Fantasy Economics 101 - Chapter 2 (Patreon)

Merchant carriages and monster attacks go hand in hand

"Seriously, where am I?"

It was a question that slipped through the wandering skeleton's mouth on more than one occasion during the hours he spent wading through the underbrush of the forest. Back in the days of his youth, he had received some mandatory survival training, but it did little good for him under the present circumstances. For example, although using the way the sun was moving across the sky and observing which sides of the tree trunks had moss growing on them were definitely helpful when it came to deducing the four cardinal directions, it was all meaningless without a map. Not that one would have helped him either, since he had no idea where he started from and where he was going.

"And why does moss grow all around these trees, anyway?" he continued to quietly grumble while crouching under a tree that was growing practically sideways out of a small hill.

There were no trails to follow, and after his attempt to trace the footsteps of the necromancer back to civilization failed, he soon resigned himself to following the path of least resistance. For the time being, he tried his best to avoid going in circles and to maintain a steady heading in one direction. The forest had to end somewhere, and once he found a road, the rest was ought to be simple. Or so he hoped. Fortunately, he wasn't in a hurry.

As it turned out, being an undead had many beneficial perks in a situation such as this. Unaffected by the heat of the midday sun, he required no food or water to survive. Unbothered by stinging insects and plants alike, his legs moved tirelessly, allowing him to cover a fair distance in just half a day. Or rather, a 'fair distance' in terms of trekking through rough terrain, but it was a distinction not worth dwelling upon.

Of course, there was no such thing as a free lunch in this world, and his transformation into one of the living dead naturally carried a few small yet persistently irking detriments. The lack of his corporeal body parts was a given, and even now, he reflexively swiped his hand over his bare skull, only to stop and let out a frustrated growl. When he was alive, he had long hair, and he took good care of it. Not having it around anymore not only filled him with a distinct sense of loss, but it was a constant reminder of his current condition.

Even more infuriating was his shortness of sight. He had hoped that with the sun rising above the horizon, the persistent blue mist would clear away, yet it remained an ever-present obstruction. The thin fog was uniform in every direction, and at times it seemed to be softly glowing, swirling, even sparkling from time to time. Worse than the reduced line of sight was the uncertainty; did all undead perceived the world through this strange fog, or was there something wrong with him in particular? He had no way to know; undead weren't known for being particularly chatty, and he sincerely doubted interviewing one had even crossed anyone's mind in the long history of the continent.

"Maybe I'll be the first. One thing's for sure; this is definitely going into my memoir," he mumbled, followed by an annoyed grunt. Lately, he found that his thoughts were starting to slip through his teeth with annoying frequency. Was he getting lonely, he wondered? It was something he couldn't help, so after shaking his head, he gazed forward and the lights serving as his eyes condensed into thin lines, mimicking in a squint.

Needless to say, the mist was more than just a mild annoyance; by limiting his range of vision, it made it much harder to navigate the forest, and while his untiring body could have most likely maintained an even faster hiking speed, he had to purposefully slow his steps, lest he would overlook something important. Or rather, that was one of the reasons.

The second one was, arguably, even stranger: if he tried to move more rapidly, there was a good chance he could send his whole body flying. Despite the bag on his back, at the end of the day, he was still just a skeleton, meaning he was considerably lighter than he used to be when he was alive. Not only that, but whatever eldritch force animated his limbs allowed him to exert way too much force, and when trying to hop over a brooklet, he ended up launching himself over a solid fifteen paces.

It was a learning experience, and a fairly painful one at that, which brought up the same question that had been regularly submerging and resurfacing in his mind.

"What kind of undead am I?"

While the short and cheeky answer was 'skeleton', even his cursory knowledge of the subject told him that there was more to him than met the eye. He could not only move and think clearly, but he also had a sense of smell and touch, if somewhat dulled, and he could obviously feel pain as well. Why would the living dead need to feel pain? He hoped the necromancer's book would shed some light on the question, but it had to wait. First, it was finding civilization and getting his true body back. He'd have more than enough time to peruse the book after that.

Then, as if his prayers were finally answered, he noticed that the trees on his right were sparser than on his left. Following his gut feeling, he changed his heading, and after just a few short minutes, he nearly jumped for joy when he discovered a road cutting through the woods. It was timeworn and poorly maintained, but under the encroaching weeds and the dirt on top of it, he could still easily recognize the small hexagonal cobblestones serving as its foundation. It was definitely an old road, from Warran times, which meant it was an ancient main road.

He had absolutely no idea what it was doing in the middle of a forest, but as a rule of thumb, such roads were only built to directly connect the towns of the Warran Republic. Since most contemporary cities were either the continuation of those settlements or built on top of their ruins, finding one of these was close to the best-case scenario he could have hoped for. No matter which direction he followed, it was guaranteed to lead him to a sizable town, and most of those had a temple of Alma in them.

Still, he had to make a choice, and before long, he returned to the woods and turned right, following the road from a distance. Even though the robes and the gloves covered up most of his bony features, and he had one of the scarves in easy reach, ready to cover his skull when necessary, he was still an undead. He didn't want to spook anyone, and then waste time trying to explain himself to some frightened travelers, so this was the most prudent course of action.

Like that, another half a day passed mostly uneventfully, and it was getting late in the afternoon when something peculiar happened.

Due to his limited vision, he couldn't see it coming, yet his non-existent ears soon picked up a strange noise that stood out in the monotonous buzzing of insects and chirping of birds that characterized his journey through the woods so far. It was a rhythmic, high-pitched squeaking sound. It didn't take a genius to immediately recognize the metallic groans of a poorly lubricated cart's wheel.

Now, he had another choice to make, and after just a moment of hesitation, he lowered his body and crouched behind one of the trees close to the side of the road. It was curiosity that led him to this decision, and he held his breath while waiting for the cart to come into sight. After but a few short minutes, he was finally able to discern the outlines of the vehicle; a large merchant's wagon, by the looks of it, drawn by four weary horses. He saw two people sitting on the porch at the front, and behind them, the rest of the cart was covered by a white tarp held up by wooden bows.

Just knowing that there was something in the direction he was headed was already good enough, so he remained still and waited for the wagon to pass by him. At most, he hoped he could catch a few words from the driver and his passenger which, if he was lucky enough, could potentially tell him where they came from and what to expect. He wasn’t.

"Watch out!" the passenger exclaimed, and while her features were hard to make out due to the blue fog, her voice was definitely feminine.

The skeleton hiding by the roadside didn't have much time to think about such things though, as she stood up and let loose an arrow without a warning. It flew past his head, missing his skull by less than two palms' width and embedding itself into a tree trunk behind him with a loud thunk.

"What? Are we under attack?" a different voice cried out and a burly man threw the tarp over to look outside. Back when he was alive, the skeleton was often told that he had rough features, but that man had the face of a thug if he had ever seen one, clearly visible even through the mist.

"It's a monster! It triggered my detection trinket!" the archer woman answered while nocking another arrow and taking aim.

"Wait, don't shoot!" the skeleton called out and raised his hands into the air. "I mean you no harm!"

He regretted not putting the scarf on ahead of time, but since he was already discovered, there was no point in crying over the broken pot anymore. While the people on the wagon weren't friendly, by any stretch of the word, he had talked his way out of much more dangerous situations than this, so he was confident that as long as he could explain his condition to them, things would turn out just fine.

In more sophisticated circles, such behavior was often referred to as 'naïve'. In less illuminated company, the term used would've been 'farking stupid'.

"Sargoth's hairy ass! Did that thing just speak!?" the thuggish man exclaimed, and a moment later, a third person poked his head through the tarp covering. Unlike the others, he was clearly visible even through the fog and even subtly glowing.

"No way! It must be a rare monster!"

"Hold on! I'm not a… monster?" the skeleton, suddenly feeling uncomfortable under the hungry gazes of the people on the wagon, tried to object, but his words were overridden by the sound of another arrow let loose at him.

He reflexively jumped to the side, but the difference between his own weight and the unnatural strength of his legs caused him to tumble forward and end up on the other side of the road.

"Sheit! It's trying to run away! After it!" the large man bellowed and soon procured a ludicrously sized two-handed axe from the back of the cart.

"Did you see how it moved? It might be an elite— no, maybe even a named monster!" the woman said, sounding disturbingly excited

In the meantime, the glowing man clumsily climbed off the wagon, with a large staff in hand, and told the others, "Be careful! If it's an elite monster, we must make sure to keep the body intact to properly loot it!"

"Do you take us for amateurs, greenhorn?" the axeman scoffed, and it seemed like he was raring to go, only to be stopped by the driver of the carriage.

"Wait! You're supposed to stay with me and protect my merchandise!"

"Just stay put, and everything will be all right," the glowing man with the staff tried to placate him, but then the woman interjected after him, ruining his efforts.

"You can't expect us to ignore a haul like that, old man! You're not paying us nearly enough!"

"Stop arguing, you idiots! We must catch it before it runs away!"

Following his words, the other two proceeded to ignore the driver and rushed forth, accompanied by the man on the porch groaning, "Farking adventurers…"

In the meantime, there were many questions running through the skeleton's mind. What was happening? What were those three talking about? Why was the one with the staff glowing? And what in Alma's holy name was an 'adventurer'?

Of course, by this point there was no chance for any negotiations or any peaceful resolution in general, so he took the only option available: run now, ask questions later.

And just like that, he once again leaped, this time on purpose, and threw himself into the woods, with three hunters hot on his heels.