Lucrust
There he was, ramming his bar stool through the face of another sail-scorpion. Solman was really struggling against these monsters. The sail-scorpion is a mix between a dimetrodon and a scorpion. It’s a scorpion with the size and sail of a dimetrodon. And it was nowhere near dead though he’s been fighting it for two minutes already.
Solman probably should have just fled. He probably could’ve gotten away at first, but now he’s been stung and his legs are sluggish as the poison saps his energy. He’s going to fall unconscious soon. The sail-scorpion needs to be dead before that happens or he’ll be its next meal.
Solman slams his bar stool leg-first into the sail-scorpion, stabbing through its chitin. The sail-scorpion clacks its mandibles together in pain and swings its pinchers and stinger, forcing Solman back. Solman should have grabbed his bar stool before backing away, but it’s too late now. The barstool is lodged on top of the sail-scorpion. The monster rests its tail over the seat of the stool, its stinger dangling slightly in front of the leg of the stool.
Without a weapon, Solman isn’t going to stand a chance against this monster. He needs to get his stool back before loses consciousness. He doesn’t have time to be careful anymore. He needs to take risks; it’s time to be reckless.
Solman turns his back to the sail-scorpion and slowly jogs a few feet away from it. He listens to hear if the chitinous creature is following. It isn’t. It must be in worse shape than it looks. Or maybe it just isn’t interested in fighting. Either way, it can’t be left alive for when he passes out.
Solman feels a wave of fatigue come over him. He stays awake, but it takes a great effort. He can’t think straight. No, he can’t think at all. He turns back to face the sail-scorpion, but it isn’t there. He can’t think through what this means.
He feels a sharp pain in his side. He looks down as the stinger retracts from just above his right hip. If he takes too many stings, he might get killed by the poison even if the sail-scorpion dies. Solman limps towards the sail-scorpion, unable to think through his next move.
The sail-scorpion backs away, but Solman stumbles forward almost falling. He feels really heavy. It’s hard to keep standing. His legs are going to give out. He can’t sense his energy. He is sleepy, fatigued, about to fall and collapse. But such feelings come separate from the tiredness and fatigue of exhaustion from lack of energy. He runs blindly forward. The sail-scorpion doesn’t have time to get out of the way.
He is so sleepy. He runs forward. His memory is having trouble. He can’t tell how fast he is moving. He doesn’t remember having passed the ground beneath him. He feels so heavy, yet it seems as though he is flying above the ground. His legs moving according to the habitual ability that years of walking and running have taught him. His body is shutting down. His legs give out.
Solman falls on the sail-scorpion and hits his head against the leg of the bar stool. It’s a pretty fancy bar stool. He is so tired that it seems that the simple object seems wondrous to him. The sail-scorpion stings him in the back, trying to drive him off of its body. In response, Solman throws up.
Solman’s arms feel weak. He grabs the leg of the bar stool and yanks it back and forth. The sail-scorpion squirms as part of the leg of the stool squishes around its insides. The leg hits something squishy and the sail-scorpion panics. It flails about in desperation to remove Solman. Solman hits the squishy part harder and feels something give or break. The sail-scorpion goes limp and so does Solman.
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“Yes, sir,” a man says politely, “They said they thought he was drunk, but our tests indicated a blood-alcohol content of zero. We’ve tried other drug tests and they all came back negative. It does not appear he was under the influence.”
“He could have purged it from his system,” a different man says in a deeper voice. This man sounds older than the other.
“Maybe, but if he could remove toxins from his body, he wouldn’t have succumbed to the poison.”
“Ugh, I hope he makes it. He has some explaining to do.”
“Doctor?” says the voice of a young woman, “We’ve got another patient in need of anti-venom, but we can’t identify the poison.”
“Alright, alright. I’m coming,” says the deep voice of the older man, “Estrat, keep on an eye on this patient. There is something strange about the barstool he used to kill the sail-scorpion.”
“Yes, sir!” pipes the voice of the younger man.
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“You have no right to keep me here. I didn’t do anything wrong!” screams the woman.
“Ms. Keydsar, calm down. You’re not in any trouble,” the old man reassures her, “I just want to ask you a few questions concerning the situation in which you found the unconscious drunkard with the dead sail-scorpion.”
“If I’m not in any trouble, why am I cuffed and tied to this chair!” The woman shouts.
“You’re… you’re what?” the old man stammers. He stands up and walks over to where the woman is sitting.
“Oh dear,” he says, “This is unacceptable behavior. I’m going to report this to the authorities.”
“Good luck with that,” the woman says sourly, “These are the authorities, remember?”
“The police did this to you?” the man asks as he struggles to untie the knot holding the woman to the chair.
“Yes, I figured they must have assumed that I had caused the poor drunkard such harm, but it’s not my fault he picked a fight with a sting-crab.”
“You mean a sail-scorpion?” the man asks.
“I don’t care what they’re called!” the woman shouts, “Everyone knows not to mess with those stabby-spiders.”
“There we go,” the man says upon undoing the knot and he begins to unwrap the rope that holds her to the seat, “I’m sorry they put you through so much trouble. I don’t think anyone blames you for what happened to the drunkard, but I would like to know more about the situation.”
“What is there to know?” the woman asks. She tries to stand up now that the ropes are off her, but she can’t get up because her hands are still in handcuffs behind the back of the chair.
“Aah!” she yelps, “I hate these handcuffs.”
“Oh, I don’t have the keys to those. Maybe I can go speak with the chief of police…” the man begins to say.
“No! Don’t leave me here!” the woman interrupts, “You’re the only one that understands. The rest of them think I’m dangerous.”
“Why would they think you’re dangerous?” the man asks.
“...”
“Please, you must have some idea,” the man says, “I’m an investigator for the incident with the drunkard. I’m here to find the truth in what happens. I investigate many mundane incidents that really are a waste of time, but I do check these situations because sometimes there is something strange in them. Sometimes there is more to the story than one would assume. What is it you aren’t telling me? Why are the police scared of you?”
“If I told you, you would be scared of me too,” the woman says, “You’d tie me up and leave the room, locking the door after yourself. You’d bar the door, stack furniture in front of it just so that I could never escape this room.”
“I hope you didn’t talk like that to the police,” the investigator says, “That kind of talk makes you seem like a threat.”
The woman makes an angry face, “I am a threat! I’m dangerous. That’s why they tied me here. That’s why I’m in handcuffs.”
“Yeah, you need to work on your people-skills,” the investigator says, “It would probably be better if you just tell me the facts of what you did and why the police think you’re dangerous instead of going through all this drama about how much of a threat you are.”
“Fine, I’ll tell you the facts,” the woman says, “When the police came finally found me and the drunkard a few miles out in the desert wastes away from town, they found numerous corpses of sail-scorpions. They saw me holding a sword. They found the drunkard had nothing but a barstool which was lodged in the corpse of a sail-scorpion.”
“That’s all?” the investigator asks.
“Yes.” the woman answers.
“I notice that you didn’t say that you killed the sail-scorpions,” the investigators says.
“Yes, you are very observant,” the woman says dryly.
“Could you tell me what you did?” the investigator asks.
“I could, but that can’t be proven by looking at the records of the police’s findings,” the woman says, “What I say can’t necessarily be trusted as true so I’m only telling you what you could find out for yourself by looking through police files.”
“You would leave the interpretation of this evidence to me if you didn’t tell your account of what happened,” the investigator says, “The police think you are dangerous, and from what you’ve said, you do seem like you might be a threat. But…”
“But?” the woman asks.
“But you haven’t told me your story,” the investigator says, “You haven’t told me you experience of what happened.”
“But my account is biased,” the woman says, “Why would you want to know what I think happened.”
“You’re a witness, Ms. Keydsar,” the investigator says, “You are the first person to witness what happened to the drunkard.”
“I can’t be a witness at my own trial,” the woman says.
“I’m not here for your trial,” the investigator says, “I’m here for what happened to the drunkard. Tell me, Ms. Keydsar, did you kill the sail-scorpions that the police found in the area around the unconscious drunkard?”
“That isn’t relevant to your case with the drunkard,” the woman protests, “Anything I did happened after he had already fallen unconscious and killed the sail-scorpion.”
“Ah, I see your point of view,” the investigator says, “I’ll try to understand it from my point of view by asking the question in different words, “How many dead sail-scorpions were there around the dunkard when you found him unconscious?”
“You’re asking me how many he killed?” the woman asks, “It seems like you’re trying to ask how many I killed in a roundabout way.”
“It’s true that knowing the total number of dead-sail scorpions and knowing the amount that either one of the two people at the scene, you and the drunkard, would incidentally tell me how many the other had killed,” the investigator says, “However, you must remember that I came here because it had been reported that a drunkard had gone unconscious after battling and killing a sail-scorpion with a chair. It is my concern to know just how deadly chairs are.”
“It wasn’t just any chair,” the woman says, “It was a bar stool. It was weird.”
“Yes, that’s the other thing I wanted to ask you about,” the investigators says, “Can you describe the bar stool for me?”
“Why don’t you just look at it yourself?” the woman asks.
“Um, that’s the reason I want to know what it looks like,” the investigator says, “Nobody can find it.”
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“Fan out, Private. We’re going to search this whole city for that stool, from alleys and junk yards to the mayor’s own office,” the chief of police declares, “Now, move it! Go, go, go.”
“Sir, why are we looking for a chair?” the Private asks.
“I ordered you to find the chair. You don’t need any other reason,” the chief of police barks and then more kindly says, “However, it is a strange task. I can see why you’re confused. You see, it’s an important piece of evidence in a case concerning a drunkard who… wait, what am I explaining for? We’re wasting time, let’s move it!”
“Um, yes, sir. Right away, sir,” the Private yelps and runs off to join the search for the bar stool. They don’t have a picture of the bar stool or much of a description. The only people who saw it were the drunkard, though he is unconscious and who knows if he’ll even remember what it looks like when or if he wakes up; the woman who found the drunkard, but she has been reported to be uncooperative; and the few officers that found the drunkard and the woman, but they’re descriptions are poor since they didn’t think too much about the chair as much as they were concerned about the safety of the town with people running out and attacking sail-scorpions.
All they know is that the chair was a bar stool with a single leg. The description didn’t make much sense. A single leg? How can a chair only have one leg? Is the bottom of the leg really wide? If so, then how had it reportedly impaled the sail-scorpion?
The Private and most other officers hope that the bar stool is still stained with the blood of the sail-scorpion, otherwise it will likely be impossible to find. The Private wonders why they are told to search the city when the stool was probably dropped while the emergency responders were rushing the drunkard to the hospital.
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“You’re starting to scare me a little, Ms. Keydsar,” the investigator says.
“Whatever, if you can’t find the stool I guess I could draw you a picture,” Ms. Keydsar says, “Just give me a paper and a pencil and take off my handcuffs.”
“Oh.”
“Oh?” Ms. Keydsar asks, “What do you mean by ‘Oh?’”
“I’m not so sure I want to take off your handcuffs,” the investigator says, “You’ve killed a bunch of sail-scorpions. You’d have to be pretty wealthy to do that.”
“Well, I’m not wealthy, I’m weak,” Ms. Keydsar says, “I never said I killed any sail-scorpions, either. I just told you that the police found a bunch of dead sail-scorpions when they arrived at the scene.”
“Maybe I would think differently if you bothered to give your own story of what happened,” the investigator says, “Won’t you at least tell me how many dead sail-scorpions there were when you found the drunkard?”
“I already told you that I’m not going to answer that,” Ms. Keydsar says.
“You see, Ms. Keydsar, that is your problem,” the investigator says, “This is why we’re scared. You’re acting really dodgy, like you’ve got something to hide. If you don’t have anything to hide, why aren’t you answering my questions?”
“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Ms. Keydsar says, “I never said that I don’t have anything to hide.”
“Alright, I’ll just ignore your disturbing comments,” the investigator says, “I want you to describe the stool to me because I’m not going to let you out of your handcuffs.”
“I understand that you don’t want to be in the same room as me when my hands are unshackled,” Ms. Keydsar says, “But what if you were in a different room while I drew the picture?”
“How would I get off your handcuffs from a different room?” the investigator asks, “I’m not going to take off your handcuffs while I’m still here with you, even if I plan on leaving immediately afterwards.”
“You could put the key on the end of a stick and unlock my handcuffs from the other side of the door,” Ms. Keydsar says.
“Alright, I’ll check on that as an option,” the investigator says as he stands to leave the room.
“Bring lots of papers,” Ms. Keydsar says, “I’ll need at least ten.”
“Fine, whatever will get you to cooperate,” the investigator says. He leaves the room, locking the door behind him.
Ms. Keydsar smiles, “Ha ha, at least ten pages? He’s so gullible. Why would I need so much paper just to draw a simple stool?”
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“Alright, Chief, I’ve gotten Ms. Keydsar to cooperate, but I need the key to her handcuffs,” the investigator says.
The chief of police looks at him with worry on his face, “You can’t remove her handcuffs! She’s dangerous.”
“Yes, I know,” the investigator says, “She told me so herself. Well, kind of. She didn’t directly tell me much. She said that you found her in the midst of a bunch of dead sail-scorpions and she was holding a sword.”
“Yeah, that’s the other thing we’re looking for,” the chief of police says.
“You’re looking for her sword? Did you lose that too?” the investigator asks.
“There is something strange about her,” the chief of police says, “We don’t normally lose evidence like this. She must have some sort of magic.”
“She didn’t seem to know where the stool is,” the investigator says, “She’s actually going to draw a picture of it for me.”
“You know this is just a ploy to let her escape, right?” the chief of police asks.
“I thought so, but she assured me that I could unlock her handcuffs from outside the room by sticking the key to the end of a stick and unlocking her handcuffs safely on the other side of the door,” the investigator says.
“Yeah, but then she would take the key,” the chief of police says.
“Does key open anything other than handcuffs?” the investigator asks.
“No.
“Then we shouldn’t worry about her escaping with a key that only unlocks handcuffs,” the investigator says.
“Fine, but you should read this before you deal with her anymore,” the chief of police says, handing him a vanilla folder that holds papers, photos and cards.
“What’s this?” the investigator asks, taking the folder.
“That’s her file,” the chief of police says, “The strange part is she’s a school math teacher. I can’t figure out how she is wealthy enough to take down sail-scorpions.”
“Maybe she didn’t kill the sail-scorpions,” the investigator says, “She never said that she killed them, she only said that there were a bunch of dead sail-scorpions when you arrived.”
“Yes, that’s the problem,” the chief of police says, “We don’t know how wealthy she is. She won’t tell us. She might not have killed the sail-scorpions, but she isn’t giving us any reason to believe otherwise. The drunkard could have killed those critters, but we don’t know for sure. We’re holding her until we can know for sure that she’s safe.”
“I wonder if we can really hold someone just because we think they might be wealthy,” the investigator says, “I think we’re definitely making the right call because she acts very suspicious. However, there are plenty of wealthy people and we don’t bother them. It’s not a crime to be wealthy.”
“You’re right, it’s not a crime to be wealthy,” the chief of police says, “However, if she is wealthy, then she probably commits crimes to be so wealthy. How else would a school math teacher be wealthy enough to kill sail-scorpions?”
“Yeah, well, I need to go unlock her handcuffs for her to draw me a picture of the stool,” the investigator says, “Could you give me the key?”
“Yeah, yeah. Here you go,” the chief of police says, handing over a key, “Just… be careful. There is something off about her. Something about her seems dangerous.”
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“Alright, just stay in that chair while I unlock your handcuffs,” the investigator says, “It’s going to take a while. It’s hard to use the key at the end of this pole.”
“Ha ha, don’t worry I’m not going anywhere,” Ms. Keydsar says, “My handcuffs behind the back of this chair make it impossible for me to get up.”
Click. “There we go. The papers and a pencil are on the table,” the investigator says. He closes the door and locks it. He looks into the room through a small window in the door.
Ms. Keydsar grins as she draws a large rectangle that stretches four pages and is about an inch wide. Then she draws a picture of the stool because that is what she agreed to do if she got papers and a pencil.
“Is that a picture of the stool?” the investigator says, “What are you drawing on those other papers?”
“Drawing?” Ms. Keydsar asks, “I’m writing a math problem.”
“Yeah, the chief of police told me you are a math teacher,” the investigator says, “But why are you doing math?”
“I have a problem I need to solve,” Ms. Keydsar says, “And the solution is my sword.”
“Your sword? You don’t have your sword with you,” the investigator says, “The chief of police said it went missing.”
“I do have my sword in a way. It’s just in its sheath,” Ms. Keydsar says, “Of course, if I’m going to break out of here, I need to draw my sword first.”
“The paper…” the investigator begins to say.
“Yes, you’re catching on,” Ms. Keydsar says, “I couldn’t draw my sword without paper.”
Ms. Keydsar finishes the equation with “ x = “ then at the other end of the equal sign is the picture of a yardstick drawn to scale stretched over four pages.
“Now comes the fun part,” Ms. Keydsar says. She opens her hand and golden coins appear in her hand. She places the golden coins on to the equation. The coin melts into the paper. Golden lines swirl around the equation and end by following the equal sign to the picture of the yardstick. The golden lines follow the lines that draw the yardstick. The yardstick made of golden lines rises from the paper and the golden lines fade, leaving behind a real wooden yardstick.
Ms. Keydsar sets her coins down on the paper with the equation and picks up the yardstick. The picture of the yardstick is gone. The four pages that once held a picture of a yardstick are now all blank.
“Ha ha, that’s how to be deadly without being wealthy,” Ms. Keydsar says. She reaches down to pick up her coins, but they’re gone. She looks down. The pages are full of golden lines that stream across the pages on the table from the equal sign. They stream to the paper with the picture of the stool. The stool is not drawn to scale. The golden lines leap off the page and pool on the floor. The lines form an opaque golden disc that rises into the air.
Ms. Keydsar leans down to see if the golden disc is really hovering a few inches above the ground. It is actually being held up by a vertical cylinder made of the same golden material. The cylinder bursts up through the middle of the disc and spreads branches that all connect to hold a single golden disc that grows inches thick.
“Amazing. It’s the stool,” Ms. Keydsar says, “This must have been sheathed sometime during transit to the hospital.” The golden material fades, leaving behind the wooden stool standing on its single leg.
“Ha, I’d been wondering how he could kill sail-scorpions with nothing but a bar stool,” Ms. Keydsar says, “Looks like he wasn’t drunk after all.”
“Ms. Keydsar, please set down the sword and stool by this door and stand at the opposite end of the room,” the investigator says.
“Not a chance,” Ms. Keydsar says, “I’ve got to pay a visit to the infirmary. It looks like someone lost a chair.”
The investigator steps away from the door. He fears that Ms. Keydsar might break through the door.
“Now, I just need to get out,” Ms. Keydsar says, “Let’s see, that the door seems like a good exit.”
Ms. Keydsar walks over to the door. She places a paper against the door and writes down an equation that equals the keyhole then makes another equation that is a transformation that is 90 degrees turned of the first and sets it equal to the keyhole. Ms. Keydsar manifests a coin in her hand and places it into the transformation equation. The coin is absorbed by the paper and becomes golden lines that swirl around the equation before following the equal sign to the first equation and then moving around the door keyhole.
Click. Ms. Keydsar turns the handle and opens the door. She sees the investigator huddled against the wall. She ignores him and continues on walking to the exit. If she knew that the police would hold her in that room tied up and cuffed, she never would have let them take her. Well, at least she now knows that there is no reason to pretend that she can’t take care of herself. She is a math teacher. It isn’t a lucrative job, but it gives experience in the laws of this world.
She cheats the system. Wealth is supposed to be power. This is why farmers are the most powerful of all professions. She has cheated the system by being deadly without being wealthy. Such an idea is a paradox, a contradiction. Wealthy, by definition, means that one is deadly. One cannot be deadly without also having a lot of money.
Her method of cheating the system is producing equations and formulas, which have some small semblance of a mind. They can hold money in the same way that all living things can. This might have some ethical implications if it means that formulas and equations are alive.
Ms. Keydsar has learned how to make equations do what she wants by giving them money. However, they are primitive. Ms. Keydsar thinks it is funny that everyone seems so scared of her. She is weak, as in she doesn’t have much money, but her sword (a yardstick) is wealthy, as in deadly and powerful but also holding a lot of money.
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Solman feels nothing, sees nothing, hears nothing. Slowly, he comes to his senses. There are vibrations of people bustling around him. Strange, wasn’t he in the middle of the desert? He hears overlapping voices as people speak in calm but rushed voices. He can’t feel his legs, or his arms. His hands are numb. But he feels a weight on him. His eyes are closed, but he senses a painful brightness. He must be laying on his back, facing the sky.
“No, you can’t see him,” He hears the panicked voice of a young man say, “It doesn’t matter if you have his stool, he needs his rest and cannot be disturbed.”
“I’m sure that this stool will help restore him to health,” says the voice of a woman. Solman can’t discern her age, perhaps his mind is too addleld. Mention of the stool brings recognition in Solman. He remembers a stool, something that he feels is very important but is in too sorry a state to understand why. The concept of such a stool stirs him to wakefulness. He opens his eyes before immediately squeezing them shut to the bright lights. The room seems blindingly bright. A light blue curtain imitate the walls of a room, sectioning him away. There is some stirring of the curtain in front of him as it parts in the middle to reveal a slit of sight beyond. Through the slightly openinging in the curtains he sees two people, a young man and a woman. The young man is dressed in a white outfit, signifying he is a worker of this hospital. The woman wears a green sweatshirt over a black dress that goes over jeans. The attire seems ridiculous. She is carrying an incredibly long ruler and a bar stool. Solman recognizes that stool.
Solman tries to call out but he can’t find his voice. The woman is arguing with the young man, and they both seem too distracted in their dialogue to notice his stirrings. Solman is too weak to move much. Yet, he can see the stool. Some memories slide into his mind concerning this stool Something that indicates it to be important and to hold great power. The thoughts at first seem ridiculous, but they seem so natural that he accepts them as true even as he considers how absurd they are.
He looks upon these memories. He sees the stool in a bar, sitting motionless for days, weeks, months. The temperament and manner of its use rubs off on it. A laziness and lack of action holding high emotions. The stool resonates with this as it takes no action and moves not at all but feels great emotions. The emotions numb through time and drink as the stool subdues into a sort of slumber or sleep.
Yet, not all who come to the bar are so keen on lazy inaction. One day, a man sitting upon the stool is emboldened to action by his emotions. He gets into a fight with another man attending the bar. The fight comes to fists and finishes with the first man slamming the stool over the head of the other. The stool is stained with blood and its seat is cracked. The owner of the establishment throws the stool out to dump out of the side of the bar. It lays there for a long time. The time it sits is not measured.
Solman comes to realize that he cannot know these things as he did not watch this stool and study it. How does he know the history of this stool? He gets the feeling that the stool must have at some prior time communicated these experiences with him somehow in a way he is only starting to remember.
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“This is his stool,” Ms. Keydsar says, “I’m going to give it to him.” She pushes aside the curtain and sees the man lying on the bed awake and staring at the stool in her hand.
“Sir, you’re awake!” the young man with whom Ms. Keydsar had been arguing says.
“Who are you?” the man in the bed asks, still staring at the stool.
“I’m Estrat, doctor’s assistant,” the young man says, “We administered anti-venom to-”
“No,” the man in the bed interrupts, “Who are you?” the man asks, nodding his head as he stares at the stool in Ms. Keydsar’s hand.
“I’m Ms. Keydsar,” She says, “I found you unconscious on a dead sail-scorpi-”
“No, not you,” the man say, interrupting again, “Who are you, chair? Why do I know your past?”
Ms. Keydsar looks down at the stool. She and the man in the bed wait expectantly, but the stool gives no answer. It doesn’t do anything. It’s just a stool after all. Ms. Keydsar feels slightly embarrassed for having expected the stool to respond.
“Um, sir? May I ask your name?” Estrat asks.
“I’m… I’m Solman,” He says.
“Here is your stool, Solman,” Ms. Keydsar says, “I suspect that it will help you recover more quickly.” She sets the stool down next to Solman. He rests his hand on the seat of the stool. There is silence and stillness. Ms. Keydsar kind of expected something dramatic to occur upon the reunion of the man and his chair. Nothing remarkable happens.
“If that’s all, Ms. Keydar,” Estrat says, “I think we should give Solman some time to rest.”
“Fine,” Ms. Keysar says. She leaves. She leaves the entire hospital. She knows she can’t stay in the city anymore. She is not sure where she is going to go, but the police will surely be after her by now. She sets off towards the desert. There will be sail-scorpions. She’s sure she can mostly avoid them. However, if it comes to combat, she still has her “sword.”
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Polghaust is surrounded by monsters of all shapes and sizes. They charge at him from all directions in the desert land. The monster closest to Polghaust is dracoyena, a reptile quadruped that spouts hot air, lacks wings, and its legs are covered in sand-colored fur. Its tail is supple and covered in fur.
The dracoyena leaps towards Polghaust. When the beast in the middle of its arc jumps, about thirty feet away from Polghaust, it explodes into coins which stream to him. The rest of the beasts explode in a similar manner when they get within thirty feet of Polghaust. The coins stream from the smoke which is all that’s left of their corpses.
Polghaust holds his hands in his pockets as he walks. It will take him awhile before he reaches monsters that are strong enough for him to make any active effort to defeat them. It will be an even greater distance that he must travel before he can find creatures that will force him to slow his pace to fight them. Eventually, he’ll find creatures that he can only face one at a time. It might be weeks or months before he reaches such creatures. So he just walks through the waves of monsters that throw themselves at him just to be destroyed before they get close.
Polghaust doesn’t even have to do anything. The monsters just die. This ability saves a bunch of time when trying to make his way through weak monsters to reach the strong ones that will put up a fight. However, the downside is that the battle is not interactive and leaves him bored.
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Solman lies upon the bed in the hospital with the stool by his side. He doesn’t know why that woman thought that his stool might help him recover faster. He doesn’t think he is getting any better at an appreciable rate. The doctors thought that he might be wealthy enough to heal from the poison and stab wounds of the stinger within a week. Well, it has been a week and he hasn’t gotten much better.
The doctors have decided that he must not be as wealthy as they thought. He is starting to remember. He knows that he fought a sail-scorpion with his stool. He doesn’t remember why he did that, but he’s sure he must have had a good reason. Perhaps there is something he is missing. Surely his stool is special. He doesn’t know why he finds it so special.
The stool appears to be an ordinary bar stool. It has only a single leg. He thinks the stool is made of wood, but light reflects off of it in a gleam as if it were metal. It’s strange. He has heard that the stool went missing when they recovered him from the scene of his incident with the sail-scorpion. Interestingly, this disappearance appears to be somewhat related to the woman that gave him the stool.
Solman is curious about the woman that returned his stool. From what he heard from Estrat, the doctor’s assistant, the woman ran away immediately after leaving the hospital. She didn’t just go into hiding somewhere. There are reports that she completely left town. It is dangerous and illegal to hunt the dangerous monsters wandering the sandy wasteland outside of town. However, there is no other way to survive outside of town.
“Why would anyone leave the town?” Solman asks Estrat, “She’d be forced to kill monsters just to survive.” Estrat chuckles a little at the question.
“What’s so funny?” Solman asks.
“You know, you were found out hunting monsters,” Estrat answers, “You’re only alive because she found you out there. She’s probably out there right now for the very same reasons you were out there.”
“Why was I out there?” Solman asks.
“Only you can answer that, buddy,” Estat says, “But if I had to guess, I’d say that both you and that woman were out there as entrepreneurs.”
“Entrepreneurs?” Solman asks, “That sounds familiar, what does it mean, again?”
“I’m not surprised that you don’t know the term,” Estrat says, “Most people don’t know about entrepreneurs and companies in this town. There are far easier ways of feeding your hunger for power and wealth than risking your life in an unending assault against monsters.”
“I get it, it’s not very common, but what does it mean?” Solman asks.
“Oh, right, an entrepreneur is a monster-hunting, adventure-seeking, power-hungry individual that bands together with others like them to obtain vast wealth through the slaying of monsters,” Estrat explains.
“Is killing monsters really that lucrative?” Solman asks.
“Not at first. The monsters near the town are weaker than the average citizen. The poison is the real danger when it comes to sail-scorpions,” Estrat says, “However, the farther away from civilization you go, the more dangerous and wealthy the monsters are. It is nearly impossible to take on such creatures alone, which is why most entrepreneurs band together into companies.