Despite the potential sarcasm in her comment (even Gereb can never entirely tell the difference between the big warrior’s sarcasm and sincerity), Thump’s endorsement seems to stand. Even Thread appears pacified by Chlora’s appeal. Collective appeasement, however, is not the conversation’s end.
“We’re going to need details,” Grove says. “I mean, I’m with you; we’re taking on the Hill, fine. It’s settled. So we need to get to planning, like… what do you ACTUALLY know about the Hill?” He glances at the still-open journal. It has changed hands but lingers on the appropriate entry. “Your notes are suspiciously inconclusive.”
“And how are we getting to it?” Errow adds. The corner of his mouth tilts amiably, “Unless you mean for us to swim.”
“No, master elf,” Chlora smiles back at him, “I do not expect us to ford the river. In the morning, a fishing boat will ferry us across. Its captain will wait for us on the shore until our business is complete. It is all arranged.”
“Do we trust this captain?” Grove asks. “What’s to stop him from escorting and then abandoning us?” He smirks, “Maybe that’s why no one ever returns : their rides get cold feet and shove off. There’s no danger there, just a growing queue of stranded adventurers.”
Chlora offers the fighter a sweet smile. “Clever,” she tells him. “But the answer to your question is : money. He doesn’t receive a copper until we are safely returned to the Fort. Whether our quest lasts hours or days, he is expected to be on that shore, waiting.”
“Is he aware of this stipulation?”
“He is. Though he was reluctant initially, the compensation – OVER compensation – we settled upon should sufficiently steel his resolve. If he returns to the Fort without us, he gets nothing.” Her expression hardens, “And SHOULD he decide to forgo payment and abandon us anyway... he will receive PROPER dispensation upon our return, though will not be pleased with my choice of currency. If I need to whittle a craft out of bark and strands of my own hair to get back across, I will find him and see the debt paid.”
Grove snickers, “You told him that?”
“Every word.”
The warrior nods approvingly, “Works for me.”
“And your knowledge of the Hill,” Oath reminds Chlora, “what DO we know about the place, the lay of the land?”
Chlora’s confidence sags as she admits, “In specific? Very little. Many of the adventurers I spoke to were bound here. Our proximity to the Fort made our shop extremely convenient for them. And yet,” she nods toward the journal, “Grove is correct. They knew little about their destination beyond general superlatives. ‘The Hill, the Hill, the Hill,’ they’d all repeat like the hymns of acolytes, ‘danger; mystery; treasure.’” Several members of the group glance toward the page’s scant description again. “That’s why it’s my most recent entry – it wasn’t difficult to just remember ‘Guido’s Fort, The Hill.’ I heard it so damned many times. Only recently did I assemble enough scraps of information to warrant a written record. That last line seemed of particular interest. I can’t be certain if truly NO ONE has ever returned from the place, but I’ve never seen anyone challenging the Hill on their return trip.”
“I intended to arrive at the Fort several days ago to begin my own investigation but was held up by last-minute inheritance matters. I just finalized selling the physical shop yesterday. Because of that, I settled into my seat here only an hour or two before Grove appeared.
“So… the answer is ‘nothing?’” Thread prompts.
Chlora smiles thinly, saying, “Essentially. But as I sat here, it occurred to me : my tardiness can prove a useful opportunity. As much as I’ve stressed the importance of us learning to work as a team, herein can be a useful trial.” She gestures around the tavern. “Frankly, I’ve had my fill of the misremembered hearsay of travelers. Here, perhaps, we can begin to unravel a few of the Hill’s mysteries.”
“Assuming any of these people actually know anything...” Thread says, “living here doesn’t immediately make them experts on local points of interest. I think these folk just want to drink.”
“There’s only one way to find out.”
To this, Thread can only frown.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“So,” Grove says, stretching his arms out behind his head and yawning deeply. “Tomorrow we properly arm ourselves on your dime, board a boat, and get dropped off at a place that we know nothing about, that better-seasoned adventurers never return from.” He nods approvingly several times. “I like it. Kill monsters, get treasure, grow stronger, don’t die.”
“And, eventually, enact our revenge,” Errow interjects.
Grove grins, inclining his head “Yes,” he says, “I do believe we have a deal.” He yawns again as his eyes search the room. They settle on a crooked staircase to the right of the kitchen. “I don’t remember seeing any inns in town, and you saw to the rest of our accommodations, Chlor, so should I assume…””
“Oh,” Chlora frowns, wrinkling her brow. “I’m sorry; I didn’t even think of this place.” Her face brightens hopefully, “But I’m sure the beasts in the stable will be great company for us tonight!”
A collective groan issues from the table. Chlora, unable to maintain her composure, cackles giddily.
“That means she’s joking, right?” Gereb asks, turning to Thump nervously. “...Right?”
Thump lifts her pan and slurps up the remaining liquid inside. When she finishes, she shrugs and tells her bodyguard, “We’ve slept with worse.”
Gereb’s head droops dejectedly.
Chlora laughs harder, now joined by several of the others. The moment’s levity (unintentional as it may be on Gereb’s part) is a welcome relief.
The halfling glances up when Oath lightly touches his arm. “We’ll be staying here tonight,” the cleric assures him with a smile, “unless you have an affinity for hay.”
Gereb nods, sucking in a deep breath. “I knew that,” he insists with suspect confidence. “Of course I did.”
Thump bends toward him until her face is inches from his ear. She whinnies affectionately.
“Right,” Grove says, standing, “to bed then?”
Chlora reaches out, grips his shirt and lightly tugs. He stares at her hand a moment before re-seating himself. “It was worth a shot,” he grumbles, smirking.
Chlora smiles patiently as she gestures around the hall. “We need information,” she reminds him. “There is no better time to harvest it. In the morning, I’m sure the Bones will be empty or, at least, its clientele will have tightened their tongues.”
Reluctantly, Grove nods and admits, “Drunk folk do tell the best tales.”
Thread raises her glass in salute, drinks, slams the mug down, and rises. “Come on, Oath,” she says. “I’ve cynic’d and contrary’d enough for one night; it’s time to earn my keep.” She looks to her brother, ruefully. “Shadows may still outwit me from time to time.” She considers her mug again before scooping it up again and draining it in one long gulp. “But I’m pretty sure I can squeeze something useful out of this lot… as long as you keep your meddling fingers in your damned robe.”
Oath makes a show of crossing his arms and tucking his hands into his armpits. Then he stands, pouts out his lips and sweetens his voice until his words ooze sticky sweetness. “Good evening, friend,” he coos, “I am a humble pilgrim in need of a sympathetic ear. Could you please spare but a moment of your time?”
“That’ll do,” Thread says. “But against the hard-hearted, just point at me and invent some fiction describing what I’ll do to you if you don’t get the information I demand. You have a sinister imagination; make it good.”
Oath begins to protest, but reconsiders the objection just as its verbal analogue reaches his tongue. Shrugging, he allows, “Fair point,”
“You need to look more convincing,” Grove says, pointing at Thread. “At present, after hearing the threat, I’d be more inclined to feel bad for you than Oath.”
Thread scowls at Grove, but then lightens as she says, “That’s just because you have a soft spot for me, tough guy.” Grove does not dispute the accusation.
She turns back to Oath, manufacturing a fearsome snarl. He frowns, stroking his chin. “Ah,” he decides, bends down, and with significant effort, lifts Thump’s warhammer. “Here,” he grunts, thrusting it at his sister. “Instant… menace.”
Thread stares at the weapon a moment, then looks to Thump. The warrior shrugs, saying, “It can’t make you look LESS intimidating.”
With a few choice words, Thread accepts the hammer. Immediately her over-burdened arms sag and rest the weapon against the ground. “You’re all a bunch of bullies,” she groans. Dragging the weapon behind her, she approaches a nearby table.
Oath nods to the party, and, beaming with satisfaction, follows.
As they depart, Chlora offers her humanoid companions a sad smile, saying, “Gereb, Errow, based on what we’ve seen so far of the Fort’s prejudices...”
“We’ll sit this one,” Errow agrees. He smirks, adding, “Add ‘charming strangers’ to that list of things I’m not suited for.”
Gereb chuckles, “And, yes, I believe I’ve had quite enough of the local hospitality already, thank you.”
Chlora nods, “And Thump…” she glances at the big warrior. She holds the empty ale pan above her head as if trying to collect fermented raindrops. “Thump… you just go ahead and keep on drinking.”
“Will do,” the warrior agrees. She spies the tavern girl and shakes her burden demonstrably in the girl’s direction. Without addressing Thump, she angrily throws her hands above her head and retreats toward the kitchen. Thump seems satisfied with the result and lowers her pan.
“Come on,” Chlora urges Grove as she nudges him. “Let’s not leave all the hard work to the sibs.” She stands, half-dragging him to his feet.
He frowns, easing away from her grasp. He protests, “Chlor, are you sure this is a good idea?” he glances down at himself disparagingly. “You may be doing more harm than good. My manner can be… a bit off-putting, I’m told.” He smirks. “Often.”
The mage tilts her head and smiles warmly. “Oh, I’m counting on it,” she says. “Just think how much better you’ll make me look by comparison. They’ll tell me anything to get us to go away.”
Grove considers that a moment, his face transitioning from a frown to a scowl before settling into a grudging smile. “It’s a gift,” he admits. “Lead the way.”