A Day of Preparation

After a night of revelry, if Gary could even call it that, he had somehow stumbled back to his room. How? He wasn't a hundred percent sure. Nor did he truly care.

No, what truly mattered was the pounding head he had awoken to, as was the nausea that spun his vision as he sat limp inside his bathroom.

His fingers gripped the toilet, flinching with each dry heave that threatened another round of pure, disgusting horror.

Spitting, praying, and with tears in his eyes, he fought a different kind of battle. One he feared was lost as he stared into the pit of hell that was now his toilet bowl.

"Six months..." He whimpered. "Six months of misery, only to be defeated by a shit bar and its shit drinks."

Why did he do this to himself? Why did he have to get plastered?

'Never again.' He swore. From now on, he would not touch a single drop of beer—

Just the thought was enough to tip the unsteady scales between bodily instinct and mental refusal, this time to the point of no return.

"Huuurk..." 

His head dipped low, back arched, and he tasted bitter, pungent defeat once more.

...

With a head of wet hair and a new wardrobe, Gary walked into the main living area of his house in search of a meal.

Well, their house. The 'Gold Guards' lived in what used to be a hotel, bought during a time when hopes were brighter and tempers less violent.

Still, Gary couldn't complain. The price was more than worth it, considering they split the cost.

Looking around through squinted eyes, he noticed the lack of any fellow party members. Whether they were already out or still asleep, his hungover self couldn't muster the energy to care. 

'No, they are up.' He realized. Judging by the bare pantry, he was one of the last to awaken. Grumbling at his inconsiderate teammates, he left the kitchen with an empty stomach and began his day outside.

After a visit to the herbalist to remedy a hangover, Gary started to knock out his tasks. Loaves of bread, bags of rice, and several potions of a myriad of colors began to fill the storage bag at his side. 

For once, he did not skimp out on his purchases. They would be moving out westward if their half-baked plan was anything to go by, and Gary planned on making it in comfort.

His steps eventually took him to a small shop close to his home. The signboard outside bore no words, only a crudely carved sword and spear across its surface. 

It was a familiar sight, as were the rows of steel weapons and a singular clerk who rested inside.

"Hey, Dylan."

The shopkeep, taunt and wiry, gave a curt nod at Gary's greeting. 

"Glad to see you back and in one piece. I had almost written you off as dead."

"Join the club," Gary replied, eliciting a dry laugh.

"I'm assuming the others are okay if you still have the nerve to joke. That's good...good."

Death was no stranger to the man. The shop's customers were much like Gary, all adventurers. Losing a client due to an early death...It hadn't been the first time. Nor would it be the last.

"But don't expect a discount just cause your ugly mug managed to drag itself back in here." Dylan made the limit of his pity clear, well aware of the customer he was dealing with. "The only free thing you'll get is a toast at your funeral."

"...You are as sweet as you are generous."

The jab was reciprocated with an uncaring shrug: "What do you expect? A teary eye and bag of gold for whatever bastard you've sired? Got too many customers dying on me to afford that expense. Besides, your lot is already foolhardy enough; half of them would dive head-first into an ogre's mouth if it meant a decent payout."

"Can't say I wouldn't be tempted. Then again, what good is money if I can't spend it?"

"All the more reason to not be a moron. Oh, and to pay full price."

'Heh, sure it is buddy.'

It was a shame. Dylan almost came off as wise...Until he decided to toss in such utter words of folly. 

Gary absentmindedly picked up a set of slender throwing knives, his attention soon drifting to the selection of shortswords. He scrutinized each one, but none caught his fancy; their craftsmanship was commendable, but the enchantments left much to be desired.

"Got anything better than the basics?"

"What's on display is what we got," Dylan replied with a wave of his hand. "If you want something better, join the knighthood."

Though his inquiry was shot down, Gary showed no surprise. In Rochan, the public had limited access to enchantments. The best you could find being a simple [Reinforcement] or [Sharpen]. 

Some would think that laws such as these held little weight to an adventurer. Gary certainly didn't care, but his acceptance or ire was of no matter. Not when the best artificers were trained—and owned—by the royal academy of magic. The best one could do was own a crossbow: another weapon kept from the regular populace.

This was the reason he needed a weapon other than his newly collected prize. Even he was aware such a blade would bring issues if used recklessly.

He eventually swiped a simple steel blade, not unlike his old one, and then left after exchanging a few more niceties with Dylan.

Outside, he was met by the afternoon heat, sneezing from dust kicked up by the throngs of passersby. Hardened dock workers returning from a long day, peddlers with a carriage full of random trinkets just waiting to be sold, and children weaving underneath to destinations unknown. 

Somewhere amid the late-day traffic, with faces drifting past, the bliss of mindless chores and simple conversation faded away as he approached his home. Remembering what tomorrow would bring.

Gradually, Gary's shifting mind turned to those around him...And the coming storm ahead.

It was weird, he thought. Seeing everyone move about their day as if everything was the same. 

No, to them...It was. How could they know? If the sun still cast down its rays and the city bells held their peace, what reason would one have to suspect otherwise?

Even if someone shouted out a warning along these streets, it would only be dismissed as the mad ravings of some drunken fool. Only they would believe the calm of the city would be broken by war.

But, Gary wondered, what would happen when it finally came to pass?

Would they feel shock? Despair? When hordes of enemies slammed their bodies against stone walls, would they remember the words so easily dismissed?

An imperceptible feeling came over him, thinking about the future of those he did not know, nor ever would. It was as if a shadow loomed over the entire city, yet no one but he had noticed the darkened sky. 

Like a specter, he continued on his way; A face forgotten in the sea of people.

He hoped it remained that way.