Instruction: Given first part of the popular LightNovel spice and wolf as input, continue the story the best you can.

Input:
Fleur took the mule's lead and trudged back toward her home.
She could not clearly remember the expression on Olar's face when she arrived.
"There is nothing to be done."
The next morning, Fleur awoke and descended the stairs to the first floor, gazing despondently out into the rainy courtyard and desperately wishing the previous day's events would turn out to be a bad dream—but when she came to the table, those were words Olar spoke without even turning around.
After speaking, though, he did turn around. Despite the gloom, she caught sight of a small piece of glass in his hand.
The glass was a lens, the sole thing he had managed to recover when a company he worked for long ago had fallen to ruin. Fleur imagined that he had been examining the documents she brought back with her, trying to find some way out of the predicament.
When she looked at the table, she saw a burned-down candle sitting in the candlestick there.
"There is nothing to be done. He was very thorough." Olar sighed in a weary voice, free of anger or frustration. More than anything else, he seemed exhausted, which pained Fleur deeply.
"I'm sorry." She murmured again the words she had said over and over again the previous night.
Olar only narrowed his eyes and said nothing, but as Bertra brought in some warm sheep's milk, he gestured for her to sit.
"By my guess, the clothing is worth about half what you paid for it. But our man Post's estimate is probably more accurate, since I don't keep up on the latest fashions. Still, I must admit I'm impressed the company had these clothes stored away for so long. It's true, though, there was once a time when dark colors like these were quite popular," he said, gesturing to the contents of the crate that sat beside the table.
Fleur remembered Milton's words: "Such dark colors are fit for funerals and not much else."
"Still, it's fortunate that you did not take on any debt to buy these. You won't owe interest, nor are you facing immediate ruin. The clothes that will sell will sell, so to turn them into money...unfortunately, I'm afraid you'll have no choice but to do the hard work yourself."
Fleur nodded at Olar's plainspoken words.
Bertra was adding honey to the milk in a cup she had carved herself.
Fleur knew that this was not a time for tears, nor for apologies, but she could not yet force herself to look up. What she needed to do was to raise her head and proudly proclaim it: I will not fail next time! Never!
But no such energetic, undaunted voice was heard—only the emptily echoing sound of the rain outside.
Just like the politics of a noble banquet, merchants tried to overcome suspicion, gain trust, and then use that trust to their own advantage. And now she had gotten a glimpse of the true nature of that world.
They cared nothing for human emotion and would happily use it for monetary gain, always trying to take the best course, at the best time, to reap the best outcome.
Because no matter how it was earned, money was money. That's what Olar would say. And it was true.
"...I'm so sorry," murmured Fleur, holding the cup in both hands and wishing she could pour her shame into it.
Olar was motionless. Bertra started to stand, but Fleur saw that Olar stopped her.
"Perhaps you should rest for a while. Miss Bertra, if you would..."
Olar addressed Bertra and had her move the crate into the storeroom, while he said he was going to check on the severity of the rain and left the room.
And then Fleur was alone.
Rain continued to fall outside, and now that she was alone the sound was oppressive. No one would notice the sound of a couple more drops falling.
She found her own excuses pathetic as she held her cup and cried. She was frustrated, of course, and felt utterly useless. But worst of all was her rage at the fact that she was still going to have to trade with these despicable merchants.
She couldn't. She couldn't do it.

Output:
She wanted someone, anyone to save her. She would do anything. Fleur called out to God. And then the very next moment—
***
Fleur looked up suddenly, but not because Bertra or Olar had returned.
There was a strange sound. Cats and mice tended to seek shelter on rainy days like this one, so she wondered if that was what she was hearing—and then the sound came again.
It was a knock on the door. Someone was there.
***
Fleur wiped her messy face and quickly blew her nose with a kerchief. There were only a limited number of guests that could be expected on a rainy day.
And if so, there was really only one person it could be. Another person hurt just as she was hurt, afraid, and anxious.
Fleur stood. This was impossible to bear alone, but perhaps with another...
Clinging to that hope, she put her hand to the door, drew the bolt back, and opened it. For a moment she wondered if water had splashed her eyes, blurring her vision.
She did not immediately recognize the individual at her door.
"May we speak for a moment?"
Fleur stared and was at a loss for a reply, which was hardly surprising. It was not Milton at the door.
It was the man responsible for putting them in this predicament—Hans himself.
"You and Mr. Post—I cannot imagine you failed to draw up a contract to provide him with funds, correct?"
He had a vexing voice, like a snake coiling around its prey.
"What of it?" growled Fleur, the loathing boiling up from her stomach and forming hoarse words.
"Post had no assets, which meant you were the investor and he was responsible for sales." The rain rolled off his fine leather coat. Out from under a hood not too different from those worn by monks, Hans looked at Fleur with oily eyes.
"S-so?"
Hans struck a frightening figure, but the reason Fleur's voice was so hoarse and hesitant was because she had absolutely no notion of why he had come.
He had taken all of their money and given them useless goods in return, so he ought not to have any further business with her. So why had he come all the way, and in such weather, to talk to her?
In her heart, Fleur never wanted to see Hans's face again, nor enter into his field of view. But there he was, looking at her. Like a snake unwilling to let its prey escape.
"In that case, I can't imagine you assumed all the risk. You must have let him take on some. So how much? One hundred fifty percent? Two hundred?"
Her hand trembled as she held the door, but not because of the chill. It was anger that moved it so as she squeezed a growled answer from her throat. "I'm not like you. I'm not that greedy."
"How much, then?"
Hans was insistent, and Fleur's rage at him made her dizzy. "Half. Because I trusted him," she managed to answer, somehow controlling her temper.
Hans pressed his lips together and tilted his head. "Goodness. It seems you've taken quite a loss, then."
Fleur had her limits. She saw red and drew a deep breath in preparation to scream her rage at him—but as though he'd been waiting for that precise moment, Hans took a step forward and spoke in a smooth and even voice.
"I'd like to purchase your share of the contract you signed with Mr. Post."
Fleur's mind went white. "Wha—?"
"This sort of thing happens all the time. It's a simple transfer of liability. Whether or not you asked for interest, it's clear that Mr. Post owes you a debt. And I want to buy that debt. At a price that will leave you losing absolutely nothing."
As the clear explanation sank in, Fleur finally understood. She understood what he was thinking—no, what he had been thinking all along. His whole plan had led up to this moment. This had been the goal from the start.
He wanted to buy Milton's debt. It would allow him to collar and control a brilliant clothes salesman.


Instruction: Given first part of the popular LightNovel spice and wolf as input, continue the story the best you can.

Input:
She wanted someone, anyone to save her. She would do anything. Fleur called out to God. And then the very next moment—
***
Fleur looked up suddenly, but not because Bertra or Olar had returned.
There was a strange sound. Cats and mice tended to seek shelter on rainy days like this one, so she wondered if that was what she was hearing—and then the sound came again.
It was a knock on the door. Someone was there.
***
Fleur wiped her messy face and quickly blew her nose with a kerchief. There were only a limited number of guests that could be expected on a rainy day.
And if so, there was really only one person it could be. Another person hurt just as she was hurt, afraid, and anxious.
Fleur stood. This was impossible to bear alone, but perhaps with another...
Clinging to that hope, she put her hand to the door, drew the bolt back, and opened it. For a moment she wondered if water had splashed her eyes, blurring her vision.
She did not immediately recognize the individual at her door.
"May we speak for a moment?"
Fleur stared and was at a loss for a reply, which was hardly surprising. It was not Milton at the door.
It was the man responsible for putting them in this predicament—Hans himself.
"You and Mr. Post—I cannot imagine you failed to draw up a contract to provide him with funds, correct?"
He had a vexing voice, like a snake coiling around its prey.
"What of it?" growled Fleur, the loathing boiling up from her stomach and forming hoarse words.
"Post had no assets, which meant you were the investor and he was responsible for sales." The rain rolled off his fine leather coat. Out from under a hood not too different from those worn by monks, Hans looked at Fleur with oily eyes.
"S-so?"
Hans struck a frightening figure, but the reason Fleur's voice was so hoarse and hesitant was because she had absolutely no notion of why he had come.
He had taken all of their money and given them useless goods in return, so he ought not to have any further business with her. So why had he come all the way, and in such weather, to talk to her?
In her heart, Fleur never wanted to see Hans's face again, nor enter into his field of view. But there he was, looking at her. Like a snake unwilling to let its prey escape.
"In that case, I can't imagine you assumed all the risk. You must have let him take on some. So how much? One hundred fifty percent? Two hundred?"
Her hand trembled as she held the door, but not because of the chill. It was anger that moved it so as she squeezed a growled answer from her throat. "I'm not like you. I'm not that greedy."
"How much, then?"
Hans was insistent, and Fleur's rage at him made her dizzy. "Half. Because I trusted him," she managed to answer, somehow controlling her temper.
Hans pressed his lips together and tilted his head. "Goodness. It seems you've taken quite a loss, then."
Fleur had her limits. She saw red and drew a deep breath in preparation to scream her rage at him—but as though he'd been waiting for that precise moment, Hans took a step forward and spoke in a smooth and even voice.
"I'd like to purchase your share of the contract you signed with Mr. Post."
Fleur's mind went white. "Wha—?"
"This sort of thing happens all the time. It's a simple transfer of liability. Whether or not you asked for interest, it's clear that Mr. Post owes you a debt. And I want to buy that debt. At a price that will leave you losing absolutely nothing."
As the clear explanation sank in, Fleur finally understood. She understood what he was thinking—no, what he had been thinking all along. His whole plan had led up to this moment. This had been the goal from the start.
He wanted to buy Milton's debt. It would allow him to collar and control a brilliant clothes salesman.

Output:
It was the first time Fleur had ever hit anyone.
"...Very well." Hans wiped his lips with his hand and closed his eyes for several seconds. "When you've fallen as far as you wish to fall, feel free to knock on my company's door with that hand. No harm will come to you."
He licked the blood from his lips with a strangely red tongue, glaring at her rudely.
"Now, if you'll excuse me." He turned and began to walk back out into the rain, but then suddenly looked over his shoulder. "Don't hesitate to call on me when you change your mind."
Merchants.
Her rage had left, and that single word was the only thing occupying her mind.
Merchants.
They pursued profit to the point of cruelty. And for what? What drove them to such lengths?
She watched Hans as he went, stepping lightly through the rain down the deserted street, and wondered. She didn't understand. It was as though he wasn't human.
Fleur collapsed on the spot, and perhaps hearing the sound, Bertra gave a cry and came running.
She was sure that Bertra was calling for Olar, but Fleur only stared at the puddles in the falling rain. She felt utterly helpless and wanted to cry, but with Bertra's help, she managed to stand again, whereupon she began to walk unsteadily out into the rain.
Bertra was looking at Olar, who had come down the stairs to see what was the matter, and she hastily tried to pull Fleur back inside.
Profit changed people.
There in the rainy street, as the downpour strengthened, Fleur beheld a strange sight.
Despite the rain, a single wagon came into view along the street that ran directly next to the house.
The driver's face was concealed by a hood that came down to his chin, yet the wagon bed was filled haphazardly with goods—as though it had been loaded in a great hurry.
That instant, Fleur cried out in a ragged voice, "Milton!"
Though her vision was blurred by tears and rain, she could still see the driver of the wagon freeze for a moment.
"Milton!" she cried again. Her voice would surely not withstand another cry.
Olar rushed out of the house, grappling her into a bear hug and pulling her back inside.
"Milton...It's Milton. He's...," Fleur mumbled deliriously, but she could hear Olar and Bertra's exchange quite clearly.
"Check the storehouse. The door was broken."
"Most of the clothes in the storehouse are gone."
"Milady."
When she came to, Olar's serious face was the first thing she saw. "What happened?"
He was holding her face between his hands, so neither escape nor shaking her head were possible. She closed her eyes, hoping desperately to pass out.
But reality did not change.
"Milady."
She began to sob like a scolded child in response, but Olar continued his questions, like a kindly old priest.
"That was a man from the Jones Company? So...the one who took the clothes was..."
Fleur nodded. There was no mistaking it.
Milton must have realized what Hans's goal was immediately after they had been taken by the Jones Company. And then he had waited for his chance to steal the clothes. If he was lucky, they might be worth half what they had been bought for.
So he could steal them, sell them, and if all went well, pay back his part of the debt.
Fleur gritted her teeth and closed her eyes. Milton had never trusted her. If he had, there would have been no need for him to steal the clothing, even if he did plan to repay her. Fleur had never blamed him for her loss or demanded immediate payment and would never have dreamed of selling his debt to someone else.
Profit changed people—as did loss.
She had wanted to believe that it would not change her. But Milton hadn't trusted her.
"Milady." It was something akin to a dog's faithfulness that finally prompted her eyes to open. Or perhaps it was just that this voice had always supported her through difficult times.
Yet it was not Olar's usual face, the one that had always led her to safety. This was a stern old man.
"Milady. You must be resolved!"
For a moment, Fleur forgot to cry. "Re...solved?"


Instruction: Given first part of the popular LightNovel spice and wolf as input, continue the story the best you can.

Input:
It was the first time Fleur had ever hit anyone.
"...Very well." Hans wiped his lips with his hand and closed his eyes for several seconds. "When you've fallen as far as you wish to fall, feel free to knock on my company's door with that hand. No harm will come to you."
He licked the blood from his lips with a strangely red tongue, glaring at her rudely.
"Now, if you'll excuse me." He turned and began to walk back out into the rain, but then suddenly looked over his shoulder. "Don't hesitate to call on me when you change your mind."
Merchants.
Her rage had left, and that single word was the only thing occupying her mind.
Merchants.
They pursued profit to the point of cruelty. And for what? What drove them to such lengths?
She watched Hans as he went, stepping lightly through the rain down the deserted street, and wondered. She didn't understand. It was as though he wasn't human.
Fleur collapsed on the spot, and perhaps hearing the sound, Bertra gave a cry and came running.
She was sure that Bertra was calling for Olar, but Fleur only stared at the puddles in the falling rain. She felt utterly helpless and wanted to cry, but with Bertra's help, she managed to stand again, whereupon she began to walk unsteadily out into the rain.
Bertra was looking at Olar, who had come down the stairs to see what was the matter, and she hastily tried to pull Fleur back inside.
Profit changed people.
There in the rainy street, as the downpour strengthened, Fleur beheld a strange sight.
Despite the rain, a single wagon came into view along the street that ran directly next to the house.
The driver's face was concealed by a hood that came down to his chin, yet the wagon bed was filled haphazardly with goods—as though it had been loaded in a great hurry.
That instant, Fleur cried out in a ragged voice, "Milton!"
Though her vision was blurred by tears and rain, she could still see the driver of the wagon freeze for a moment.
"Milton!" she cried again. Her voice would surely not withstand another cry.
Olar rushed out of the house, grappling her into a bear hug and pulling her back inside.
"Milton...It's Milton. He's...," Fleur mumbled deliriously, but she could hear Olar and Bertra's exchange quite clearly.
"Check the storehouse. The door was broken."
"Most of the clothes in the storehouse are gone."
"Milady."
When she came to, Olar's serious face was the first thing she saw. "What happened?"
He was holding her face between his hands, so neither escape nor shaking her head were possible. She closed her eyes, hoping desperately to pass out.
But reality did not change.
"Milady."
She began to sob like a scolded child in response, but Olar continued his questions, like a kindly old priest.
"That was a man from the Jones Company? So...the one who took the clothes was..."
Fleur nodded. There was no mistaking it.
Milton must have realized what Hans's goal was immediately after they had been taken by the Jones Company. And then he had waited for his chance to steal the clothes. If he was lucky, they might be worth half what they had been bought for.
So he could steal them, sell them, and if all went well, pay back his part of the debt.
Fleur gritted her teeth and closed her eyes. Milton had never trusted her. If he had, there would have been no need for him to steal the clothing, even if he did plan to repay her. Fleur had never blamed him for her loss or demanded immediate payment and would never have dreamed of selling his debt to someone else.
Profit changed people—as did loss.
She had wanted to believe that it would not change her. But Milton hadn't trusted her.
"Milady." It was something akin to a dog's faithfulness that finally prompted her eyes to open. Or perhaps it was just that this voice had always supported her through difficult times.
Yet it was not Olar's usual face, the one that had always led her to safety. This was a stern old man.
"Milady. You must be resolved!"
For a moment, Fleur forgot to cry. "Re...solved?"

Output:
He was telling her that if she wanted to continue on as a merchant, she had to get the clothes back.
"Milady!" Olar shouted when Fleur tried to look away. A scolded dog, even when terrified, can never look away. "Milady. I brought you into the world of merchants because I pitied you. Because your former role was simply to exist, you were washed away and had no choice but to rely on others. I wanted to give you the chance to make your own fate, to stand on your own two feet and walk," said Olar. He took a deep breath, shook his head, and continued.
"No...I cannot be dishonest about my feelings now. The truth is...I wanted you to take revenge for me."
"...What?"
"Before I worked for your former husband, I worked at a famous trading company. But before that, I was something of a noble myself."
At those words, everything stopped. Fleur felt as though her heart ceased to beat.
"And I swore that I'd surpass all other merchants and make those perfect nobles fall to their knees before me."
Olar did not look into her eyes as he spoke, and he suddenly seemed very old.
"Then before I knew it, I had gotten old. Too old to sit on some golden throne. On top of that, the man I'd taken as my master had ruined himself. I had no children. And...selfishly, I suppose, I wanted to entrust my dream to you."
Bertra came and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, then placed her hand on Olar as he delivered his painful confession.
"This is all due to my selfishness."
Everything was so sudden that Fleur had no idea of how to react.
As his eyes swam this way and that, Olar took a deep breath and stood. "Miss Bertra. Fetch some coin and my coat."
Fleur looked up sharply, realizing what Olar was planning to do.
"So long as I am alive, I will not allow you to suffer, milady. If I may be allowed to atone for my sins, by force if necessary..."
Fleur could not prevent her face from distorting with her sobs. If she were to content herself with what he was saying, then she truly would be a pointless doll, whose only job was to exist.
In the past, she had had her family name. Now, having lost even that, if she couldn't stand on her own feet, then what would she become? The thought terrified her, and she clung to Olar's leg as he stood.
She could not decide between either path—and the thought that she might take neither was still more horrible.
"Milady." Olar's voice was gentler than she had ever heard it. He reached down and gently took hold of her hand, pulling it free from his leg, finger by finger. "Please refrain from selfishness."
From these words, she knew he had seen right through her, and she clung on still tighter.
"..." Olar sighed, regarding her wordlessly.
In that instant, Fleur realized something. Loving eyes and scornful ones were separated by a hairbreadth. After all, the reason one extended one's hand to help another was because they were weak.
"Do not mock me!" Fleur shouted. She glared at Olar's frozen face, stood, and shouted again, "Do not mock me! I am sick of this! I am sick of letting myself be carried along by life! Your dream? Don't be absurd! I am not your child! I will decide for myself where to go—because I have nowhere to go home!"
She railed at him, shouting everything she felt, then stood there glaring at Olar as her shoulders shook from her ragged breaths.
It was true that continuing to cling to Olar and allowing him to protect her was an attractive notion. But even Fleur knew it was not so simple.
Things were fine now—but what about after Olar died? The world was merciless, humans were unkind, and when money was involved, any trust might be betrayed.
There would be no more afternoon naps in the sunshine, wrapped up in a soft blanket. And yet humans had to continue, to live on.
"So, what will you do?" Olar's voice, face, eyes—all were calm.
Fleur erased the smile that had risen unbidden to her face. "I'm going to get it back."
"Get what back?"


Instruction: Given first part of the popular LightNovel spice and wolf as input, continue the story the best you can.

Input:
He was telling her that if she wanted to continue on as a merchant, she had to get the clothes back.
"Milady!" Olar shouted when Fleur tried to look away. A scolded dog, even when terrified, can never look away. "Milady. I brought you into the world of merchants because I pitied you. Because your former role was simply to exist, you were washed away and had no choice but to rely on others. I wanted to give you the chance to make your own fate, to stand on your own two feet and walk," said Olar. He took a deep breath, shook his head, and continued.
"No...I cannot be dishonest about my feelings now. The truth is...I wanted you to take revenge for me."
"...What?"
"Before I worked for your former husband, I worked at a famous trading company. But before that, I was something of a noble myself."
At those words, everything stopped. Fleur felt as though her heart ceased to beat.
"And I swore that I'd surpass all other merchants and make those perfect nobles fall to their knees before me."
Olar did not look into her eyes as he spoke, and he suddenly seemed very old.
"Then before I knew it, I had gotten old. Too old to sit on some golden throne. On top of that, the man I'd taken as my master had ruined himself. I had no children. And...selfishly, I suppose, I wanted to entrust my dream to you."
Bertra came and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, then placed her hand on Olar as he delivered his painful confession.
"This is all due to my selfishness."
Everything was so sudden that Fleur had no idea of how to react.
As his eyes swam this way and that, Olar took a deep breath and stood. "Miss Bertra. Fetch some coin and my coat."
Fleur looked up sharply, realizing what Olar was planning to do.
"So long as I am alive, I will not allow you to suffer, milady. If I may be allowed to atone for my sins, by force if necessary..."
Fleur could not prevent her face from distorting with her sobs. If she were to content herself with what he was saying, then she truly would be a pointless doll, whose only job was to exist.
In the past, she had had her family name. Now, having lost even that, if she couldn't stand on her own feet, then what would she become? The thought terrified her, and she clung to Olar's leg as he stood.
She could not decide between either path—and the thought that she might take neither was still more horrible.
"Milady." Olar's voice was gentler than she had ever heard it. He reached down and gently took hold of her hand, pulling it free from his leg, finger by finger. "Please refrain from selfishness."
From these words, she knew he had seen right through her, and she clung on still tighter.
"..." Olar sighed, regarding her wordlessly.
In that instant, Fleur realized something. Loving eyes and scornful ones were separated by a hairbreadth. After all, the reason one extended one's hand to help another was because they were weak.
"Do not mock me!" Fleur shouted. She glared at Olar's frozen face, stood, and shouted again, "Do not mock me! I am sick of this! I am sick of letting myself be carried along by life! Your dream? Don't be absurd! I am not your child! I will decide for myself where to go—because I have nowhere to go home!"
She railed at him, shouting everything she felt, then stood there glaring at Olar as her shoulders shook from her ragged breaths.
It was true that continuing to cling to Olar and allowing him to protect her was an attractive notion. But even Fleur knew it was not so simple.
Things were fine now—but what about after Olar died? The world was merciless, humans were unkind, and when money was involved, any trust might be betrayed.
There would be no more afternoon naps in the sunshine, wrapped up in a soft blanket. And yet humans had to continue, to live on.
"So, what will you do?" Olar's voice, face, eyes—all were calm.
Fleur erased the smile that had risen unbidden to her face. "I'm going to get it back."
"Get what back?"

Output:
A good servant was a servant before all else. Once ordered, Bertra regained her composure immediately, nodded, and left.
"Milady—"
"I thought I told you to stop calling me 'milady,'" said Fleur, interrupting Olar with no hesitation. "I'm going to get it back. If he's using a wagon, we have more than enough time to catch him on horseback. It's not hard to guess where he's heading. Not many roads lead to the noble quarter."
Olar voiced not a single objection, nor twitched so much as an eyebrow. Yet she still knew what his gaze meant.
"Is this what you want?"
She didn't consider the question a meaningless one.
"It is. I'm going to be a merchant. I'm going to regain my resolve."
Atop the folded coat was a motley assortment of coins—truly all they had left—and a short sword. Bertra held the items out, which Fleur accepted with a slight bow.
"I'd rather be shivering in bed, neither going nor retreating, hoping this all was a dream. But when you die, I'd be lost, and then Bertra would go next and finally I." Fleur cocked her head. "To the Jones Company, I mean. I'll bet they'd pay a tidy sum."
In point of fact, noble blood was worthless without money.
"So I have to go forward. And anyway, I know now."
"Know...what?"
"I know what's at the end of the path of profit that merchants walk, merchants who believe in nothing, for whom money is their only solace."
Olar's eyes widened, and he drew his chin in. He looked like a parent whose child had discovered some forbidden treasure.
Fleur alone smiled, putting her coat on and fastening her sword at the waist. When she put her scarf on around her head, her heart pounded with such force that it was painful.
"If there's something out there that will bring me peace, I want to chase it. Olar—"
"Yes?" her faithful tutor and bookkeeper replied, straightening.
"I want you to help me. I won't cause you any more trouble."
"Very well."
"Bertra," Fleur said, fastening her scarf. "I'm off."
Fleur tossed the money at a nearby stable, rented horses, and sped out into the rain.
If Milton managed to sell off the clothing, she would surely never see him again. All that would be left for her would be whatever clothing Milton had decided he couldn't sell and a huge loss. She would catch him and get her clothes back, then decide how to deal with him.
That was all she could see.
In any case, retrieving the clothes came first.
"Olar, do you have your sword?" shouted Fleur through the din of the rain and the pounding of the horses' hooves. Of course, she was not just asking if he had brought his sword—she wanted to know whether or not he would need it.
"If he's as you saw him before, I think we'll be fine!"
Her former husband had walked a dangerous path. He had certainly gotten into a couple of tight spots, and as the man who had kept his books, Olar could be counted upon in such situations.
"Are you quite sure about the way?"
"There were only a few nobles that Milton talked about! I can't imagine he'll go somewhere unfamiliar if he needs to sell in a hurry, which means this must be the way!"
The road was muddy, and the horses had stumbled several times. Though Fleur did know how to ride, she was far from an expert. She mostly avoided using the reins, instead merely clinging to her mount and praying as they sped down the road.
There was no anger for Milton in her heart. No grudge.
Why? Fleur asked herself and came up with an answer.
It was loneliness. Bottomless loneliness.
"Milady!"
The rain had ruined part of the road. Fleur nearly wound up in a large hole that had been gouged out of the earth. It was not skill that saved her, but simple dumb luck.
The horse jumped, and as she clung to it and looked down, she saw the hellhole filled with mud and water.
"Milady!"
Her horse stopped, and she nearly fell—it was all she could do to right herself. Embarrassed and frustrated, she found his usual manner of address suddenly very irritating. "I told you to stop calling me—"


Instruction: Given first part of the popular LightNovel spice and wolf as input, continue the story the best you can.

Input:
A good servant was a servant before all else. Once ordered, Bertra regained her composure immediately, nodded, and left.
"Milady—"
"I thought I told you to stop calling me 'milady,'" said Fleur, interrupting Olar with no hesitation. "I'm going to get it back. If he's using a wagon, we have more than enough time to catch him on horseback. It's not hard to guess where he's heading. Not many roads lead to the noble quarter."
Olar voiced not a single objection, nor twitched so much as an eyebrow. Yet she still knew what his gaze meant.
"Is this what you want?"
She didn't consider the question a meaningless one.
"It is. I'm going to be a merchant. I'm going to regain my resolve."
Atop the folded coat was a motley assortment of coins—truly all they had left—and a short sword. Bertra held the items out, which Fleur accepted with a slight bow.
"I'd rather be shivering in bed, neither going nor retreating, hoping this all was a dream. But when you die, I'd be lost, and then Bertra would go next and finally I." Fleur cocked her head. "To the Jones Company, I mean. I'll bet they'd pay a tidy sum."
In point of fact, noble blood was worthless without money.
"So I have to go forward. And anyway, I know now."
"Know...what?"
"I know what's at the end of the path of profit that merchants walk, merchants who believe in nothing, for whom money is their only solace."
Olar's eyes widened, and he drew his chin in. He looked like a parent whose child had discovered some forbidden treasure.
Fleur alone smiled, putting her coat on and fastening her sword at the waist. When she put her scarf on around her head, her heart pounded with such force that it was painful.
"If there's something out there that will bring me peace, I want to chase it. Olar—"
"Yes?" her faithful tutor and bookkeeper replied, straightening.
"I want you to help me. I won't cause you any more trouble."
"Very well."
"Bertra," Fleur said, fastening her scarf. "I'm off."
Fleur tossed the money at a nearby stable, rented horses, and sped out into the rain.
If Milton managed to sell off the clothing, she would surely never see him again. All that would be left for her would be whatever clothing Milton had decided he couldn't sell and a huge loss. She would catch him and get her clothes back, then decide how to deal with him.
That was all she could see.
In any case, retrieving the clothes came first.
"Olar, do you have your sword?" shouted Fleur through the din of the rain and the pounding of the horses' hooves. Of course, she was not just asking if he had brought his sword—she wanted to know whether or not he would need it.
"If he's as you saw him before, I think we'll be fine!"
Her former husband had walked a dangerous path. He had certainly gotten into a couple of tight spots, and as the man who had kept his books, Olar could be counted upon in such situations.
"Are you quite sure about the way?"
"There were only a few nobles that Milton talked about! I can't imagine he'll go somewhere unfamiliar if he needs to sell in a hurry, which means this must be the way!"
The road was muddy, and the horses had stumbled several times. Though Fleur did know how to ride, she was far from an expert. She mostly avoided using the reins, instead merely clinging to her mount and praying as they sped down the road.
There was no anger for Milton in her heart. No grudge.
Why? Fleur asked herself and came up with an answer.
It was loneliness. Bottomless loneliness.
"Milady!"
The rain had ruined part of the road. Fleur nearly wound up in a large hole that had been gouged out of the earth. It was not skill that saved her, but simple dumb luck.
The horse jumped, and as she clung to it and looked down, she saw the hellhole filled with mud and water.
"Milady!"
Her horse stopped, and she nearly fell—it was all she could do to right herself. Embarrassed and frustrated, she found his usual manner of address suddenly very irritating. "I told you to stop calling me—"

Output:
Amid all that, Olar stopped his horse, facing off the edge of the road. "Milady, look!"
Fleur tugged on the reins and brought her horse around. Drawing alongside him, suddenly everything was clear.
Visibility was poor and the road surface was terrible. What might have happened if not for that miraculous jump? She now saw with her own eyes.
"So that was the cause of the hole."
"It seems so."
The large hole in the road seemed to have been scooped out by something—scooped out as a wagon, unable to make the turn, screamed out a terrible high groan, perhaps.
Fleur climbed off her horse and walked over to the edge of the road. Past it was a sudden downward slope, at the bottom of which was a small creek. It was swollen and mud colored thanks to the rain, and there in the space between slope and creek—there was a wagon missing wheels on one side and a horse on its back and utterly motionless.
It was the body of the same horse that Fleur had seen in front of her house.
"Milady."
Fleur didn't think there was any particular meaning to Olar's address. He must just have thought it appropriate to call out to her. She unwrapped the scarf from around her head and carefully descended the slope.
Only a small amount of grass grew, and in this rain, footprints would be easily spotted, but she saw none. Perhaps Milton had lost consciousness in the crash, or—
Step by step, she went closer. The chilly rain continued to fall, and three steps away from the wagon, she noticed him.
Pinned beneath the wagon was a man.
His face was smeared with mud and blood, and at first glance he looked asleep.
"...So you...caught up with me..." A puff of white breath rose from his mouth as he spoke the stouthearted words, proving he was still alive.
Fleur bounded the last three steps to the wagon and stood before Milton.
"...Even I...thought...I was being too selfish..."
His left arm was half torn off. He reached out with his remaining right arm, wringing the words out of himself.
"Help...me..."
He was very clearly beyond help. It did not seem as though Milton himself thought he could be saved, either. But humans are bad at letting go, even at the brink.
Fleur also doubted there would be any lies in Milton's words anymore.
"It was just...panic...Th-they came to ask you...about my debt, didn't...they?" His smile had to be a tearful one.
Fleur knelt down and put her hand to Milton's cheek, and the drops running down his face were warm.
"I was...so scared, so I..."
Fleur glanced down at Milton's chest, pinned under the wagon. The rain had softened the earth, sparing him a worse injury. And the grip he had on her leg was surprisingly strong.
If his left arm were immediately bandaged and a tourniquet applied, and his body kept warm with the clothes from the wagon bed, he might live long enough for Olar to fetch help and move the wagon.
"I swear...I'll never betray you again. So..."
"So help you?" Fleur asked.
Her first words to him seemed to kindle hope in his eyes. Milton smiled very clearly. "P-please...I beg you."
Fleur closed her eyes at his entreaties.
Milton tightened his grip. "We're both nobles...aren't we?"
When Fleur opened her eyes, she wasn't looking at Milton.
"...Fleur?"
Ignoring his questioning tones, Fleur slowly reached for a stick that was stuck into the earth—perhaps a broken wheel spoke or some reinforcing brace on the wagon.
"Fleu..." Milton's voice trailed off, and he merely looked at her.
"Olar," Fleur called out to her faithful servant, who'd come down the hill. "What of the cargo?"
"It seems intact. The contents are safe. If it had fallen in the mud it would've been all over."
"I see."
So the cargo was safe.
Milton smiled—Fleur wondered if he thought that meant he would be safe, too.
But she knew all too well that his smile was not a true one. She was still holding the stick, and its tip was very sharp.
"You said it yourself," she said almost contemplatively. "Black clothes won't sell unless there's...a funeral."
Clever man.


Instruction: Given first part of the popular LightNovel spice and wolf as input, continue the story the best you can.

Input:
Amid all that, Olar stopped his horse, facing off the edge of the road. "Milady, look!"
Fleur tugged on the reins and brought her horse around. Drawing alongside him, suddenly everything was clear.
Visibility was poor and the road surface was terrible. What might have happened if not for that miraculous jump? She now saw with her own eyes.
"So that was the cause of the hole."
"It seems so."
The large hole in the road seemed to have been scooped out by something—scooped out as a wagon, unable to make the turn, screamed out a terrible high groan, perhaps.
Fleur climbed off her horse and walked over to the edge of the road. Past it was a sudden downward slope, at the bottom of which was a small creek. It was swollen and mud colored thanks to the rain, and there in the space between slope and creek—there was a wagon missing wheels on one side and a horse on its back and utterly motionless.
It was the body of the same horse that Fleur had seen in front of her house.
"Milady."
Fleur didn't think there was any particular meaning to Olar's address. He must just have thought it appropriate to call out to her. She unwrapped the scarf from around her head and carefully descended the slope.
Only a small amount of grass grew, and in this rain, footprints would be easily spotted, but she saw none. Perhaps Milton had lost consciousness in the crash, or—
Step by step, she went closer. The chilly rain continued to fall, and three steps away from the wagon, she noticed him.
Pinned beneath the wagon was a man.
His face was smeared with mud and blood, and at first glance he looked asleep.
"...So you...caught up with me..." A puff of white breath rose from his mouth as he spoke the stouthearted words, proving he was still alive.
Fleur bounded the last three steps to the wagon and stood before Milton.
"...Even I...thought...I was being too selfish..."
His left arm was half torn off. He reached out with his remaining right arm, wringing the words out of himself.
"Help...me..."
He was very clearly beyond help. It did not seem as though Milton himself thought he could be saved, either. But humans are bad at letting go, even at the brink.
Fleur also doubted there would be any lies in Milton's words anymore.
"It was just...panic...Th-they came to ask you...about my debt, didn't...they?" His smile had to be a tearful one.
Fleur knelt down and put her hand to Milton's cheek, and the drops running down his face were warm.
"I was...so scared, so I..."
Fleur glanced down at Milton's chest, pinned under the wagon. The rain had softened the earth, sparing him a worse injury. And the grip he had on her leg was surprisingly strong.
If his left arm were immediately bandaged and a tourniquet applied, and his body kept warm with the clothes from the wagon bed, he might live long enough for Olar to fetch help and move the wagon.
"I swear...I'll never betray you again. So..."
"So help you?" Fleur asked.
Her first words to him seemed to kindle hope in his eyes. Milton smiled very clearly. "P-please...I beg you."
Fleur closed her eyes at his entreaties.
Milton tightened his grip. "We're both nobles...aren't we?"
When Fleur opened her eyes, she wasn't looking at Milton.
"...Fleur?"
Ignoring his questioning tones, Fleur slowly reached for a stick that was stuck into the earth—perhaps a broken wheel spoke or some reinforcing brace on the wagon.
"Fleu..." Milton's voice trailed off, and he merely looked at her.
"Olar," Fleur called out to her faithful servant, who'd come down the hill. "What of the cargo?"
"It seems intact. The contents are safe. If it had fallen in the mud it would've been all over."
"I see."
So the cargo was safe.
Milton smiled—Fleur wondered if he thought that meant he would be safe, too.
But she knew all too well that his smile was not a true one. She was still holding the stick, and its tip was very sharp.
"You said it yourself," she said almost contemplatively. "Black clothes won't sell unless there's...a funeral."
Clever man.

Output:
"So that's why...I thought you had such a lovely face..." Milton choked out a laugh—or maybe it was just more of a choke.
From the mud, cold, and blood loss, his face was the color of clay. His gaze was directed up at the sky.
He would soon be moving on to his next residence.
"I see...ha-ha..." Milton's laugh was a tired one, and when he suddenly closed his eyes, he smiled a satisfied smile. "Sh-shit! I was pretending to be near death, but you've found me out!"
No amount of acting could give rise to that sort of pallor. And yet Fleur still hesitated. She had realized what he was trying to do.
"I-I never hesitated a second to deceive you! You, who couldn't...rid yourself of the weakness of the nobility...you'll never be a merchant! You have to delight in deception, have no conscience, fear no God—"
Milton was cut off in the middle of his speech by Fleur looming over him.
But his eyes still moved.
She hesitated—hesitated to plunge the stake into his doomed body.
"Hey."
Fleur flinched at Milton's sudden utterance.
"...If you don't hurry, I'll die before you can end me."
At these words, spoken in a gentle voice, Fleur leaned her weight on the stake. She would never forget the sensation as it sank through.
"...Good. That's good..."
The taste of blood filled her mouth. Milton put his quivering hand over hers.
"A good merchant has neither blood nor tears..."
Perhaps it had just been the sound of his final bloody gurgle.
Fleur stayed as she was. She did not know for how long. When she got up, she was a different person.
"Olar!" she called out, and the reply was immediate.
"Yes?"
"Get the goods on the horses. As soon as we're home, we'll make the black clothes and amber jewelry ready for sale."
"Understood."
Fleur gazed at the blood on her own hands and then gave a final instruction.
"He may have been cast out of his house, but this noble son died in an accident. For the funeral, people will need black clothing and amber jewelry the color of earth."
"Yes, mil—" Olar started to say but caught himself. It was no act. He bowed sincerely to Fleur as she looked sharply over her shoulder at him.
"I am no longer a noble. I am a merchant. My name..."
It had been Milton who had given her the final push toward becoming a merchant who could turn even her heart's peace into money. And so she decided to borrow his name.
"...Is Eve."
"Wha—?"
It came from adding but a few lines and dots to Milton. Just as had been done to them.
"Eve Bolan, the merchant."
The rain continued to fall.
Eve wrapped her scarf around her head once more and moved to help Olar load the horses.
There in the cold and pouring rain, Eve Bolan had taken her first step toward profit.
End.
***
It has been a while. This is Isuna Hasekura.
This is the eleventh volume, a collection of short stories—the second one so far.
Since I've written almost nothing but long works ever since my debut, I feel extremely unskilled when it comes to writing short stories. Also, all of my stories come from the same source, so I got it into my head that using a good idea on a short story was a waste and wound up not writing very many. But when I tried writing this one, I surprised myself. In particular, I found that depicting one of Lawrence's and Holo's ridiculous conversations from top to bottom was perfect for the short story format.
So the stories about Lawrence and Holo turned out very nicely. I will brook no complaints.
However, half of this volume is taken up by Eve's story. Eve is the merchant who shows up in volumes five, eight, and nine. She was perfect for an idea I'd been wanting to use for a long time but just hadn't found a place for, but the number of pages she took up kept increasing, and now here we are. So far we've seen her crafty, money-grubbing side, but this is a story from when she still hadn't rid herself of her nobility. Personally, I think it's interesting to go back and read her earlier appearances once you've read this story. Especially volumes eight and nine!


Instruction: Given first part of the popular LightNovel spice and wolf as input, continue the story the best you can.

Input:
"So that's why...I thought you had such a lovely face..." Milton choked out a laugh—or maybe it was just more of a choke.
From the mud, cold, and blood loss, his face was the color of clay. His gaze was directed up at the sky.
He would soon be moving on to his next residence.
"I see...ha-ha..." Milton's laugh was a tired one, and when he suddenly closed his eyes, he smiled a satisfied smile. "Sh-shit! I was pretending to be near death, but you've found me out!"
No amount of acting could give rise to that sort of pallor. And yet Fleur still hesitated. She had realized what he was trying to do.
"I-I never hesitated a second to deceive you! You, who couldn't...rid yourself of the weakness of the nobility...you'll never be a merchant! You have to delight in deception, have no conscience, fear no God—"
Milton was cut off in the middle of his speech by Fleur looming over him.
But his eyes still moved.
She hesitated—hesitated to plunge the stake into his doomed body.
"Hey."
Fleur flinched at Milton's sudden utterance.
"...If you don't hurry, I'll die before you can end me."
At these words, spoken in a gentle voice, Fleur leaned her weight on the stake. She would never forget the sensation as it sank through.
"...Good. That's good..."
The taste of blood filled her mouth. Milton put his quivering hand over hers.
"A good merchant has neither blood nor tears..."
Perhaps it had just been the sound of his final bloody gurgle.
Fleur stayed as she was. She did not know for how long. When she got up, she was a different person.
"Olar!" she called out, and the reply was immediate.
"Yes?"
"Get the goods on the horses. As soon as we're home, we'll make the black clothes and amber jewelry ready for sale."
"Understood."
Fleur gazed at the blood on her own hands and then gave a final instruction.
"He may have been cast out of his house, but this noble son died in an accident. For the funeral, people will need black clothing and amber jewelry the color of earth."
"Yes, mil—" Olar started to say but caught himself. It was no act. He bowed sincerely to Fleur as she looked sharply over her shoulder at him.
"I am no longer a noble. I am a merchant. My name..."
It had been Milton who had given her the final push toward becoming a merchant who could turn even her heart's peace into money. And so she decided to borrow his name.
"...Is Eve."
"Wha—?"
It came from adding but a few lines and dots to Milton. Just as had been done to them.
"Eve Bolan, the merchant."
The rain continued to fall.
Eve wrapped her scarf around her head once more and moved to help Olar load the horses.
There in the cold and pouring rain, Eve Bolan had taken her first step toward profit.
End.
***
It has been a while. This is Isuna Hasekura.
This is the eleventh volume, a collection of short stories—the second one so far.
Since I've written almost nothing but long works ever since my debut, I feel extremely unskilled when it comes to writing short stories. Also, all of my stories come from the same source, so I got it into my head that using a good idea on a short story was a waste and wound up not writing very many. But when I tried writing this one, I surprised myself. In particular, I found that depicting one of Lawrence's and Holo's ridiculous conversations from top to bottom was perfect for the short story format.
So the stories about Lawrence and Holo turned out very nicely. I will brook no complaints.
However, half of this volume is taken up by Eve's story. Eve is the merchant who shows up in volumes five, eight, and nine. She was perfect for an idea I'd been wanting to use for a long time but just hadn't found a place for, but the number of pages she took up kept increasing, and now here we are. So far we've seen her crafty, money-grubbing side, but this is a story from when she still hadn't rid herself of her nobility. Personally, I think it's interesting to go back and read her earlier appearances once you've read this story. Especially volumes eight and nine!

Output:
But I wrote steadily away, and thankfully the pages stacked up.
The next volume will be a long-form story. Hopefully it'll be out just as the second season of the anime is at its peak!
—Isuna Hasekura
***
Dawn was approaching far across the endless snowy plains. The air was painfully cold, and every breath brought the throb of a headache. The sheep had been let out in the predawn darkness and could be seen at the edge of the horizon.
This scene had repeated itself for centuries and would surely continue to do so for centuries to come—the clear sky; the rolling, snowy hills; and the flock of sheep that trod them.
Lawrence took a breath and then exhaled. The wind carried the vapor away in a swirl, and his eyes followed it as it went.
Beside him, his still-sleepy traveling companion crouched down and poked at the snow with her finger.
"It may be gone, I hear."
The response to his sudden words was no great thing. "One can hardly lose what one does not already have." She made a snowball with her small hands and then tossed it away.
It disappeared in the snow with a soft noise, leaving a hole behind.
"We humans can indeed lose again things we've lost already."
Another snowball opened up a second hole before his companion replied to him. "Such reasoning's beyond the likes of me."
"Do you imagine things are over when you die? It's not so. When we die, we either live on in heaven or die yet again in hell. Losing something already lost is not so very difficult."
His companion decided against making a third snowball and breathed on her cold, red hands. "'Tis dreadful indeed to be a human."
"It surely is." Lawrence nodded.
After a moment passed, his companion put another question to him. "How does one lose such a thing?"
"It's dug up, carved out, with not a trace left behind—or so people say."
Lawrence heard the sound of rustling fabric and turned to see his companion bent over in laughter.
"Aye, 'tis dreadful to be human! Only a pup could dream up such a notion—I surely never could." She straightened and was still fully two heads shorter than him.
Just as the adults' faces he had looked up to as a child always seemed vaguely frightening, the face of any girl he looked down on now always seemed weak and ephemeral. But this girl seemed stouthearted and strong, despite her stature, which was surely no illusion.
"Still, 'tis a bit pleasing to hear as much."
"...Pleasing?"
"Aye. The first time, I lost what I did utterly unbeknownst to me. It had nothing to do with me, and there was nothing I could do to stop it from happening."
She took a step, two steps, leaving footprints in the snow, as though to prove the weight of her light-seeming body. The footprints were small but distinct.
"But this time—" The hem of her robe whirled around her, and now the morning sun was to her back as she smiled. "—This time I will be there. 'Twill be my life after death."
She grinned, and from behind her lips peered her sharp fangs.
"I thought there was nothing I could do, but I have another chance. Such happy things do not often happen. I can act or not as I see fit. Much better that than having the matter settled entirely behind one's back, don't you think?"
There were two kinds of strength. One was the strength that came with having something to protect. The other was the strength of having nothing to lose.
"You seem strangely bold," he teased, the breath puffing whitely from his mouth.
"'Tis because I've come upon a wonderful excuse. Regardless of the outcome, I'll have participated in whatever happens. There's a certain comfort in that. It might be even more important than whether things go well or not."
Following her implication to its conclusion suggested that even if she lost out in the end, she might do so without suffering. But when someone seemed to be concealing something and then voiced such a sentiment aloud, one could hardly fail to extend a hand to them.


Instruction: Given first part of the popular LightNovel spice and wolf as input, continue the story the best you can.

Input:
But I wrote steadily away, and thankfully the pages stacked up.
The next volume will be a long-form story. Hopefully it'll be out just as the second season of the anime is at its peak!
—Isuna Hasekura
***
Dawn was approaching far across the endless snowy plains. The air was painfully cold, and every breath brought the throb of a headache. The sheep had been let out in the predawn darkness and could be seen at the edge of the horizon.
This scene had repeated itself for centuries and would surely continue to do so for centuries to come—the clear sky; the rolling, snowy hills; and the flock of sheep that trod them.
Lawrence took a breath and then exhaled. The wind carried the vapor away in a swirl, and his eyes followed it as it went.
Beside him, his still-sleepy traveling companion crouched down and poked at the snow with her finger.
"It may be gone, I hear."
The response to his sudden words was no great thing. "One can hardly lose what one does not already have." She made a snowball with her small hands and then tossed it away.
It disappeared in the snow with a soft noise, leaving a hole behind.
"We humans can indeed lose again things we've lost already."
Another snowball opened up a second hole before his companion replied to him. "Such reasoning's beyond the likes of me."
"Do you imagine things are over when you die? It's not so. When we die, we either live on in heaven or die yet again in hell. Losing something already lost is not so very difficult."
His companion decided against making a third snowball and breathed on her cold, red hands. "'Tis dreadful indeed to be a human."
"It surely is." Lawrence nodded.
After a moment passed, his companion put another question to him. "How does one lose such a thing?"
"It's dug up, carved out, with not a trace left behind—or so people say."
Lawrence heard the sound of rustling fabric and turned to see his companion bent over in laughter.
"Aye, 'tis dreadful to be human! Only a pup could dream up such a notion—I surely never could." She straightened and was still fully two heads shorter than him.
Just as the adults' faces he had looked up to as a child always seemed vaguely frightening, the face of any girl he looked down on now always seemed weak and ephemeral. But this girl seemed stouthearted and strong, despite her stature, which was surely no illusion.
"Still, 'tis a bit pleasing to hear as much."
"...Pleasing?"
"Aye. The first time, I lost what I did utterly unbeknownst to me. It had nothing to do with me, and there was nothing I could do to stop it from happening."
She took a step, two steps, leaving footprints in the snow, as though to prove the weight of her light-seeming body. The footprints were small but distinct.
"But this time—" The hem of her robe whirled around her, and now the morning sun was to her back as she smiled. "—This time I will be there. 'Twill be my life after death."
She grinned, and from behind her lips peered her sharp fangs.
"I thought there was nothing I could do, but I have another chance. Such happy things do not often happen. I can act or not as I see fit. Much better that than having the matter settled entirely behind one's back, don't you think?"
There were two kinds of strength. One was the strength that came with having something to protect. The other was the strength of having nothing to lose.
"You seem strangely bold," he teased, the breath puffing whitely from his mouth.
"'Tis because I've come upon a wonderful excuse. Regardless of the outcome, I'll have participated in whatever happens. There's a certain comfort in that. It might be even more important than whether things go well or not."
Following her implication to its conclusion suggested that even if she lost out in the end, she might do so without suffering. But when someone seemed to be concealing something and then voiced such a sentiment aloud, one could hardly fail to extend a hand to them.

Output:
"I must live a good long while yet. I need the hearth of a good excuse to sleep through the cold nights. Something to hold while I sleep that suffices to gaze at when I wake."
It was a difficult thing to meet such words with a smile, yet he had to. Her fearlessness made it seem as though she was proposing they go and steal the great treasures of the world.
"I can't stay with you forever. I can only do so much to aid you. But what I can do for you I will."
She stood there in the snow, the morning sunlight shining down on her small back.
What she wanted to know was not what his stated goal was, but rather what he could actually accomplish. Her heart was a bit too tender to desire passionate proclamations of his willingness to make any effort or risk any danger.
Perhaps their mutual willingness to simply join hands and walk together without going to any great effort only proved that he was getting older. The smile that appeared on her face was a happy one.
"Well, then, perhaps I will use breakfast as an excuse to see just how far you'll go for me, eh?" Her joke signaled the end of their melancholy conversation. She returned to his side with light, bounding steps, then clung flirtatiously to his arm.
"Just make sure you don't eat so much that this breakfast becomes your last."
Even under the best circumstances, the cost of feeding her was no joke. But what had to be taken even more seriously than said cost was the speed of her wit.
"Aye. After all, you love me so much you can hardly bear it—If I ate enough to please you, my belly would surely burst."
The words that came out of her mouth were a fortress, and if he dared to counterattack, snakes would come slithering out of the grass that surrounded it. Surrender was his only option. He shrugged. "I have no particular desire to kill you."
"Mm." Her red-tinged amber eyes took in the sight of the snow-covered abbey and then closed. "'Tis well. I'd hate to die by your generosity."
Lawrence wondered privately if dawn was the coldest time of day as a reminder from God that it would only become warmer from here.
***
I'll call on you later.
Merchants rarely had the luxury of interpreting those words literally. Sometimes it meant perhaps if we're lucky, we'll talk, but it could easily be a year or even two before coincidence allowed the promise to be made good upon.
However, when the words came from someone connected to a large economic alliance, they could be taken at face value. As Lawrence and company were on their way back from the great abbey of Brondel in the middle of the snowy plains, bound for the port where they would return to the mainland, they stopped at the same tavern they had used on the way in, and there they received a letter.
The letter came from Piasky, who had expended such effort during the turmoil surrounding the abbey, and it concerned that same abbey, which had attempted in vain to quickly reverse its own failing fortunes.
Long ago the abbey had produced many great saints, but it was tales of a certain holy relic that brought attention to it now.
The probability that the relic was pagan in nature was very high, as was the probability that it was real.
From the perspective of a traveling merchant like Lawrence, such stories belonged in taverns, told over wine. And yet by strange circumstance here he was, reading secret communications from the Ruvik Alliance concerning the great monastery. The Ruvik Alliance, which owned countless trading ships and held sway over even bishops and kings!
He had to laugh.
And yet upon reflection, Lawrence realized that no matter how vast their influence, such alliances were still made of people. And if during one's travels one met a kindred spirit in even a lowly servant, it was worthy of a feast.


Instruction: Given first part of the popular LightNovel spice and wolf as input, continue the story the best you can.

Input:
"I must live a good long while yet. I need the hearth of a good excuse to sleep through the cold nights. Something to hold while I sleep that suffices to gaze at when I wake."
It was a difficult thing to meet such words with a smile, yet he had to. Her fearlessness made it seem as though she was proposing they go and steal the great treasures of the world.
"I can't stay with you forever. I can only do so much to aid you. But what I can do for you I will."
She stood there in the snow, the morning sunlight shining down on her small back.
What she wanted to know was not what his stated goal was, but rather what he could actually accomplish. Her heart was a bit too tender to desire passionate proclamations of his willingness to make any effort or risk any danger.
Perhaps their mutual willingness to simply join hands and walk together without going to any great effort only proved that he was getting older. The smile that appeared on her face was a happy one.
"Well, then, perhaps I will use breakfast as an excuse to see just how far you'll go for me, eh?" Her joke signaled the end of their melancholy conversation. She returned to his side with light, bounding steps, then clung flirtatiously to his arm.
"Just make sure you don't eat so much that this breakfast becomes your last."
Even under the best circumstances, the cost of feeding her was no joke. But what had to be taken even more seriously than said cost was the speed of her wit.
"Aye. After all, you love me so much you can hardly bear it—If I ate enough to please you, my belly would surely burst."
The words that came out of her mouth were a fortress, and if he dared to counterattack, snakes would come slithering out of the grass that surrounded it. Surrender was his only option. He shrugged. "I have no particular desire to kill you."
"Mm." Her red-tinged amber eyes took in the sight of the snow-covered abbey and then closed. "'Tis well. I'd hate to die by your generosity."
Lawrence wondered privately if dawn was the coldest time of day as a reminder from God that it would only become warmer from here.
***
I'll call on you later.
Merchants rarely had the luxury of interpreting those words literally. Sometimes it meant perhaps if we're lucky, we'll talk, but it could easily be a year or even two before coincidence allowed the promise to be made good upon.
However, when the words came from someone connected to a large economic alliance, they could be taken at face value. As Lawrence and company were on their way back from the great abbey of Brondel in the middle of the snowy plains, bound for the port where they would return to the mainland, they stopped at the same tavern they had used on the way in, and there they received a letter.
The letter came from Piasky, who had expended such effort during the turmoil surrounding the abbey, and it concerned that same abbey, which had attempted in vain to quickly reverse its own failing fortunes.
Long ago the abbey had produced many great saints, but it was tales of a certain holy relic that brought attention to it now.
The probability that the relic was pagan in nature was very high, as was the probability that it was real.
From the perspective of a traveling merchant like Lawrence, such stories belonged in taverns, told over wine. And yet by strange circumstance here he was, reading secret communications from the Ruvik Alliance concerning the great monastery. The Ruvik Alliance, which owned countless trading ships and held sway over even bishops and kings!
He had to laugh.
And yet upon reflection, Lawrence realized that no matter how vast their influence, such alliances were still made of people. And if during one's travels one met a kindred spirit in even a lowly servant, it was worthy of a feast.

Output:
Her hair was chestnut, her chin fine. Her red-tinged amber eyes and her elegant lips. And if her noble beauty was rare, still rarer were the wolf ears beneath her hood. Lawrence's serendipitous traveling companion Holo was neither noble nor human. Her true form was that of a great wolf large enough to devour a man in a single bite, a being from the age of spirits, where she once dwelled within the wheat and ensured its bountiful harvest.
Of course, she herself hated such grandiose descriptions, and as she impatiently swatted his legs with her swishing tail in an effort to hurry his letter reading, the term charming seemed much more appropriate than awe inspiring.
"When you're done reading, give it back." He held the letter out to Holo, who snatched it away. The holy relic that Brondel Abbey was said to have purchased was a bone from a great wolf, one far from ordinary—a god. In fact, it was a fake, and the letter described the details of its purchase.
Holo had thought the bone might have belonged to one of her pack.
The relief that came when such worries were dispelled was brief. Since at Brondel Abbey, Lawrence had heard another fell rumor surrounding the wolf bone. The letter offered a clue regarding exactly that.
"Still, to think such a great abbey might be swindled so!" said the third member of their party, Col, as he tended the fire.
He looked younger even than Holo appeared, owing partially to the scrawniness brought on by hard, hungry travel. Either that or it was thanks to his humility, which kept him ever humble despite his clever mind.
Lawrence faced the fire. "Who do you suppose would buy a rusty sword?" This was the sort of thing his master had often done when Lawrence was an apprentice—judging the ability of others by asking them an absurd question.
"Er...someone without any...money?"
"Yes. But who else?"
"Someone with too much money—'tis it not so?" said Holo before Col could answer. Evidently she had finished reading the letter.
She sat down between Col and Lawrence and handed the letter to Col. The young, wandering scholar was himself from a pagan town in the north and believed in the gods' existence and so was seeking the truth of the wolf bone for himself.
"Indeed. Those with too much money would buy a rusty sword. Even if it's entirely lost its edge. Such a sword's value is determined in other ways."
"So you're saying that the abbey didn't care whether the bone was real or not?"
The reward for his excellent answer was a pat on the head from Holo. He seemed entirely happy, without so much as a trace of embarrassment. So happy, in fact, that even the giver of his reward seemed pleased.
"What's more important than who was deceived by whom is whether or not the abbey was able to give the bone sufficient value. And it seems they were."
At Lawrence's words, Col looked down at the letter he had been handed. There was written the only faint possibility of salvation that remained for the abbey.
"It says they were approached by an overseas merchant company with an offer to buy...that's that company, right?"
Col was speaking of the commotion that surrounded the narwhal back in the port town of Kerube. The Jean Company had been at the center of things and had secretly set aside funds to buy the wolf bone.
"They wanted to sell the bone to the Jean Company for a fortune, then whether or not it was real, feign ignorance. But it didn't work."
"And none of that has anything to do with us," said Holo as she roasted a bit of cheese over the fire on a small stick. She popped the bubbling stuff into her mouth, and beneath her hood, her ears pricked up.
"Quite so. Our attention is elsewhere."
At Lawrence's words, Col returned his gaze to the letter. Had it contained anything truly important, it would not be in its conveyance of the facts. Baseless impressions could be very valuable from time to time.


Instruction: Given first part of the popular LightNovel spice and wolf as input, continue the story the best you can.

Input:
Her hair was chestnut, her chin fine. Her red-tinged amber eyes and her elegant lips. And if her noble beauty was rare, still rarer were the wolf ears beneath her hood. Lawrence's serendipitous traveling companion Holo was neither noble nor human. Her true form was that of a great wolf large enough to devour a man in a single bite, a being from the age of spirits, where she once dwelled within the wheat and ensured its bountiful harvest.
Of course, she herself hated such grandiose descriptions, and as she impatiently swatted his legs with her swishing tail in an effort to hurry his letter reading, the term charming seemed much more appropriate than awe inspiring.
"When you're done reading, give it back." He held the letter out to Holo, who snatched it away. The holy relic that Brondel Abbey was said to have purchased was a bone from a great wolf, one far from ordinary—a god. In fact, it was a fake, and the letter described the details of its purchase.
Holo had thought the bone might have belonged to one of her pack.
The relief that came when such worries were dispelled was brief. Since at Brondel Abbey, Lawrence had heard another fell rumor surrounding the wolf bone. The letter offered a clue regarding exactly that.
"Still, to think such a great abbey might be swindled so!" said the third member of their party, Col, as he tended the fire.
He looked younger even than Holo appeared, owing partially to the scrawniness brought on by hard, hungry travel. Either that or it was thanks to his humility, which kept him ever humble despite his clever mind.
Lawrence faced the fire. "Who do you suppose would buy a rusty sword?" This was the sort of thing his master had often done when Lawrence was an apprentice—judging the ability of others by asking them an absurd question.
"Er...someone without any...money?"
"Yes. But who else?"
"Someone with too much money—'tis it not so?" said Holo before Col could answer. Evidently she had finished reading the letter.
She sat down between Col and Lawrence and handed the letter to Col. The young, wandering scholar was himself from a pagan town in the north and believed in the gods' existence and so was seeking the truth of the wolf bone for himself.
"Indeed. Those with too much money would buy a rusty sword. Even if it's entirely lost its edge. Such a sword's value is determined in other ways."
"So you're saying that the abbey didn't care whether the bone was real or not?"
The reward for his excellent answer was a pat on the head from Holo. He seemed entirely happy, without so much as a trace of embarrassment. So happy, in fact, that even the giver of his reward seemed pleased.
"What's more important than who was deceived by whom is whether or not the abbey was able to give the bone sufficient value. And it seems they were."
At Lawrence's words, Col looked down at the letter he had been handed. There was written the only faint possibility of salvation that remained for the abbey.
"It says they were approached by an overseas merchant company with an offer to buy...that's that company, right?"
Col was speaking of the commotion that surrounded the narwhal back in the port town of Kerube. The Jean Company had been at the center of things and had secretly set aside funds to buy the wolf bone.
"They wanted to sell the bone to the Jean Company for a fortune, then whether or not it was real, feign ignorance. But it didn't work."
"And none of that has anything to do with us," said Holo as she roasted a bit of cheese over the fire on a small stick. She popped the bubbling stuff into her mouth, and beneath her hood, her ears pricked up.
"Quite so. Our attention is elsewhere."
At Lawrence's words, Col returned his gaze to the letter. Had it contained anything truly important, it would not be in its conveyance of the facts. Baseless impressions could be very valuable from time to time.

Output:
"'It seems such trades have been made all over in recent years. I suspect those at their center have a very different information network than we possess. It seems to be the north has become unstable. God's protection be upon us all. Piasky.'"
Holo finished chewing her cheese and tossed the stick into the fire. "That agrees with what we heard from old Huskins, does it not?"
Holo generally avoided using people's names, but the name she deigned to utter was that of the true identity of the legendary golden sheep of Brondel Abbey. But it was not simply because Huskins was a similar being to her that she spoke his name. She was an obstinate wisewolf, and if she did not respect someone, she would not spare them more than a this or a that.
"The Jean Company that approached the abbey to purchase the bone was originally a branch of the Debau Company, Mr. Huskins told me. He said that the situation in the north was going to change dramatically based on the interference of the company that owns mines in the region—and that's none other than the Debau Company, a group that has a web of influence quite separate from the Ruvik Alliance."
Huskins had secretly created a home for himself and his kind on the lands of Brondel Abbey in the kingdom of Winfiel. His comrades wandered the land, occasionally returning to exchange tales of what they had heard and seen. Huskins had given Lawrence some of that information—including something regarding their destination, Holo's homelands of Yoitsu, reportedly destroyed centuries earlier.
"So the real bone is already in the hands of the Debau Company?"
"That is a possibility. If it's already on the market, it's even likelier."
Lawrence took the letter back from Col and then tore it up slowly and deliberately.
"Ah—"
Ignoring Col's exclamation and look of shock, Lawrence finished tearing the letter into small pieces and then tossed them into the fire.
"A single paper letter is easily destroyed in water or fire. You use parchment if you want to avoid that, but then disposing of it becomes difficult. Easily destroyed paper is used when writing something secret."
The paper quickly became ash, borne up on the air warmed by the campfire.
"So, what shall we do then, eh?" asked Holo. Both she and Col watched the ash rise into the air, but only Col's gaze was truly on the ash. Holo's amber eyes were gazing at something else.
"Mr. Piasky's letter reinforces what Mr. Huskins told us of the north. Two separate information sources have brought us a similar story. We can safely assume it to be mostly true."
"So this so-and-so company is really driving people from their homes in order to dig up the mountains?"
Col's gaze snapped down from the flying ash.
"Hence the possibility that they're frantically gathering up holy relics without much concern for their authenticity, Mr. Huskins said. Their goal is clear—if you're going to rely upon force of arms, there's no stronger ally than the Church. The Debau Company will certainly try to get the Church on its side. It will let them talk about their annexing the land containing the mines in much more favorable terms."
The campfire crackled quietly.
"A holy war, then. To take back God's land from pagan hands."
Holy relics belonged to the religious world. So the wolf bone that Lawrence and company were chasing, too, would probably be used in Church propaganda, Lawrence thought. If it was from a pagan god, then they would deliberately desecrate it, and when divine punishment failed to arrive, call it proof of the Church's superiority. Holo had said that no matter how strong her kind might be, they couldn't bite once they'd become bones.
In regions where the breath of the pagan gods still clearly lingered, the reaction would be profound. And if the Debau Company was ready to instigate violence in service of their mining plans, their plans had nothing to do with religious faith and everything to do with profit.


Instruction: Given first part of the popular LightNovel spice and wolf as input, continue the story the best you can.

Input:
"'It seems such trades have been made all over in recent years. I suspect those at their center have a very different information network than we possess. It seems to be the north has become unstable. God's protection be upon us all. Piasky.'"
Holo finished chewing her cheese and tossed the stick into the fire. "That agrees with what we heard from old Huskins, does it not?"
Holo generally avoided using people's names, but the name she deigned to utter was that of the true identity of the legendary golden sheep of Brondel Abbey. But it was not simply because Huskins was a similar being to her that she spoke his name. She was an obstinate wisewolf, and if she did not respect someone, she would not spare them more than a this or a that.
"The Jean Company that approached the abbey to purchase the bone was originally a branch of the Debau Company, Mr. Huskins told me. He said that the situation in the north was going to change dramatically based on the interference of the company that owns mines in the region—and that's none other than the Debau Company, a group that has a web of influence quite separate from the Ruvik Alliance."
Huskins had secretly created a home for himself and his kind on the lands of Brondel Abbey in the kingdom of Winfiel. His comrades wandered the land, occasionally returning to exchange tales of what they had heard and seen. Huskins had given Lawrence some of that information—including something regarding their destination, Holo's homelands of Yoitsu, reportedly destroyed centuries earlier.
"So the real bone is already in the hands of the Debau Company?"
"That is a possibility. If it's already on the market, it's even likelier."
Lawrence took the letter back from Col and then tore it up slowly and deliberately.
"Ah—"
Ignoring Col's exclamation and look of shock, Lawrence finished tearing the letter into small pieces and then tossed them into the fire.
"A single paper letter is easily destroyed in water or fire. You use parchment if you want to avoid that, but then disposing of it becomes difficult. Easily destroyed paper is used when writing something secret."
The paper quickly became ash, borne up on the air warmed by the campfire.
"So, what shall we do then, eh?" asked Holo. Both she and Col watched the ash rise into the air, but only Col's gaze was truly on the ash. Holo's amber eyes were gazing at something else.
"Mr. Piasky's letter reinforces what Mr. Huskins told us of the north. Two separate information sources have brought us a similar story. We can safely assume it to be mostly true."
"So this so-and-so company is really driving people from their homes in order to dig up the mountains?"
Col's gaze snapped down from the flying ash.
"Hence the possibility that they're frantically gathering up holy relics without much concern for their authenticity, Mr. Huskins said. Their goal is clear—if you're going to rely upon force of arms, there's no stronger ally than the Church. The Debau Company will certainly try to get the Church on its side. It will let them talk about their annexing the land containing the mines in much more favorable terms."
The campfire crackled quietly.
"A holy war, then. To take back God's land from pagan hands."
Holy relics belonged to the religious world. So the wolf bone that Lawrence and company were chasing, too, would probably be used in Church propaganda, Lawrence thought. If it was from a pagan god, then they would deliberately desecrate it, and when divine punishment failed to arrive, call it proof of the Church's superiority. Holo had said that no matter how strong her kind might be, they couldn't bite once they'd become bones.
In regions where the breath of the pagan gods still clearly lingered, the reaction would be profound. And if the Debau Company was ready to instigate violence in service of their mining plans, their plans had nothing to do with religious faith and everything to do with profit.

Output:
"This is probably because so many were put in a bind with the cancellation of the northern campaign. No one wants war where they live, but if it's a far-off land, it's a welcome event. Foodstuffs and supplies fly off the shelves, and the mercenaries that plague fields and villages are all occupied far away. If things go well, nobles that went off to war return rich with plunder, which may then be shared."
"And so much the better if the land attacked is a pagan one, eh?" said Holo.
Holo's homeland of Yoitsu had been destroyed centuries earlier, so the story went. But the forests and rivers she knew should still be there, along with a sunny hilltop somewhere where she could nap. In that sense, her homelands should still exist.
But the search for gold, silver, or other metals would literally change the landscape. Trees would be felled, rivers dammed. In but a moment, it would become a place she had never seen before.
"Er—" Col politely raised his hand, seemingly on the verge of tears. He was another of the few who were taking action to protect their homes from the Church's oppression. "Do we know where, um, the attack will happen?"
"We do not. However," said Lawrence, giving the boy a comforting smile, "we can prepare. The larger the operation, the more impossible it becomes to hide. Even if we can't stop things entirely, we can turn the spearpoint away from the places we want to protect."
Col nodded, a pained look on his face. He bit his lower lip.
Twenty years hence, it was possible that Col would have sufficient influence within the Church to turn that spearpoint himself. But that was still merely hypothetical.
Holo reached out to stroke Col's cheek and then gave it a pinch. When she spoke, it was to Lawrence. "What will we need?"
"First, an accurate map of the northlands. Having learned a place-name, it'll do us no good if we don't know where that place actually is, and we won't know where war is spreading, either. And while it's not exactly a minor detail, we may find more news of the wolf bone in the process."
Holo nodded and took a deep breath.
"That's why I had Mr. Huskins give me the name of someone who could give us news of the north and draw us a proper map. And since he knows the truth about the wolf among us, I expect the introduction will be a good one," said Lawrence jokingly.
Holo only sniffed, unamused, while the guileless Col nodded. This was what Lawrence had told Holo when they'd greeted the morning at the abbey.
He could gather information and take her back to her homelands, as he had first promised, but any heroics that might follow—such as ruining the Debau Company's plans—were beyond his ability to guarantee.
Their opponent was a great trading company that controlled the mines of the north. It was a world that would take more than mere money to navigate. Getting Brondel Abbey to sell a holy relic to the Jean Company was only one small part of the Debau Company's goal.
When he had learned this from Huskins, before feelings of resentment set in, Lawrence had been simply amazed at the ridiculous breadth of the world.
His own influence had its limits, and traveling merchants were generally a powerless lot. But Holo did not blame him for that, so Lawrence felt no shame.
He would do what he could. And what he could do, he would do to the absolute best of his ability.
"In any case, we'll return to Kerube. There we'll meet with a certain merchant."
Kerube had been consumed with the narwhal disturbance. Holo put the question to him with a look of distaste. "Not to that runt that caused you so much fuss surely?"
"You mean Kieman? No. A merchant who's one of Huskins's friends."
At Lawrence's answer, Holo's expression turned still sourer. "We're relying on the power of sheep yet again...?"
"It's not a shepherd this time. That's got to be some sort of improvement."


Instruction: Given first part of the popular LightNovel spice and wolf as input, continue the story the best you can.

Input:
"This is probably because so many were put in a bind with the cancellation of the northern campaign. No one wants war where they live, but if it's a far-off land, it's a welcome event. Foodstuffs and supplies fly off the shelves, and the mercenaries that plague fields and villages are all occupied far away. If things go well, nobles that went off to war return rich with plunder, which may then be shared."
"And so much the better if the land attacked is a pagan one, eh?" said Holo.
Holo's homeland of Yoitsu had been destroyed centuries earlier, so the story went. But the forests and rivers she knew should still be there, along with a sunny hilltop somewhere where she could nap. In that sense, her homelands should still exist.
But the search for gold, silver, or other metals would literally change the landscape. Trees would be felled, rivers dammed. In but a moment, it would become a place she had never seen before.
"Er—" Col politely raised his hand, seemingly on the verge of tears. He was another of the few who were taking action to protect their homes from the Church's oppression. "Do we know where, um, the attack will happen?"
"We do not. However," said Lawrence, giving the boy a comforting smile, "we can prepare. The larger the operation, the more impossible it becomes to hide. Even if we can't stop things entirely, we can turn the spearpoint away from the places we want to protect."
Col nodded, a pained look on his face. He bit his lower lip.
Twenty years hence, it was possible that Col would have sufficient influence within the Church to turn that spearpoint himself. But that was still merely hypothetical.
Holo reached out to stroke Col's cheek and then gave it a pinch. When she spoke, it was to Lawrence. "What will we need?"
"First, an accurate map of the northlands. Having learned a place-name, it'll do us no good if we don't know where that place actually is, and we won't know where war is spreading, either. And while it's not exactly a minor detail, we may find more news of the wolf bone in the process."
Holo nodded and took a deep breath.
"That's why I had Mr. Huskins give me the name of someone who could give us news of the north and draw us a proper map. And since he knows the truth about the wolf among us, I expect the introduction will be a good one," said Lawrence jokingly.
Holo only sniffed, unamused, while the guileless Col nodded. This was what Lawrence had told Holo when they'd greeted the morning at the abbey.
He could gather information and take her back to her homelands, as he had first promised, but any heroics that might follow—such as ruining the Debau Company's plans—were beyond his ability to guarantee.
Their opponent was a great trading company that controlled the mines of the north. It was a world that would take more than mere money to navigate. Getting Brondel Abbey to sell a holy relic to the Jean Company was only one small part of the Debau Company's goal.
When he had learned this from Huskins, before feelings of resentment set in, Lawrence had been simply amazed at the ridiculous breadth of the world.
His own influence had its limits, and traveling merchants were generally a powerless lot. But Holo did not blame him for that, so Lawrence felt no shame.
He would do what he could. And what he could do, he would do to the absolute best of his ability.
"In any case, we'll return to Kerube. There we'll meet with a certain merchant."
Kerube had been consumed with the narwhal disturbance. Holo put the question to him with a look of distaste. "Not to that runt that caused you so much fuss surely?"
"You mean Kieman? No. A merchant who's one of Huskins's friends."
At Lawrence's answer, Holo's expression turned still sourer. "We're relying on the power of sheep yet again...?"
"It's not a shepherd this time. That's got to be some sort of improvement."

Output:
Lawrence did not expect a reply to his statement, but he got one.
"If not a shepherd, what then?"
Lawrence's answer was simple. "An art seller."
Just as rivers divide one nation from another, the climates on opposite sides of even a narrow sea channel can be very different. Different enough that letters exchanged across it often give rise to jokes that summer and winter come at opposite times.
While the port town of Kerube was still cold, it was not icily so. But if one crossed the river that flowed through the town and headed north, the scenery would soon turn a pure white that was not so very different from Winfiel. The world was a strange place.
"So will we disembark on the north side? Or the south?" asked Holo with tired eyes from underneath the blanket as they rode within the ship. She had started drinking wine not long before, insisting that it was too cold not to.
Lawrence put his hand on Holo's head and idly brushed her bangs aside before answering. "The south. The livelier side."
The town of Kerube was divided down the middle by a river. On the north side lived the original inhabitants of the town, while the south was full of more recently arrived merchants. The livelier half was the south, where the merchants were.
"Mmm. I suppose...I'll be able to look forward to a tasty dinner, then," Holo said, yawning as she spoke, then smacking her lips. Lawrence wondered what sort of feast she saw at the end of her gaze.
Thinking of the contents of his coin purse, he replied with a bit of a jab, "Joking aside, how many sheep might we have had?"
Huskins was employed as a shepherd at Brondel Abbey, and he had offered over and over to quietly give them several head of fine sheep.
"Mm...'twould have been no small trouble to bring them with us."
"I never would have thought you'd play the realist."
Sheep were costly, and those chosen by the golden sheep Huskins himself would surely leave nothing to be desired. But they had not accepted his offer for exactly the reason Holo had just stated.
When Lawrence turned Huskins down, Holo had clearly been displeased, but even then she had understood.
"I can manage that much, at least," said Holo. "After all, our pack is already..." Using their belongings for a pillow, Holo lay under a blanket. Lawrence's hand was on her head, and from underneath it she looked up at him mischievously. She did not finish her sentence, though, either out of kindness or having decided it was more trouble than it was worth.
"How about you sleep quietly, like Col?"
Col was afraid of traveling by ship, and after a swallow of wine had slept soundly by Lawrence's other side.
At Lawrence's words, Holo slowly closed her eyes and answered, "I don't fear ships, but wine. If I could but sleep I could escape the fear, but to do that I fear I need to drink more."
An old joke, one often directed at the clergy, who were prohibited from drinking. What made Holo so frightening was not that she knew the joke, but that she was able to seem like she truly meant it.
"I fear the cost of food, so I've nothing to drink but my tears," said Lawrence.
There was no reply from the perhaps unamused Holo.
Some time later, the ship arrived as planned in Kerube.
By the time Lawrence woke Col, and grumbling, Holo got to her feet, Lawrence and company were the only ones left in the ship's hold.
"Ngh...whew. 'Tis been but a few days, but this feels strangely nostalgic," said Holo once they left the ship and found themselves standing in the south side of the town. Having been swept up in the chaos that threatened to divide the town in two, perhaps it had left a deeper-than-usual impression on them.
"Could be because the snowy scenery of Winfiel is so different from things here. But you're right." Lawrence divided their luggage between himself and Col and then held the hem of Holo's cloak down to keep her tail from showing as she stretched. "This is the first time we've returned to a town we've already visited."