A Hunter's Wait

Charles had been sitting on the leather sofa for nearly two hours, and patience was wearing thin. The cushions, which at first seemed comfortable, now pressed into his back like a mockery. His stomach rumbled in protest, and a dull thirst clawed at his throat. The dry air of the guild hall didn't help. Neither did the complete lack of hospitality.

If he didn't need the money so badly, he'd have left already—loudly and with a few choice words. But walking away from coin wasn't a luxury he could afford.

Would it kill the man to offer water? Tea? A biscuit? Anything?

He glanced toward the front desk, where Swen sat with the permanent expression of someone who despised both his job and everyone it brought into his life.

"Hey, Swen," Charles finally called, "can I get some water or something? I'm dying over here, man."

Swen looked up from his papers with a face that could curdle milk. The silent exchange said all it needed: You again?

After a long sigh, he lifted his voice. "Monnike! Get this... gentleman... a mug of beer."

The pause before gentleman made the insult clear. Swen didn't see Charles as one. Not in his dusty cloak, sweat-streaked shirt, and boots that still had dried blood from the hunt.

Charles caught the jab but shrugged it off. He wasn't proud. He'd kill for a gulp of anything cold and wet.

Monnike, the errand girl, emerged from the side room. A child of maybe seven or eight, she wore a neat blue dress and approached her task with all the seriousness of a knight on a holy mission. She balanced the mug with both hands, her tiny frame wobbling under the weight.

It was—absurdly—adorable. Like a squirrel hauling a watermelon.

"Here is your beer, sir," she said proudly, standing straight.

Charles couldn't help but smile. He fished a few copper coins from his pouch and handed them to her.

"For sweets."

Her eyes lit up like lanterns. "Thank you, kind brother!" she said, then bounced off, already dreaming of candied apples and honey twists.

Charles took a long pull from the mug. The beer was bitter and lukewarm. Still, to him, it might as well have been fine ale chilled on mountain ice.

Life isn't always about silk sheets and silver spoons. Sometimes, it's just about surviving the wait with a little dignity left.

---

Another thirty minutes passed before the first client finally arrived. When the door opened, Swen transformed. The bored clerk straightened his back, smoothed his robe, and put on a smile so fake it could've been carved from wax.

Gone was the man who barely looked at Charles. In his place was the perfect host—smiling, bowing, offering tea and sugared nuts to the guest who entered.

After the usual bout of fawning and overlong pleasantries, Swen finally gestured toward Charles.

"Let me introduce you. This is the hunter who completed your request—Charles Mansour. And this charming lady is Lady Elara Loom, the esteemed owner of the most fashionable boutique in the city."

Charles stood and gave her a nod. "Pleasure. Your hare pelts are here for inspection."

Lady Loom gave him a once-over. She was middle-aged, fair-skinned, and bore herself with grace. Her gown—a blend of dark red and deep azure—spoke of tailored elegance. Black gloves covered her hands, and a matching black hat shaded her eyes. She looked like she had stepped out of a fashion poster.

Charles laid one pelt across the conference table.

She leaned in, running gloved fingers over the fur, lifting it to examine against the light, checking for imperfections. "Color's rich. Texture, smooth. This is... expertly done. Properly bled, cleaned, stretched, and smoked. I assume you brought all ten?"

"Twelve," Charles replied. "And I'd be happy if you bought the whole lot."

"Well," she said with a little smirk, "if the rest are this quality, I may not be able to resist."

Swen summoned one of the junior clerks to bring the rest from the morgue.

After a detailed inspection of each hide, the deal was sealed for one gold and three silver. Lady Loom looked genuinely pleased.

"If you acquire more pelts like these," she said, "bring them directly to my store. We might even work out a long-term arrangement."

Charles gave her a charming grin. "I'll keep that in mind. You've got a good eye, Lady Loom."

After a final nod, she left, and the moment the door shut behind her, Swen dropped the smile like a bad habit. He returned to ignoring Charles without a word.

The next customer didn't come.

Charles sat. Waited. Stared at the stained glass window across the room.

How long had it been now? Three hours? More?

His limbs were stiff, the air stale, and the silence heavy. He was just about to snap—ready to storm out and come back another day—when the heavy wooden doors creaked open.

In strode a man who looked like an ancient storm cloud come to life. Tall, willowy, with long white hair and a beard that nearly reached his belt. He wore a blue robe embroidered with white lace, clearly expensive... but wrinkled, like he'd slept in it for days. Ink stains marred the sleeves, and his eyes darted about as though he were late to a wizard's duel.

"Lord Ambrouse," Swen gushed, practically throwing himself across the floor. "You didn't need to come in person. A servant would've sufficed—"

"I had to come," the man interrupted, waving a scroll. "The Nagorros. I need it immediately. My research depends on it! Where is it?"

Swen cleared his throat. "Ah, yes. It's... far too large to bring into the hall. If you'll follow us—"

But the eccentric old scholar had already pushed past him. As soon as he saw the creature, he gasped.

"By the Goddess of Wisdom," he whispered. "What a specimen. Over half again the average size... and still fresh. No more than three days old. I must have it. Six gold. Now."

Charles didn't wait for Swen's inevitable objections.

"Deal," he said, extending his hand.

The old man clutched it, fumbling with his purse, eager to pay before anyone changed their mind.

"I'll have it delivered to your manor," Swen said quickly, trying to regain control.

"Yes, yes," Lord Ambrouse muttered. "Give the carrier my instructions. Pack it properly. I'll need every inch of it preserved." Then, just as suddenly as he had arrived, he turned on his heel and left, muttering theories under his breath.

Charles chuckled. "That's the kind of customer I like."

He collected his pay, slung his backpack over one shoulder, and left the guild. First stop: the inn.

---

Matilda greeted him with open arms. The inn was quiet, and she looked glad for company.

"Your room's still empty, darling. Missed your grumpy boots stomping around."

"I've got hare meat," he said, laying it out on the counter. "Interested in buying some?"

She gave it a thorough look and nodded. "Five silvers. Deal?"

"Deal." He pocketed one. The rest went toward room and board for the month.

Before he could head upstairs, Matilda placed a hand on his arm. "Oh, before I forget. Those two mercs you had trouble with? They came sniffing around three days ago. Brought five friends. All of 'em loud, drunk, and angry."

Charles tensed.

"They said some nasty things. Promised to 'settle scores.' You be careful out there, sweetheart."

"I'll be fine. Thanks for the warning."

---

Upstairs, Charles dropped his gear in the room. The familiar scent of aged wood and soap welcomed him like an old friend. He took a deep breath, changed shirts, then headed back out.

He had clothes to buy.

---

The Clothing Guild's district was a different world—gleaming storefronts, perfumed air, windows dressed like theater stages. But Charles wasn't looking for gold-threaded tunics.

He ducked off the main road and into the narrower alleys. A dozen shops later, his patience wore thin. The prices were still too high, or the clothes too impractical.

Next one, he told himself. Whatever they have, I'll take it.

The next shop was called Thorns and Thread.

It was quiet. Tidy. And strange.

Two women stood behind the counter—pale skin, red eyes, black corsets and gowns. Their hair was dark as ink, and their faces eerily similar. Sisters, perhaps. Or something more... unnatural.

Charles barely noticed. His eyes were pulled, magnet-like, to their chests—four generous curves threatening to burst free from their corsets.

It took a heroic effort not to gawk.

The younger sister blinked at him, surprise flickering in her crimson eyes before vanishing behind a professional smile.

"Welcome," she said smoothly. "What can we help you with?"

The clothing was elegant, practical, and—miracle of miracles—reasonably priced.

Charles bought two pairs of pants, three shirts, three sets of undergarments, a leather vest, a belt, a pair of boots, and a black cape. The bill came to four gold and five silver. He left with a change of clothes and arranged to have the rest delivered to the inn.

---

As he strolled back, cape fluttering lightly behind him, he felt lighter than he had in days. A full pouch, a fresh start, and maybe even a warm dinner waiting. Things were finally going his way.

Maybe Matilda would roast the hares with wild herbs. Maybe with potatoes—

That's when he felt it.

The street had gone too quiet. The air had shifted.

He turned—and saw six men step into view. Four ahead. Two behind.

Their faces were already smiling.

"I told you," one of them said, stepping forward. "We'd remember you."