Rune came bounding down the inn's stairs just as the sun cleared the horizon.
"Well, look at you," the innkeeper said, eyeing him with a grin. "A spring in your step. In a good mood today? Or is it because the whole town is talking about you?"
He leaned closer, lowering his voice theatrically.
"The Crazy Immortal Goblin slaughters innocents."
"That's all I heard when I went to the main street for supplies."
Rune stopped short. His smile faded as he stared at the innkeeper.
"This is getting out of hand. They attacked me first. And then the goblin stuff, that's your fault."
"Me?" The innkeeper placed a hand over his chest. "Sweet old me? Never. I would never spread rumors about you being a goblin. I have many goblin friends, you know. They might take offense."
Rune rubbed his temples. "No. You said… then I said… I give up."
The innkeeper leaned in again, voice dropping conspiratorially.
"And be careful about becoming famous. They might build a statue of you. And they will get the nose wrong. They always get the nose wrong. Just like they did with mine."
Rune chose not to ask.
The innkeeper's nonsense never stopped. And on the rare occasions it did, it almost never made sense.
*****
The weaver's shop stood out even in one of the busiest districts of the city.
Two adjacent storefronts shared the same structure, one filled with looms and hanging fabrics, the other crowded with carved wood and half finished tools. Both were attached to a modest two story house built above them.
Rune had been told the shops were run by a husband and wife team of artisans. The husband, a master weaver. The wife, a woodworker of considerable renown. Each was said to be unmatched in their craft.
The moment he opened the door, he was met with chaos.
"Elizabeth, the little one is running around with one of your staves," a man called out. "He says he's a rat bonking mercenary king, and is on the hunt."
"Well, are there rats, honey?"
"No. There are no rats in the city. You know that."
"Then it won't hurt him to play pretend. It's just a long piece of wood. What trouble could he possibly get into?"
THWAP.
Rune took a solid hit to the back of his leg.
"Ow…"
"Take that, rat!" a small voice declared triumphantly. "Mister, mister! There was a rat crawling up your leg, and I saved you!"
Rune rubbed the back of his leg, staring down in confusion at the child, who now stood proudly before him, one hand extended expectantly.
"Mister, when a mercenary does a job for someone, they get paid."
Rune glanced up.
The man who had spoken earlier only shrugged. Rune then reached into his pocket and placed a coin into the boy's waiting hand.
"Ooooh. Old money. Treasure." The child's eyes sparkled. "I have treasure!"
He darted off at once, staff held high, already hunting for more 'rats.'
Rune watched him go, then sighed. "I feel like I just got shaken down for coin."
"Sorry about that. Really. Sorry." The man smiled apologetically. "Kids, you know." He offered Rune a hand. "I'm William, the weaver. Can I help you with something?"
Rune laughed softly. "It's fine." He hesitated, then continued. "I actually came to place an order. But before that, can I ask something that's been bothering me?"
William nodded.
"I'm new to this world, and I know people don't age." Rune scratched the back of his head. "So… how do children work?"
William chuckled. It was a question every newcomer asked sooner or later.
"Children of each race age normally up to a certain point. Then they stop." He gestured toward the child running about. "For humans, that point is twenty."
He glanced toward the boy as he disappeared around a corner.
"That little one will grow like any other child until he reaches twenty years old. After that, he'll stay exactly as he is. Forever."
"I don't know if that's unsettling or wonderful."
William shrugged. "Neither do I, really. But that's the way of the world." He gestured toward the shop. "Anyway, what can I get you?"
Rune reached into the rune etched pouch at his thigh and pulled out several bundled strands of crystal webbing.
"I was told you could turn this into clothes and armor. I'm in need of both."
William's eyes lit up the moment he saw the material. A faint spark of excitement crept into his expression.
"Most people hate going into the dungeon," he said. "So I don't often get to work with crystal web."
He carefully lifted a strand, inspecting it from multiple angles.
"You see, just like the spiders themselves, this web conducts element. Anything made from it grows stronger as element is pushed through the weave."
He paused, thoughtful.
"It would be a shame to make armor using only this. If it were damaged, repairs would be troublesome." He looked back at Rune. "But if you were willing to take the other path on the first floor of the dungeon and bring me cores from the sporewood sentinels…"
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"I could make you armor that repairs itself."
Rune blinked. "Wait. You can make armor that repairs itself?" His eyes widened.
"Why doesn't everyone use that? That's incredible."
William laughed softly. "If I'm being honest, I've heard about you."
Rune stiffened slightly.
"Normally, people have runes etched into their armor. When they die, it returns with them, restored to its original state." He shrugged. "Very few ever need their equipment repaired mid fight when they can just get it back new."
Rune nodded slowly.
"And for someone like me," he said, understanding settling in, "who doesn't die… auto-repairing armor isn't a luxury."
He met William's gaze.
"It's a necessity."
A voice called out from the adjoining room.
"If you're sending the boy to fetch cores, have him bring me a few green ones. And a few orange ones too."
William lifted his hands helplessly. "Cores are useful in all kinds of crafts."
Rune laughed and leaned in slightly. "That kid takes after his mother, doesn't he?"
Before William could answer, the voice came back immediately.
"I heard that, Mister Goblin."
A chill ran straight up Rune's spine.
At that moment, a small bell jiggled above the door to the woodworker's shop. Rune turned instinctively, drawn by the sound.
The first thing he saw was a familiar blonde ponytail.
The same. And yet, somehow, not.
A word left his mouth before he could stop it.
"Miri?"