Elias, freshly showered but still wearing the day's exhaustion like a heavy cloak, took his place at the dining table. He resisted the urge to slump, though his muscles protested the effort of sitting upright.
A footman stepped forward in practised silence, pouring a chilled Elderflower pressé into a crystal flute. Elias took a long, grateful sip; the crisp, botanical bubbles were a welcome antidote to his fatigue.
"An eventful day, I take it?" Alexander asked, observing his son over the rim of his glass.
"One could say that, Father. It was... draining, to say the least."
"Oh? Do enlighten us."
"You recall the escort mission I mentioned? The one involving the liberated captives?"
"Quite. I assumed it was a straightforward affair. Did something go awry?"
"Veronika left for the evening meal, and the bandits struck shortly after. It was a rather grim engagement."
"Oho! And there I was, under the impression you'd made short work of their hideout this morning," Friedrich interjected, a playful, teasing glint in his eye. "Now, suddenly, it's a 'grim engagement'?"
Elias offered a mock pout just as a tureen of lobster bisque was placed before him.
"The rabble this morning was trivial," Elias countered, lifting his silver spoon with practised grace. "This lot had the advantage of numbers, superior equipment, and the shroud of darkness. Furthermore, they were supported by both a knight and a mage." He tasted the bisque; the rich, velvety broth elicited a faint, involuntary hum of approval.
Helena smiled thinly. "I recall my own ventures into such simulations in my youth; mages were always a singular headache, particularly once they developed a penchant for lobbing fireballs at anything that moved."
This prompted Alexander to recount a few of his own youthful misadventures in the video game world. Elias ate in silence for a moment, appreciating the culinary craft, before resting his spoon against the porcelain.
"To be honest," Elias said, his tone shifting to something more sombre, "had it been a mere fireball, it would have been far simpler."
Olivier's gaze sharpened. "Explain."
"The mage employed a most peculiar incantation," Elias said, his expression darkening. "It felt as though the very oxygen were being purged from my lungs."
"Good heavens."
Elias nodded, reaching for a spear of chilled asparagus drizzled in truffle hollandaise. "It was an uncomfortably close shave. He also possessed a kinetic shield that arrested bullets mid-flight. It required a significant amount of ordnance just to shatter the barrier so I could deliver the finishing blow."
Elias chewed his asparagus thoughtfully as Friedrich leaned in. "I've gathered from various reports that the ballistics in this particular world are notoriously temperamental. Is there any truth to the rumours?"
"In a sense," Elias replied. "Unlike most normal VR titles, the mechanics are unforgivingly manual. One must actually understand the machinery. But the true nuisance is the reliability, as the mechanisms seize up with infuriating frequency."
"Hmm, I was perusing the forums earlier," Friedrich mused, "and the consensus is that firearms are labelled as the most dreadful of weapons. People are trying to avoid them entirely."
Elias narrowed his eyes, a flicker of suspicion crossing his face. "Since when did you become so curious about a game? I've never known any of you to take the slightest interest in gaming before."
"Elias, dear boy, this is the next frontier of digital infrastructure," Friedrich countered smoothly. "One must remain sharp; business opportunities rarely announce themselves with a flourish, but that raises a question, where on earth did you acquire the skill to handle such weaponry?"
Elias flashed a brief, smug grin. "The internet, naturally."
Friedrich let out a slow, weary sigh. "Of course. Where else but that digital wilderness?"
The conversation lulled as the main course arrived. Elias turned his attention to the salt-crusted prime rib; the beef's savoury richness was perfectly balanced by the fragrant, delicate spice of the saffron pilaf.
"Don't leave us in suspense," Helena prompted, watching him delicately carve a morsel of the beef. "What happened next?"
"I'm not entirely sure of the exact moment, but the bandits who'd been so fixated on me suddenly broke ranks to harass the captives. Veronika returned just as our morale had reached its lowest. She gave a most stirring speach, but then, the knight came knocking."
"He was every bit as formidable as the mage, with a peculiar knack for deflecting bullets. I managed to goad him into a lapse of composure and, with Veronika's intervention, we eventually finished him off."
Elias took another measured mouthful of his meal. "We sustained some casualties, but the true predicament arose when we discovered the driver of the steam crawler had perished during the ambush."
"Despite his rudimentary lessons, navigating that land crawler was an ordeal neither of us has the slightest desire to repeat."
"Why is that, Elias? Was the mechanism overly complex?" Helena enquired.
"It wasn't so much complex as it was utterly exhausting. The levers and wheels required an insane amount of strength to budge, and the seat did a proper number on my spine. It was a thoroughly miserable experience, and we endured for hours."
Elias took a spoonful of his peach melba. "Nonetheless, we eventually reached Ashfall Frontier Town. Baroness Jovana Vukosavljević has seen to our lodgings, though she indicated we shall be having a more formal audience in due course."
"I see," Olivier remarked, looking thoughtful. "Elias, when you looted those bandits' lair, did you happen to come away with any significant money?"
"I did. Why do you ask, Grandma?"
"Do ensure you procure some decent clothing before you meet with the Baroness. It's best to look like someone worth her time, rather than a stray."
"That is precisely the plan."
"And did you manage any photographs of the town, Elias?" Alexander asked.
"Not yet, Father. But the place is fascinating, the Baroness especially. Her left arm is a marvel of clockwork and mahogany."
"Intriguing. I shall look forward to seeing them. By the time you've finished your drink, your pod will have been cleaned so you may return to the fray whenever you feel inclined."
Elias flashed his mother a grin, only to freeze mid-smile, eyeing her with a look of theatrical disbelief.
"Who are you, and what have you done with my mother? You're an imposter. The last time I ventured into a game past my bedtime, you delivered a lecture on responsibility that lasted until the milkman arrived."
Alexander let out a theatrical gasp. "Quite right, son. I don't recognise this lenient creature at all. Who is this woman sitting in your mother's chair?"
He suddenly found himself silenced mid-sentence by his wife's icy, aristocratic glare. He cleared his throat and adjusted his collar.
"On second thought, Elias, it is highly improper to tease your mother in such a common fashion. Do try to maintain some decorum."
Elias chuckled, a mischievous glint in his eye. "My apologies, Mum."
"There is no need to apologise for a lack of wit, darling," Helena replied smoothly, "though I do hope it isn't permanent."
By the time Adrien and Vera rejoined the world, breakfast at the Frontier Inn was nearly over. Fortunately, Marta was kind enough to have kept a warm spread waiting for them.
"Excuse me, Marta, could you point us in the right direction?" Adrien asked as they prepared to head out.
The proprietress wiped her hands on her apron and looked up. "How may I help you, honoured guests?"
"We've an audience with the Baroness later," Adrien explained, glancing at his dusty gear. "We need to look presentable, but we're a bit light on coin after the journey. Is there a tailor in town who does decent work without charging a fortune?"
Marta tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Ah, you'll be wanting Dragan, then. He's a bit of a grumbler, but his stitches are tight, and he won't fleece you like the shops closer to the manor."
"Sounds perfect. How do we find him?"
"It's simple enough," Marta said, gesturing toward the main door. "Head out and follow the main thoroughfare toward the centre of Ashfall. When you reach the old well, the one with the carved stone eagle, take a sharp left into the narrow lane. His shop is at the very end, tucked behind the tanneries. Just look for the sign with the wooden shears, you can't miss it."
The walk to the tailor's was interrupted when they practically bumped into Bojak."Ah, young heroes! I was just on my way to find you," the old man called out.
Vera offered him a warm smile. "Grandpa Bojak, how lovely to see you. Is there something we can do for you?"
Bojak's expression crumbled into one of profound guilt. "I am fine, truly, but I am mortified. I hardly know how to look you both in the eye; this old man is so deeply ashamed."
Adrien stepped forward, his tone concerned. "Is something wrong? Is there something you need help with?"
"Those young fools!" Bojak cried, shaking his head. "They went and sold every scrap of loot from the bandits without so much as consulting the two of you."
Vera was quick to reassure him. "There's really no need to apologise, Bojak. I'm sure they just wanted to be rid of anything that reminded them of... well, of everything they went through."
"No, no, it isn't right," Bojak insisted, his voice trembling with resolve. "That is why I've taken a portion of the earnings to bring to you. Please, take this, let an old man's heart be at ease."
Before either of them could utter a word of protest, Bojak thrust a heavy leather sack of coins into Adrien's hands, offered a hasty farewell, and scurried off before they could give it back.
Adrien looked at the pouch as the system flashed a familiar style message in front of his eyes.
━━━━━━━━━━━[ ITEM IDENTIFIED ]━━━━━━━━━━━
Name: Weathered Canvas Coin Pouch
Type: Storage Accessory
Rarity: Common
Attributes:
• Coin Capacity: Up to 150 Standard Pieces
• Weight: 0.3 kg
Handling:
• Quality: Distressed / Durable
Contents:
• 22 x [Velar]
Effects:
• Reinforced Stitching: Reduced risk of tearing during movement.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
He loosened the drawstring and reached inside. As his fingers brushed the metal, a faint, biting chill prickled his skin. He pulled out a single coin, and a second window materialised.
━━━━━━━━━━━[ ITEM IDENTIFIED ]━━━━━━━━━━━
Name: Velar (Hasea National Currency )
Type: Currency
Rarity: Common
Attributes:
• Composition: Dull Silver & Steel Alloy
• Mint Mark: Crowned Wolf
Effects:
• Frigid Trace: Stays perpetually cold due to low-grade mana infusion.
• Weak Anti-Counterfeit: Emits a faint magical resonance when handled by merchants.
Note:
The standard lifeblood of the Hasea Kingdom.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
The weight in his hand was substantial. Adding this to the 12 Velar he had scavenged from the bandit hideout, his total stood at 34 Velar. Adrien wasn't sure if it was a fortune or enough to transition from "unwashed mercenary" to "respectable guest."
"Thirty-four Velar," Adrien murmured, feeling the coins' magical hum. "Bojak was far more generous than I expected."
"It's gratitude," Vera said, her eyes following the old man's retreating figure. "Although from what they looted, I never thought we would see any gear or any coin, and although we are unaware of what the price is in the market, it is the thought that counts, and a lesson to warn not to leave gear on NPCs' hands"
"Quite right," Adrien agreed, cinching the pouch shut. "To Dragan's shop, then."
Adrien and Vera found the shop tucked behind the tanneries. The scent of raw leather and coal smoke hung heavy in the freezing air. Above the door, a wooden sign in the shape of rusted shears creaked on its hinges, just as Marta had described.
As Adrien's hand touched the brass handle, a window flickered into view.
━━━━━━━━━━━[ LOCATION DISCOVERED ]━━━━━━━━━━━
Name: Dragan's Sartorial & Surplus
Proprietor: Dragan (Master Tailor/Ex-Army Quartermaster)
Speciality: Cold-Weather Military Chic & Formal
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Inside, the heat from a cast-iron stove hit them, thick with the smell of cedar and damp wool. A stout man with a beard like a steel-wool pad was hunched over a heavy coat, his fingers moving with a soldier's precision.
"Don't touch the silk if you haven't washed your hands," Dragan grunted without looking up. "And if you're here to browse, get out. The door's letting the warmth out."
"We need proper clothing for an audience with the Baroness," Adrien said, ignoring the cold welcome. "Something that says we belong in a manor, not a gutter."
Dragan finally looked up, squinting through thick lenses as he hauled two sets of formal finery from a back rack.
For Adrien, he presented a double-breasted greatcoat in charcoal wool, heavy enough to stop a winter draft but sleek enough for a ballroom. It featured a double row of polished brass buttons and a stiff, high collar that framed his jaw like a piece of armour.
Vera's outfit was a tailored, fur-lined pelisse jacket in a deep evergreen, paired with a heavy pleated skirt. It looked sharp and practical, yet the way the fabric caught the light made it clear the garment was expensive.
Dragan wiped his brow. "For the pair? Thirty-eight Velar. And I'm practically giving them away at that."
Adrien didn't just hesitate; he scoffed, a sharp, biting sound that made the tailor stiffen.
"Thirty-eight?" Adrien picked up the sleeve of the greatcoat with two fingers, looking at it like it was a wet rag. Dragan, I've seen tighter weaving on a potato sack. Look at this hem. If I walk into the Baroness's hall and a thread pulls, her guards will think I'm a beggar who stole a dead officer's coat."
"A beggar? That's Hasea highland wool!" Dragan roared. "Thirty-five, and that's my final word!"
"Thirty-five for a coat that's missing a button on the left cuff?" Adrien lied smoothly, pointing to a perfectly fine button. As Dragan leaned in to look, Adrien pressed on. "Twenty. For both. And I won't tell the tavern that you're losing your touch with a needle."
"Twenty!" Dragan's face turned the colour of a beetroot. "Are you trying to ruin me? Thirty! And I won't charge for the alterations!"
"Twenty-two," Adrien countered, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous calm. "And you'll double-stitch the seams on Vera's jacket while we wait. You know as well as I do that nobody else in this town has thirty Velar to spend today. You can keep the clothes and let them gather dust, or you can take my coin now."
Dragan stared at him, his chest heaving. He looked at the heavy sack of Velar in Adrien's hand, then back at Adrien's unblinking eyes.
"Twenty-six," Dragan hissed through his teeth. "Twenty-six, and I'll throw in a pair of woollen scarves so you don't freeze your arrogant throats shut."
Adrien let the silence hang for five seconds, just long enough to make the tailor sweat.
"Twenty-five. Keep the scarves," Adrien said, a small, cold smile playing on his lips. "Just make the stitching perfect."
Dragan let out a long, defeated sigh and grabbed his measuring tape. "Twenty-five it is. You're a nightmare, lad. A well-dressed nightmare."
After twenty minutes of furious needlework, the transformation was complete. Gone were the dusty, blood-stained rags of the road.
Adrien stood in the charcoal Greatcoat, the heavy wool giving him a silhouette that commanded respect. Vera looked equally formidable in the evergreen pelisse, the fur collar framing her face in a way that made her look like a high-ranking officer on leave.
"Much better," Adrien noted, checking the weight of his remaining 9 Velar. "Now we actually look like people the Baroness might listen to."
"I'm just glad you didn't ask for a hat," Vera whispered as they stepped back out into the snow. "I think Dragan might have actually thrown his shears at you."