The commotion of the "Spawnslayer" chants eventually died down, and now, in the thick of a busy morning, tavern chatter was the sound that filled Percival's ears.
He sat in the shadowed corner of a discreet alehouse tucked away in the lower district of Wolsend.
It was the kind of place where patrons drank to forget, not to celebrate, making it the perfect hideout for a Hero trying to avoid being hero-worshipped.
What an eventful morning.
Percival didn't like to brood—or at least, he tried not to—so, he refused to think about it as he finished a simple meal of roasted fowl and ale.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. That was the best meal he'd eaten since regressing.
His stamina was recovering, but the problem of his equipment remained.
He needed gold.
Leaving three silvers on the table, Percival slipped out the back exit. He navigated the scarcer, winding roads toward the Temple District, avoiding the main thoroughfares where crowds were certain to be.
