1st of Middle Summer, 1535

The conversations were lively at the Tilted Flagon as the barmaids flew back and forth, bringing out food and drinks to the ravenous patrons. The piano and accordion players were in perfect form as some drunkards joined in with their off-key singing. Despite only being ten o'clock in the morning, many people had already reveled in the summer solstice's festivities. It would all be punctuated with the rising of a reddened full moon later that night, though considering how much alcohol some of the patrons were drinking, it would be doubtful that many would be awake come nightfall.

Everything stopped as the inn’s doors burst open. Most customers shifted their attention toward the haggard man entering the establishment; Many looks were quizzical—others were more repulsed. Oleander paid everyone no mind as he limped toward the bar leaving a trail of blood behind him. Despite the man being covered in cuts, bruises, and poor-quality makeshift bandages, the trickling blood came from the large burlap sack slung over his back.

“Alfie, mate, good to see you,” the hunter said as he patted the young piano player on the shoulder, leaving a faded red handprint on his shirt.

He waved at the barmaid, who produced a bottle of scotch from one of the cupboards—a small glass was filled once Oleander took his seat. The gentleman on Oleander’s left pinched his nose and wretched; he stood up and beelined it out of the inn. The hunter shrugged; fewer people to deal with now. He downed his drink in a flash—his drooping eyes snapped open. The room slowly returned to its normal, noisy state.

“Morning, Alexander.” Tilly, one of the younger barmaids, offered him a refill, and Oleander was just as quick to oblige. Her long red curls bounced as she went to and fro, topping off other patrons’ drinks. “You look…uhm…knackered.”

She handed Oleander a rag. After wiping off his face, he tossed it back to Tilly, who frowned and dropped it behind the counter for someone else to pick up later.

“I was up for the last twelve hours chasing wild pigs. Managed to catch a few, but not without getting chomped and charged at,” Oleander pointed to the bandage wrapped around his left thigh.

Tilly gasped and covered her mouth. “Are you alright? Should I send for a physician?”

“Nah, don’t worry about me. But if you can, could you go get Joanie for me?”

She hurried off and returned with a blonde-haired woman with an exhausted look on her face. Joanie shuffled back behind the bar and rolled her eyes at seeing the man sitting before her.

“I knew it was you before Tilly came to get me—I could practically smell you from across the bar. Just because your last name is Swine doesn’t mean you have to walk around like one.” Her annoyance subsided as his smirk wore her down, “Did you take care of those pigs already?”

“Of course. I’m a professional, aren’t I? I promised your dad a low price and fast results.”

He swung the drenched potato sack onto the countertop, splattering blood everywhere. Tilly let out a small shriek as red droplets trickled down her face and hands.

“Blech! Why?!” Joanie grabbed a rag and started wiping off her arms and dress, “Why did you bring all that here? Gods, Tilly, mop up all this blood.”

Joanie’s disapproving scowl grew as she noticed the red trail Oleander created on her tavern’s lovely wooden floor.

“I already gave most of it to your folks. This shite would’ve gone bad by the time I brought it home, so I figured you could use it here.”

“How generous...” Joanie said, “How many pigs did you kill?” She whistled to grab the cook’s attention from the back—the sack filled with raw pork was quickly carried out of sight.

Oleander explained, “I’d say enough to get about fifty pounds of usable meat. Those pigs won’t be trampling your dad’s cornfields anymore.”

“Good, that covered part of your tab. But since you’re still here, whatcha want? I’m feeling generous enough to give you a discount on a shower. You’re ungodly rank.”

“I appreciate the discount, but I wouldn’t mind some company—”

“—No.”

Oleander shrugged, “Suit yourself then.”

The two stared at each other for a moment; he used to relish the fire that once occupied Joanie’s gaze, but her interest in him had long since been extinguished.

The brave hunter broke the silence, “I would like some pork chops with—”

“—With your usual order then?” Joanie finished.

Oleander nodded, and Joanie quickly wrote down his order before passing it to Tilly to send to the cook.

“Hey, Joanie.”

Her eyes darted over to her former romantic partner.

“How’s about you and me head over to this new place on the north side of town—”

“—No.” She waved her hand, “I’ve told you before, I’m seeing someone else now.”

“That pipsqueak, what was it…Beauford—”

“—Bradford—!”

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

“—Doesn't matter. What’s he got that I don’t?”

Joanie was quick to answer, “A house, a job, and financial plans."

“I got a house."

Joanie rolled her eyes and sternly remarked, “That shack in the middle of the woods is no house.”

“You never even gave it a chance—”

“—most normal people wouldn’t’ve given it a chance,” Joanie said. "I lived in squalor before; I wasn't going to do it again."

Silence fell between them as Oleander’s breakfast was served: a plate topped with steaming hot pork chops, sunny-side-up eggs, and two slices of toasted rye bread. Oleander tore through his meal like a wild animal. The charred fat caps on the chops were the first to go, and he dipped pieces of toast in the yolks before every bite.

Joanie glanced at the knife and fork she placed on the counter, going completely unused.

“Y’know, eating like a normal person wouldn’t kill you. Your mum had to have taught you manners at some point,” Joanie muttered.

Once his plate was finished, Oleander had business to attend to, “Alright, Joanie, any news pass through town?”

“Not since you last asked,” Joanie replied.

She took out a clean rag and started wiping off the crumbs the hunter had accumulated.

“C’mon Joanie, anything? Anything at all? I’m dying here without work.”

“Look, Blackburn Hollow hasn’t had any incidents since the city walls were expanded. There have been more soldiers—I see plenty come in and out of here daily. Only people living outside the city would need help right now, and we both know they’d all turn to the Red Wolves for help—”

“—Yeah, I get it,” Oleander cut her off.

He turned away and pushed his knuckles against the bridge of his nose; he knew what was coming next.

Joanie started, “You know, you wouldn’t be struggling this much if you just swallowed your pride and went back to the Red Wolves—”

“—I can’t go back!” Oleander snapped.

Joanie took a step back, Oleander’s voice carried reasonably well across the crowded room, but it didn’t stop the music from playing. Every time they'd meet, this same argument would play out.

“I told you he kicked me out,” Oleander explained.

“And what’s stopping you from going back and apologizing? I can’t imagine what you did to piss off Garrison that much.”

"I didn't do anything wrong," the hunter grumbled, balling up one of his fists.

Oleander looked away.

Joanie mumbled, “Daft, lazy, oaf…”

She looked over the dirty hunter; He’d worn the same outfit the last time he came up to the tavern, just like he did the three times before.

“Whatever,” she mumbled, shaking her head.

After downing his drink, he dragged his hand across his face, “Look, any information is useful right now, no matter how small. What about news from Willowhurst or Sterling?”

“I’ve heard nothing about monsters,” she said emphatically, “Why don’t you ask that little rubbish-eating friend of yours…whatshisface.”

“Cormag? Last I spoke with him, Cormag said he was busy looking into something but never went into any specifics.” Oleander’s tone became more frantic, “Joanie, someone had to bend your ear at some point. At this point, I’d help out any poor Elf or Orc that asked for it!”

Joanie shushed Oleander immediately.

“Yell that a little louder next time so the whole town can hear,” she mocked the disgruntled monster hunter.

She sighed and tapped on the bartop with her fingers.

“Okay, I might have something. I don’t know if this will interest you, but it’s something to do and to stop you from bellyaching. Remember Donohue, the blacksmith who lived near us when we were kids?”

“Yeah, auld Gerard Donohue, yeah, I remember; what happened to him?”

“Well, a few nights ago, he came up here with his apprentice. I think that was his apprentice, at least. Anyway, I overheard them talking about a robbery at their smithy. Something about particular things being taken, but there were no signs of a break-in.”

Oleander gave Joanie his full attention, “Do you know what the robbers took?”

“Dunno, we were busier than usual that night, so I couldn’t catch the entire conversation, but he runs a smithy, so take a guess on what was taken.”

“Alright then, Donohue still lives in the Ember Quarter, right?”

“I think he might’ve been the only one that stayed after the attack.”

“Anything else?” Oleander asked.

“No, but they weren’t the only ones complaining about stolen things. Over the past week, some other blacksmiths and carpenters have grumbled about missing tools and supplies, but I only paid attention to Donohue’s situation."

“That’ll do for now; I’m not in a position to turn down work. And besides, better to jump on this before Garrison catches wind of it,” Oleander said as he stood up—his left leg still gave him a bit of trouble.

He asked, “Is that discount on the bath still on the table?”

Joanie made a long, comical sniff before answering, “Yeah, Washroom 3. Be quick about it.”

She reached underneath the bar and rifled through a drawer until she found a brass key, and she tossed it to the smirking hunter—she immediately turned away before he could speak.

His smile faltered, and he silently nodded to himself. A bit discouraged, he hobbled to the backroom with a bottle of alcohol he took from the bar while Joanie’s attention was elsewhere. The washroom wasn’t glorious, but Oleander didn’t complain; this was one of the few times he’d seen an indoor bathtub. Before drawing himself up a full bath, Oleander ran the faucet and let the warm water drench the back of his head. Even during summer, the heated water took away Oleander’s cares.

His full-body soak was relatively quick, just long enough to get rid of all the blood and grass that stuck onto him; he felt renewed, especially as he sipped on his bottle of whisky. Oleander’s first steps out of the tub were shaky as the gash on his leg was still very tender.

After drying himself off, he dug through his knapsack and pulled out the last of his bandages. He grabbed a bar of soap and bit down on it as he used some of his whisky as an antiseptic; the gash stung immensely, and his wound dressing left a lot to be desired. Oleander missed having a professional doctor patch him up as he struggled to tie a knot that wouldn’t unravel.

A piece of paper slipped underneath the door and slid right up to Oleander’s boot. A love note, perhaps? Oleander’s inquisitive brow dropped—it was just the bill for his breakfast. When he unfurled the paper, it became a complete itemized list of all the previous meals, alcohol, and baths he still hadn’t paid for. A message was scrawled on the bottom of the pages, “Next time, come with the full payment, or don’t come back at all. I’m not a charity for you anymore.”

Oleander thoughtlessly tossed the paper into his knapsack and leaned back in his chair, running his fingers through his hair. He let out a sigh—he was out of money.

image [https://imgur.com/cQl2KlN.png]