He'd been lucky enough to catch a ride on a chicken cart headed for Deraforda. It was nice enough if you didn't mind spitting out a feather every few minutes from sitting in the back. After a few days home was in sight just over the last hill, lit up under the midday sun.
Deraforda was the central city of the continent, built up from a crossroads of old trade routes used during the few wars they'd had. Supply lines would meet on the sly and clever quartermasters would fill up their own pockets with what they could get away with selling off, usually to the benefit of their lord's army and their own. When the wars would end the spot went from trader's market to town to city and finally the metropolis it was. It was flat, mostly one and two story buildings, although there were a few buildings here and there that rose up to four and five stories.
The only exception was the massive tower in the center said to be the tomb of the great hero himself, Deraforda. It was generally forbidden to poke around in the tower and it was empty besides, just a spot for kids to get into when they hit that age where rules did not apply to them.
The city sat in the fork of two rivers but hadn't yet made it over in any significant way, just a few houses that wanted their peace and quiet until the rest of the city caught up to them. Every few years the walls would push out further and new homes would join the city. They were just upon the bank of the river now and the rivers would likely become citizens themselves during the next expansion.
They passed through the gate and the high stone walls that kept out the riff raff (or kept them in) and into the city, the cart wobbling on the cobblestones. The streets hummed with people, all well dressed and in no particular hurry since they were in one of the richer quarters. It got busier as they went in, passing by a market with stall to stall people, humans, elves, dwarves, lizardfolk, ratlings all in attendance. That was one thing Clarke respected about his city. Deraforda was built on merchant trade and money. Everyone had money and not wanting it just because it may have been handed to you by some pointy ears or a furry paw was counter productive to the city's whole founding philosophy.
Getting rich.
“Thanks for the ride.”
Clarke hopped off the cart, waving after for the help. There was nothing more he wanted than to get home but his boss would likely come banging on his door and the man didn't stop knocking until someone answered. He'd left a lamp burning once that shone under the door and his boss had knocked for an hour. He was a newshound of the highest, most annoying caliber.
The head office for the Scribe Society was small, on one side a weapon and armor shop and the other an artisan glass shop and across the street a nice little cafe. The only thing that made it stand out was the carved sign written out in gothic cursive that most adventurers (or people in general) couldn't read so most just said to look for the black worm sign. There had been talk of changing the font but the issue of what font to change it to had very nearly come to all out war between the scribes, with ink spilled on both sides. It had been left as it was for the sake of the society.
The inside was clean and every wall was covered over in shelves from top to bottom, each with separate accounts of every adventure that the company had ever been put in charge of recording. A few of the others were there, looking over the jobs available pinned to the unmanned front desk, the secretary likely on lunch across the street.
A few whispers as he passed. He ignored them and went through the door into the back.
This office was smaller but looked much the same. All neatly organized books from top to bottom, a little desk that a very large, sweaty man sat behind. Every breath seemed a labor and his chins bulged out of the top of his sweat stained shirt. He mopped his head and let out a wheeze as he finished the last line of whatever smudged note he was writing.
“Mr. Cooper.”
Bog Cooper, otherwise known as The Slime due to not only his sweating and waddling but also for a personality that had been rolled through a backed up sewer. While his thirst for accurate news was admirable, his thirst for women and drink evened his personality out to somewhere on the level of a weasel.
He looked up, a big smile on his fat face as he stood with some difficulty.
“Clarke! There's my boy! I was a little worried since you'd been gone a little longer than planned. And the adventure?”
Clarke pulled his book over his head, pulling the sheets of paper out and laying them in a crooked pile on the desk.
“The planned one actually went fine. Poked around in an abandoned mansion. There were some ghosts and the noble hid behind his armored money until they'd taken care of them. The cleric they'd had was very heroic.”
He rubbed his fat little sausage fingers together.
“Splendid! That's great news-”
“Then they were all eaten by spiders in a swamp.”
He fell back in his chair heavily. His hands came up to his face and he breathed deeply, then out through his fingers. He asked with a muffled sigh.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
“All dead?”
“Probably eaten by now too.”
“And definitely Darius? I had dinner with Darius' father a few days ago. Bragging about how I could spin his arrogant, cowardly son into a lion.”
“Not a heroic bone in his body. Even if there were it's sitting in a pile of goo under a cocoon.”
Whatever sound Bog made it was between a sob and a laugh. Still one hand on his face he reached into one of the drawers in his desk and threw a little sack on the table before burying his face again. It landed atop a small book, the coins half on, half off the spine.
“Okay.”
He sighed again.
“Okay, I'll let you know when I have more work.”
Clarke took his pay, lingering and shaking the bag. The weight was right but he stayed and cleared his throat.
“Um, sir, did you hear anything about...?”
Bog's head popped up with the reminder.
“Oh! Oh, right. Um, no.”
“Nothing at all? No-”
Clarke's voice caught in his throat. Every time he said it it sounded vague. More and more ridiculous. Nine years repeating the same question came as comfort to him though.
“No cases of mass amnesia? Nothing about men in black or-”
Bog was beginning to wave him off as he began writing notes, the feather on his quill tickling his nose.
“No, Clarke, no. Now I'm very busy, I have to spin honey into words for a condolence letter and I think I'm going to have to empty the beehive to keep us out of trouble. Go home. Rest.”
Clarke grabbed the sack.
“The book too, the book.”
Bog pushed it a little closer and Clarke caught it in his hand as it went over the edge.
Outdoors was still pretty bright, something Clarke shielded himself from back outside. One more stop then home.
Only twenty steps to the left and he was entering the artisan glass shop. The shop was as bright as could be with sunlight pouring in the windows and glinting off everything from glass sculptures to windows, figurines, to the many kinds of bottles available.
A young ratling sat behind the counter, her nose twitching when she looked over. Clarke recognized her as the usual apprentice, solid white fur with a big black patches of fur over both eyes. She was probably ten or so, if Clarke had to guess. Burns and cuts where fur hadn't regrown covered her little paws but nothing any other glass blower didn't have.
“My bottles?”
The girl nodded at Clarke. He was regular enough for a minimum of conversation and she went to the back. Clarke listened as the squeak and slide preceded her reappearance dragging a large wooden crate filled with carefully wrapped bottles. Some hard enough to drop off the top of the Deraforda Tower without breaking, others thin enough to shatter from reasonable pressure, such as thrown against a man's body or face.
“That you Clarke?”
Oh no...
“...no.”
Miss Hum Moltensand popped out of the back, a heavily stooped old dwarven woman whose face and arms carried burns, scars, scabs and wounds from a lifetime of working in front of a hot oven and sharp glass. She was only about three and some feet tall, taller if she'd been able to stand upright but with arms as thick as a post, tanned a deep, dark brown. Not a single hair remained on her deeply wrinkled face and only a few dry, split strands fell out from under her hood she wore to keep the floating embers off.
Even for a dwarf she was remarkably old, possibly the oldest living thing in the city though she showed no signs that she even knew she was getting on in years.
She reached out across the low counter, grabbing for Clarke's hand. He sighed internally.
Here we go.
“About to pay for those bottles were you?”
“Yeah, actually I just got paid.”
He shook the sack of coins in his free hand.
“Oh dear! You know, I don't think we take money any more. Isn't that right, Parison?”
The little ratling nodded but said nothing. Hum stroked Clarke's hand and he tried to pull away as gently as he could as soon as the usual eerie chill crept up his spine of someone being far too familiar with him. He didn't hate her but she didn't know what personal space was.
“Is it the elemental liqueur set again? I don't have the reagents I'd need-”
“No my boy. Although I'm glad you remembered! I do get a little thirsty in front of a fire every day.”
She licked her lips and patted his hand. He cringed and pulled a little harder but his hand was firmly stuck in her bony old clasp with far more strength than he would have imagined.
“What I really wanted from you, for all of these high quality perfect bottles, is for you to meet my great granddaughter. She's over at the cafe across the street, you could pop over there right this moment.”
Clarke reached for the box, pulling the edge to him by the handle. The very last thing he wanted to do in the entire world right that moment or even in the near future was meet anyone, let alone Gwen. He'd spent about twelve years avoiding her as much as possible with rare run ins along the way.
“Sorry. I just got back and I have plans-”
“Plans are made to change, dear.”
No they aren't! That's why they're planned!
Clarke screamed in his head, now using his one free hand to reach for his money in the little bag tied to his belt.
“No, really, it was a long trip. I'd like to rest and I have some potions to make.”
Clarke tried to push the coins into her hand, bright silver coins, a few copper pieces to round out the cost but years of evading floating embers and burst glass had made her bizarrely quick to keep things out of her palms.
Hum let out a rasping dry laugh, letting Clarke have his hand back but still not taking the money. She was practically committing a crime in Deraforda by not swiping the coins out of his hand. He was pretty sure there was a law about refusing payment for work. Something about charity breeding more charity and the merchants found the whole business distasteful.
“How many of life's problems do you expect to solve at the bottom of a bottle as opposed to with a dwarven girl who will then owe you a favor?”
He tossed the coins at the young ratling and, true to stereotype, her nimble fingers shot out and snatched each one before it passed over her head without a look. Clarke hefted up the box and it knocked the air out of his lungs as he waddled toward the door.
“All of my best ideas come out of bottles.”
His face scrunched up at what he'd said but he shook his head and wobbled out the front door.
Parison put the coins away in a heavy lockbox under the counter, Hum chuckling at how easily flustered her best customer was.
A few minutes later the door swung in and hit the wall, some of the shelves rattling.
“That was him, wasn't it? I'd been watching your shop when you said he came in here sometimes but I got stuck in a sandwich. Is he still here? I couldn't come over any faster.”
A few lettuce leafs stuck from the collar of her apron. Hum chuckled and kicked a large box that rattled. Some practice bottles Parison had made that didn't quite meet the shop standard but were good enough for make people feel they owed you something.
“It was. Funny thing though, he forgot to take his bottles. Would you deliver them? I have his address here, if you'd be a dear.”