Posts from Lungworth Auto-translated

Gullveig inflicted permanent damage.

brothers and sisters

After reading an announcement from someone named Gulveig, Kayoshi decided to inquire about the offer and the conditions that this group provides.

Finding the girl, the old man saw her knock down some guy with a punch. Kayoshi thought that the girl would now start harassing this bald guy, but no, it all ended with a single hook. However, the old man felt that what he saw was enough, and he decided that he would not get to know any adventurers and would rather work a regular job, living a peaceful and quiet life.

maybe I'll play a dungeon run at the same time?

Working in the editorial office was preferable to working in retail, but Kayoshi decided to visit both places just in case to learn more about the job. He was most interested in any benefits for employees, whether it was a discount on merchandise or something similar.go to the shop

He was most interested in any kind of benefits for employees, whether it was a discount on a product or something similar.

— Aha-ha, and you, sir, are a comedian. — The young employer wiped his eyes, which were watering.

One sweaty, hot, and damn exhausting day spent, as was customary for the final week, at work solving various tasks—which, as always, he completed by pushing himself to the limit of his human capabilities—Lester trudged home with a sense of duty fulfilled, sipping a bottle of already warm and quite strong beer. This bottle had cost him half his salary, and at this moment, he wouldn't have bought it himself, but luckily, he had come across a surprisingly pleasant colleague—a shriveled, thin little man around fifty-five, of whom about forty had been spent working as a loader without resting for a second. This had left a certain mark on his persona; the colleague spent most of his time in power-saving mode, barely aware of what was happening around him, not wasting extra words or gestures. Likely because of this, the spirited vigor of Lester, who did everything swiftly and intelligently and told entertaining yarns from life and service, charged him with energy to some extent and evoked a tired, kind smile. After finishing Friday with a pleasant sit-down on a pile of bricks behind the warehouse where they worked, during which they downed a couple of beers, Boleslav—or Vlados, as Lester called him—provided him with what remained for the road and wished him a pleasant weekend.
- No one's writing... to the little Sergeant... - Lester drawled, as per habit—without any goal, but simply for the sake of the ritual—checking the mailbox of his townhouse, when suddenly his bloodshot eyes spotted the rough yellowness of low-quality paper in the slot of the still-closed box.
Night Blade cast two quick glances around and rolled into the nearest cover, managing not to let the bottle slip from his hands and not to spill a single drop. Tilting the bottle with his left hand and gulping down the remains in one go, with his right hand resting on the hilt of the Widowmaker, he quickly scanned all approaches to his position—but spotted no one. Rising to his feet, the scout slowly approached the box, keeping his eyes fixed on both it and the surrounding space. He sniffed—at first glance, neither poison nor black magic was sensed from the box, but he still experienced a certain strange feeling. Sliding the blade of a dagger into the slot, he touched the parchment—no trap was found. From the outside, in the eyes of a layperson, Lester probably looked quite comical, but all these reflexes had been hammered into his head by training and years of real work for the benefit of Royental in the rear of the Serberian enemy. Just in case, gripping the heavy bottle like a club, he carefully opened the box and took out the letter. An invitation to an organization, name unknown. "Gullveig of Baldr." Baldr... Baldr... The handwriting was sweeping but neat—evidently female. However, the letter itself did not smell of perfume at all—it reeked of baked goods, raw meat... and blood.
Night Blade held the letter up to the light—no signs. He shaded it with charcoal—no secret messages. Shaking his head, he folded the parchment into his breast pocket, loudly belched the beer bubbles that had reached his throat, and directed his steps toward the indicated meeting point, which turned out to be surprisingly close. Turning the corner, he saw the window of the sought-after room, from which strange conversations were drifting. Pretending to look for a dead drop under the windowsill for any possible random passers-by, Lester listened intently and watched the events inside, remaining unnoticed by them. Unfortunately, the audio was poor, and most of the conversation—the part he couldn't read from the lips—had to be filled in. A strange, ragged-looking thug—either an informant or an assistant—had come to Gullveig of Baldr. They exchanged a few lines; Gullveig of Baldr put her hands on her hips. The assistant, with a spark of madness gleaming in his eyes and a crooked smirk, delivered unpleasant news; Gullveig of Baldr flew into a rage and gave him such a slap that he flew straight into the front door, nearly ripping it off its hinges. In the process, he hit his head hard, but apparently, his vital organs were unharmed. Coughing up a huge clot of blood with particles of yellowed teeth, he humbly sat on the floor and, by all appearances, asked for her forgiveness. Gullveig of Baldr continued to stand in a threatening pose, measuring him with a devastating gaze—at least, that's what Lester thought, because she had been standing with her back to him the whole time, and a huge part of what was happening, in an already narrow field of view from the street through a gap in the curtains, was blocked by her sperm-whale-like bulk, which nearly burst the seams of the fabric she was wrapped in.
Deciding not to tempt fate, the scout left the place, entering everything he saw and inferred into his mental notebook. On the way home, he finally remembered where he had heard that name—Baldr. As it turned out from the scene he witnessed, the reputation of this Serberian province and the monsters it breeds is not exaggerated in the least. Gullveig of Baldr had appeared here, for reasons unclear, and instantly pinned the local criminal element to the wall. And now this invitation in the mailbox—for me, a member of the Elheim unit.
"It seems I am entering a very dangerous game..."
Having returned home and completely sobered up, Vargas spends the rest of the evening sharpening daggers and thoroughly double-checking all his gear, after which he falls asleep army-style—with his eyes open.

The "various jobs" she took on didn't turn out to be anything special: most of the tasks were quite familiar to Veritta, and she quickly learned the rest. It proved much harder not to get lost in the tangled street labyrinths of Lungwort: the first time, it took her three times longer to reach her destination than it would for an ordinary city dweller. But today, fortunately, everything seemed to go smoothly – until, on her way home and absentmindedly twirling her dormitory keys, Veritta accidentally dropped them into the sewer. She spent the next half hour in fruitless attempts to retrieve them from under the grate, and as a result, the girl returned home in the dark once again.
The modest dormitory room didn't cause any discomfort, but with each new night, the anemone wondered that she would much rather rest in a forest clearing under the starry sky. Perhaps, this is exactly what she should do in the future, giving her place to someone more in need.
It didn't immediately occur to Veritta that the long-awaited response had arrived from the adventurers' guild. Mechanically crumpling up another piece of paper with an advertisement for "Felicia" cosmetics and a congratulatory message about winning the lottery (as it turned out, to claim the prize, it was necessary to pay a fee of 30 lunars, which she didn't have), the girl was about to throw it in the bucket when her gaze fell on a small advertisement seeking recruits.
Having carefully read the contents of the letter three times and making sure that she met the requirements and remembered the leader's name, Veritta decided to join this group in the upcoming "adventures."

— Aha-ha, you’re quite the comedian, sir. — The young employer wiped his eyes, which were watering.

— You shouldn’t underestimate it, — the old man replied. — I heard that such bonuses encourage employees to perform their duties more diligently and to hold on to every client. Moreover, we conducted a similar experiment in Kuwayama, and the results showed that sales increased by 15%. However, it’s up to you.
Kayoshi said goodbye, explaining that he had another meeting scheduled.

I’m going to the newspaper to find out the details (not about the bonuses).

— It’s simple: sometimes my team members touch upon historical facts in their articles, and I need someone to verify them before they are published.

-- Ouch. -- A fist slammed into Gai's cheek. He was ready for the blow, but it was strong, ringing in his ears. He staggered. -- Good. I have a feeling we're going to have a lot of trouble together, but you can be a commander. You have a strong hand, but that's not even the main thing. I'll explain now.
The man sat down against the dilapidated wall, crossing his legs.
-- Listen carefully. I don't remember anymore (the irony!), how long I've been earning my living with a sword, but there are some principles that are important, and that you probably don't know yet. The first principle is that a subordinate must trust the commander. Preferably, also respect him. But if the subordinate doesn't believe that the commander knows what he's doing, he won't obey. You can try to force him with fear. But the commander is one, and there are many subordinates. They quickly stop being afraid. Fear must turn into respect. Otherwise, it will turn into hatred. To trust someone, you have to know them. That's why I interrogated you. The second principle is that there is usually only one moment to make a decision in battle. If the commander hesitates for a long time, it's even worse than if he makes a mistake. Therefore, when it's time to strike, you have to strike, not think. The third principle is that there are many people in the squad, and each has their own opinion. So you have to adapt to that. And believe me, I'm far from the most problematic person you'll encounter. I've already explained the fourth principle. If you can't handle it, we'll all die. Remember that.
Gai sighed and scratched his bruised cheek.
-- Well. You've got guts, so to speak. You also know how to fight. Everything else is a matter of our luck. You can interrogate me now.

"Mother, it seems that Father Gungnir's method works," the girl said, releasing steam and calming down, but watching him, after that, lecture her with obvious pleasure was still strange. When he finished, Vegi first heals Gai with a spell, silently and with dignity. She had to admit that this moment worried her the most.
-- I don't have many questions. Unfortunately, I've already seen death, so I understand my responsibility. Your comment about the speed of decision-making is valuable, thank you...
"He's a strange person, of course."
-- I'll tell you about my tasks and plans later, but... Of course, we are all ready to die, but as a leader, I will try to preserve our lives and health. The latter is also important, and it's easier to part with it. And yet, I would be too naive if I said that nothing bad would happen to anyone. However, I take responsibility for the fact that... If there is even the slightest opportunity, I will do everything possible to ensure that each of you returns home.
-- As for trust... I'll explain it later.
-- What were you saying about not remembering how old you are?

— It's simple: my team sometimes touches upon historical facts in their articles, and I need someone to verify them before publication.

- I think I can handle that. However, I won't be able to start working until next week, unless something unexpected happens. Although, I don't have anything planned, - the old man added and laughed.

/As Revan suggested, we can skip it once everyone has finished. We'll play it later. And I'm requesting a list of possible quests./

Having finished with the registration procedures for newcomers, Garret left the clinic. Outside, he met his brother, who was leaning against a lamppost, waiting for him.
— So, did you give them enough information about yourself to put up a "wanted" poster? — Harold quipped.
Garret just frowned and looked around, remembering the sergeant's words about some guys from Aster, who had also come to register. Had they been tracking them? Or was it just a coincidence... Many people are traveling east these days.
— Let's go find some work.

They head to the workers' guild to inquire about job openings.

- I think I can handle something like that, but I won't be able to start working on it until next week, unless something unexpected happens. Although, I don't have anything planned either, - the old man added and laughed.

— That's not a problem.

-- Still don't understand? Well, it's clear about trust – at least enough for us to work together, -- Guy waved his hand. -- I wanted to check if you're the right person for our job. And let's just be on a first-name basis, we're kind of in the trenches here, so let's drop the formalities. Thanks for your magic, by the way – it's a valuable skill, and probably rare. So, what was the question? Oh, about age. First, I said I don't remember how long I've been working as a mercenary. Second – yes, I don't remember my age. And what, do we have to fill out some idiotic local bureaucracy again?