Strange Odor

In a worn-down shop by the eastern walls, the rhythmic scraping of metal against metal could be heard. Gragas, the quartermaster of the shop was making sure his gear was up to standard, and that meant rust was unacceptable. Even the slightest speck of red could turn his new, luxurious salary back to the penny-counting earnings he used to have. On the other hand, however, were he to inform the Jinho's about any mischievous types who had a knack for avoiding the law, his salary would increase. A game of precision. There were new quotas he must see to fulfill and even newer opportunities he would not miss out on.

You see, Gragas was a man who had a passion for wealth. Perhaps it was because throughout all his life he had never felt the girthy weight of a gold pouch planted in his palm and known it to be his own, and perhaps engrossed in the hope that one day he might be able to own a house without holes, cracks, or split floorboards, his longing for that which he could not have grew: envy. But regardless of wherefrom this envy came, one thing was clear to all who knew his secret: it controlled him past all pride and honor. For the right price, he would certainly betray any acquaintance, ally, or friend—even family if he had one. Considering his complete and total shameless love for money above all else, you could almost think him a dwarf, if only his stature were about half of what it was.

Gragas put down the now clean, custom-made metal weapon he was scraping rust off of earlier. It was not just any old slashing or stabbing weapon, for it was a firearm. A large, compact pistol with a sort of handle that covered your forearm like an oversized rapier guard. The ammunition it needed was much too large for commercialization, so they were also custom-made. The entire thing was all in all quite volatile, and only a fool would be willing to use something like this. Only a fool, thought Gragas.

Gragas heard the door of the shack swing open dramatically before a chest-bare, muscular man entered, needing to bend forward so as not to hit his head on the way in.

"It's awfully stuffy in here, you should keep the door open. Also, I don't think it is good of you to 'hang' the thieves," said the man to Gragas, referring to the sign on the outside.

"Ain't your shop, ain't your thieves. If you're only here to loiter around, then you can get the hell out, otherwise, what do you need?" responded Gragas confidently: his chest high and his chin even higher. He was a part of the higher-ups now, so he was not going to let some hooligan tear up his shop (even if it was already partially torn up).

"I need my weapons, quartermaster," said Soran as he entered as well, hitting his head on the way in. "And you really need to remove that door header, or I'll have to stop coming here, I'll end up with a concussion!"

Without warning, Gragas was taken aback. He did not expect Soran to return so quickly, as he had only been gone for barely an hour or so. Even though Gragas' confidence had grown, Soran was able to intimidate him more than any other man could. They had a rough history of ups and downs, a sort of tug of war between business partners, old acquaintances, and an assailant-victim relationship. One thing was sure: Gragas never wanted to get on Soran's bad side.

"Oh, a concussion! Yes! You wouldn't want that!" said Gragas before a fleeting wisp of air escaped his lungs in the form of a strained chuckle.

Monkey, who had entered first, began touching and fiddling with random pieces of equipment in the shop. Gragas was about to jeer at him, but before he could say anything at all his attention was drawn to Soran who had sprung up to the counter. Soran quickly scanned the wooden top and noticed his weapon laying there cleaned of all rust.

"Is it finished?"

"Well, yes, it is finished. But I have not yet cleared the rust off your ammunition, Soran sir," explained Gragas as rubbed his hands together like a housefly, but Soran seemed to be in a good mood.

"Then you owe me one later, quartermaster," said Soran as he placed a golden ornament in front of Gragas. "Pure gold: worth more than this run-down shack off yours, I bet." He grabbed the pistol and tucked it somewhere hidden at his side with a mechanical click, behind his cloak. "I'll get the cartridges next time since I have some spare ones on me."

Gragas looked befuddled at the ornament of gold. It glimmered as faint light seeping in from small cracks in the ceiling reflected off the metal, making the surrounding furniture take on its golden hue. For a moment, he found himself standing in the Grand Halls of Kings in Rama Wisteria. Seeing his own face staring back at him from the ornament, he saw not a crude quartermaster situated in some crooked back alley. Nay, for he saw a great tradesman of fine riches. "Lord Gragas", he thought to himself, and it rang soothingly in his thoughts, like a lullaby. He reckoned that fate had finally come with winds of fortune in his favor. He imagined that it was already set in stone: even destiny itself must bow before his inevitable greatness. He had to forcefully pull his gaze upwards, away from the cool metal he held in his hands to give his gratitude to Soran. But as he looked forward, he found his little shop empty. In truth, however, were he to thank Soran for handing him such a reward, he wouldn't have been thanking Soran more than he would have been thanking the very gods. Therefore, Gragas gave his "thank you" in a low voice: a voice he had never once commanded before. The confident voice of a dignified lord. A new loyal servant to all that is golden.

Meanwhile—

Passing through alleyways aplenty, scaling stairs leading to lofty terraces upon rooftops, finding themselves having circled back, to then descending stairs leading to dark and shady corners of the city, and finally repeating this routine a couple of times, Soran and Monkey found themselves quite lost among the many streets.

"I'm certain the way to the main road was to go through here, up the stairs by the small coffee shop, turn left, turn right, jump down from the little cobble wall, then pass through the uncomfortable and cramped tunnel, but it seems as if we've now ended up in this suspicious-looking underground den of sorts. . ." pondered Soran out loud to himself as he inspected the pseudo-underground area that had been built into the ground. There were many interconnecting torchlit tunnels built out of driftwood and sand, and in each stretch of tunnel were at least a couple of dark and narrow rooms behind iron-hinged doors. Strange odors wafted out of most of the rooms, except for the ones without any cracks or windows. Monkey sniffed at the air and spoke.

"Smells like they're burning plants of some kind in there. And, by the way, where are we? Sorry, I have not been paying any attention, as I was fiddling with this metal thing I picked up from that shed earlier." He waved the 'metal thing' around, showcasing it to Soran before tossing it behind him like rubbish. "Besides, I imagined you would know the way. So far, you haven't exactly been the greatest guide."

"That's not a-" Soran stammered as he reached his hand out in futility when Monkey tossed the 'metal thing', which Soran knew was a rather expensive tool for taking precise measurements. However, he put aside his mild irritation and simply just exhaled, lowering his hand to his waist. "I didn't mean to get lost. In fact, I grew up in this town. However, since all construction here keeps deteriorating so quickly, they're always rebuilding things from the ground up, so every time I return it always looks a little bit different from what I remember. I've noticed your senses are rather honed—how about you put them to use and help me find a way back up to the surface?"

Monkey snapped his fingers as he pointed towards Soran before exclaiming,

"That's a good point! Typically I'd be able to smell my way out of here, but the weird odor is messing up my nose. I'll try listening, see if I can't hear the whistling of wind."

He proceeded to kneel down to the ground and put his hand behind his right ear. Then silence took hold of the tunnels. Soran stood and waited, and in the silence, he started to hear things better: movements from inside the narrow, dark rooms, distant coughing, inhaling, woodfire crackling. He realized that they had stumbled upon a den for substance abusers. What Soran also realized, thinking back to what Monkey said about "burning plants", was that the substance they were using was most likely what was commonly known as "berserker shrooms". It was a powerful hallucinogenic that historically has turned users rabid. The reason the rooms were clad in darkness must have been for that very reason, thought Soran: so they wouldn't attack any passersby. But the only passersby down here in this hidden dungeon would be other substance users, who know they must keep quiet. Soran who grew up in River Valley as a child kept feeling disassociated with the it every time he returned. The feeling struck him suddenly: the feeling of having no home inside of your home. The feeling of betrayal, perhaps? Or abandonment. If the redevelopment plan was able to go through, then perhaps he would finally be able to return to a River Valley that he recognized.

Interrupting his brooding, the sound of intense shuffling movement came from inside the dark rooms, and in but a moment, a cacophony of fists being slammed upon doors repeatedly echoed in the tunnels.

"They're trying to get out of their holes to sink their teeth into our flesh! We have to get out of here!" cried Soran as he grasped at Monkey who seemed unresponsive and sluggish to his eyes.

"Ahm, sorry Soran, my thoughts started feeling a bit hazy, and before I knew it I couldn't focus."

"It doesn't matter, we've got to dash! I don't want to be known as the one who went and slaughtered a dozen addict commoners!" Soran yanked on Monkey who hesitated. His words and spoken demeanor seemed to differ from his actions whicj abided by a mind of clarity. Soran's head hurt, and he had no time to ponder. He kept yanking and eventually Monkey followed suite. Multiple doors could be heard breaking from their hinges, and then the tunnels rumbled of dozen bare sprinting feet patting hard against the dry ground.

As they ran through the confusing tunnels, bumping into walls and leaving behind trails of dust clouds, a door in front of them flung open, and there stood an emaciated man who looked more corpse than alive. The crazed man spun his head around in multiple directions before locking onto Soran. "Damnit!" was the only thing that managed to come out of Soran's mouth before another crazed, but significantly bigger and more muscular man slammed into the other one, pinning him against the wall and biting into his throat. Blood gushed and pooled onto the ground, and not before long was the strange fungi odor replaced by the tinge of sickeningly sweet iron.

Soran looked backward and saw into the dimly lit tunnels, the silhouettes past the sand clouds attacking each other viciously; distant screams and shrieks of maniacs in pain reverberated in his ears. He understood his mistake. This wasn't about him needing to put down a few stragglers in self-defense, no, they were crazed maniacs; they were going to kill anything they saw. It was going to be a bloodbath unless someone stopped them. He looked to Monkey, but with no hope, as he just stood there waving his hand, calling Soran's name. Soran realized Monkey must've been affected by the fumes.

Soran steeled himself. At least he was going to try to subdue as many as he could, even if he knew that it would most likely be a futile attempt.

He came up behind the muscular man who seemed to feast on the now lifeless sack of bones and put his arms in a stranglehold around the man's neck. The crazed man, however, had inhuman strength and was thus able to remove Soran's arms. Holding his grip yet firm, he swung Soran like a weighted cloth, slamming him into the wooden wall which cracked and caved in, wherein sand flowed upon Soran, covering him almost completely.

From the flowing sand, like a desert devil, sprung a furious Soran who proceeded to grapple the crazed man and fling him into the wall as he shouted, "This is how you do it!". The man went limp with the upper half of his body lodged into the wooden, sandy wall.

Soran tossed his gaze toward the near carnage. Now he could hear the echoing screams shake the very structure of this place. In truth, there was nothing in his power that could salvage this situation, and thus he cursed himself silently for getting so humiliatingly lost in his own hometown.

Tugging at Monkey, he tried to convince him to get out of here, but Monkey wasn't even answering his calls at this point. Soran had not yet been affected by the potent magical wisps of smoke, so why was someone mighty like Monkey affected? It must be that Monkey's senses were not just honed, but fundamentally sensitive. "Perhaps that's why he ended up like this," thought Soran, looking at Monkey who had not yet grasped the reality of the situation in his stupor.

This discovery presented another issue, though. "What if Monkey became aggressive like these crazies?" The thought bounced around in Soran's mind, drowning out all else. It almost sent him into a panic—if Monkey rampaged throughout the city, there may be no one who could match him, let alone stop him—the ringing sound of a distant, shrill bell brought his attention back to reality. It came from the direction of the nearby carnage, and suddenly, the chaotic noise was stilled.

He could see, past the clouds of sand that were slowly settling, a figure of a man approaching calmly, with a hanging bell in one hand, and what seemed to be an incense holder in the other.