He wandered the streets for a half hour, trying to find his bearings. Most of the buildings were residential apartments, with multiple families sharing a single floor, but there were a few inns and taverns around the city, and a disproportionately large number of smithies.

It was into one of these smithies that Jonathan walked some time later, having seen a variety of fine wares lying around in the window. It had been advertised as the finest smithy in the town, and while Jonathan doubted that, it at least did not have a long line outside the front. He was not looking for the best quality of armor that he could find, as that would have been far beyond his means. Something lower tier, but affordable, would be perfect.

A swarthy female dwarf sat behind the counter, and she seemed to be engaged in some sort of game where she tossed pieces of scrap metal into a receptacle on the far end of the room. Jonathan cleared his throat, and the woman looked up, unabashed.

“Well? What can I do for ya?” She replied, with a thick accent. “Are you here to buy, sell, or commission?”

“Buy. I want to purchase a suit of chainmail, ideally enchanted. I am relatively new to the Hells, and I do not know what the currency is worth,” Jonathan replied truthfully. That might have been a mistake, but the woman looked honest enough.

“Well, ten marks can get ya a decent enough sword, and 50 will get you an enchanted one. For what you’re looking for, I would say you would have to pay about seventy five marks. Armor isn't in as high demand as weapons, but it is more expensive to manufacture.”

“Hmm. Are you the smith here?” Jonathan asked, wondering why there was no visible forge in the vicinity.

“Nah. That would be my father. That great lunk is in the back, hammering away at something.” The woman looked backwards and then yelled at the top of her voice. “Pa! Come in here, we have a customer!”

Someone grumbled in the back of the smithy, and a heavily scarred dwarf lumbered out of the back room. He was an imposing specimen, almost as wide as he was tall. His tattered apron revealed arm muscles the size of Jonathan’s head, and he seemed like he could wrestle and bear, and win.

“Scrawny little bugger, aren't ya?” The man said without any sort of preamble. “You gotta get some more meat on those bones, ya here?”

For the first time in his trip to the Hells, Jonathan was convinced that he was standing before two honest individuals. The dwarves seemed friendly, and the fact that the male one had been in a relationship long enough to have a child spoke volumes about his character. The fact that he had taken care of the girl even more so.

“Perhaps,” Jonathan said, chuckling. “I am here to purchase some armor, and then be on my way.”

“Armor, you say? Beatrice, did you tell the man what our prices are?”

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

“Yeah. He was looking for an enchanted set of chainmail, and I told him that it would set him back about 75 marks,” she replied.

“Good girl. Like I’ve said many times before, we may be in the Hells, but honesty still applies.” Turning to Jonathan, the man continued speaking. “You’ll have to wait a few hours for me to finish your commission. It won’t take me long to make the armor, given my level, but the enchanting takes some time. Why don’t you explore the town while you’re waiting? Don’t let the air dissuade you from walking around a bit. The people may be a bit paranoid, but they’re fine enough folk.”

“I noticed that everyone is armed to the teeth out there. Why is that?”

“This town is on the path of the many ash storms that come rolling through here every few weeks. Every time that accursed worm, Granath, sets out to create more monsters, he stirs up all the existing ones nearby, and they charge across the land in search of prey. After a few days, the horde’s momentum peters out, and they spread out, but for a few days, they tear through anything that comes in their path. For some reason, they all go in the same direction, which happens to pass through here.” The man then frowned at Jonathan. “You’re a freshly damned, aren’t you? You sound like you’re new to the Hells.”

“That I am. Actually, I was looking for some sort of information source on this world. Is there anywhere I can find one?”

“You can check out the city archive. Old Janessa keeps a tight watch on her books, but she has a soft spot for those who are in search of knowledge. It’s next to the Flayed Arm tavern. You can’t miss it. Now, I have some work to get to.”

Jonathan thanked the man, and walked out the door, wondering what sort of fatalistic attitude would lead one to name a tavern such a gruesome name. As he passed by other taverns, he saw that such names were universal, although his favorite was a dingy looking establishment called the Bloody Stool. Despite the offputting name, there seemed to be many patrons there, enjoying its wares. Jonathan personally would have been hard pressed to partake of anything from that establishment without being reminded of its name, but it seemed that the folk here were used to it.

A few minutes later, he had found the Flayed Arm, a large tavern near the center of the city. Next to it was a dome shaped building, with a large sign at the top. The sign marked it as the city archives. There was nobody near the place, with most of them being in the nearby tavern, and Jonathan quickly walked inside.

He was instantly transported to another world, one of silence and parchment, with the dim lighting of lanterns suffusing all. There was only one other soul in the entire place, a woman sitting behind a desk made out of gnarled wood at the center of the room. Her skin was red, and she had two curving horns poking out of her forehead. Despite what the smith had said about her, the woman seemed in the prime of youth. Jonathan quickly walked over to the woman, who did not bother to look up. He waited for a moment, and then coughed lightly.

“Don’t cough at me, young man,” the woman said, her voice raspy. “I’m doing something important.”

“Sorry,”Jonathan said, mollified. “The smith told me that you might have information on the Infinite Hells?”

“Which smith? That dwarven lunk, Petrag? You can tell him to stop bandying my name around to any vagabond who comes calling.” Despite the woman’s sharp tone, she seemed quite fond of the man, as her voice softened upon saying his name.

“I don’t know about the smiths in this town, but he was a dwarf. Do you happen to have any information though?” Jonathan asked.

“Yes. There's a whole section over there next to the romantic fiction area. Don’t ask me why we have that trash here, but the townspeople love it. They use it as some sort of escape from the real world.” The woman resumed her work after the critical remark, and Jonathan left her, walking in the direction that she had pointed.