"The universe has a sense of humor. Too bad we're the punchline."
The tavern's noise hit Kael's ears like a punch. It was organized chaos—if it had ever been organized at all. People laughing, people arguing, a tone-deaf bard getting smacked by his own lute, and two tables debating whether what they were drinking was beer or sewer water.
And in the middle of it all—her.
Old, wrinkled, with dull scales that had fought more with life than with time. Thalga. A crooked gorgon, puffing on a cigar that looked like a burning tree branch.
The moment Kael stepped through the door, she was pouring an entire mug over the head of a dwarf snoring on the table.
"WAKE UP, YOU MISERABLE WART! This is a tavern, not a morgue!" she growled, followed by a sharp slap to the poor guy's shiny bald head.
She turned back toward the counter, and when she saw Kael, smoke curled from her nostrils as she adjusted the cigar in the corner of her mouth.
"Well, well... cough cough... if it isn't the skinniest broke-ass in town. You here for charity or... cough... you owe me gossip, is that it?" Her voice was rough—sharper than a dull blade.
Without waiting for an answer, she waved him off toward the back.
"Park that bony ass... cough... I'll bring you something to shove down your throat."
Kael didn't even try to argue. He dropped into the least broken chair he could find.
"This is gonna hurt, Tharon…"
"Wouldn't be a surprise if it didn't," grumbled the sword, bitter as ever.
Thalga was back in under two minutes, carrying a plate that looked like it had crawled out of a culinary nightmare. She slammed it down on the table with a heavy thud.
"Giant salamander sausage... cough... basilisk eggs... boiled just right." She took a deep drag, exhaling smoke from every pore. "If you die, tough luck. Kitchen doesn't do refunds."
Kael stared at the plate. Total silence.
"Is... is it looking at me?"
"If it's looking, it's fresh. Eat before it decides to run." She coughed, thumping her own chest.
Tharon, still sheathed, hissed with venom:
"Bet that thing moves more than you do."
Kael picked up a piece of sausage, took a deep breath, and bit down. Crispy. Juicy. Weirdly better than it looked. Spicy enough to clear his sinuses—and... best not to think about the rest.
"...Not bad," he muttered, half-surprised.
"Complain and I'll spit in the next one," she shot back, taking another drag that ended in two dry coughs. "Eat, kid. That stuff could feed a corpse."
Halfway through the plate, she leaned on the counter, blowing smoke.
"So... cough... what is it this time? Life kicked you in the teeth again, fell down another ravine, or just here to waste my time?"
Kael set down his fork, scratched the back of his neck, and sighed.
"I'm broke."
"No shit... cough cough... and here I was thinking you came to buy me a beer. Go on." She clicked her tongue, adjusting the cigar.
"A ninja stole our food. And… the stable's the only place left to sleep."
Tharon vibrated dryly from the sheath. "And the mushrooms. Don't forget those."
"Damn mushrooms…" Kael muttered, smacking his forehead.
Thalga burst into laughter—followed by a coughing fit so violent it nearly launched the cigar from her mouth.
"Cough! Cough cough… A ninja? Hah… cough I want the full story later, you bastards!"
She took a deep breath, dragged more smoke, and pointed at the scroll swaying from Kael's belt.
"And that ridiculous quest… cough you even know where it is?"
Kael shrugged. "We know it's a village. That's about it."
She raised an eyebrow, adjusting the cigar with the look of someone who'd seen the world end twice before breakfast.
"Harlun. Out past the ridge, near that place that smells worse than my kitchen… cough I know the farmer. Good guy. Half-deaf. Smells like onions all the way down to his soul."
She pointed a finger—nail yellowed from the cigar, trembling slightly.
"Here's what you do… cough tell him you're coming on my behalf. And… cough cough bring me back some weeping onions. I'll toss in a few extra coins."
She narrowed her eyes.
"And be careful… weeping onions'll make even the soulless start sobbing."
Kael nodded, accepting the informal contract.
"Deal."
They stayed a while longer. Jokes flew back and forth. Thalga called Tharon a "gossip blade," "luxury scrap metal," and "drama skewer." Tharon growled back, threatening to sue her for psychological abuse—which, of course, made no sense coming from a sword.
Once the plate was empty and even the beer tasted less like poison, Thalga looked at the two of them, crossed her arms, and let out another drag that turned into a dry cough.
"You two are more screwed than a manhole cover in a flood… cough Upstairs." "There's a room free tonight. If you can even call it a room." "It's got a bed, a roof… maybe three solid walls. And a bucket."
Kael took a deep breath, adjusted the torn cloak on his shoulder, and smiled—that crooked smile of someone who knows they're surviving on hardcore mode.
"Thanks, Thalga. Really."
She waved her hand like she was shooing away a pigeon.
"Go before I regret it… cough or before someone with actual money shows up and I change my mind."
They climbed the stairs, each step creaking like it was begging for retirement. The hallway above felt like a psychological test: damp, narrow, and reeking of mold, dried vomit, and disappointment.
Thalga kicked open a door.
"There. Bed. Roof. Three and a half walls. And the bucket, of course… cough cough don't forget the bucket."
The room looked like a prison cell that had been rejected for being too depressing. A bed that groaned just from being looked at, a mattress thinner than a noble's promise, and a tiny window that seemed better suited for letting hope escape than letting air in. And yes. The bucket. Don't ask what it's for.
"Sleep. If you can. And if you die, clean up after yourselves. I'm not a maid for corpses. Cough cough…"
She shut the door.
Kael dropped his things in the corner and sat on the bed, which creaked ominously under his weight.
"...I've slept in worse," he lied.
"I haven't," Tharon replied, bitter. "I'm a sword."
Silence. And for the first time that day… peace.
Waking up felt like crawling out of a coma… and smacking his head on the corner of reality.
Kael opened his eyes and, for a second, was sure he was dead. But then he realized—if he were dead, he wouldn't have woken up feeling pain in parts of his body he'd forgotten existed.
"...Feels like I got jumped in an alley," he muttered, clutching his back.
Tharon buzzed, more bitter than burnt coffee.
"This is NOT a bed. This is a trap with a bedsheet."
Kael stared at the ceiling, which looked like it was one sigh away from collapsing, and let out a heavy breath.
"...Still better than the stable. I think."
It took them a few minutes to convince themselves that lying there wouldn't solve anything. They headed downstairs, each step creaking, groaning, and clearly begging for help.
When they stepped into the tavern, Thalga was behind the counter, wiping a glass with a rag that, honestly, looked dirtier than the glass itself.
She spotted Kael and clicked her tongue, adjusting the cigar in the corner of her mouth.
"You're up, huh? Miracle… cough cough I thought I'd have to start charging rent to corpses."
Kael straightened up, a little sheepish, brushing dust off his clothes.
"Thanks for the bed… and the food. Really, Thalga. You saved us."
She smiled… or at least made a face that vaguely resembled one.
"Yeah… cough just don't get used to it, twig-boy. Charity makes me itch." She took another drag and glanced at Tharon, narrowing her eyes.
"And you… walking scrap heap… still in one piece? Thought I melted you in my dreams."
"Unfortunately, no," Tharon replied, dry as ever. "But thanks for the concern. Sweetheart."
"Sweetheart's your grandma, you smug blade. Go comb your steel. Cough cough…" She growled, hacking so hard the cigar nearly fell out of her mouth.
Without dragging it out, Kael gave her a small wave.
"Let's go, Tharon. We've got work to do."
They opened the tavern door and—plop.
One drop. Then another. Then ALL of them.
Rain. The kind that didn't just fall—it attacked. Cold, heavy, coming from the sides, from below, from the afterlife. The kind that soaked you all the way down to your soul.
Kael pulled his cloak tighter in a hopeless attempt to shield himself.
"...Perfect. The universe officially hates us."
Tharon clinked, sarcastic as ever.
"At least it'll wash some of your dignity off."
They started walking, hunched over, trudging through streets already turning into makeshift rivers.
They left the tavern alley behind, cutting through toward the central square. And that's where they saw it.
A goblin.
Short. Cross-eyed. And one-eyed. A thick lens over one eye, the other socket covered by a soggy leather eyepatch. He wore a soaked white lab coat and held up a crude sign scribbled in charcoal:
"SLIMEBRELLA — INNOVATION FOR RAINY DAYS!"
Next to him stood a kind of… transparent tank. Inside, a faintly green slime shimmered, holding a tiny umbrella stuck to the top of the tank.
"Gentlemen! Ladies! And… sentient magical objects!" the goblin shouted, flailing his arms. "Behold! Prototype—cough cough—I mean… LIMITED EDITION!"
Kael squinted, suspicious.
"...Is that… an umbrella?"
"NO!" the goblin snapped, offended. "It's a SLIMEBRELLA! It protects from rain, repels wind, glows in the dark, keeps you company, and maybe… just maybe… gives shoulder massages. If you're lucky."
Tharon creaked, suspicious.
"Looks more like it's gonna steal my soul."
Kael crossed his arms.
"Look… the idea's not bad, but we're broke."
The goblin scratched his chin, his crooked lens gleaming.
"Hmmm… business is business! Let's make a bet." He picked up a rock from the ground. "If I hit that barrel across the street… you get ONE Slimebrella. If I miss… you get TWO. But only pay for ONE. Deal?"
Kael looked at the barrel. Then at the goblin's hand. Then at Tharon.
"...This feels like a scam."
"It does," Tharon agreed. "But let's see where it goes."
The goblin spun his arm, struck a pose, tongue out, focused… and threw—
PLOP.
…missed. By about three meters.
He blinked, adjusted his eyepatch.
"Technical error. Climate variation. Atmospheric magic interference," he muttered, stuffing two Slimebrellas into Kael's hands. "Deal's done! No refunds."
"At least it'll make a decent paperweight," Tharon grumbled.
While they argued, another customer approached—a curious gnome, eyeing the slime tank—when suddenly…
"HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEY!!!" A shrill voice tore through the square.
Here he came.
The Captain of the Guard.
A minotaur. Eight feet tall. Muscles for days. Armor spotless. And… painfully shy. But with the voice of a panicked crow on fire.
"YOU!!!" the minotaur shouted, pointing at the goblin. "SELLING WITHOUT A LICENSE AGAIN?! HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I TOLD YOU?!"
"NO TIME TO EXPLAAAAAIN!!" the goblin screamed, dropped everything, and bolted—faster than thought.
The minotaur charged after him, yelling:
"THAT'S A FINE! THAT'S JAIL! THAT'S—AAAH!!"
The goblin vanished down the first alley. The minotaur followed, tripping over his own legs.
Kael stood there, holding two trembling Slimebrellas in his hands.
Silence. Just the sound of rain.
"...Yeah. That just happened," he muttered, defeated.
"And you're still holding those," Tharon creaked. "Seriously. We need to reevaluate our life choices."
They started walking again. Eventually, they reached the north gate, where a guard—a grumpy old human, soaked cloak, scowl carved into his face—sat under a torn tarp.
The old man looked up, saw Kael… and the Slimebrellas.
"What's that? Taking it full in the face, huh?"
Kael sighed.
"Yeah… long story."
The guard snorted, spat to the side, and scratched his dripping beard.
"Fire tax from last week." He yanked one of the Slimebrellas out of Kael's hand. "This counts as community payment now."
"BUT—" Kael started.
"No 'but.' It's this or pay the rain exit fee," the guard snapped, arms crossed.
Kael took a deep breath, looked at the remaining slime in his hand, then at Tharon.
"...At least we've still got one."
"Until it dissolves," Tharon muttered, bitter. "Just like us."
And so they walked.
They passed through the gate, the rain fading behind them, the city walls shrinking into the horizon. And the world—vast, wet, and probably full of problems—opened up before them.
"...You know…" Kael began. "...Sometimes I think I was born in the wrong chapter of my own story."
"I think they left you in the draft version," Tharon replied.
And they kept walking. Because there wasn't much else to do.
The sound of rain tapping against Kael's hood matched the heavy squelch of their boots in the muddy road. He held the so-called Slimebrella—though honestly, it looked less like a slime and more like a nervous blob of jelly fighting against its inevitable end.
"...I think it's getting… smaller," Kael said, eyeing the slime, which was twitching in weird little spasms.
"Not smaller," Tharon buzzed. "It's melting. That was never a Slimebrella. That was liquid suicide."
The slime gave one last blup, stretched heroically to shield them from the rain… and shlllrp! It began to dissolve, dripping like a used bar of soap.
Kael stared, cupped it in both hands, desperate.
"No… NO, HOLD ON!"
"Kael… let it go. He's gone," Tharon creaked. "He's headed to that place where all useless slimes go."
The slime gave one final plop, slid through Kael's fingers, and became a sad green puddle by the roadside.
"...Farewell, warrior," Kael murmured, dropping the wooden dome of the Slimebrella—the only part that survived intact.
They kept walking. Uncomfortable silence. Until Tharon broke it:
"You actually believed that thing would work. I… I don't know whether to pity you or stab you."
Kael sighed, kicking a rock down the road.
"Look… at least it tried. That's more than I can say for most of my friendships."
And as they philosophized about the tragic existence of the Slimebrella, they heard—
CHAPLOFT!
A cart sped past on the road, pulled by two horses, flinging mud— Exactly. All over them.
Kael stood frozen. Face, clothes, soul… dripping.
Tharon buzzed with such fury the metal practically screamed.
"I… I SHOULD BE WIELDED BY A HERO. A. GREAT. HERO. AND LOOK AT THIS!!!"
Kael spat out a blade of grass that came with the mud.
"I hate my life."
The cart was already far off. Didn't even glance back.
They kept walking. Complaints flying back and forth. Tharon hurling insults at every philosophical concept he could think of—luck, fate, even the weather.
And then, as if the universe had a shred of mercy (or just got bored of bullying them), the rain began to stop.
The clouds slowly parted, revealing a blue sky. The smell of wet earth gave way to the scent of fresh grass, sunlight, and open road.
Kael looked ahead, wiping mud from his face with his hand— Which only smeared more mud.
"...Okay. At least it stopped."
Tharon, still trembling with rage, snapped:
"Oh, NOW it stops. NOW THAT EVERYTHING IS ALREADY SOAKED AND SMELLS LIKE REGRET. FANTASTIC. PERFECT. BRILLIANT."
And then, up ahead… On the horizon, nestled between green hills and scattered groves, it appeared.
The village of Harlun.
Small. Cozy. Wooden and stone houses, smoke curling from chimneys, fields stretching around it, and—
Sunshine. Clear skies. Not a single drop of rain.
Kael blinked, stunned.
"...Seriously? Not even a drizzle?"
Tharon buzzed, mud dripping from his sheath.
"They're having a picnic, and we look like we crawled out of a basement after ten floods and a civil war."
The road stretched on. They were still a ways off, but it was clear: Harlun was peaceful, dry, sunlit— And completely unaware of the walking disaster heading its way.
Kael took a deep breath, adjusted his cloak, wiped—well, tried to wipe—his face.
"...Alright. Let's go. Just pretend this was all part of the plan."
"Your plan. I was never consulted," Tharon grumbled.
And they walked. Because that's what you do.
End of Chapter 5.