In ages long forgotten, the Children of the Tides were the daring adventurers of the ancient oceans. They voyaged across the world, engaging in trade and pillage along the coastlines of the many lands. But those days have passed, and their once-mighty fleets and ships now exist only in memory. Instead, they have become semi-nomadic, with few permanent settlements, relying on their fast mounts and skill at arms for their military might. Having taken a life before their fourteenth year, every one of their Waveriders is a blooded warrior.
In this modern era, the Children of the Tides have reinvented themselves as mercenaries, offering their services to the highest bidder. To this day, they can field a substantial number of water mages as their people still share a bond with the ocean. Their magisters, once skilled in the art of controlling the power of the depths, now employ their talents to aid their kin in their logistics. They supply the precious resource of potable water for their long and arduous campaigns.
-The Fanciful Travels by Beron de Laney 376 AC.
Worry gnawed at me as we made our progress through the streets. I had to constantly remind myself that a smart criminal walks and does not run. This conflicted with another truth that I had learned through modern media; the culprit almost always returns to the scene of the crime.
The foot traffic was heavy as we walked past the numerous tents and yurts lining the main boulevard, and a fine layer of dust coated almost everything. The smell of the city almost overwhelmed our noses which were by now too accustomed to clean country air. Every now and then, we would pass a stone or wooden building, but for the most part, they were relatively rare.
After making our way through the sweaty press of traffic, hands always on our valuables, we saw the sign of The Twisted Boar. A painted picture of a green boar being twisted in the hands of a leering giant on a wooden board. A strange sign for a strangely named inn.
The whole building looked relatively new, without the presence or signs of age of a structure that has long stood the test of the years. To the right of the building was a small one-story construction made of the local white stone, with a flat roof. Its chimney billowed out a small column of gray smoke, the baths of the establishment, no doubt. On the left of the building was an empty stable that had seen better days.
We entered the main establishment through a sturdy door, well-worn with use, to be greeted by the sight of a thin man behind a wooden counter, polishing a horn stein. The ceiling was low, and the smell of spilled ale and recently cleaned vomit hung stale in the air. In the corner, two bearded and turbaned men sat around a glass pipe, taking turns sharing puffs of bluish smoke that twirled up toward the ceiling.
At a small wooden table, a group of shifty-looking, rat-eyed men sat, playing what looked like this world’s version of cards. Dog-eared cards featuring unknown gods, monsters, and symbols were exchanged, placed, and exchanged again. The player's expressions changed from carefully controlled neutrality to barely concealed drunken consternation, depending on their fortunes.
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The willowy male behind the bar looked at us with eyes the color of warm chocolate. He was somewhere in his middle years, his once black hair now grown lank and thin. Narrow lips under a wide nose pursed as he nodded to us in the universal manner of all bartenders, somewhere between deference and amicability, before asking, “What can I get you, folks?”
In a certain light, you could say he had a vague resemblance to the guard at the gate, but the association was tenuous at best. I was just about to speak, but Elwin beat me to it. “Inn-keep, we are looking for a room, a private room, if you please, for the three of us.”
“That’ll be twenty bronze pieces a night for the lot of you, twenty-three if folk be needing to use the baths, which I highly suggest you do. You have the look of the road long traveled about you. Oh, and another bronze if you lot be needing your clothes to be laundered. Leave’em with the boy, good lad he is. Three coppers for a meal when we’re serving. Also, the name’s Taper Athinad, at your service,” he said perfunctorily while cleaning an array of mugs and steins in front of him.
As he detailed the prices, my brain performed some rough calculations. My time in the local jail, eavesdropping on the conversations of the market, had given me a rough idea of the value of the coins. Also, as I spun the numbers in my mind, I made sure to study the innkeeper, searching his face for the signs of treachery, but I found none.
Luckily, this world’s currency was easy to get a handle on as it followed a simple decimal system. Having observed a woman buying two apples for a copper at the marketplace, in terms of buying power, I estimated that a single copper coin was worth approximately one pound. Ten coppers were then worth a bronze piece, and ten bronze coins were, in turn, worth a single silver piece, with ten silver pieces having the value of a rare gold coin.
I ran a finger over one of the silver coins as I was making my decision. On one side was the stylized version of a flowing wave, and on the other was a bust profile of an ancient woman. Making a quick study of the profile, I noticed a terrifying similarity to the goddess Avaria.
Like all of the coins, the edges of this one were smooth and uniform. Next to it was a similar-sized silver coin with a hole punched through its center. This was a ‘half-silver’ piece. Like the silver coins, there were other denominations with a hole punched through their centers in both copper and bronze. I had yet to encounter a half-gold piece.
Unlike the bronze and copper pieces, along the rim of both silver pieces was some script that I could not yet decipher, written in a language I had not yet encountered.
As my mind played about with the numbers, so too did it play around with the idea of casting a spell of Identification on the unknown script. However, idle curiosity was not a good enough cause to spend precious Mana.
Forcing myself to relax a little, I concluded that, overall, the inn’s prices were reasonable, at least by my very rough estimations. It was not worth looking for other accommodation. This place would serve our needs fine. The innkeeper was probably not out to get us. We had never met before. These thoughts warred with my paranoia until I was finally able to get myself under control. What would be, would be, a mantra against the building pressure in my head. It was time to take a chance, the dice demanded to be rolled.