Alaric pushed open the tavern doors and was almost bowled over by the blast of heat and noise from the patrons. He took a deep breath and stepped into the fray. After two days straight in the saddle, he had arrived in a small town, whose name he had forgotten, nestled on the shores of a lake near the border of Kira. It was a province known for its fertile lands and rebellious spirit. It was a small town the last time he was here, now it was verging on a city. Alaric knew that Kethryll the Brushmaster had another studio nearby, he hoped he could still find it.

Alaric scanned the crowd, looking for a place to sit, and order some mead and hot food. The establishment was full. He felt eyes on him, some curious, some hostile, most indifferent. Tucked away in a corner booth was a cloaked figure, there was always a cloaked figure in the corner he mused. The cloak had a shimmering blur around it, making it hard to focus on its owner. That told Alaric that the figure in the corner was up to no good, or just plain paranoid, either way, he had bigger concerns.

The scent of stew hit his nostrils, immediately instilling a response from his stomach. He spied an empty stool and made his way to the bar. Navigating between tables filled with hunched patriots, Alaric couldn’t help but overhear the loud drunken whispers.

“I too would like to overthrow the Dark Lord that rules over my homeland.”

“As the bastard son of the last true King of that land…”

Alaric rolled his eyes and planted himself on the vacant stool where the barmaid served the customers drinks and food. She was a young woman with brown hair and green eyes. She wore a simple dress that was protected by an apron that was stained from what could have been a year’s worth of various liquids. She smiled at him as she approached him. He did all he could to avoid looking at the gaping hole created by her missing teeth.

“Hello there,” she greeted him. “What can I get you?”

He smiled back at her.

“Hello,” he said. “I’ll have a mug of mead and some stew, please. I also need lodging for the next few nights. If you have any available.”

“Coming right up,” she said. “That’ll be two silvers.”

He reached into his pouch and pulled out two coins. He handed them to her without looking at them. She took the coins and bit one. The barmaid’s face twisted like a child tasting a lemon for the first time spat to the side.

“These are fake!” she shouted. “You’re trying to cheat me!”

Alric blinked in surprise. A rush of blood filled his face

“What? No, I’m not.” Alaric looked down to see that he opened the wrong pouch. “I must have got the wrong coins a mistake.”

“Yeah, right.” She snorted. “A mistake. You’re one of them counterfeiters, aren’t you? Trying to pass off your worthless coins as real ones.”

“Look,” Alaric waved his hands. “I can explain.”

“Hey, boss!” She called out to someone out back. “We’ve got another one here!”

The tavern went silent. Alaric stood and turned to see all eyes were on him. The atmosphere suddenly became heavy. Murmurs rose from the crowd, whispered accusations and suspicion hung in the air like a lingering fog.

“No, you've got it all wrong,” he protested, his voice filled with sincerity. “It was an honest mistake, I assure you. I must have mixed up my coins.”

The barmaid crossed her arms, apprehension etched on her face. “Oh, sure. And I suppose all those other fake coins you passed around were accidents too?”

“You don’t understand,” Alaric rummaged through his magical pouch. “I have real money in here, just give me a minute. I need to sow a label on these.”

Heavy footsteps approached him from behind, and a large hand landed heavily on his shoulder, causing him to flinch. He was spun around to face the owner of the giant hand. It was a Gorrum.

Hailing from the mountainous region of Gorthica, they were beings of formidable stature and distinct features standing at an imposing height of eight feet. Their skin had a pale bluish hue, a broad frame hinted at untamed strength, and dark blue hair.

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This Gorrum's hair was tied in a tight bun. Pronounced canine teeth, particularly large for a Gorrum, menacing ones adorning his lower jaw, set him apart from others. Gleaming like polished obsidian, these formidable fangs spoke of a primal power that lay within him. When he bared them in a grin or a growl, his visage became a testament to his innate ferocity. The eyes, sharp and perceptive, shone with an intelligent glimmer amidst their intensity. They carried the weight of countless stories and battles witnessed, a reflection of his seasoned experience.

Wearing only a stained brown apron, brown trousers, and worn leather boots, the Gorrum exuded both the ruggedness of a warrior and the grace of a cook.

“What’s going on here?” the beastly figure growled.

“This guy tried to pay me with fake coins,” the barmaid said.

“Is that so?” The Gorrum looked down at Alaric with contempt.

“No, no, no, I was just explaining to the young lady here.”

“What did you call me?”

“What?” Alaric head swivelled from the Gorrum to the barmaid.

“Making trouble, are we?” the Gorrum growled, his tusks jutting from his lower jaw. “We don't take kindly to counterfeiters here.”

“I assure you,” Alaric raised his palms. “It’s a simple misunderstanding.”

As Alaric took a step forward, his foot caught on the leg of the stool. He stumbled forward to regain his balance and in doing so placed his hands on the granite-like chest of the establishment's owner, cook and security.

The large creature growled before punching Alaric in the face. There was a loud crack and Alaric took a step back from the blow. Alaric felt that his nose was straightened before responding in kind. The Gorrum took the full force of the punch and staggered one step back. The patrons in the tavern scattered as the two traded punch for punch, neither backing down, either from pure strength, or pure stupidity.

“Oi!”

Alaric turned and saw the barmaid running towards him. She kneed him in the balls. Alaric doubled over. The Gorrum grabbed Alaric, one hand on the back of his trousers, the other by the collar and ran him through the tavern doors, launching him face-first into the dirt street.

A moment later the Gorrum tossed Alaric’s pouch and a few curses at him. Alaric’s gear spilled out of the magical pouch.

As Alaric lay there, the taste of defeat and dirt mingling on his tongue, he heard footsteps approach him.

“That was a stupid move,” a voice remarked. “Trying to pay with a counterfeit coin in this town is a surefire way to draw unwanted attention.”

He pushed himself up and spat out a mixture of dirt and blood, a hand extended in front of Alaric. Reluctantly, he took it.

“You're Alaric, the Hero of IronKeep.”

Alaric dusted himself off, his pride stinging as much as his bruises.

“Yes, that's me,” he replied with a touch of bitterness. “Though it seems my heroic reputation isn't doing me any favours here.”

“I'm Elara.”

Alaric's gaze locked onto her, recognizing the enigmatic figure who had surreptitiously observed the tavern from the dim recesses of a corner. With sinewy muscles shaping her slender frame, she moved with a feline grace that belied her athletic prowess. Short, fiery red locks adorned her head like a crown, a testament to her untamed spirit, mirroring the flames that burned within her soul.

Clad in dark trousers that caressed her lithe curves and a light white tunic, she epitomized practicality intertwined with a subtle allure. A cloak cascaded over her shoulders, its hue blending seamlessly with the ever-shifting shades of the surroundings, veiling both secrets and intentions within its enigmatic folds. Her eyes, resembling smouldering embers, held a penetrating intelligence and a glimmer of intensity that hinted at profound depths. Every movement exuded a resolute purpose as if she carried the weight of unspoken burdens and an unwavering determination.

In the presence of Elara, time seemed to slow, and the air grew charged with electric anticipation. Her very being possessed an irresistible magnetism, drawing Alaric's attention and kindling a flicker of intrigue within his weary soul. Beneath her outward appearance, there lay concealed mysteries, akin to a hidden flame that illuminated the darkest of nights. Alaric found himself captivated, unable to resist the allure of the enigmatic young woman and the enigmas she held within her being.

“I think you might have a brain injury,” Elara said.

“What? No, I’m fine,” Alaric rubbed his nose, then started to collect his things.

“Where did you get those coins?” Elara put her foot on the handle of Alaric’s mace just as he was about to lift it.

“Who’s asking?” Alaric tried to lift his mace, but Elara applied more pressure on it, “I know who’s asking, I mean who’s asking? Who do you work for?”

“Lady Isabella of Ashbourne Keep,” Elara replied, taking her foot on the handle. He hooked the mace onto his back, securing it with the leather strap that ran across his chest.

“Let me guess, someone has been selling her land without her approval, and you’ve been sent to stop them?”

“Something like that,”

Alaric looked her up and down. “So, mage? assassin?”

“Annoyed.”

“Oh.”

“While the scholars are fretting over the authenticity of the Deed of Transfer, I’ve been trying to track down the source of the counterfeit coins. I was on my way to what I suspect is the artist responsible, when I decided to have a nice quiet meal. Then you showed up. Who are you working for? Or are you working out of self-interest?”

“I'm looking for Kethryll the Brushmaster,” Alaric stated, his voice tinged with urgency. “I have reason to believe he's caught up in all this.”

“So do I,” Elara nodded. “He has a studio nearby. You wouldn’t happen to know where it might be?”

“I know exactly where it is.” Alaric returned the last of his gear to his pouch and tied it to his belt. “Care to team up?”

Elara's eyes flickered with intrigue as she considered Alaric's words.

“It must be fate,” she responded, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her lips.

“Follow me.”