GM’d and posted by Jennifer
The elven craftsman shook his head as he dropped a small pouch of coins into Casidhe’s hand. “You know that you’re getting the worst of this deal, don’t you? You may find it very difficult to replace that sword in this town.”
Casidhe essayed a smile, hopefully a charming one. “I know, but a fellow’s got to eat.”
“Yes, but how do you plan to eat when that runs out, is what I’m wondering.”
“Something will turn up. Something always does.” He trotted lightly down the narrow gap between unpainted plank walls that a generous person might glorify by the title of “street”, heading for the only tavern in this shabby elven village. The stone walls of the Banncreag rose far overhead. Casidhe hadn’t managed to convince the guards to let him into the fortress proper, yet, but tomorrow was another day . . .
He slipped into the tavern and counted his coins surreptitiously, wondering if he dared splurge on a hot meal. Alveyin, the fortyish elven tavernkeeper, raised an eyebrow, but Casidhe waved him aside. The only other occupant of the tavern at this hour was a burly human fighter in plate armor who looked to be nursing a hangover.
“Last night, two more attacks! Four of my people, dead!” came an enraged bellow from just outside the main tavern door. Casidhe froze in his chair. He recognized that voice, and it was not one he wanted to hear. He began looking for a place to hide. The kitchen, maybe, but Alveyin might shout if he tried vaulting the bar . . .
“It is all very well to keep telling me about these attacks, Inbolc,” said a cultured voice, “but unless you plan to post the two of us as guards everywhere at once, we need more information. Not to mention a contract.” The man, whoever he was, had some iron in his spine to speak to the Awar chieftain that way. From what Casidhe remembered, Inbolc was huge and not shy about expressing his displeasure in a physical manner. The other man had a barely-perceptible Orlesian accent. What would an Orlesian be doing here, at the ass-end of nowhere?