Dante eyed the group—solid formation. A tank, a paladin, a healer, and a mage. Classic party setup. Reliable.
The paladin stepped forward, arms crossed over polished silver armor, his golden eyes sizing Dante up like a threat. "Who are you?"
"Name's Dante," he replied evenly. "I'm looking to forage materials in Dullowmarch."
The tank grunted. "You an adventurer? Got a guild card?"
Dante shook his head. "No card. I'm not with a guild. Just a crafter looking for supplies."
That earned a few exchanged glances. The healer subtly leaned toward the mage, whispering something, while the paladin narrowed his eyes.
"No offense, but we don't take unverified strangers into our team," the paladin said, voice firm. "Too risky."
"It's fine, Gavriel," came a gravelly voice from the side.
Everyone turned.
In the middle of them stood a strange old elf.
He was barely waist-high with skin like weathered bark and a crooked spine that made him lean heavily on a polished cane. His coat was stitched with so many hidden pockets it might as well have been a walking apothecary.
Perched quietly on his shoulder was a snow-white bunny, its red eyes blinking lazily—as if it had seen enough death to last a dozen lifetimes.
"My name is Professor Thimblewick," the old elf said, adjusting the tiny spectacles on his nose. "I'm an Alchemist—and the one who organized this expedition. I'll be joining you, of course. None of these muscleheads know what they're actually looking for."
He eyed Dante. "But if you're a crafter, then this just got easier."
"I need three things," he continued, raising a gloved finger with each item. "Crimson Root Moss. Black Petal Shards. And if you happen to come across any Whispering Fungi growing near bones—harvest it."
He paused, then added with a sharp glance, "Just don't touch it barehanded. And for the love of all things alchemical—don't breathe near it."
He coughed, straightened his back with a small crack, and smiled like someone who'd read every poison manual twice. "We'll find them in Dullowmarch."
Silence.
Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Bluenose turned pale. "T-that's near Applewood Forest," he whispered. "The miasma from the wyrm already spread there!"
The white bunny yawned on Thimblewick's shoulder.
"Which is exactly why I'm paying a handsome reward," the Alchemist said with a crooked grin. "A thousand gil per specimen. A hundred thousand if it's pristine. Triple if you bring back something no one's cataloged before."
Dante wasn't perturbed, but he knew the offer was high.
One hundred thousand gil was already a fortune—but three times that?
That kind of money was ridiculous for a gathering quest—but the danger made it clear why. Dullowmarch wasn't just some damp patch of moss and frogs. It was death wrapped in fog, home to creatures mutated by the edge of the miasma.
Even seasoned adventurers were backing off.
"Then am I hired?" Dante asked.
Lyra, the healer, frowned. "Is this really okay?"
"He might slow us down," Seyra, the mage, muttered, arms crossed.
"He looks suspicious," added Brennos with a grunt.
Gavriel sighed, clearly exhausted by the back-and-forth. "It's not for us to decide."
All eyes turned to the one person who could make the call.
Thimblewick, the old elf with the white rabbit in his shoulder, just grinned. "It's fine. We need more bodies anyway—preferably ones that don't ask too many questions."
Lyra sighed and took a reluctant step forward. "And is that gnome coming with us too?"
Bluenose peeked out from behind Dante, his little hands trembling like leaves in the wind. "M-my name is Bluenose," he squeaked.
Lyra gave him a once-over and scowled. Bluenose ducked back behind Dante immediately.
"He's my helper," Dante said simply.
"Helper?" Seyra wrinkled her nose like she'd just stepped in muck. "What class is he?"
Dante raised a brow. He didn't even know if this world used class systems the same way.
Good thing Bluenose stepped up. "Uhm . . . I'm just a regular gnome."
The party didn't hide their disappointment.
"Your helper, your responsibility," Gavriel said with finality. "Just make sure he doesn't get in the way."
Thimblewick clapped his hands. "Alright, then. Let's reconvene here tomorrow morning before departure. Maybe we'll pick up another sword or two by then. That's all."
Dante and Bluenose made their way back to the latter's little house tucked beneath a twisting root arch.
Dante was a little disappointed. He wanted to head out now, but he understood—they needed more hands if they were walking into the edges of the miasma-infested Dullowmarch. It wasn't the kind of place you rushed into half-prepared.
Bluenose trudged along behind him, shoulders drooping. "I still don't think this is a good idea . . ."
Dante ignored the comment. "So . . . you don't have a class?" he asked instead.
Bluenose shook his head, visibly disheartened. "That's right. Creatures like me—we don't evolve like humans or the stronger races. We're not born with strength or divine blessings."
Dante's Library pinged quietly in his head—new information was being recorded.
Bluenose continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "There are gnomes who evolve. But they're rare. To do that, we need experience, and maybe some legendary item to trigger the change. But let's be honest . . . who's gonna hand something like that to someone like me?"
"Is that why you were out in Animalara alone?"
Bluenose gave a tiny nod. "I thought . . . maybe if I wandered far enough, faced danger, picked herbs—anything—I'd gain enough experience to evolve. But all I could really do was hope. I'm not a fighter. I'm just . . . lucky to survive this far. And maybe I'm just destined to stay a regular gnome. Like the others. Most of us settle for farming or shopkeeping. Safer that way."
Dante didn't speak right away. He stared at the fire in the corner, fingers idly drumming his chin.
After a moment, he smirked. "Then maybe you just need that."
Bluenose looked up, confused. "That?"