing up into the mountains, he saw that there was ice and snow up there, which was evidentially near the area he needed to go. But not knowing the exact location of this Andahl in the mountains, it was possible that his hideout was in a pass where it was warmer.

Nonetheless, Jeanbleau needed to find out his exact location so he could find the princess and rescue her.

He passed through the gates, the entry toll tax costing him a silver and a half. Jeanbleau grumbled somewhat. Watching the last of his silvers be depleted was not an entertaining prospect.

As he wandered into Kita-ku Shinai, Jeanbleau glanced along the long line of food vendors. Many of them were selling fresh vegetables, grains and legumes, but not all the stalls were bulk foods. Some of them smoked with the burning of fried meat grease that filled his nostrils and set Jeanbleau’s mouth to watering.

He bought one savory dish provided to him in a painted and lacquered clay bowl. It consisted of the grains from the fields—a kind of winter rice—and atop that was a grilled chunk of bird meat dripping with grease and butter and then topped with a savory black sauce that was equally salty and sweet.

The juices from the meat and the sauce flavored the rice and he ate the local cuisine with gusto, though he had trouble using the strange sticks he had been supplied with for the eating. He used them as a sort of shovel to push the food out of the bowl and into his mouth. It was wrong. But trying to manipulate the strange eating utensils like the other diners proved to be impossible for Jeanbleau at this time. Some looked on him curiously, but said nothing.

Surely they know I’m a foreigner? Or was the word “gaijin” in these parts?

The price wasn’t bad either.

“Do you know where I can buy a bed roll an cloak?”

The man behind the vending table with the meats and rice bowls looked at him and muttered something Jeanbleau could not understand.

With a nod, he moved away, searching for anything that resembled a clothier. But there were none outside. Here, the vendors were selling food near the main gates. He moved further into the city and watched as local Kokumin, Machazellian and demihumans alike strode the streets all going about their separate business.

To be sure, this city was a Kokumin city through and through, as the people in the streets made up the vast majority of the city’s occupants.

A woman with a white-painted face and red near the center of her lips glanced at him as she stepped through the slightly muddied cobblestones on strange wooden sandals that kept her feet off the ground.

Her clothes were also another foreign curiosity to Jeanbeau, consisting of shimmer green materials and floral patterns. Her hair had been done up in approximation of a fish’s back fin, or was it supposed to look like the strange half-circle fronds she was carrying?

As he stared at her, she flicked her hand and the stick in her left hand snapped open, revealing another half-circle frond. By the look on her face, she didn’t much like the way he was staring and so he moved off.

He wasn’t here to start trouble, and wanted none if he could avoid it.

The streets were noisy, with criers and hagglers and men moving sacks of grains. There looked to be a sort of open auction house on his left where a crowd of people bid for materials.

Jeanbleau left this area and ventured further into the city and under an arched bridge—much like the ones he could see connecting the castle over the bridge.

As he went under the arch, he saw people crossing it, some of them women with parasols despite the lack of hot sun in this early morning. His realization of this caused a mild chill to run over his body from the cold.

I need that smaller cloak.

He glanced about as he stepped through the streets. The ground back here, though cobbled like the entrance, was not as filled with dirt, and drier besides, as the overhanging roofs from the tall structures provided a lot of cover from the rain, and what’s more, there were drains in this area, probably leading to the river.

A fushi glanced at him toothily as he passed the woman by. She was wearing a demure dress with some food stains on her apron. Was there food shops back here? He turned down another alley to his right and noticed how narrow it was.

Though it wasn’t dark.

And there were people back here, eating and buying things from the little vendors who probably lived in these buildings. The eaves overhanging their shop windows and doors created a kind of overhead canopy and red and orange lanterns provided light to see by.

One by one he glanced into the shops, realizing most of them were food. Another was some kind of raw textiles shop with rolls of fabric and other materials.

A woman called out to him. “Hey! Hey you!”

Her accent was thick, but Jeableau still understood her. She had tattoos on her forearms and pins holding up her hair. She was probably in her middle years. She gestured to him with her palm facing outward as she tapped it with her forefinger drawing circles over it.

A fortune teller.

Jeanbleau shook his and she threw up her hands in silent frustration as he moved on. In the next shop, which didn’t look like it sold anything other than strange black and wood-lacquered plaques with intricate Kokumin inscriptions that he couldn’t read. Inside, two men argued, gesturing aggressively with their hands over several of the inscriptions.

He paid them no mind.

Jeanbleau continued through the alley and seeing nothing of interest up ahead, cut to his left and ventured further in where he found a clothier, but her items were not of his needing.

However, he was getting closer to his destination—he could tell that much, as more and more of the shops sold fabric items, shirts, shoes and sandals.

He came to one shop with a little sign jutting into the alley with tiny lamps hanging overhead providing enough light to read by.

ADVENTURER KU-RO-BING

Jeanbleau peeked inside and saw a woman there. She looked to be a little younger than himself. As she smiled up at him a man further in busied himself with some task.

“Hello,” he said. “Do you speak my language?”

“Ah, hai!” she said. “Yes, yes!”

He glanced about at the jackets, the cloaks. “Do you have bed rolls? Something warm?”

“Ah, yes!” she moved over to another little section and showed him the rolls. She unfurled one for him. “Made from sky sheep wool, you know? Bery, bery wohm!”

He touched the materials. They were thick, the wool fibrous and yet soft. He glanced at the others, but quickly realized she was showing him her premium product. “How much?”

“Only”—she said, pointing emphatically at him—“thirty silvers!”

He nodded. “And your cloaks? I need something to keep me warm under my rain cloak.”

“Ah,” she said nodding with a big smile as her husband came forward. He began to assist her and he went to the rack of cloaks. “This is very good,” he said, his accent not nearly as thick as his wife’s. He touched the material to show Jeanbleau.

Jeanbleau touched it, rubbed his fingers over the material. It was too soft. “I need something a little more sturdy.”

They looked at him oddly.

“Strong, yes?” he said as he mimed ripping the under cloak.

“Ah!” the man said. “Yes.”

The wife brought another over. They both wore a sort of blue tunic, but hers was long ending in ankle-length skirts. Not a rich couple to be sure, but Jeanbleau wondered if they were saving money in this little out-of-the-way shop.

This second pick was much firmer with stronger materials. Not as warm, to be sure. But since he would be wearing it under his larger oiled cloak, it would be fine. With a nod he said, “Oui, tres bien! Very good.”

He took off his outer cloak and put this one on over his metal-studded armor. It was thin, so wouldn’t bulk him up too much as he put his other cloak on over it to feel how it fit him.

Moving his arms, Jeanbleau stretched about as if he were swinging his sword. It was good—it fit well and didn’t constrain him. What’s more, the added layer of warmth would serve him well.

“How much?”

The woman smiled with a nod. “Twenty-five.”

Fifty silvers for the two items. He would be left with some forty left. Not a lot of money—of which some of that would go toward more dried meats and breads—things that he could carry or even smash without worry.

If Jeanbleau had been intending to travel for much longer, he would need cook pots and grains to boil over his fires. Meat was nutritious, and so were breads of a more wholesome variety, of which Jeanbleau didn’t much like the taste of.

He was used to the top crust on the whitest bread possible.

Now things were different. He was no noble, treated to the highest quality of over spiced foods and bleached flours. He clinked the coins one by one over the desk and paid them the fifty silvers from inside his money bag.

Perhaps he should attach his coin pouch to his belt so that if his bag were to be stolen again, he wouldn’t be without money. Without survival items or money, this “adventuring” or “being-an-exile-in-a-strange-land” business would be a serious problem.

They took the coins happily and nodded their thanks, pressing their hands together and bowing. He nodded in an approximation of a minimal bow of his own homeland and then set to attaching his bedroll to the top of his backpack.

Once it was securely fastened, Jeanbleau stepped out of the ADVENTURER KU-RO-BING, glanced back once to the smiling shopkeepers and headed on his way.

As he left Kita-ku Shinai, a parade of dancers and flag bearers moved through the streets, pounding drums and thrumming harps as flutists played a lively tune. Onlookers watched from every direction and from on high.

There were men and women marching in artistic steps as a palanquin with some odd items of gold and silver were moved through the street.

Jeanbealu did not know what kind of festival this was, but he enjoyed the aesthetic as a large bell sounded from some distant structure of twirling pillars and golden statues, surely making the heads of many glance up from even outside of the city.

Once he rescued the Pumpkin Princess of Ilth, he would have to come back to Kita-ku Shinai some time to simply explore and learn more about the city. The people here—like in Ribeauvillé—were not hostile or dismissive.

Ōkina Basho was nothing like what they said back home in Machazelle.

And why is that? What is the reason why this place is believed to be a festering pit of low lives, murderers and endless conflict with slathering monsters?

He bought some more meat and bread and left through the city gates. Like Ribeauvillé, the gate was secure with guards on the ground and in the turrets overlooking the gate, many of them with tabards and armored vests and pikes.

It was here where he went to the guard house and asked if they spoke his language. Two of the guards did and Jeanbleau revealed his map, asking where his quest was located.

Andahl is on Mount Odan,” one man said and pointed directly on the map. Jeanbleau took a quill from the ink pot on the table and marked it.

“You will fight him?” the other guard asked, a look of concern on his face.

“If I have to,” Jeanbleau said. “The Pumpkin Princess needs help.”

One of them snorted.

“What is funny?”

“Nothing.”

“Thank you for the help.”

He set out and after a short time took a deep breath as he glanced back at Kita-ku Shinai. The sun on his face warmed his skin. He wanted to simply close his eyes and sleep in this warmness.

But he had a quest.

Why had they laughed, though? So strange.

Jeanbleau set forth, making his way toward Mount Odan above the foothills. It wasn’t far, as he suspected before—but was probably wrong about the distance from the city. He might be there at the end of the day.

Perhaps he could sneak past Andahl and rescue this princess who so desperately needed help. Perhaps since she had been waiting so long she would afford him a kind of bonus? And why had she been captured by this man in the first place? Was she adventuring in a place she should not have been?

Perhaps he could assist her in her adventuring needs. If she was a princess, surely she was rich. But where was her family? Where was the castle she came from or the lands she ruled over?

Her quest seemed rather like she was alone in the world.

An odd thing to be sure.