The Townmaster’s manor was as unremarkable as the rest of the town from the outside. A boxy three-story house with a slightly peaked roof sat atop the easternmost hill of the village. Banners with the imagery of the Red Barons were nailed beneath the third-story windows, their bottoms frayed and unkempt.

A couple of Barons sat on empty crates beside the double doors at the front. Dull swords with tarnished metal blades were stuck through loops in their oversized belts. Wendigoth must have warned the guards of the visitors, as the men slowly opened the doors when the group approached.

The grand foyer immediately juxtaposed the bland exterior of the home. The floor was made of black marble, inlaid with silver veins that snaked across the tiles. A massive chandelier with twisted golden arms hung from three thick chains attached to the ceiling, casting warm glows that bounced off the extravagant portraits that sat neatly on the walls.

Red Barons were littered throughout the space, occupying themselves with a variety of activities. Some were engaging in casual conversation with one another while others were sleeping on the plush, velvet furniture along the walls. In one space, a pair were intensely arm wrestling while a small gathering cheered them on.

The group walked trepidatiously through the hall, watching the wild and untamed group of local soldiers. Gostor broke away from the others and ran toward the group of arm wrestlers. With a hearty shove, he knocked the smaller one out of his chair and grappled the remaining guard’s hand. In a moment of shock, the Baron watched wide-eyed as the dwarf pushed his full weight into his forearm, sending him tumbling out of his stool and over onto the floor. The gathered crowd swiftly began their encouraging chants for the dwarf.

“Quiet!” a loud, booming voice echoed from the top of the staircase at the back of the foyer. Flynn was excited to see Alek standing tall, silhouetted by the light gleaming in from the back window.

The room went quiet, save for the sound of Gostor’s footsteps as he scurried back to his friends. The Red Barons rose from their places and stood at attention as Alek made his way down the stairs. His intense commanding air melted away the closer he got to the group. The scowl on his brow faded into a smile as he approached Flynn to shake his hand.

“Good to see you again, my boy,” the man said with a strong grip. Flynn returned the sentiment, ignoring Arsa’s sneer.

“I didn’t know you worked with the Townmaster,” he beamed.

“Second in command,” Alek released his grip and took a step back. “I’m here to escort you to Mr. Wendigoth’s office. If you’ll follow me.”

Alek guided them up the stairs to the second floor, which seemed to be the working level of the manor. They passed offices and storerooms with open doors, revealing Red Barons in less combative attire tending to menial tasks like paperwork and ledgers. A door in the middle of the hall was the only one that was closed as far as they could tell. Alek stepped up to it and knocked a rhythmic tap tap… tap… tap tap.

The scoot of a chair and some footsteps preluded the swift opening of the door. The Townmaster stood before them with a wide smile and nearly-closed eyes. He invited them in, Alek following behind.

Wendigoth’s office was large and rectangular with ornately carved wooden beams cascading over the ceiling. Dark paneled wood walls provided symmetry to the room that flanked the three windows along the back wall. The office held more furniture and decorative items than it did bookshelves or cabinets.

A large red couch sat across from a wide mirror that bounced around the light from the windows. Maroon curtains with silver embroidering were tied out of the way of the glass, revealing the view of the merchants of Krandaelyn. The floor was covered with a thick bear-skin rug, the maw of the poor beast permanently opened toward the seat of the Townmaster. At one end of the room was a heavy desk scattered with coinage and messy stacks of paperwork. At the other end was a glass table set with a decanter of an expensive bottle of whiskey and several glasses.

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The Townmaster sat in his high-backed chair behind the desk. The chair was almost throne-like, with carved lion heads on the armrests. Behind the desk hung a massive painting of Wendigoth surrounded by coins, jewels, and chests that burst open with treasure.

“Again,” he started, “I can’t understate my sincerest apologies for the eventful morning you’ve caught yourselves in. I can assure you, my Barons are not typically this… passive. I promise you my friend Alek here will have them acting right in no time.”

Frank crossed his arms over his chest, “What happened to the guy who got his arm broken?”

“Hm? Oh, right, I heard about that. Rest assured he’s in good hands. He’ll be taken care of.”

Frank’s sigh sounded almost disappointed. Gostor caught sight of the whiskey sitting on the table and started to run to it. With a small stumble, Arsa moved to grab him, redirecting him to the conversation.

“Anyways,” Wendigoth continued, “I’ve distributed your coin here. One hundred and eighty gold pieces for the lot of you. I’ve also sent word to the stables to provide your troupe with means for travel.” He slid the eighteen stacks of gold coins across the table.

Acadian looked between him and the coin before, “You’re payin’ us to leave, is that it?”

The Townmaster repainted the wide smile on his face. He exhaled a nervous laugh and made a thinking gesture with his hand.

“Listen, we don’t encounter too many magical types around here. We prefer the old nose-to-the-grindstone approach. If you all, as well-meaning as you may be, are attracting such dangerous audiences, it might be best for you to find somewhere else to stay. We’re a tight-knit community - we look out for our own.”

Acadian looked at the coin and nodded. He began distributing the stacks among each of them. Flynn received his cut but looked woefully at Alek and the Townmaster.

If only that woman hadn’t had them get that book.

The others received their share in small leather bags. Alek opened the door behind them as Wendigoth bid them an overtly cheery goodbye.

These Red Barons are good people. She wants them gone.

“Your town isn’t as tight-knit as you think,” Flynn said, halting his allies from leaving the room.

The Townmaster’s eyes shifted between all of them. Alek closed the door and moved to stand behind Wendigoth.

“What do you mean, kid?” Alek asked.

“There are people in Krandaelyn that want you gone.”

Acadian rushed forward and grabbed Flynn’s arm. He spoke through clenched teeth, “This is not our business, Flynn.”

“No, no,” Wendigoth said, standing from his chair. “But it is mine. Who would want such a thing? We’ve only ever been kind to our people.”

Flynn pulled free of Acadian’s grasp. He approached the desk and swallowed hard, “Priestess Rosalynd. Over at the Church of Hiarus. She calls you thugs and wanted to hire us to get rid of you. We declined.”

The others watched as Wendigoth’s facade fell. A sudden darkness covered his eyes as he declined back into the chair. He looked around the desk as though he were searching for something. Flynn stood tall, looking as knightly as he ever had.

Suddenly, the smile returned, “Well, I must go speak with her. There has clearly been a misunderstanding and I am keen on righting my wrongs. Flynn, was it? I appreciate you telling me the truth. How can we expect to remain in our people’s good graces if we don’t communicate?”

Flynn’s heart fluttered. A warmth of pride welled within him. Alek’s brow was arched, nodding at him with approval. With another goodbye, the second in command escorted them back out of the manor. Flynn was so giddy that he didn’t notice the horrified expressions plastered across his friends.

Alek expressed a swift goodbye before hurriedly returning to the manor. The group walked down the hill in silence before Circe cleared her throat and grabbed Acadian’s arm.

“They’re going to kill her,” she said. He nodded. She looked at him as though asking him to do something. His silence signaled he wouldn't.

Flynn laughed, “What? The Townmaster said he was going to talk to her. This will solve everything.”

Frank leaned against one of the lampposts, “Talking to is Diplomat for murder. Or assassinate. Or torture. Sometimes a combination of one or more.”

Flynn looked confused. He tried to catch Acadian’s attention for approval, but all he found was a disappointed glaze over his eyes. He glanced back up at the manor behind them.

No. They wouldn’t. They aren’t like that.

A squeak and a pop drew his eyes to the ground. Gostor tossed the cork in the grass and quickly swallowed down the whiskey.