Acadian and Flynn went to the Inn to secure lodging for the night. After discussing the potential new job with the group, Circe had agreed to join them only out of an admitted curiosity for Frank’s magic. Gostor grunted twice, which they all took to mean he would come, too.

The Inn was a non-distinct building, with a barely-peaked thatch roof resting atop an otherwise square house. A few townsfolk sat in plush chairs by the windows, watching the sunset behind the conic trees beyond the village wall. The polished wood floor rested beneath a soft rug featuring a latticed pattern of crimson and grey. An unlit fireplace sat against the back wall beside the staircase that led to the upper floors. A semi-circular desk with neatly stacked parchments and a rather large ledger was placed prominently on the other side of the staircase.

Behind the desk was a tall human man with a thin frame. A shock of bright white hair clouded his head like a cotton ball. He wore a tightly fitted vest that had seen better years, as expressed by the fraying lace around the seams. His dull blue eyes brightened as Acadian and Flynn approached.

“Welcome in, friends,” the man said with a forced gleefulness.

Acadian set his leather pouch of coins on the desk and opened it. “How much for four rooms?” he asked.

The price was cheaper than anticipated, but he didn’t argue. He counted out some silver coins and a couple of coppers before sliding them across the desk to the innkeeper. Flynn had already wandered off, looking around the space. His smile had returned, seeming to have forgotten the tension he had fallen under earlier that day. He sat at a table with a young couple enjoying the sunset and began to introduce himself.

Elsewhere in the village, Frank, Arsa, and Gostor made their way into the Sore Horn tavern. The tavern was warmly lit, with mounted candles on every beam. Round tables were scattered throughout with wooden stools sitting at an even height around each. Old but well-crafted portraits hung on the walls accompanied by the heads of multi-antlered beasts that looked like bears with cat whiskers and finned ears. A group of burly-looking tavern-goers sat whooping and hollering toward the back corner, paying little mind to the three who had just walked in.

Behind the bar, which took up the entire length of the left-most wall, was a halfling woman with a thick mass of straw-colored hair tied in a top knot on her head. She was scrubbing clean some glasses with her thick forearms, partially hidden by the long ruffles from her cloth dress. When she saw the newcomers step inside, she set down the glass and seemed to step up on something behind the bar to meet their eye level.

Well, two of their eye levels.

“Come on in, now, don’t be shy,” she said, gesturing for them to meet her at the bar. “Name’s Grista. Welcome into the Sore Horn. Can I get y’all something to drink? Something to eat? What are you in the mood for?”

Arsa haphazardly asked for a glass of water while Frank requested a local wine. Gostor climbed up onto a stool, which started to bow under his weight, and stared at the woman with wide eyes. He watched her as she quickly maneuvered around the bar, multitasking both orders - not that they were all that difficult to fulfill. When she had delivered the water and the wine, she turned to Gostor and asked him what he would like.

“Drink,” he said without blinking. Their gaze lingered on one another for a while. Grista eventually broke it, sizing Gostor up and down before reaching for a tankard.

“Haven’t met too many dwarves in my day,” she said, filling the mug with ale from a large barrel keg that was sticking out of the wall. “Always a good time when one of you swings by, though. Only folk I’ve ever met that can keep up with me.” She placed the tankard down with a wink. Before she even stepped away from the counter, Gostor had swallowed down the entire brew in two gulps. Grista smiled an impressed grin. The dwarf pushed the tankard forward for a refill.

Frank sat with his back against the bar, examining the place and sipping his goblet of wine. The taste was bitter with the strong grasp of alcohol but had a varied lacing of different berries and a hint of coconut infused into it as well. It was strangely tropical. As he swirled the wine around in the glass, the base tapped the edge of one of his metal cuffs, letting free a metallic ringing sound. He set the glass down and covered the cuff, a pained sneer tugging at the corner of his nose. The ringing subsided and he closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, one of the thuggish patrons from the corner had approached and sat down beside him. The man wasn’t human, but also wasn’t elven. He was tall, with his arms and face covered in thick brown fur. He had long pointed ears coming out of a mane of hair that coated his head and neck. Besides looking ape-like, he seemed altogether humanoid. The creature smiled, revealing jagged and broken teeth inside his maw.

“Don’ fink I’s seen you’s around ‘ere before,” he spat in a thick accent. “Whas’ your name, pretty boy?”

Frank rolled his eyes and swiveled to face the man square on, “King François deStuer. And who might you be, oaf?”

The man laughed, ignoring Frank’s question, “King?! Oy, fellas. Dis one finks he’s a king!” The other thugs had gotten up to gawk at the royalty brought to their attention. Altogether there were five of them, none of the others as questionably human as the first. Besides the casual rough-around-the-edges presentation, they appeared more or less normal townsfolk. They wore bulky padded armor and carried extremely worn blades at their sides. Each of them had the symbol of the gavel and tower pinned on their chestpiece. One of the humans was bald and covered in black tattoos that wrote out various sayings from across the Cities of Hydraan.

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Among all of them, only one was not laughing with the others. A female elf in the group kept her arms close to her chest, her light blond hair pulled back into a tight ponytail that lay across her shoulder. She squinted at Frank with a relaxed face.

“My apologies, Your Majesty,” said the bald man, who began an exaggerated bow. “Forgive us for not preparing the way for your entrance.” More laughter erupted.

Arsa, who had been watching from the other side of the bar, now quickly approached Frank. He grabbed the collar of his vest and began pulling him out of his seat.

“We had better get going,” he said through gritted teeth. “We’re just passing through, anyway. Gostor, let’s go.” Gostor had finished his eighteenth tankard and burned through half of the coin he had just received. Grista gave him another wink and a wave as Arsa guided him out the door. Frank stared at the group of laughing patrons as his elven companion pulled him outside. The stern-faced woman shook her head at him as the doors closed behind them.

When they entered into the open air, Arsa threw both of them forward in front of him. He placed his hand on the small of Frank’s back and the top of Gostor’s head, guiding them toward the Inn. “I told you not to talk to the Barons, Frank. They’re bad news,” he said.

“That brute asked my name. I gave it.”

Arsa groaned, “You said you were a king.”

Frank stopped walking and faced Arsa, “I am a king.” The look of offense covered his face.

The elf sighed, half sympathetically, half pleading, “You don’t know that. Not for sure.”

At this point, Gostor had taken an interest in the conversation. He pointed to Frank and then started patting his own head, “King?” Frank looked between the other two before stomping off in the direction of the Inn with an air of frustration. Arsa followed after him with a deep breath, trailed by Gostor, who was still patting his head.

Circe had found her way to a marble shrine built atop a hill within the village. The shrine featured a statue of a figure in the middle of a fountain. The figure was tall and lean, the gender of whom was indiscernible. They were clothed in flowing robes and expressed a contented smile. In one hand, they held an overflowing pile of coins; in the other was a wand made from the antler of a stag. Kneeling before the fountain was a young woman with straight, long red hair. She wore a simple black tunic over a plain white knee-length dress. Around her forehead was a gold circlet that resembled the antler held by the statue.

“Praying to Hiarus?” Circe asked, startling the young woman. The girl let out a quick shriek at the sight of the pale lady before standing and dusting herself off.

“Y-yes, ma’am. I am a nun at the church. Well, a nun in training, that is. I’ve only recently taken my vows.”

Circe walked forward and stood beside her. She looked up at the stone figure, “I don’t understand the hubris of Hiarus. God of Fame. Fortune. Wealth. It is rather prideful, wouldn’t you agree?”

The girl looked at the ground, “I wouldn’t, no. Hiarus despises pride. Their blessings fall on those who would do away with their own wealth to aid those in need.”

In the water of the fountain, coins shined against the fading reds and golds of the setting sun. Circe reached a cold, pale hand into the water and plucked a coin from the shallow pool. The nun gave a small gasp but did not interfere. “And what happens to the greedy, then?” she asked.

“G-greed is p-punished by Hiarus.”

“Is it? Or is greed simply non-sustaining? Never fulfilling,” she moved closer to the girl. “Ever punishing.”

Circe pushed the coin into the nun’s hand and left her there. As she walked back down the hill, the girl stared after her. Her heart was racing and her face was flushed. She looked down at the coin and then back at Circe. She was not certain she had not just spoken with a ghost.

Back at the Inn, Acadian had already gone up to one of the rooms to rest. Flynn was conversing with one of the patrons in the lobby - the only one that would speak to him, as the others had quickly left once they realized the boy wouldn’t go away. The sun had now set, leaving the lit interiors of the Inn and the tavern across the street the only businesses lighting the village center. More patrons had started filling the tavern, leaving the Inn a more quiet respite from the revelry occurring elsewhere.

Flynn sighed, “I still write home every chance I get. I miss them all often, but I couldn’t ignore my calling. You understand, right?”

A gruff, older man sat opposite Flynn with a thick cigar in between his fingers. His black hair was starting to grey at the temples and his beard was well trimmed. He crossed his legs and sank lower into the seat. He released a puff of smoke before speaking in a low voice, “Of course. You can’t just ignore a calling from your deity. You’re supposed to be out here guiding the lost ones, right? Give it time. You’ll make your family proud, I’m sure.”

Flynn was beaming, “You’re a real breath of fresh air, Alek. I wish my friends all felt the same as you. They just don’t understand the pressure I’m under. Or the honor I carry.”

Alek took another breath of the cigar, “They’ll come around, kid. Hey, seeing is believing, yeah? So, show them. Make them see.” Flynn began nodding in revelatory agreement. It was then that Frank, Arsa, and Gostor stepped inside the Inn. Frank and Arsa looked similarly frustrated while Gostor was still tapping his head.

The man behind the desk perked up at their entrance and cleared his throat. “Party of Acadian Finch?”

Frank gave a half-hearted nod. The Innkeeper grabbed three keys from the pigeonholes behind him and handed them over. Gostor followed Frank up the stairs, but Arsa stayed put, his eyes fixed on Flynn and his new friend.

“We’re heading up, Flynn,” he said, stepping closer to the window the pair were sitting by.

Flynn simply smiled, “I’ll be up in a while.”

Arsa stood his ground, trying hard not to look at the man across from Flynn. “We’re all heading up.”

Alek moved his head, trying to catch Arsa’s eyes, “He can stay and chat if he likes.”

“Apologies, sir. Our party needs him upstairs. We have a job to discuss.”

It wasn’t technically a lie. Alek shifted his head and sat back in his chair, dismissing Flynn with a friendly nod. Flynn rose from his seat with a bit of confusion and waved before heading loudly up the stairs. Arsa followed, stopping just before the steps to glance back at Alek. His eyes lingered on the gavel and tower on the man’s chest before he quickly joined the others.