[Izark]

‘One, two, stop, drop, beer and sausages.’



‘Back, forth, left, back and wine with some pasta, the basil is smelling amazing.’ as he took in a whiff before setting the plate and cup. Walking back to the counter Izark sighed, wiping his brow with a piece of spare cloth as small pearls of sweat formed above his brow. Some smaller pearls had joined forces at the edges, forming a larger one and slowly trickling downwards before he caught them in his cloth, ending their march to the ground.



There was little time to catch a breath nor was there any rest for the wicked. The tavern was damp and warm, men, women and the occasional child filled the benches and tables. Izark had opened all windows, as well as the door, hoping to create a small breeze in the crowded tavern. The relief he had sought was yet to become noticeable as the body heat of all the patrons as well as the oven and stove did little to reduce the heat.



Izark barely had time to take a sip from his cup, the cool water giving him some comfort, before the next order came up. Another pasta and red wine, followed by a dish of fish; steamed and sprinkled with lemon. A simple dish but on this warm evening it was quite a good call. The choice of beer with fish made Izark second guess the sophistication of the one who ordered this barbaric combination. Fish and beer was fine, but one should at least have the decency to make it fish and chips, washed down with a cool beer. Not a steamed fish, sprinkled with herbs and lemon juice.



Feeling somewhat disappointed he continued his next set of dancing steps. Slide to the left, and slight to the right as one of the children ran between the tables, nearly bumping into Izark as it ran past.



“... safer on the short...” Izark overheard some folks talking, “... risk is not worth... No, it has... stable...” Another voice started to responded, words getting lost in the noises of the tavern, “... harder to acquire... risky but worth...” dodging and elderly man who may or may not have had too much alcohol and too little water or food to counter it, or maybe the old man was old and creaking at the seams with age. Izark had very little time to contemplate though as his next obstacle was a young gentleman taking out a chair for his date or mother, though she looked quite young to be his mother Izark contemplated. ‘Odd fellow.’ Izark thought as he closed in on his destination.



The conversation he had heard was from his mark, two interesting fellows, neither handsome nor too ugly. Otherwise, they could not be more opposites. Izark faintly recalled their names, though it had been a while since he had seen them.



“Here you go Anto... what was it again? Antoine? Anthony?” he asked with a grin, trying his best to pass it off as a joke, though he genuinely forgot; deftly placing the fish and beer in front of the larger man. “You do know that this type of dish is best served with red wine and perhaps some cheese and white wine for dessert?” Izark asked cautiously.



The hazel eyes of the big man turned even darker as he started cussing at Izark, “You-ah youngster, you don't appreciate the stranger things in life! Also, it is ah, Antonio, Antione is my cousin in the south. You knew this, you smart monkey.” The man cussed, his thin, greasy, and grey hair jumping up and down as he went, adding the handshaking for effect. The marks left on his face made him look quite intimidating, though Izark luckily had found out that the man was more of a big, ugly teddy bear than a butcher, though he would fit the description better for the latter. “Now if you have time to be a monkey, you have time to work! Get!” the man explained as took up his utensils and slowly started to carve his fish into smaller pieces.



Opposite of the man sat another interesting figure. His hair was thinning, especially at the top, his nose resembled more of the beak of a hawk than a nose and his blue eyes looked as if they could pierce metal. Those cold eyes were staring intently into a small booklet, following the flow of words, like by line, shifting left to right, down and left to right again. “A new book, Vincenzo?” Izark asked as he placed the wine and pasta in front of the man. “And his name you do remember, you cheeky chipmunk.” Antonio proclaimed, jabbing a piece of his fish with his fork.



“It is, don't tease Antonio too much, he had a tougher trip than usual.” Vincenzo said, not lifting his eyes from his page. “Which is what you're really after, aren't you? Our tales from the road.” he said, slowly closing his booklet and looking Izark straight in the eyes.



“Euh, well, I should...” Izark stammered, his face turning red as if he was caught red-handed with a hand in the cookie jar at grandma's place, his eyes shooting back and forth, all over the place. “If it wouldn't be too much trouble, please?” Izark stammered softly. Despite the colourful clothing Vincenzo wore, he was the scary one, especially with those eyes of his.



With a soft touch Vincenzo placed the book to his left on the table and took a small sip of the wine, eyes still locked and the frightened Izark. "Well, start by telling us what you recall from our last conversation. I do seem to recall you had a quick grasp on the subjects at hand.” Vincenzo coldly said as he started rolling up some pasta.



With a slow and deliberate motion Vincenzo moved his fork to his mouth, making certain he spilled nothing, nor having his elbows touch the table. Peering over Izark could see a white napkin folded over his lap. Looking back up Izark could see Vincenzo staring intently at him, slowly chewing with his mouth closed. When it came to table manners the merchants couldn't be more apart. Antonio chewing visibly, Vincenzo slow and deliberate.



“Ah, yes, I, I think I remember at least some bits.” Izark stammered. “The first rule is to make a profit wherever you can. The second rule was to buy low and sell high, but don't hold on to goods too long.” Izark continued, slowly tapping the corner of his mouth and he thought about what the men had told him before. “The third rule would be... to... ehm... be fair and make friends with your trade partners. I think Antionio explained that if you buy certain goods from farmers it is very important to listen to them and sometimes even cut them some slack. They remember those things and as a result they might be more inclined to deal with you the next time.”



Taking a deep breath Izark continued: “You told him you disagreed on that point when it came to nobles, which was rule number eight I think you called it. Know who you're dealing with. Number six would be to hold on to your cards as long as you can, concede when you must or when you're outplayed. Sometimes take the hit and come back twice as hard.” Izark continued, quickly looking back if there were any orders needing to be served. If Belladonna found him slacking off she'd feed him cold porridge for a week. Bricks would be a more tasteful meal and far more humane, as the thought sent a shiver down his spine.



“Still scared of the lady of the house, now aren't you?” asked Antonio gently, despite his horrid looks he hid a giant teddy bear underneath, which occasionally came out into the light. “If she'd catch me slacking off, as she would call it, she'll have me eat cold porridge for a week. But I'm not slacking off, I'm learning valuable information, which is also rule number five. Before you scold me again, Vincenzo.” Izark responded quickly, adding the last half of the sentence post-haste in an attempt to avoid the next bit of scolding.



“Very well young fellow. But you had forgotten rule number ten. Never let them see you're scared, hurried or uninterested. You're a hunter and the profit is your prey.” Vincenzo spoke coldly, looking at his plate of diminishing pasta.



“Y-yes, though I prefer this to cold porridge for a week. If you could excuse me for a moment, I'll see if Belladonna has some more work for me.” Izark said, turning around, though before he made his first step towards the bar he did turn his head around to Vincenzo: “Which is one of Antonio's rules as well: if there is work to be done, there is no time to be lazy.” and with that he moved towards the counter, hoping Belladonna hadn't seen him talking with the travelling merchants for too long.

WC: 1513

[Izark]

“Rule number 235!” the sound shot through Izark's head as thunder as he shot up in the grass. A cool spring sun was shining on his face through the leaves, a gentle wind caressing his cheeks as he rubbed his index fingers gently in the corners of his eyes.



‘What a nightmare, Antonio the strict, teaching all the damned rules in the book even when I'm having a nap. Though he would scold me if he caught me having a nap.’ Izark thought a he stretched his back and slowly standing up. With swift movements he patted down his clothes, making the attire fit a bit better around his body.



“Onwards to the practical testing of Izark's condensed guide to economics. Rule number one: All money acquired should be either spent on good food or invested to generate more money. These funds should then be invested in food or more money making” Izark mumbled to himself, mimicking Vincenzo's stern look and voice as he conjured up his own rule. ‘Maybe I should write these jokes down, sell the book and get to living the good life.’



Slowly moving forwards Izark pulled up his map. According to his estimate he should be about twenty minutes walking from the mountains where he hoped to gain quite some metals to sell. To make things even worse: Both Antonio and Vincenzo had drilled into him that if he had the skills to create his own wares he should do so.



Every time a product switched hands the price increased, or so they had told him. Izark had contemplated for a while what they had meant with that but eventually it dawned onto him, and it all made sense. It had been so obvious, as if one was looking for their glasses on the top of their head, unable to find them anywhere.



Taking a deep breath and starting his stroll towards the big, looming mountains ahead Izark went back to his thoughts, using his spear more as a walking cane than an actual weapon. He'd have to fix that as well at some point, perhaps he should keep a few of the ores he'd get to upgrade his gear. That would not be such a bad idea actually, as it would save him money, he'd otherwise had to give to others but could now spend on himself. Izark knew exactly what he'd get for the money he'd save on this: A nice plate of Belladonna's pasta. She'd probably also praise him for going out after such a long time, maybe she'd even be worried about him and give him a pat on his head. The thought made him feel warm and his cheeks started blushing a bright and vibrant red shade.



'Starting at the core: to create objects one needs raw materials. The cheapest way is to gather these materials yourself. There is some risk involved, but no extra expenses need to be made. It pretty much boils down to spending time and being lucky.’ the soft, warm grass softly crunched under his feet, gently rising again once he had taken another step, freeing the grass from his oppressive boots.



Despite the breeze and the soft sun it was fairly warm outside as small droplets of sweat started forming on Izark's brow. It wasn't enough to get drenched, nor was it uncomfortable, it was just warmer than he'd prefer for a stroll to the mountains.



‘The next step would be to use the raw resources into processed goods. These would be worth more because they had been processed. There was less risk involved, but time still remained an investment.’ his thoughts continued as his left hand gently checked his water pouch. It was still there and the volume had remained the same, which meant it wasn't leaking. He felt thirsty, but it would be a risk to drink now. He'd only go about halfway; the sun was at its peak and there might be a chance of there not being any places he could fill his water pouch again. And so Izark decided to bear with the thirst until he reached the mountains or a watering point.



‘Processed goods can be turned into usable items or parts. Again, the step increases the value even more. It makes perfect sense. If I keep this in mind and don't forget to buy or gather the fuel and components, I should be hauling in the big plates soon enough.’ Izark though, imagining a table filled with all sorts of delicious food, served with good beverages and served by a pretty girl. Grinning from ear to ear he marched onwards, dodging small rocks and twigs along his way.



Above his head small, white clouds drifted gently on the breeze, being in no particular rush to go anywhere; just floating and being there. Slowly along his way Izark had the feeling that he was slowly walking through a portal, which led him to a universe of serene and peaceful greeting cards that folks used to send on holiday. His surroundings were so quiet he almost stumbled down a slope as his eyes fixated on the hillside before him, which led him to cuss at his own inattentiveness whilst quickly scouring his surroundings for any potential threats around him.



As an assassin he would be able to dodge quite deftly, his weakness would be the fact that he had almost zero offensive spells. He could drop a mine or two, goad the monsters in running over it and stabbing them whilst they were blinded but that was all he could do. At least for the moment. Which left our poor rogue in such a miserable fate of evasive actions rather than battle stations. Izark mused to himself, stretching his arms to the sky and letting his hands conclude their short journey at the back of his head. Slowly but steadily, he encroached on his mark. He had described the place as mountains, though in the Italian countryside it was just a stone hill with some outcrops of larger rocks scattering the surroundings.



‘The fruits of thy labour are what you make for yourself. Each drop of sweat means I did something, I learned something’ Izark thought to himself, wiping his brow as he came across the first hill; scarcely any rocks of worth were littering the surroundings. Most of the rocks in his vicinity were hardly larger than his fist, but they were becoming more numerous as he went onwards towards the larger hill.



The small rocks seemed rather dull and porous to Izark, maybe some toad stone or something akin to it. He was no miner nor expert on rocks but these did not seem to hold any worth other than throwing at someone you did not like.



Venturing forth Izark continued thinking about Antonio's remarks. If he really wanted something, he should work hard for it. Work himself up a real sweat or do something else he could do. Those who lacked the brawn should use the brain Antionio had said, slapping his enormous belly whilst laughing. The sight had left Izark quite startled and at a loss for words, especially as the big man started slamming his fist on the table whilst laughing. The sight became even worse if you took in the account of the leaner, hawk-nosed Vincenzo who seemed to be ignoring his table partner, only bothering to lift his cup to save the contents but otherwise peering into the abyss of his book.



They made a silly pair, one only dealt with farmers, the other only dealt with the middle or upper classes. The two appeared to be quite good friends. Though whether circumstances had brought them together or there was an unwritten, or untold, rule amongst merchants Izark could only guess. He did know that after he was caught eavesdropping on them, they had decided to give him a thorough scolding for eavesdropping and as punishment made him wait them for the rest of the evening. They even went as far as forcing him to listen to their tales of merchandising. In the end Izark learned quite a big deal about the merchant life in this world.



Kicking a rock with his left foot he continued thinking back, absently following the rock as it flew and skipped once, twice and ricochets off another before slowly rolling to a halt in the grass a few feet away. Antonio had been rather cheerful, but Vincenzo was this stern and unforgiving teacher which scared the heck out of poor Izark. Vincenzo was also a firm believer in the rules of the trade as he called them. Izark considered them to be well known amongst the traders but as Vincenzo went on, and on, and on even more, Izark had surmised that it was Vincenzo who presented them as the rules of the trade, but in fact they were his own.



In essence the fifty rules; which Vincenzo claimed to be so important as well as claiming he told fifty of them that evening, were the very basic things of common sense. Don't spend money you don't have, sell high, buy low. Be charming and don't fall for the charmers. It made Izark frown as he wandered the lush, littered with rocks slopes of what was supposed to be a hillside in digital, fantasy Italy, just outside of Rome. Though for immersion purposes they had called it all differently.


WC: 1572

[Izark]

It took Izark at least another thirty minutes to find a decent place to start looking for valuable rocks. The tiny pebbles had become fists of stone, followed by rocks that became bigger and bigger up to the point they were boulders the size of which you would find in action films or role-playing games involving traps and other mechanisms that would harm the protagonists. These were of a size that would squish a human like a rolling pin on an overripe tomato. Luckily Izark was miles away from being a protagonist, hell, he wouldn't even count himself as a player by nature. He was way too timid for that; he knew that much. Working in the tavern had taught him that both the Landers and occasional adventurers were actually quite nice and friendly. They all had their own troubles, and it was alright to be shy. The first few weeks he hadn't even dared venture outside of town, let alone take this trip where he could actually find danger and trouble.



His desire to eat something other than cold, hard porridge however was stronger than his sense of fear. Which proves the ancient old theory that good taste makes men go wild and ignore the horrible dangers they might face, just for good food. Rumour had it that there was quite a bit of money to be made from harvesting raw resources and selling those at the market, or even better as both and Antonio and Vincenzo agreed: harvesting the resources and refining them into other wares would generate even bigger profits. And so Izark found himself scouring the terrain for bloody rocks. If he recalled correctly rocks with a brown or reddish streak usually contained iron as the metal tends to rust when coming into contact with water and air. Alas he did not see any rocks that fit the description in his surroundings, however there were quite some sparkling boulders near him.



Taking a pickaxe from his inventory Izark walked up to the nearest one and braced himself for an all-out attack on the stone rock face. Taking a deep breath in and out Izark tried to relax his muscles, slowly wiggling on his feet and shaking his arms loose. Warming up for these things was important. Slowly he placed his left foot in front of his right, about shoulder's length apart. With a deep sigh and grunt Izark lifted the pickaxe from the ground, straining to move the tool. With a huff and a puff, he shifted the head of the pickaxe to his right shoulder, bending a bit through the knees as he went. Lift from the hips, not the back, he recalled. Taking another deep breath, he took the shaft into his hands and slowly moved the pickaxe towards the rock in a slow and steady movement. With a soft ting the tip of the pickaxe hit the rock, this was the mark Izark would try to hit at full force. He had seen films of men splitting a boulder clean through the middle with a single stroke. Obviously as rumours told that adventurers were something akin to demi-gods, he would be able to do so as well... or at least, that was his hope deep down. His somewhat more realistic mind pictured him swinging the damn thing for the next week trying to take a little chip from the rock.



As he took the pickaxe back to his shoulder a soft and chill breeze started blowing, clouds making way for the sun to shine and reflect upon the stone. The scene had something divine about it and Izark used his full force to hit the stone surface of the boulder. With a loud *clang’ the head ricocheted from the boulder, making a minute imprint of white, dust drifting in the wind as Izark struggled to keep his footing. The impact had taken him by surprise, especially the force that went through his arms as the pickaxe made contact with the boulder.



Putting the pickaxe down Izark sighed, this was going to be a lot harder than he had thought. He slowly started massaging his shoulder as he took a step forward to inspect the small dent he had created on the boulder. It was about the size of the tip of the pickaxe, about two millimetres deep and quite dusty, as if the dust created in the impact had been imprinted on the surface below. It was quite fascinating but alas, it was not what Izark had needed. He needed the shiny stuff, metals, diamonds, random drops, anything that could be sold for a profit without him losing life and limb. He could die from fighting monsters, no, he would die. He wasn't a fighter, he was a simple working man, working from behind his desk. His biggest danger would be hot coffee and paper cuts, not monsters coming after him for their afternoon snack.



The feeling of distress hit him quite hard as if he had been shot, or at least, that was what he suggested it would feel. A large, dark feeling, like a stone on his stomach had hit him out of nowhere, and he felt alone, vulnerable and fragile as he considered his current whereabouts. He was all alone, in a field with silly rocks, looking for something that would give him enough cash to get something better to eat than porridge. The entire idea made him fall to the ground, ignoring the smaller rocks prodding his back as he started laughing with tears rolling down his cheeks.



The soft breeze felt cold on his cheeks as the tears dried, it took him at least ten minutes to feel the rocks prodding his back as he lay there having his existential crisis. Using his fingers to clean out his eyes Izark sighed loudly. “What am I doing out here. This is insane, I would never do such a thing back home. Who am I kidding, I can't do this.” he murmured and softly sobbed, tears welling in his eyes once more. “I need to get out of here, I need to be safe, and warm. I want to go home.” Izark grumbled to himself, placing his arms across his legs and letting his head rest lightly on the created rest. “There has got to be some kind of way out of here said the joker to the thief.” he hummed to himself, slowly taking deep breaths to calm himself. It sure did make for a pitiful sight he guessed, thoughts racing back and forth.



Hauling in a long, cold breath Izark held it for a few seconds and then exhaled slowly, calming down at last. “Might as well finish the job, might at least get something that earns me a bit of cash for my troubles. After that I should just stick to jobs in town. Not going anywhere anytime soon but at least I won't be starving or dying soon.” Standing up and taking the pickaxe back into his hands he started swinging rather absent-mindedly; uncoordinated at first, slow, unsteady, missing his hits half of the time, but after a few swings he managed to take to create somewhat fluid motions.



His arms and legs started burning from the exertion, each swing increasing the strain on his already taut muscles. Izark hardly felt a thing though, he felt empty, hollow and utterly useless. Somewhere in the mindless chipping there was a solemn bliss, no thinking, just chipping away at the boulder. No need to worry about anything but keeping with the motion. Each hit sent debris flying, increasing the dent he made in the boulder ever so slightly. Each swing came down with a loud clang which made Izark's ears ring so loudly he could hardly hear anything else; each swing made him gasp for breath as his lungs felt as if they were on fire; but still he kept going determined in his desperation to get at least something of worth out of this bloody boulder. Something worth the bother, worth the risk, something that would let him stay in the safety of the town, sheltered by walls and laws, some place he could do a menial job like he had always done; with food being the highlight of his day.



And thus our depressing young adventurer kept mutilating the boulder until he cleft it in half, hours later as the sun was nearly beginning to set. His arms were heavy and worn out, his legs shuddered as Izark suddenly realized that his solemn hacking away had taken him hours, the numbing in his mind suddenly vanishing as the crevasse in the rock started expanding with a loud sound, as if thunder had struck a tree, rolling along in the afternoon breeze. The shock and realization sent Izark back to ground level once more, as if it was becoming his new level of existence in the rather literal sense of the word. A cloud of dust erupted from the breaking boulder, specks drifting on the breeze, covering Izark whilst he was resting on the grass; a small stone poking the cheeks of his butt.



A soft, tingly sound rang in his ears, as if someone was juggling a coin purse a few meters away. ‘Heh, so this is the sound of loot being dropped.’ he though, scoffing at himself. Gently he let himself fall backwards, sprayed out as if he were making a snow angel in the midst of spring. Closing his eyes he listened to the silence surrounding him, there was only the wind softly blowing as it had all day. Somewhere quite a distance away he could hear two birds faintly chirping at one another. A feeling of peace started to well up inside him, it started at his legs, then his arms and slowly his torso. It felt soft and warm, becoming warmer and warmer until it felt like his entire body was on fire, causing him to shout out in pain. His chest moved up and down so heavily, each breath made his lungs burn. Maybe he should have kept paying attention to what he was doing rather than hacking away for most of the afternoon. ‘Taking breaks is important, you idiot.’ Izark thought as he lay there, suffering severe muscle aches. It only dawned onto him at that point he had not even bothered to drink his water or even eat something, which made him realize he was both parched and famished; yet too sore to start moving without agony.



“Just five more minutes... five more and then I'll drink.” he sighed, causing his lungs to burn and throat to feel like sandpaper. And so poor old Izark fell asleep in the cool afternoon breeze, hurting all over and having his back massaged by smaller rocks. The morning would be fun.

WC: 1809

[Izark]

Hurting all over Izark woke up, his arms and legs felt like lead or heavy weights had replaced them, his back felt as if he had been stabbed so often with a needle he became a work of quilt. Moaning he slowly opened his eyes. The sky was still dark, stars shining gently in the sky, a soft, yellow glow emerging in the corner of his eyes as the sun arose. Using his arms to sit upright Izark groaned. He hurt all over, his knees, his toes, his arms... everything hurt. Slowly it dawned him that he had actually fallen asleep on the same spot he had lain down the day before. What surprised him even more was the fact that he was still alive. As blood started flowing again his head started throbbing and his mouth felt even more parched than the day before. Slowly and deliberately he took his water pouch and started drinking, a few sips at first but gulping down the entire contents in almost one go, which left him coughing and hurting all over again. His next form of torture would be food... he didn't have enough money to take something fancy with him, just some bread with a slice of meat. Which would have been fine if he hadn't just devoured his entire water supply. Slowly he started eating the slice of bread, chewing very slowly, savouring the taste of the meat on the slice. It was a bit salted, presumably pork but at this very moment it was simple bliss. Swallowing the bread was still rather strenuous as his throat was still rather dehydrated, but he could manage the small suffering he felt.



It took him at least twenty minutes to finish his slice as the sun slowly rose, casting her light over the world. It was rather chilling at the moment, but soon it would become warmer. That would be a good moment for Izark to start his struggle back to town, he just hoped it was worth it. Just a few hundred gold pieces would make the trip a bit more durable. He could make another trip later, with good food and decent equipment. Though that was only if this suffering was actually worth the trouble, if it was not, it was back to menial life for Izark. Low pay, low risk, low gains but steady, boring and mundane. With that thought Izark first rose to his knees, groaning as the muscles in his arms, legs and back started burning up again, as if they were made from steel cables being pulled taut, burning due to the friction caused by the motion. After taking a moment to regain his breath and ease his muscles into a more suitable working condition he rose to his feet, swaying quite heavily, muscles burning up again. Once the swaying stopped Izark tried to stay standing for a while, taking long, deep breaths. He remained standing, though he did not know how he managed that feat, and slowly started moving forward, back to town, to safety, a soft bed, a warm bath and sleep. How he longed to sleep for a week, being woken by a cute maiden serving him a savoury meal. Some warm meat, coated with honey and peppers, some garlic bread and a cool mug of fine, red wine to wash it all down. Licking his parched lips Izark moved forward, one step at a time, slow at first but eventually picking up some semblance of speed as his muscles began to fall into the rhythm of his pacing. “For dinner and good taste!” he coughed as the outcry hurt his throat, suppressing a laugh in an attempt to ease his suffering, though to no avail.

WC: 623

[Izark]

Total posts: 4

Total words: 5517

Total gold: 5517/20= 275

Total XP: 5517/10= 551

Total levels: 5517/500= 11

Total Rolls: 5517/250= 22 


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