Chương 32: Weston Part 2

When we arrived at the only inn in Weston, a large two-story building aptly named The Weston Inn… we were met by the innkeeper himself, Ben Collins. He heard the wagon pulling up to his establishment and came out to take care of the horses. Ben Collins was a large man who looked to be in his late middle age. He was the same height as me at six-foot-two. But he definitely outweighed me. At some point, he was probably very fit and athletic, but now he would best be described as portly.

He was wearing a pair of brown woolen trousers with boots and a long-sleeved white shirt with an apron over everything. He was balding, with a ruddy complexion, and he was currently sporting a smile with a full set of straight teeth. I hadn't seen a single person with bad teeth in this world so far. At some point, I'd need to ask someone if that resulted from leveling.

I knew people had better teeth before the introduction of sugar and processed foods, but even if these people ate less sugar than we did, they still had access to it. I couldn't remember the exact reason for the straight-teeth thing, but I was pretty sure it was because eating tougher foods made people's jaws larger, allowing their teeth to fit properly in their mouths. But at least one person I'd met should have had bad teeth.

"Hello!" Ben's booming voice called out.

"Welcome to Weston! I'd heard we would have a new member of the militia this time around. Come inside and I'll get you some stew and a beer!" I smiled and said, "I can't say no to that offer, and why would I want to?" Ben's laugh was as loud as his voice, and it preceded us inside his inn. Brendan just shook his head and smiled. I was pleased Ben was the innkeeper. A great man once said, 'never trust a skinny innkeeper'. Luckily, Mr Collins wasn't a skinny man.

Inside the inn, there were a dozen round tables that could comfortably seat four or five adults, as well as a single trestle table that took up most of the center of the room. Ten adults could easily sit on the benches on either side of the table. Towards the back of the inn, there was a bar that was flanked on either side by sets of stairs that led to the second story, where I assumed the guest rooms must be. There was also a door in the middle, behind the bar, that must have led to the kitchens.

There were large fireplaces on the other two walls. At the moment, they didn't have fires going. It was in the high 70s outside after all. The room was still well lit with several lamps, as well as several windows that had their shutters thrown open. Ben was already making his way to the round table closest to the bar with two bowls of stew. Following Mr Collins, with two more bowls of stew, was a woman about the same height as Emily with mostly grey hair that a quick ID said was Mary Collins.

I could only assume she must be his wife. She had a fair complexion and looked like she was of an age with her husband. She had on a full-length blue dress with the same brownish apron that every woman I'd seen so far on this planet had been wearing. I'd describe her overall build as average, but even the high-necked dress and apron couldn't conceal that she was a full-bosomed woman. She had a sincere-looking smile on her face as she looked at us while setting her bowls of stew on the table they'd selected for us.

"Gentlemen," she said in a melodious voice.

"Welcome to the inn. I heard my husband greeting you outside." Then she gave her husband an exasperated look. His face reddened even more, and he said, "What? I enjoy greeting my guests!" She smiled and shook her head before responding, "Yes, but the guards at the other gate don't need to know we have guests." He laughed at her words.

"It never hurts to make sure all the guards know we have guests in case they cause trouble." With that, he winked conspiratorially at Colin and Aiden.

"Well, I don't know about that," Mary said, "but it is nice to meet you, Mr Jacobson. I hope your homestead does well. I've heard that you let Emily and Colin stay on. May the System bless you." Now it was my turn to blush.

"Thank you, Mrs Collins. They've both been a tremendous help so far."

"Well, that's just wonderful. Dear, let's get the men their beers. Unless you'd prefer wine, Mr Jacobson?" She looked at me questioningly.

"No Ma'am, a beer would be wonderful," I said.

"What do you prefer?" Ben's booming voice asked. His inside voice was still a couple of notches too high. I was worried about what he'd sound like with a few beers in him.

"We have a brown ale, a nice crisp apple cider, a wheat beer, and of course a small beer for the boys." If I remembered correctly, a small beer was a low-alcohol beer often served with breakfast. They were safer than water in much of the world before water filtration systems. Funny that they still had them in this world, even with mages to ensure the water supply was safe.

"A brown ale would be great," I said. Brendan nodded at my words and said, "Same, mate." Mr Collins grabbed the brown ales for us, and the small beers for the boys, then left us to eat and recuperate from our journey. When Ben and Mary had both retreated to the kitchen, I quietly asked Brendan, "is Ben always like that? Or are they hurting for customers right now? I see we're the only ones here." Brendan almost snorted some stew as he laughed at my words.

"Nah, tha's just how Ben always is, see. It's quiet in 'ere 'cos most o' the city folk don't knock off work till seven. It's only just gone five now, like. They mostly do nine-to-seven shifts, they do. I seen a fair few ships down the docks too. Means it's all hands on deck for the day, as the sailors say, innit. I don't come into town all that often, mind. But give it a bit after seven, an' this place'll be packed wi' folk havin' a pint an' their supper."

"Wi' Bhealtaine, it'll be right packed in a couple o' days," he said. That made sense. On the homestead, you did the work you needed to do for the day, but in town there were more defined shifts. Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. After that, we settled in to eat our stew and drink our beers. The stew was fantastic. It was kind of funny thinking about how most of the stews I was used to at home were heavily reliant on potatoes.

I hoped stews in this world would be the same way soon enough, but right now there was nary a pice of potato in these stews. Barley, carrots, and cabbage did the heavy lifting. There was a decent amount of beef as well. The sauce was heavy on garlic and had a bit of a tangy flavor, thanks to what I assumed to be vinegar. We also had a loaf of crusty wheat bread at the table that we divided up among the four of us. The brown ale was amazing. It had a malty, nutty flavor and really went down smoothly.

I had been a craft beer fan for years and preferred malty beers to ones with a lot of hops. I'd lived in Idaho. A state that grew the second most acres of hops in the entire country. Right behind Washington, and ahead of Oregon, both neighboring states. That meant that about half of the beers on tap at any decent brew pub I visited were IPAs. I considered IPAs to be a beer of last resort. They also usually had the dumbest names that were invariably riffs on the word hop.

After we ate and finished our first round of beers, Ben came back and asked if we wanted another round. Brendan took another brown ale, and I decided to try the wheat beer. It wasn't as good as the brown, but I still enjoyed it. The beer was unfiltered and had a cloudy golden color. It had the barest hint of a spice, but I couldn't name it. It did remind me of many of the European-style wheat beers I'd drunk on Earth. Unfortunately, it wasn't served with an orange slice, which was common for wheat beers on Earth.

Maybe one day I could introduce that tradition, if I ever saw an orange tree again. We were still the only customers in the inn, so Ben asked if we minded if he sat down with us to BS. I certainly didn't have any issues with it, and neither did Brendan, so he took a seat. He told us about the town's rumor mill. Apparently, I was the talk of the town with my mysterious appearance. The water wizard, Robert Johnstone, had gossiped all about me when he'd come back through town after checking on me.

He'd generally been positive in his comments about me, so as long as I wasn't an asshole, I should do just fine with the townsfolk. He said that the System Priest in town, a man named Dylan Lewys, was a much nicer guy than the Bishop. He said I should go talk with the man before I left town, so his only impression of me wouldn't just be from the bishop's less than glowing report.

When I told him Colin and Aiden would be staying in the inn through Bhealtaine, he told me that the usual room rate would double for the day before and night of the holiday. That sounded reasonable to me. We talked for a bit longer, but when I realized it was already a quarter past 6, I excused myself to go get signed up with the militia. The militia captain would be at the barracks until 7 p. m., but it wouldn't do to show up right before he was due to go home.

Mr Collins said he'd show Colin to the room we'd be staying in so we could stow our gear for the night, so I left everything at the tavern and started my walk back across the river to the militia barracks. I'd learned that the way the important buildings were set up wasn't an accident.

The government building and army barracks were set up on the east side of town to represent the power of the home isles to the east, and the militia barracks and temple were on the west side to represent the territorial expansion to the west, and that the System was first given to humanity while in these lands. The inn was on the northern side of the river, so I walked to the footbridge and took the twelve steps up to the raised platform that crossed the river. The bridge seemed to be made using magic.

It was solid stone with a waist-high railing, but I couldn't see any of the architectural structure below it that would have made it sturdy without magic. The footing also seemed unnaturally solid, despite the smooth stone beneath my feet. I walked across, and when I got to the militia barracks, I could see that the iron-banded door was already open. I strode inside and saw a man sitting on a stool behind a high desk that was set on wheels, presumably so it could be moved out of the way in an emergency.

The middle-aged man, whose ID tag said Gareth Castell, was clean-shaven and had short-cropped brown hair, brown eyes, and a scar that ran from his hairline to the bottom of his jaw on the right side of his face. The scar had faded to a pale white color, indicating it had been a long while since he had acquired it. His eyes flashed blue, and he gave me a pointed stare before looking me up and down in an appraising manner.

"Mr Jacobson." he finally said.

"You're cutting it awfully close, don't we think?"

"Sir?" I replied, a hint of confusion in my tone.

"It is 6: 35. This office closes at 7 p. m. sharp, but you're the only new militia member who needs to be signed up for this round of training. I believe you've been informed of this already." Mr Castell's tone was even and dry. I couldn't tell if he was actually upset with me, or he was just testing me. I had been told to be here before 7, and I was in his office with plenty of time to spare. Brendan had told me that there was only a single document to sign, and then I'd have my ammunition given to me.

The entire process was supposed to take less than 10 minutes.

"Well, sir," I said.

"It isn't 7, and unless I have been misinformed, we will be done here well before 7."

"True," Castell said, in the same even tone.

"But, I was informed that you arrived in Weston an hour and a half ago." I was getting irritated at this point. Both Brendan and the system prompt had told me to be here before 7 p. m. I was here with time to spare. I really couldn't tell if Castell was upset with me, or just messing with me. His even tone and blank stare gave nothing away.

"Well, sir. I did, but I went to the inn to drop my stuff off, and have dinner. I did that, then came here." I tried to keep my voice neutral and calm, like his, but there was a definite hint of my irritation bleeding out.

"I see," Castell said.

"Well, make sure you are prompt in the morning. We begin drill at 8 a. m. sharp. I am sure Mr Newton will make sure you arrive on time. I am sending you over your militia contract, please look it over, then sign it now." I saw his eyes flash blue once more, then I saw a flashing at the edges of my vision, letting me know I had a System message.

Since it didn't send me into 'scroll time' as I called it when I felt like I was floating in a bodiless void with only a screen filling my vision, I activated my UI and clicked on the icon I saw flashing in the corner. Homesteader Jacobson, Congratulations on settling into your homestead! The crown has given you this opportunity to succeed in life, and you must also give back. It will be your duty to help protect your new community.

The crown has regular soldiers who do everything they can, but the Western Territory is a large place, full of potential danger on the other side of its borders. As such, Empire soldiers cannot be everywhere. You will be required to meet to perform militia duties one weekend every two months(subject to change because of holidays, or other circumstances deemed necessary by the militia leadership), and for a full week after the Harvest Festival. You must also purchase and maintain a rifle for militia duty.

If relevant authorities consider it necessary, they will announce additional duties. If Weston or the surrounding areas come under threat, participation in the Weston Militia is not optional. Do you accept your enrollment in the Weston Militia? Note: Declining enrollment means you will forfeit your homestead. Since there was no real option to decline, I clicked yes. With that done, he stood up and handed me a box containing my ammunition, and said, "There are fifty caps and bullets here.

You get to keep any ammunition that you do not use this weekend. Don't try to skimp on shooting while here so that you have more for home though. I will not accept that." Standing, I could see that he too was about my height, maybe even a little taller. He was wearing leather armor with metal plates sewn on, just like the gate guards. He had a heavy-bladed sword at his hip. After he handed me the ammunition, he said, "During drill weekends, please call me Captain Castell, or sir.

You do not need to call me sir when we are not at drill. The six Lieutenants and I are the only full-time militia members in Weston, but we don't have any official authority over anyone when we aren't at drill, or called up for an emergency."

"I will see you in the morning. Please shut the door behind you. I will be here until 7." With that, I was dismissed.