It was well past noon, and Damien sat hunched over a rough-hewn wooden desk in the room the guild had provided for him.
The warm sunlight streaming through the window illuminated the dozens of scrolls, vials, and weaponry spread out on the table like an alchemist's ritual circle.
He was shirtless, with his scabbard lying to the left of him and an inkwell balanced precariously to the right.
In the center of the room, the red slime; Luton squirmed contentedly in its semi-liquid form, forming little blobs that popped and reformed as it obeyed its summoner's command.
"Next, two packs of dried horse meat," Damien muttered.
Luton shimmered, and a pouch emerged from its translucent body, landing with a soft plop on the table.
"Eighteen Grade Four Demon cores, and Thirty Grade Four from the Spectral Fanged Vultures."
