The Weight of Legacy

Abelard Lange could not recall a time in his life in which he had felt more confused, and that was hardly hyperbole—every time he allowed himself to believe his understanding of these people was sufficient, he was almost immediately proven wrong.

It had all gone off the rails when he set out to find a missing woman.

Beuzaheim almost had a charm to it—its denizens were so clueless he was almost certain the vast majority of them not only didn’t even know who the current Prince of Grēdôcava was, but could largely remain unaffected by whether or not they found out.

What sealed the deal for Abelard was how no one seemed to notice Lizaną was not part of the Principality. No one noticing he was a foreigner—without any requisite lies, even—was almost reason enough for him to stay, by itself.

These people would see someone with a peculiar name or mannerisms, nod, and move on with their lives. It was almost ridiculous, but Abelard would never be heard complaining.

Even if being the mayor’s assistant could be thankless work.

He would not deny there was some amusement to be derived from wrangling imbeciles, and all the duties that came with that. Baldur Maryem forgot to submit most paperwork at any given point in time, so Abelard had taken to running that side of the post entirely, and next to nothing ever happened in Beuzaheim, leaving him ample time to deal with any issues.

On the rare occasion something did come up, Abelard was relatively overqualified to handle most matters. He might have run from home to avoid facing how he had gone from gifted child to failure, but he was still leagues above the average for Grēdôcava.

Ignoring the irrelevant detail about the levels, of course.

Baldur Maryem was a very hands-off boss whenever not assigning him tasks, really. Abelard was incredibly certain that the man had no idea what went into running a town, even one this small.

When Johann Maryem had managed to attain the post of mayor, despite his baseborn status, the position he was granted was considered hereditary.

Unfortunately for the man—at least from his point of view—all he had were two daughters, one of which died young. That left the widowed mayor in a position where he either had to remarry and hope for a son, or grow up and leave it to his remaining daughter.

Johann Maryem chose neither, recruiting this Baldur to be his successor. Whatever role Baldur had played before this was an absolute mystery to Abelard, mostly because the only mentions of him—and only his first name—were in the records of what were officially donations to the town, and obviously bribes.

Alas, to save Johann that little headache about the succession, it had suddenly turned out that Baldur was the widower of his late daughter, as proven by marriage papers falsified by someone who had clearly never seen a single marital registry in their life. They could have at least deigned to open their own books for reference.

Either the worst or best part of the entire debacle might have been the fact that this wasn’t precisely unknown—the older residents of Beuzaheim all spoke of Baldur as if the man were a joke, and often mentioned how he ‘got widowed by a ghost’. Ghosts were a nonsensical myth, but the jokes worked.

The actual daughter of the mayor had even been the one to tell Abelard where to look, and though he’d briefly wondered whether any of her words had been fueled by spite, Abelard concluded that while they definitely had been, she was right.

Not that she would have made a good mayor either way—the elderly woman had a reputation for her carelessness. Unlike with Baldur, however, Abelard could not rule out the possibility that it might be an act, given how outlandish some of the anecdotes were.

That said, it was almost as though the old mayor should have found himself a competent successor instead of leaving it to the highest bidder—if he was going to cheat, he could have at least done it for a better outcome. Johann Maryem had been a smart man as far as Abelard could tell.

The assistant had his own views about hereditary posts in the first place, but the Principality was not somewhere for such things to be voiced anywhere in the vicinity of such an employer.

Either way, none of this affected Abelard—he was absolutely having the time of his life in this quaint little town, watching from the sidelines, and getting paid for his ‘troubles’.

Or at least he had been having the time of his life, before Thekla Rīsanin walked in and defenestrated all semblance of sanity.

At first, Abelard had admittedly assumed she was just as many others—eager young ladies looking to take advantage of Baldur. To say the mayor was like a dog that would hump anything that moved would be an insult to dogs.

Once the lady explained herself, Abelard had gone on to believe her claims that she just wanted help finding her missing sister. She was definitely taking advantage of Baldur’s weakness to get priority treatment, but little did she know it wasn’t as though Abelard had anything to do. All issues with aid in this town could, seriously, be attributed to paperwork never making it from Baldur to him, probably because the mayor used it to light a cigar or whatever.

Then the tile incidents started. It had been quite a random request the first time, but almost half a year and several redecorations later, the room where Baldur held his audiences was once again missing the entirety of its tiles.

Abelard could have accepted the distant existence of a tile thief—that was easily the funniest reason for Baldur’s monetary losses this year, and Abelard would be lying if he denied he had struggled not to laugh more than once.

But no, he still had to meet with this woman regularly, to give her updates on what little he had found here and there, and there was no way for him to meet her gaze without remembering those currently-scraped walls.

At first, his cursory look into the Rīsan House had been what Abelard called ‘of course it happened in Beuzaheim’—nevermind that they technically did not live within its borders, having an estate of their own, and a true one with its territory and wards, at that. Yet the lord and lady of the House were, in fact, neither a Lord nor a Lady—not anymore, in the case of the latter.

Abelard could respect that—where Beuzaheim’s mayor was a nobody who had somehow weaseled his way into an appointment, Kristian Rīsan was a nobody who had presumably beat his way into an estate. It was less of a sleazy path, at least, especially given the family’s origins.

Before their attachment to the late Champion Saint—a famous otherworlder from decades past—Rīsan and his first wife had been unremarkable orphans, though the latter had apparently been a mage of some skill. Several of the old people he’d consulted—for old people in town and their gossip were a quintessential source—had been surprised to hear of that last part, as the woman had never been known as anything other than mortal around these parts.

Learning absolutely none of the couple’s children had at least one Affinity had to be one of the most suspicious things Abelard had ever stumbled across, but it—unbelievably—appeared to check out. Somehow.

It was a shame, in a sense. The Champion Saint had died so long ago that he and his party never got to experience just how much attention Saints and Champions alike got nowadays. They could have had fame and so much more. Unfortunately, only Rīsan survived to see the 59th century.

His decision to remarry to the sole survivor of a House that had been smitten by the waves was certainly a choice, but it appeared to have turned out well for him.

By all accounts, they were a close-knit family, with all but one of the remaining children living at the estate. Abelard had found that detail strange prior to learning most of them had lived in Beuzaheim at one point or another, and all left such a trail of chaos in their wake, that no wonder they had to move back with their remaining parent.

The tile thief should have clued him in, really.

One of the children, alongside a seafarer and the same fallen noble who later married the father—which really sounded like the setup for a terrible bar joke—had once rented a workshop in town. Whatever happened to it was a mystery, because it had disappeared when the building had, shortly after the owner’s death.

Another child had somehow climbed through the ranks of a small sect in record time—despite, again, having no Affinity to speak of—and appeared to be using said sect as his personal carriage ride through the world under the sea, seeing as it had been spotted in far more places than reasonable.

Then of course, there was the tile thief herself. For a time, she had set up a booth near the town square, presenting herself as an interior designer. The few clients she had before ‘retiring’ had been so enamored with her work that they never let anyone see the inside of their homes again and moved away soon after.

And just as Abelard thought, this could not possibly get any worse, his attempts at asking the townsfolk about the woman he was looking for in the first place just led him to several accusations of Rīsan literally throwing people across town, asking them those very same questions.

At the risk of sounding prejudiced, Abelard revisited a slightly obvious fact—Kristian Rīsan was almost definitely not from Grēdôcava. The people of the Principality had a look about them, their consistent paleness coupled with darker hair and lighter eyes. Abelard would have wondered whether no one ever noticed Rīsan looked slightly out of place, but he soon remembered they had already proven they were clueless by never noticing Abelard himself.

Still, the man had been raised in Grēdôcava—how he behaved like this when all records indicated he had been raised properly was a mystery.

Needless to say, Abelard’s search had been crippled from the start by the fact that people currently did not wish to hear the name Rīsan, especially given how the authorities did nothing. Being ‘the authorities’, Abelard decided to stay as far away from that argument as possible.

That left him with one realistic choice—he had to interview the estate’s staff to get an idea of who Beryl Rīsanin was, and under what circumstances she went missing.

Abelard got sidetracked immediately.

The estate consisted of a large manor with a handful of satellite buildings, but was, mostly, undeveloped land. The staff of 73 people—who could possibly need this many staffers?—were paid in harvestables. Worse yet, they were given the privilege to go at it to their heart’s content during The Harvest, meaning they would no doubt walk away with piles of harvestables in their inventories.

Actual safe areas to harvest without being threatened by the sea were a premium resource in the Principality, and these people appeared to be using their ridiculously large patches of it to avoid having to figure out something as simple as salaries.

Abelard was not an economist, and he was glad for that, so he would hopefully never find himself learning just how much of an impact this House had on the harvestables market.

“So when was the eldest daughter last seen?” Abelard forced himself to keep a straight face as he went to speak to a maid who appeared to be… cleaning the path through the garden?

He was close to concluding the estate didn’t need this many staffers.

The aforementioned maid continued to use her broom on the gravel. “No one’s sure, really. She snuck out so often no one really noticed when she just stayed gone.”

“Seriously? No estimates?”

“With all due respect, sir, I’m paid to ‘keep the paths clear of snow’, whatever in any Devil’s name that means. I keep my head down, work my hours, and I’m already well on track to retire, and well, by 45. I don’t take years off my life by paying attention to this madman’s children.”

Abelard shook his head. This entire day had gone to waste. With a sigh, Abelard put his notebook away. “I’ve been wondering—why do so many people work here? Do you all work on different shifts or the like? This place is large, but not needs-seventy-employees-on-call large.”

“Are you a government official?”

“Yes?”

“Then that will be all, good sir.”

“Pardon?”

The maid swung the broomstick over her shoulder and began walking away.

Abelard narrowed his eyes, but mostly just looked on as the woman practically disappeared into the distance.

He was starting to consider whether starting a fight between this House and Baldur would be a good source of entertainment when a shout startled him.

“Abelard!”

His heart skipped a beat as he turned to greet the familiar voice, just as he noticed the patriarch’s looming figure had gotten dangerously close to him at some point.

“Do you bring news?”

“No,” Abelard spoke a bit too quickly, focusing on Thekla. “I was coming to speak to your staff, to cover all bases—there might yet be something I missed this close to your home.”

“Who are you?” Kristian Rīsan asked, unmoving. What kind of person wore armor while strolling through their own estate?

“Oh, that’s Abelard,” Thekla waved the question off, though she elaborated when her father’s gaze somehow managed to grow darker. “You know, the mayor’s assistant? Father, please, have you no care for my efforts, that you’d forget such a thing?”

“Right,” Kristian Rīsan nodded without either addressing his daughter or looking Abelard in the eye. “I was just coming here to ask what you were doing on my property, is all. I didn’t recognize you, but I see all is well. I shall take my leave now.”

For the second time in less than five minutes, Abelard silently watched someone walk away from him.

“Did you find anything?”

“No,” Abelard sighed. As much as he had his laughs at this family’s expense, finding the missing woman was very much his mission, and that part, he took seriously. “I will be honest with you, miss—the lack of information is crippling this search.”

“I figured,” Thekla joined him, for at some point, they had started walking down the path. “Bernadette hired someone to take care of the forest a while back. I haven’t met them, but she’s having them comb the area. I… I don’t like that.”

Abelard could not help but gulp. Yes, they were working off the assumption that Beryl Rīsanin was alive—as the family had a system message backing that—but the only confirmation they had, was over a year old by now. Seeing as Beryl Rīsanin’s child already had a guardian now, the system would have no reason to give them a second update on the matter should things change. “For what it’s worth, I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Thekla did not respond.

After a few minutes of silence, she tipped her head, pointing to a branching in the path. “Come along. I will go see if I can talk to them.”

Abelard examined his surroundings—this part of the estate appeared to be deserted, and the path went beyond its wards. Against his better judgment, he accompanied the woman, alone as they were. It might have been unwise, but she had proven trustworthy enough.

He almost regretted agreeing regardless—his boots sunk into the ground as soon as they exited the path, and at least, Abelard understood why the records never seemed to agree on whether this patch of land was a forest or a marsh.

Avoiding the raised roots was an issue in and of itself, and Abelard came close to tripping more times than he could count. Mangroves flanked them on all sides, and he had to admit, he envied the grace with which Thekla Rīsanin managed to walk through this.

“Should be around here,” Thekla all but muttered. The confidence appeared to be slowly slipping from her expression as she continued seeking to find the forester, until even her composure faltered. Only her timely grip of a branch kept her from hitting the ground face-first.

“Be mindful of the sands—there’s some version of quicksand afoot, not any I’d previously encountered.”

Thekla and Abelard both turned to see the man who had spoken just now—a tall figure with long, silky gray-white hair. He did not appear to belong, no matter what [Identify] said.

And while on the matter of what [Identify] said, Abelard froze.

Forester - Human - Level ??

...

Wanderer - Human - Level 457

...

Forester - Human - Level ??

Abelard’s sole Class, not only Rooted in {Seek} but redoubling on the word in its naming, was one prone to giving him glimpses into that which he should not have seen, but rarely did it bring trouble to him.

Such as the forester staring directly at him.

“This little town has yet to cease to amaze me,” the forester said. “One in the stage of Tree Veins, so far out? And that level, as well. It is impressive to lay eyes on.”

As though you’re one to talk, you’re the same!, Abelard fumed in that half-stunned silence of his. But while Abelard had breezed past the lower end of the three digits, the man in front of him looked like the real deal. Abelard might have had over a million points in attributes, but that mattered little when the rest were at barely a couple thousand.

Wave take me!, Abelard’s level was embarrassingly high, and the last thing he needed was a stranger pointing that out. “Ah, yes. But mind it not, please. I’d rather not talk about it. I made some unwise decisions early on, and I’m still working out the details of my recovery.”

Mostly by ignoring the matter in its entirety.

Thekla was making everything worse by staring wide-eyed. “Really? You look like a blank two-digit to me. Boring. I really need to get my [Identify] a good Trait. But seriously, a Tree Veins? Father’s going to lose his mind.”

“Please don’t tell your Father.”

“Or what?” Thekla wiggled her eyebrows. “Father’s so convinced he’s the strongest here, he might break enough walls to spice things up for the party this The Snow if he hears about this.”

You have a terrible idea of what the purpose of riling people up is…

“Tell you what,” Abelard exhaled, steeling himself. This would take some planning, but he was certain he could pull it off. “If you don’t tell your father, I’ll take you to one of Baldur’s mansions. One he pays little attention to, with plenty of interesting tiles.”

Where had his life gone wrong, that he was bribing someone with the prospect of tiles to keep them from telling anyone he was in the Tree Veins stage?

Thekla’s eyes narrowed, but abruptly, she smiled. “It’s a date!”

“Wait—”

“Should I be here?” the forester looked between them, only to soon shake his head. “No.”

And so it happened a third time.

Abelard let out a long-suffering sigh. Not to mention, they hadn’t even asked this man who he was, so Abelard’s report would have to somehow justify the time he spent visiting someone he could neither name nor had gotten any useful information from.

Then again, whether his boss could even read was debatable…

It happened outside of working hours, or so say I.

That would have to do.

“Can you walk me back, please?” Abelard asked. “It has only just come to my attention that I should have been back at the office by now.”

“Oh, sorry,” Thekla winced. “Let’s go.”

The way back was too quiet for comfort, but Abelard had far too much on his mind now, before even getting to the fact that he’d just promised to help Thekla steal Baldur’s tiles, a thought that made as little sense in context as it did on its own.

That forester—wanderer, apparently—had seen his true level. That hurt. For Abelard, who had once been lauded as a prodigy for how quickly he consolidated his Class into a single Skill, it was but a painful memory of how he’d been expected to go far yet had amounted to nothing.

The levels that came from merged Skills were not considered when the system tallied the lifetime skill levels to determine attributes per level, which left Abelard with over six-hundred worth of Skill levels he had trained, yet was not rewarded for.

Compared to true powerhouses, seven-twenty was nothing, but it was well past the point where he should have been getting a thousand attributes per level, not a mere hundred.

It was embarrassing, and the naysayers had been right—Abelard rose too quickly, and badly.

He shook his head—this was his life now. Not the heights he never reached.

Abelard would continue to work, to enjoy his time in an irrelevant town, and maybe even succeed at finding this missing woman.

…And look for tiles, apparently. Just what have I done?