Where on Earth Did This World Go Wrong?
Ever the mage delving into mysteries, Ian set out to uncover why Emily's hygiene habits were so utterly warped.
The reasons weren't hard to pinpoint. First off, some folks in this medieval world genuinely believed water was filthy. And Emily? Proud member of that club.
'Water's full of lime, mud, parasites... totally disgusting!'
A stickler for hygiene by medieval standards—think the type who carries hand sanitizer and alcohol everywhere, managing sanitation with personal gear only. These "neat freaks" recognized only pure rainwater from the sky as true water. Anything from the ground? Ew. Contaminated.
Just like modern folks cringe at someone scrubbing surfaces with disinfectant, calling it overkill, most medievals thought the rain-water purists were nuts. They guzzled well water, spring water, river water—whatever was handy. Sure, they knew it wasn't clean, but 'dirty, but boil it and it'll be fine, right?'
And yeah, chugging wild water straight-up could land you parasites and food poisoning quick. Boiling's the way to go.
But the Rabbit Foot Company caravan with Ian hadn't lit a fire in days. The path's end was in sight; no sense risking a drake by starting one unnecessarily.
So Emily's logic? 'Can't use that filthy ground water without boiling it.' Utterly reasonable.
And to top it off, reason number two: Emily was a whore (no slur intended). Most men she'd been with didn't mind swapping spit. Hell, they loved it when she licked her lips and spat a little. So she figured Ian would be fine with it too.
"Amazing. You medieval bastards."
"...Pardon?"
Ian decided to drop the hygiene nagging. Pointless; it'd just wear out his mouth. His loss.
"Next time you do dishes, at least fetch some water for the pots."
"But Mage, the water..."
"I'll boil it. Just bring it."
Ian grumbled as he grabbed his own bowl. Thinking of that damn woman spitting in it made his skin crawl.
He discreetly gathered water while walking and rinsed his bowl again.
"Mage, it's about time for dinner..."
"What."
"Eek! N-no, nothing!"
Rick now openly treated Ian like a monster. Ian had been polite with honorifics till now, but Rick's reactions crossed a line. No more courtesy.
"Hey, old man. Got a problem with me?"
"No! No way! Heh heh."
Rick flashed that fake smile—the class system's servile grin he'd worn before nobles.
Confirming Rick's full mask, Ian resolved not to waste heart on him anymore.
'Thought he might be a trail buddy.'
In a stratified society, friends weren't easy come by. Stories romanticize cross-class bonds because they're rare enough to make good tales.
"Mage! Is the food to your liking?"
"Any discomforts?"
"Just say the word for anything!"
Ironically, after distancing from Rick, the workers and mercenaries fawned harder. Used to hierarchy, they instinctively pegged Ian as top dog. His cranky mage act sealed it.
'What the hell?'
Ian couldn't fathom it. Ignore you when you're nice and polite, but one snap and they grovel like they'd hand over liver or gall.
Ian didn't yet know: fear, not warmth, moved people.
"Mage! Got the water!"
Emily, fresh off a scolding, approached all sweet now. Lowborn by nature, serving superiors came easy.
"Gather twigs and light a fire."
A worker groveled at Ian's order.
"But Mage... won't the drake spot it?"
His eyes locked on Ian alone. The original boss, Rick? Invisible.
"Just a quick one. No worries."
"Yes sir! On it!"
The worker sparked a small blaze. Drake risk be damned; mage said so.
Blind trust in the mage. Even if a drake showed, Ian would handle it.
But Ian? Zero thoughts.
'Probably fine.'
Descent nearly done. No issues so far? None ahead. And drakes weren't forest rangers; one tiny fire wouldn't provoke a frenzy.
At the twig fire, Ian chanted in the Maronius Language.
"Taolla-ra."
⟨ Ignite ⟩
Flames roared to life the instant Ian finished. From a bundle of twigs to a roaring blaze—pure mystery.
Ian boiled Emily's fetched water.
"Ooh!"
"R-real magic!"
Mercenaries witnessing the mystery buzzed.
"Shut up."
"Yes, Mage!"
One curse from Ian, and they zipped it, satisfied.
'Masochist bastards.'
Why the hell did they love mage insults?
Emily, trembling, finished dishes with scalding water.
"Yes... this is it... this cleanliness! What I wanted!"
Ian smirked evilly, caressing the steaming bowl. Boiling-water dishes, Emily scrambling—mage laughing. From afar, he looked the mad wizard.
The mercenaries shuddered anew.
'Dishes with that hot water!'
'Mages are freaks...'
'Thought he was odd before... nah, proper one now.'
To them, Ian was the real deal.
Days in, mercenary captain John was in a foul mood.
"Cassie. Thought about my offer..."
"Told you, no need."
'That bitch.'
Progress with pretty Cassie stalled hard.
Plan was nightly lures, sweet-talk, threats—should've sealed the deal by now. But Cassie knew mercenaries inside out. Ignored his every word, stuck to her duties. Her attitude pissed him off for real.
This was John—Captain of the Bloodied Brothers, Bloodbath John. Climbed by sidelining betters, promoting trash.
Cassie, I've got feelings too. Trample 'em like this, and I turn thug!
Women he'd targeted folded quick. Who defies a sword-wielding creep demanding strip? Zero misses.
This time, same playbook: threaten Cassie to undress. Once in, smooth sailing. Docile? Keep as toy. Rebellious? Toss to underlings.
Cassie's looks rivaled nobles; maybe wife her. Wives here? Easy. Knock up, can't run pregnant. Boom, shackled. Affection follows. Merc life: snag hot wife, live good.
So he aimed for one... but.
"Hey, what about Cassie?"
"Ahem. Y'know, Captain?"
Share post-bang—that was the deal. But path ending, no moves from grunts.
"Rape's a bit..."
"What?"
"We're no criminals..."
John gaped at his suddenly saintly crew. What? Group dream of Saint Francesca's ethics seminar? Forgot those wide fields, arm-in-arm buffalo herds, ravaging village girls?
But John clocked it quick.
"Scared?"
"Ahem, not..."
"You pussies!"
Grunts eyed the mage!
Under Rick? No issue. Rick and Cassie strangers; mercs did jobs, no touchy.
Now mage-centered? Different. Black-haired mage: cranky psycho per rumors. Unpredictable—play safe.
Risk mage beef for pussy? Brain-dead.
"Idiots. Scared of that monk, miss prime Cassie?"
"Ugh, 'monk'?"
Mercs shuddered. Feared the mage for two reasons.
One: piss off, get cursed. Superstitious mercs hated that.
Two: real—tied to nobles. Fuck up, life over. Kid? Don't underestimate; who knows his grand mage/noble pals?
"And that Cassie bitch. Looks noble-born, hiding it."
"Fuck yeah, bang now!"
John ranted. "Hiding nobility? 'Cause outing it screws her!"
"Investigate post-mountain..."
"She'll bolt!"
Grunts shook heads. Excuses for John's lust.
"Sigh. Fine, Captain."
One tantrum-throwing boss didn't change loyalty. Let him whine. Gag that, what's captaincy? Mage glance issue, but sneaky could work. Mage and Cassie strangers too.
"When?"
"Tonight."
"Screws up, we disavow. I take captaincy."
"Yeah, punk. Talky helper."
No time left—John plotted night ambush on Cassie. Trampled purity turned him full thug.
All asleep. Sentries pulled early, mercs slink.
"Cassie?"
"Said piss break, headed down."
"Fuckin' heavens help."
John smirked, tailing Cassie.
Rustle rustle.
Dark wriggles a figure.
'...?'
John squinted.
'What?'
Not Cassie—too bulky. Unknown brute hoisting her...?
"Who goes!"
A merc bellowed.
John clocked it—
"Gurk!"
Dark-piercing throwing knife guts merc's neck.
"Uh... huh?"
Underling spews blood like uncorked wine.
Three-second freeze.
Then.
"You bastard aaaah!"
John's face twists demonic, draws arming sword, charges the brute.