Ash. The Legends of the Nameless World. Progression Gamelit Story by Kirill Klevanski (essential reading .txt) 📗

“An ordinary florist, huh?” he said to himself, wondering what kind of a monster he had just met on the usually quiet and calm road. “Perhaps the winds of change truly are blowing...”

322.A.D. Age of the Drunken Monk, 26th day of Tamir, Middle Kingdom, Mystria

A Week Later

The wonderful city of Mystria, the capital of the Middle Kingdom, a paradise on Earth for both the Ernites and the Ternites. The smell that hung in the air wasn’t that of horse dung or trash as was the case in other capitals, but of perfumes, spiced coffee or tea, brought from the far East.

As for the buildings... Oh, the buildings! A wonder to be seen! Each decorated with carvings and glass windows, housing the kind and hospitable people of Mystria.

One could always hear music echoing through the streets. There was always some festivity. There was always dance, the smell of tart wine and shouts of unbridled joy that often mixed with the ringing of the temple bells. The temples, majestic and grandiose, with towers so high that you couldn’t see their golden domes even if you leaned your head back as far as your body allowed you to.

As for the fine arts, Mystria was the home of the most famous Mystria Theather, upon the stage of which many famous actors had performed, and in the seats of which the highest of nobility sat! The king and the queen included!

And speaking of the ruling couple, it would be disrespectful not to say a couple of words about them. The king, in whose beard had only recently appeared a couple of gray hairs, was a wise ruler. Strict, but also fair, he watched over his kingdom with the love of a farmer tending to his crops. He didn’t like wars; in his fifteen years of rule, he had only once engaged in war with his eastern neighbor. After that, no one dared to raise their sword in the Middle Kingdom.

His wife, Queen Elassia, the daughter of King Edmund of the United Kingdom of Dabin, was a woman of unprecedented beauty. No artist, no matter how skilled they were, could ever catch her beauty on canvas. No poet could ever find the words to describe her. The gracious queen, even though she had long past thirty years of age, retained much of her youthful blush, forcing the ambassadors to prostrate themselves at her knees and kiss her hand in admiration.

 However, despite the fact that this city was incredibly beautiful, we won’t talk about it.

Near the edge of the city was a tavern, a famous gathering place of many adventurers and mercenaries and other morally questionable members of the society.

Chapter 9

T hat evening, under the light of the brightest star in the sky, the Rusty Cleaver was noisier than usual. There were toasts, drunken giggles, joyful shouts, laughter, and merry conversations. The festive mood was, luckily, uninterrupted by the tavern’s guard, the famous fist-fighter called Cleaver.

But in the midst of all the fun and joy, at one of the tables on the first floor, the cheapest of the three that served as a dining area (the top two were reserved for lodging), was a strange group. One of them was a very young man of either seventeen or eighteen years. Such young patrons weren’t an uncommon sight as the terna was usually discovered in a person at the age of twelve.

One of the members of the group, a tall and broad-shouldered man, hung his heavy musket and longbow on his chair. The bow was so big that it’d take three strong men to pull its string.

His friend next to him was of the same height, but his narrow shoulders made him look shorter and slimmer. This, however, didn’t prevent him from carrying two swords, which was a rather rare sight.

The last man was stocky and short, but so wide that he almost looked like a square. He held a heavy shield and a mace, but he had packed his armor into the big bag next to his chair.

As for the ladies of the group, they were a sight to behold. The older of the two had hung her sheathed saber on the back of her chair. Her wavy hair was gathered in a tight bun, and her arms and shoulders were adorned with scars. Her dark eyes, although smiling, looked tenaciously at anyone who came too close to their table.

In comparison to all of them, the other girl looked like a gentle flower hidden in a thorn bush. She kept her gaze on the table, awkwardly tugging at her lush, chestnut curls. Thin fingers gripped the handle of her staff, which looked so small and dainty that one could easily mistake it for a wand.

The company was barely noticeable in the dimly lit and packed corner of the tavern. Had anyone said that they were a famous group of adventurers about whom more than one song had been written, no one would’ve believed them. Known as the Wandering Stumps, the group was known for having completed several particularly dangerous missions issued by the king himself. This was a great honor and an even greater responsibility.

“Agh!” The swordsman snarled and slammed his mug down on the table. “We’ve been campin’ here for a month now! The others have probably reached the forest, hell, perhaps even the marshes! And we’re just sittin’ here and pickin’ our noses.”

“Calm down,” said the stocky man. “Mary knows what she’s doing. Don’t you, Mary?”

“And what if I don’t?” Mary smiled, eyes glimmering.

“Well, then we’re f―”

The archer stuffed his friend’s face with a bun of bread, shutting him up. He had moved with such speed that it looked like the bun had flown into the swordsman’s mouth on its own.

“Not in front of the children,” he said, glancing at