Broderick nods in satisfaction as he watches us don the disguises. “The mask and robe together create a set that’s really strong,” he says. “Not even the magical orbs used by the Adventurer’s Guild to check status windows can see through this disguise.
You could walk right into the Vesper Consortium’s headquarters, and even if a member spotted you on the streets later in your civilian garbs, they wouldn’t be able to recognize you. Remember, knowledge is power, and the people there are as hungry as humans get, so they will still attempt to find out who you are. Don’t make stupid comments and use aliases, obviously.”
The three of us nod in unison. I glance at the items and use my primordial eyes to check them.
[Whisperveil Mask]
[Rarity: Rare]
[Skills:
[Voice Distortion]
[Eye Concealment]
[Mind Shield]
[Shadowmantle Robe]
[Rarity: Rare]
[Skills:
[Size Disorientation]
[Status Concealment]
[Weightless Step]
Damn! Three spell imbuements in both. They must be worth a fortune… There’s even more stuff in them than what Broderick mentioned, like the Mind Shield, is he not aware or simply lazy? Well, anyways, I’m very grateful for the extremely generous gift.
As I watch Ayame and Blossom don the Shadowmantle Robes and Whisperveil Masks, they transform before my eyes into figures of pure secrecy and intimidation. Ayame, usually so composed and elegant, now carries an air of lethal precision- like a blade ready to strike without warning.
The way she moves in the robe, with its phantom-like distortion, makes her presence almost ghostly, as if she could vanish and reappear at will. There’s a cold, calculating intensity in her stance, a sense that she’s analyzing every potential threat with ruthless efficiency.
Blossom, on the other hand, resembles more so a force of nature. The playful energy she usually exudes is replaced by something darker, more primal. She radiates a dangerous confidence, a readiness to unleash her raw power at any moment. The mask conceals her innocent features, turning her into a fearsome predator- a creature born of the wild, untamed and relentless.
The way she holds herself, with a quiet, coiled tension, speaks of a feral existence that could outmaneuver any foe.
The three of us together form a truly badass sight, if I may say so myself. I certainly wouldn’t be happy if I was a stranger and had to walk down the same street the three of us do. If there’s one word that I believe best describes our image, it would be:
Danger.
…
The three of us are then brought to another inventory room by a servant of theirs where he handed us a few bags and pouches to better hold our items. Sadly, my new friend wasn’t magnanimous enough to give me his spatial storage ring. What a greedy little gremlin… What are friends even for?
After the servant hands the items over he tells us that the lord and ladies of the house have prepared a feast in our honor, and we quickly follow him to the diner.
The aroma of food- greasy, heavy, almost oppressive- hits me so absurdly hard that I have to stop in my steps for a moment and collect myself as I walk into the dining hall. The scent is thick in the air, a cloying mixture of sugar and oil that makes my stomach churn before I’ve even taken a seat. Broderick sits at the head of the table, his presence dominating the room.
His muscled form contrasts sharply with the trio of overly large women beside him- his wives, all of them draped in layers of fabric that strain to contain their bulk.
Broderick’s eyes glint with pride as he gestures for us to join them. “Please, have a seat. We’ve prepared a feast in your honor.”
Naturally, I take a seat opposite of Broderick, the other head of the table. My two ladies then move to sit on either of my sides.
Ayame takes her seat with her usual grace. Her posture is immaculate, her chin slightly lifted, and her gaze barely masking the disdain she feels. I know her too well; even without her saying a word, her thoughts are clear. The sight of Broderick’s wives, stuffing themselves with abandon, makes her uneasy, to put it gently.
Blossom, on the other hand, is quieter than usual, her eyes flickering between the food and the bloated women surrounding us. I think she is finding the situation kind of amusing for whatever reason.
As we sit, servants begin to bring in the dishes. The table is soon covered in platters of food that could only be described as decadent to the point of obscenity. There are towering piles of fried dough, drenched in dark syrup that clings to every crevice, and slabs of roasted meats swimming in pools of fat. Vegetables are hidden beneath thick, creamy sauces, their original flavors long buried.
Desserts gleam with sugar and butter, each one a testament to excess.
But Broderick’s meal is starkly different. Before him, the servants place a plate of lean meats, roasted to perfection, with a side of crisp, steamed vegetables. A light salad, drizzled with a simple vinaigrette, completes his meal. While his wives indulge in their feast, Broderick maintains a diet befitting his powerful physique. His eyes meet mine, and he smirks. Why is he smirking?!
I have a bad premonition about this.
Why did he not give us something similar to the healthy food he is enjoying?
I take a cautious bite of the fried dough before me. The sweetness is overwhelming, the syrup cloying and thick, while the oil coats my mouth. It’s almost nauseating, but I force myself to swallow. I don’t know what he is playing at, but I need to collect more information before mounting my proper response.
Ayame handles her food with meticulous care, picking at the smallest portions and chewing slowly, her distaste barely hidden behind a mask of politeness. Her lips press into a thin line as she dabs at the grease on her napkin.
Blossom, however, seems to be having a different experience altogether. At first, she’s as restrained as Ayame and I, nibbling at a piece of bread, but I notice her eyes start to linger on the fried dough, then on the desserts gleaming with sugar. Before I can stop her, she reaches for a massive slice of cake, her eyes wide with delight.