I cannot fathom how anyone endures dwelling in a location so persistently heated. Though, I suppose, to someone who has dwelled within a glacier, any place would seem sweltering in comparison.
Mikara reminisces about her home and is drawn to the small silken pouch she knew contained the last bit of her Scellobelee ice wine. However, she quickly shakes her head and returns to the mug on the bar.
Well, At least the drink here is served cold.
She can feel Garon’s gaze upon her as she lifts the tankard to her lips. She knows that turning her nose up at the local swill might be insulting to the barkeep of the Ol’Boar Inn. She’s here to gather information and not to attract unnecessary attention, so she takes a few sips before raising her mug, “Garon. Good drink.”
“Aye, lass. We’re lucky enough that a merchant caravan passed by a fortnight ago and managed to stock some of this dwarven brew.”
“I passed by the poster about the missing Hucrele children. They’ve been gone for almost a week now?”
“Yeah. Damn shame, that. Lady Hucrele increased the reward to 200 gold just yesterday, but I doubt the constable will send anyone for a couple of lost kids, not with all the goblin attacks recently.”
“Goblin attacks?” Mikara asked, “I had thought the perpetrators were yet unknown.”
“Hah,” Garon snorted. “Of course it’s goblins. There’s nothing else around here for miles. People are so starved for entertainment that they start imagining things.”
Mikara felt no need to verbalize her disagreement, as the town's business was none of her concern. However, she couldn't discount the possibility of goblins connecting to her quarry.
“Heard anything about goblins and magic apples?”
“Who hasn’t? One apple every midsummer usually goes for around 50 gold pieces. Strange fruit, it is. About the same as a health potion from Ms. Corkie if I recall. It might taste better, I guess. Why—are you looking for one? You’re almost six months too late for that.”
“No, I'm just curious. Goblins selling fruit seems too ridiculous to be true,” Mikara replied, finishing her drink and leaving a few coppers on the counter. “I’ve got to run an errand. I’ll return in a bit, Garon.”
Hopping off the old barstool with a soft thud, Mikara strode out the door onto the uneven path, gravel crunching loudly beneath her boots. She involuntarily scrunched her nose as the stench of dirt and old manure hit her. Covering her face and pulling up the hood of her dark cloak, she walked briskly towards the general store, trying to breathe as little as possible.
The stately mansion looming behind the Hucrele's general store dwarfs the sturdy wooden building, which otherwise might appear to blend seamlessly into the unpaved road. She approaches the metal-framed door, placing her hand on the large handle. Just as she is about to heft the weighty door open, she overhears voices from inside.
Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.
“ -amily. He was here two weeks ago with that caravan but went missing. Our interests seem to coincide, so it would benefit our noble houses to cooperate on the matter.”
“I’ll have to run this past the mistress, though I suspect she will agree to some level of cooperation. She has already agreed to meet another prospective mercenary on the morrow at daybreak. Perhaps return then, and we shall discuss the matter with the other hires.”
“Very well, I suppose it is getting late. I will return tomorrow morning, then.”
Hearing the dull thud of heavy boots approaching the door, Mikara quickly swings open the door as if to enter but allows the pale-skinned elven man donning a silken monk’s robe to walk past. He silently nods thanks as he slides past her and towards the Inn. She briefly notes the delicate patterns on the high-quality robe and the quiet confidence he carries himself with. If the overheard conversation wasn’t enough, she could surmise this was the scion of some noble house probably hailing from Neverwinter to the south. Luckily, he seems preoccupied with some mercantile issue and would hopefully not conflict with her regarding the fruit.
Though, once I have what I came for, perhaps I could fleece him of a few trinkets to send back home, Mikara thinks with a smirk as she enters the shop. The elderly gentleman sitting quietly behind the counter in a crisp white shirt looks toward her. Seconds pass as he stares, then suddenly blinks as if released from an illusion.
“Welcome, miss. Can I help you find something?”
“Yes, I’m here about the posting. The one that listed a reward for finding the missing Hucrele heirs.”
“Oh? That's four already today. The mistress will be pleased to have so many prospective rescuers. Perhaps hope is not lost after all.”
Mikara raises her eyebrows, “Four you say? May I inquire about the identities of the others? If we are all on the same quest, it would behoove us to join forces if possible.”
“You should know that the reward would then be split amongst the party and not given individually. The mistress is already planning to meet the others tomorrow in the morning. If you wish to work together with them, then I suggest attending at that time.”
“That is agreeable. And the others are?”
“An orc, a lizard-person, a dwarf, and an elf.”
Mikara stares at him incredulously.
“Well, I’m not privy to their life stories. Besides, their personal circumstances are not mine to share. You can ask them in person tomorrow. Miss-”
“Mikara.”
“Right. Well. Miss Mikara, please return tomorrow at daybreak if you are considering joining the party.”
“Alright, thank you. I will do so.”
Under the watchful gaze of the shopkeeper, she spends some time examining the items for sale in the shop and inquiring about the local pricing before deciding to return to the inn. As Mikara turns to leave, she thinks she sees a flicker of grey at the man’s neckline. She steps quickly towards the door but looks back at the man as she opens the door. Nothing seems out of place. Perhaps she imagined it.
The sun has begun to descend past the trees in the distance, and the wind has picked up, blowing yet more odorous earth along the path. Pulling her hood tighter, she hurries back towards the Inn, only to be greeted by a cantankerous clanking and the sound of someone with absolutely no sense of pitch singing in orcish. Cautiously peering through the door, she glimpses a muscular dwarven woman chugging an entire barrel of ale while precariously perched atop the shoulders of what appears to be a fully armored humanoid dragon. The dragon-person seems to be pleading with a half-orc who is ignoring him in favor of loudly chanting while clanking a spoon against his tankard in what can only be an offensive mockery of rhythm.
This task might be more daunting than she thought.