Damned If I Do, Damned If I Don't (Chapter 2) (Patreon)

At some point during the year, I turned ten. When that was, I wasn’t exactly sure. I mean, birth certificates weren’t a thing in this world, the circumstances of my birth not helping either.

In any case, I couldn’t help but feel a slowly-mounting sense of dread as time marched on. The sensation of walls closing in from all sides was a familiar one, something I experienced in my past life. However, even then, I was never as helpless as I was now.

It’s ironic—despite living in a fantasy world filled with dragons and magic, I never felt quite so human.

To be clear, I was certain about there being some way out of my predicament, or rather I knew it existed. There had to be some kind of power-up waiting for me out there, something that would allow a magically-stunted person like me to stand on even ground with the elves, dragons, demons and gods infesting this world.

However, I didn’t have a clue what it was, nor where to start looking. Should I try learning alchemy? I mean, there would probably be some kind of enhancement potion or something that could help me out. But, the closest thing Westbrook had to an alchemist was the old lady making soap on Second Street!

I didn’t understand it—in the game, every town seemed like it was shoved full of class- or profession trainers, willing to help the player out for a few coins. Yet, I couldn’t find one even if my life depended on it, which was absolutely the case.

Fuck, why couldn’t this world just operate on video-game logic?

Grumbling to myself, I walked down Westbrook’s cobblestone streets, one hand protectively clutching the pouch near my waist. Jed, needing coke for the forge, sent me to buy some from mister Lively, the local charcoal merchant. Even though I seemed absent-minded, my eyes scanned the surroundings furtively.

While the local ruffians wouldn’t accost people openly, at least not in this part of town, it wasn’t uncommon to have someone ‘accidentally’ run into you. And if your coin-pouch ‘accidentally’ ended up spilling its contents all over the stones, well… nobody could be blamed for it, right? Since it was all an ‘accident’. That was the reasoning, at least.

If you couldn’t tell, this kind of thing had happened to me before. At that time, I was still young and naïve, clinging stupidly to the kindness from my past life. Hell, I even gave a copper to a kid-beggar once. Of course, I quickly regretted it when the same little bastard robbed me outside town with a group of his ‘friends’.

That’s the thing about being charitable around here—if you handed out food or money, people would start thinking you were rich. And, well… if they helped themselves to a little more of that bounty, they could hardly be blamed, right? I mean, they were struggling while you clearly had it good. It was a twisted thought process, but there was nothing to be done.

Given I’m already on the topic, I might as well mention my father didn’t take kindly to me being robbed. By that, I don’t mean he was outraged on my behalf. Rather, it was the exact opposite.

The beating I received that day was truly vicious. It was to the extent where I’m certain he fractured my collarbone. Even now, when I run my fingers over that part, it gives an uneven feeling—likely not having healed properly.

Hearing this, someone might wonder why I hadn’t run away, taken my chances somewhere else. I don’t blame anyone for wondering that, because I’d certainly asked myself the question multiple times. However, it just wasn’t practical.

I mentioned it before, but charity was… really not a thing around these parts. Maybe Stormwind had orphanages or something, but even if I decided to give it a shot, getting there was basically impossible.

Frankly, the roads were infested with bandits, wild beasts and monsters. If you weren’t part of a guarded caravan, then travelling was practically suicide. And to join one, you needed either to pay or provide some kind of useful service.

I already talked about how people felt about employing kids, so I won’t get into that again. However, I can speak with assurance when I say that running away was simply jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire.

In fact, if a caravan found out my reason for leaving - which wouldn’t be hard given everyone knew each other in Westbrook – they’d probably beat me to death themselves. ‘I’m running away because my daddy hit me’ wouldn’t arouse anyone’s sympathy, but instead their disdain.

That being said, if my situation was truly FUBAR, I would have taken my chances with the gnolls. Disgusting things, by the way, though I’d only seen one, brought back by a group of hunters. Its spotted coat was completely tick and flea infested, its stench was terrible and it had big, yellow teeth…

Anyway, I’ve already gone on enough of a tangent so I’ll end things by saying that, while my life was hardly all sunshine and roses, I had enough to eat, clothes to wear and a relatively warm place to sleep. And while Jed was generous with his beatings, he didn’t hit me just for the sake of it. Most of the time.

Finding the shop – a rather shabby looking building black from soot – I entered through the front door. Immediately, I could see countless stacked woven baskets, stuffed full of charcoal. They piled against the walls, scraping the exposed, clay-tile ceiling.

Opposite the entrance, a group of people milled about, surrounding an elderly man. The hair on his head was sparse and grey, he had a messy beard and his face was dirty, covered in black stripes.

However, despite being in his sixties, mister Lively appeared as energetic as his name suggested.

“…ten coppers for a basket of coal? You’re joking right?”

A tall, tanned young man stood at the head of the crowd. With a frown on his face, he stuffed his hand into a basket of charcoal, seemingly pulling out a random piece before breaking it in half. The inside was grey and flaky, almost like ash.

“And with quality like this, don’t you feel ashamed for robbing people, old man?”

Seeing this, the spectators’ eyebrows raised involuntarily. Many of them wondered if it was worth kicking up a fuss over a single piece of coal. Besides, mister Lively had been burning charcoal for longer than most people in Westbrook had lived.

Not giving the old man a chance to reply, the man turned around before addressing the spectators.

“I arrived here this week, travelling by caravan from Eastvale. I’m part of Jensen Company, though perhaps our name hasn’t reached this far. Not only do we sell real, honest coal, our prices are much better than what you can find locally. We’ll be in town for three…”

Without a hint of shame, the young man started his sales pitch right there, in the middle of mister Lively’s shop. However, he didn’t get far before an arm-length iron rod slammed into his back.

He fell to the ground unceremoniously, clutching his back and groaning in pain.

A hulking figure stepped over him—Gert, the son-in-law of mister Lively.

“These days, trouble keeps popping up like mushrooms after the rain. Maybe it’s because you’re getting old, dad. People aren't scared of you anymore.”

Bending over, Gert grabbed the prone man’s wrist before dragging him across the floor. Arriving near the entrance, he heaved once before tossing the fellow out into the streets.

I, along with the rest of the customers, watched the spectacle, our expressions measured. This kind of thing wasn’t unusual—merchant conflicts over customers could get rather bloody at times.

However, locals were generally careful of purchasing from outsiders. Not only was there no pre-established trust, but by the time the goods started showing problems, the seller would often be long gone. The only exceptions were things that simply couldn’t be found locally, in which case we’d have no choice but to depend on the caravans.

The caravans also had their own problems. If they got into trouble like the Jensen Company fellow, nobody would step forward to help them, given they were foreigners. The thing is, they knew this as well, so it was a bit strange for one of them to be so brazen.

“Times must be getting tough for someone from Eastvale to come all this way just to sell coal.”

Another customer, apparently thinking similar thoughts to myself, chatted idly with mister Lively.

The old man snorted before shaking his head, not seeming the least bit perturbed.

“Tough? About twenty years ago when I still had all my hair, a band of trolls came through these parts, killing and looting all the way to Stormwind. Only when they started skinning women and children alive did his majesty finally…”

Mister Lively launched into a tirade, making sure everyone understood that, despite the struggles they currently faced, things were a lot harder back in his day. It was the kind of story every one here had heard at least once, but out of respect for the old man, we could only stand and listen obediently.

However, before I could finish reflecting on the fact that people were ultimately people no matter where you went, a massive hand clamped onto my shoulder, almost causing me to jump out of my skin.

“If it isn’t Arne Whoreson! Out and about town, I suppose? Ah, but it’s been a while since ‘ol Jeb sent you to pick up some coal. In any case, dad is a bit busy, so I’ll help you in the meantime.”

Gert, far too quiet for someone his size, had snuck up on me from behind. Looking over my shoulder, I met his mischievous brown eyes, glaring at me from underneath a pair of black, wiry eyebrows.

Despite his way of address, I knew he meant no harm—pretty much everyone in town needled me about my parentage, though they’d never do it in front of Jed. He was famously disagreeable, even among people who considered beating their children not just as a right, but a duty.

“Yes sir. Half a basket’s coke, or fifty copper’s worth if it ends up costing more than that.”

Sticking my hand inside my pants, I found the coin pouch near my waist and withdrew a handful. Given how small I was and how baggy my trousers were, looking from the outside, nobody would be able to spot anything conspicuous.

Gert shielded his eyes with one hand before turning his head aside.

“By the Light lad, keep your pants on. You’re far too young to be following in your mother’s footsteps!”

His mock-admonishment drew a few looks our way, but I only rolled my eyes before stuffing the money into his open palm.

“Quick, if you please. We’ve an order for two-dozen lead ingots by tomorrow, so I can’t loiter unless I want a beating.”

The moment he felt money touching his hands, the big bastard dropped his act, smirked at me and then made his way over to the back-room.

Sighing to myself, I found a spot near the entrance, putting my back against the wall. Left with nothing to do but wait, I gazed out into the streets, wondering if the guy from Eastvale was still around.

I couldn’t see him, but I did see someone unexpected, or a group of someones, to be exact. They were Erik's friends—three boys and two girls, all of them a few years older than me. However, my brother was strangely absent.

‘Since Jed’s keeping me busy, Lily probably needed him for chores.’

Coming to a conclusion inwardly, I pulled my head back inside the building. I didn’t exactly get along with my brother's friends, so I’d prefer if they didn’t see me.

However, today apparently wasn’t my lucky day, because the sandy-haired, freckled girl in the back pointed in my direction before giggling, covering her mouth with one hand. The rest of them followed her gaze, spotting me in the doorway’s shadow. Interested looks immediately appeared on their faces.

Sighing, I crossed my arms in front of my chest. Unfortunately, I had important business here, so I couldn’t avoid them even if I wanted to.

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