Chapter 2 - The Elusive Dwarf

The group stayed in the cellar for a bit after Grunk and Rennik had left, letting some time pass for the heat upstairs to die down. 

“There’s some things from me shop I need to pick up before we leave,” Gok said. 

"Let’s stay out of trouble,” Pen said gravely. “The quicker we’re out of town, the better.”

“We’ll be in and out in no time,” Gok said. 

The rest of the party obliged, albeit testy. Hootalin split off and went for her cart, which she would bring over to the shop. 

They approached the street with the workshop low-key, avoiding any guards. Larnala peeked around the corner of a building and spotted a few guardsmen loitering near the door of the shop. He warned the others to stop and hold.

The main officer scribbled something on a piece of paper, which he affixed the note to the door and then left with the other guards. Waiting a few more moments, Hootalin told the others it was clear to move in.  They approached the door and looked at the message.

Missif of the constbulary of Taran. Cpl. Pigbreth, at the tyme of writin we were unable to find you. This evening, there was a bit of rowdines in the Last Last tavern, and eywitnssess claim that you and some friends of yours fogt with civileans. This cowst considerbel damages to the establisment of Mr. Padmos. Sinse it is cleer that you were the defending partee, we have tried to levie compensasion for the damages on the offending partee, but this yeelded very little monies. Mr. Padmos would be very pleesed if you could pay for the remainder of the incurd damages. Plees do so at your earliest conviniens. 

“What’s it say?” Ruffstrom said, craning his head.

“Why the hells did he put it so high?” asked Gok. “Police brutality,” he spat.  

Larnala read the message out loud. “If I understand this fellow’s attempt at writing correctly, It doesn’t seem like you’re in trouble.”

Pen tore the paper from the door, and dismissed it with a nonchalant crumple. “They can let those idiots do a few days of hard labour to pay for Mr. Padmos’ precious table.” 

“I got a spell that’ll mend it, sure. But I like yer idea better,” Gok said, slapping a hand on the door. “Need a minute. You lot stay out here.” He rushed inside without waiting for a reply.

“Maybe leave the door open,” Ruffstrom said. “Air it out.” 

While Gok was busy inside, Hootalin’s horse trudged onto the dimly lit square, her covered wagon in tow. 

“I made some more space inside. If Pen rides next to me and the rest of you go into the cart, it should all fit. And before you say anything, there’s currently nothing… illicit inside.”

______________________________________________________________________________________

The journey ahead would span more than half a day. To expedite their river crossing, they decided to take Rennik's advise and use the ferry rather than taking the longer route across a bridge. The first rays of a new dawn started hitting the solitary trees dotted around the rolling grasslands as the Daria river filled the horizon. The immensely wide river cut through the hill like a ribbon through silk.  

Arriving at the ferry mooring, they found a few other passengers waiting on the muddy river’s edge as well, all of them casting suspicious and annoyed looks at the group with their cart. 

“Yer planning to take that aboard?” said a stocky and sun-leathered halfling in a weathered oilskin vest. He sat on a few stacked crates on the jetty in front of the ferry. The ferry looked sturdy and capable of transporting a tavern full of people.

“We’ve got coin,” Pen said from the bench. 

The halfling gave a noncommittal shrug, scratching at his chest through a hole in his vest. “It’ll float, I reckon. Just don’t blame me if the planks groan like they’re dyin’.” 

“We’ll take our chances,” said Hootalin as she hopped off the cart, giving Cocaine a reassuring pat. 

“But we’re dealing with square feet here, and you’d be taking a lot of it,” the halfling said, while glancing at the sky. “Less space for travelers means less fare for me.” He wandered over to the cart with his palm raised as the group climbed out, stretching their limbs and letting out groans.  

Pen eyed the small group of waiting passengers and determined that they wouldn’t even fill up a fifth of the ferry's deck. He looked around to see if there would be any more people coming to hitch a ride, but they were the only ones there. He slowly produced one of the gold coins he'd gotten from Rennik, and held it a little too high for the halfling.  

“Like I said, we’ve got coin. Singular.”

“Fine,” the halfling said, jumping up with surprising dexterity to snatch the coin. He then reached for a whistle dangling from a rope on his hip and blew on it.

“Alright everyone, we’re taking off! Get aboard one by one!”

The party guided the cart aboard, ignoring the glances from the other passengers—who looked to be mostly peddlers and wanderers. Once everyone was aboard, and the ferryman gave the signal, they pushed off.

The river was placid at first, though the smell of stagnant reeds clung to the edges. The ferry creaked under the weight of cart, cargo and bodies, but made steady progress.

“I’ll never get used to boats,” Gok muttered, staring at the sluggish water, well away from the edge.

“You know, a dip in there could do you some good,” Pen said, leaning on the railing.

“Don’t ye dare,” Gok said, baring his pointed teeth. 

Larnala stood quietly at the back of the boat, arms folded as if deep in thought, while Hootalin and Ruffstrom sat at the cart. Every so often, while evading Ruffstrom’s questions, Hootalin turned her head, scanning the reeds on both sides of the river.

“What do you think that circle around Althena means? On the map,” Ruffstrom said coyly, glancing at Hootalin. The owlin’s impassive expression didn’t help. Hootalin was quietly filling up her pipe again, taking her sweet time mulling over the question.

“No clue,” she said after a while. 

“Come now, you’re from there. You got to be. There’s something going on there. Maybe it’s a treasure map…” Ruffstrom rattled on.

“I didn’t see an X,” Hootalin said, lighting the pipe. 

“Not all treasure maps have X’s. They can have circles too.”

“So you’d have to dig up all of Althena then?” 

“Well, why don’t you tell me your Althenan secrets so we can narrow it down?”

Before Hootalin could complete a dismissive eye-roll, a  sudden jolt knocked everyone slightly off balance. The ferry listed a few degrees to starboard.

“We hit something?” asked Ruffstrom.

The ferryman looked back, eyes narrowing. “Not unless the river’s grown teeth.”

Then came a second jolt, followed by a terrible groan of wood and the panicked whinnying of Cocaine. 

“What the hells was that?” yelled Gok, while Pen leaned over the railling to find out where the damage was done.

From the side of the ferry, a long splintering crack spiderwebbed outward. Water began to gurgle in. Pen jumped back.

“Leak!” cried the ferryman. “Everyone to the other side!”

“Hold up,” said Gok, a sudden determined expression on his face. He pushed a passenger aside. “I got it.”

He knelt by the breach, muttering under his breath, and laid his palm against the torn wood. Glimmering silver threadwork briefly danced across his gauntlet as the crack began to close. The mending spell did its work, slowly knitting the broken slats together.

Larnala grabbed Pen’s shoulder. “We have to shift the cart!” He jabbed a thumb at it. “Balance it!”

The group and some of the other passengers pulled the wagon to the higher side of the deck, while Hootalin guided the horse. The cart groaned, the floor planks flexing, but it stabilized.

The ferry rocked once more, then steadied.

“Almost there…” Gok hissed through gritted teeth.

The last threads of magic sealed the gap. Gok pulled his hand away with a huff. “Fixed.” His grin was short-lived as he then realised he’d been half submerged. 

Some cheers went up from around the boat. The ferryman came over to clap him on the shoulder. “Glad I took you aboard.” But Gok was distracted: from the reeds they’d left behind, a shape moved. A figure in dark clothes retreating into the underbrush.

A cry interrupted them. One of the passengers—a pale young man with a weak chin—had fallen into the river and was flailing wildly. The slow current took him away from the boat. 

“Help!” he sputtered, arms flapping. “I can’t—!”

Hootalin grabbed a coil of rope from the cart, handed one end to Pen and flapped into the air. “Got coin?” she asked, hovering near him. 

The young man coughed and thrashed. “Wha…” Yes! Help—!”

Hootalin threw him the rope, which he gripped. “Reel him in, Pen,” she yelled, flying back. 

“We’re getting paid for this rescue,” Hootalin said, hitting the deck of the boat as Pen Ding just about yanked the lad in with a powerful pull. The lad lay panting on his back at the edge of the boat, and opened his eyes to see Pen, Ruffstrom and Hootalin standing over him. Hootalin lowered her head and gave him a piercing, inquiring stare. 

It took a while before he understood the expression. His quivering hand reached into a pocket, and he produced 2 silver coins. 

“Your life's only worth two silver pieces? And so slow to offer it up too?” Ruffstrom put his foot against the lad’s side, and kicked him back into the water.  

“Darkridge!” barked Gok.

“He’ll float. Kid needs a lesson in bartering.”

A moment later, the lad bobbed back up, gasping and spitting water. The group hauled him aboard again—and this time he had 5 silver to spare.

“See,” Ruffstrom said triumphantly as Pen grabbed the coins. Behind them, the others looked at the sight with disapproval. 

The ferry reached the far bank, with some of the passengers not even waiting until the boat was properly moored. 

“Next time,” Gok muttered, wringin’ out his sleeves, “we’re takin’ the damn bridge. And we were bein’ watched.” He pointed toward the far bank. “Someone was hidin’ in the bushes. Didn’t catch a face, but I saw ’em plain as day soon as I patched the boat.”

“Waiting for us to sink, no doubt,” Larnala said. 

“Let’s find them,” Ruffstrom said, cracking his knuckles.

“No time,” Pen growled. “We get to Aurorhaven. We’ll deal with shadows later.” He looked around at the halfling inspecting the side of the boat. “A refund first, I think.” The others agreed.

“No refunds,” the ferryman said immediately as the party approached him.

“We almost drowned,” Pen replied flatly.

“Almost doesn’t mean did,” the ferryman said, puffing out his chest. “Look, I appreciate your help, but these things happen from time to time.” He laid a reassuring hand on the side of the vessel. “A mere scratch as what happened there is not enough to scupper her.” 

“We were bloody sinking before I stepped in,” Gok said.

Ruffstrom stepped forward, smiling like a man about to make a generous donation, except in reverse. “Now listen, friend. It’s a matter of principle. You see, we boarded this ferry under the impression it would remain above water.”

“It did!”

“Barely,” Hootalin added. “I’d say we provided a free rescue service to your other passengers. Seems only fair we get compensated for that.”

The halfling, still blustering, found his voice faltering under the party’s increasingly persuasive arguments—especially when Pen leaned over him and Gok casually started fiddling with his gauntlet. Eventually, with a sigh that carried years of regret, the halfling reached into his belt pouch and produced a few coins.

“Here,” he muttered, holding out the fare. “And... a little extra. For the trouble.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard,” said Ruffstrom, counting the silver.

Some passengers lingered. A woman even thanked them. Another offered them a piece of smoked fish. They declined.

With their coffers a few coins heavier and their image as (un)loveable rogues once more reinforced, the group rolled out the cart, ready to continue their journey. 

Hootalin lingered behind a moment and looked back across the river, squinting toward the reeds. “Give me a minute,” she told the others. 

She flapped off across the river in a low arc, vanishing into the misty banks. She returned shortly after, wings twitching.

“Nothing,” she said. “Whoever it was, they’re gone.”

“We’ll keep our eyes peeled,” Pen said, adjusting the straps on his gear. 

______________________________________________________________________________________

They pressed on, reaching the outskirts of Aurorhaven as the sun clawed its way toward its zenith. The city loomed like a great stone leviathan rising from the riverbed, all towers, bridges, and proud banners. They made their way toward the Bravian Assembly, a sprawling block of bricks with square towers making up the corners. It stood firm as the river seemed to have changed course slightly over the centuries. The walls on the riverside of the building disappeared into the water.

Before converging there, the group split to pursue their own threads.

Pen ducked into a twisting alley where the buildings leaned in like eavesdropping conspirators. He knocked on a faded red door, the kind that only opened with the right words. The slot slid open, revealing a glimmer of eyes.

“Password?” came the gravelly voice.

Pen replied with a phrase from years past.

“Fuck off,” came the response.

He tried something else: a phrase his protege Quentin used to toss around when they were still neck-deep in the smuggling routes out of Aria.

That one worked. The slit closed. A few seconds later, the door groaned open.

The safehouse hadn’t changed much. Same smell of damp wood and old boots. The man inside looked Pen over, sniffed once, and stepped aside. “That wasn’t the password,” he said.

“But who else but a good friend of Quentin would know that one?,” Pen replied. The man gave an approving humph. 

The man filled him in. Quentin had moved up on the criminal ladder. He was boss now. Owned this place. Owned a dozen like it. Apparently, he even paid taxes.

Pen was offered a health potion from a dusty shelf and got told the city was heating up. Mercs everywhere. High-ranking ones too. And the Assembly had grown twitchy.

______________________________________________________________________________________

Larnala, in contrast, had simpler ambitions: beer. He found a tavern Pen had vouched for and slouched into a seat where he could keep his back to the wall and his ears open.

Most of the clientele wore leather in varying stages of decay. At the next table, a cluster of mercenaries hunched over mugs—a rowdy bunch whose laughter rolled like loose barrels and drowned out half the room. They wore the insignia of the Company of the Broach: gaudy brass pins shaped like broken wagon wheels. They lacked subtlety. And sobriety. Two things Larnala counted on.

He listened. The talk bounced from raunchy jokes to gambling  to the goings-on around town.

“I still say lettin’ that silver lizard have run of the Assembly’s a mistake,” one grumbled. “Place is supposed to belong to all the companies.”

“Still does,” another replied. “She just gets the keys to the doors. Assembly’s busier than I’ve ever seen it. Half the captains in the damn region are sniffin’ around. Something’s brewing.”

When the chatter started drifting back to more mundane things, Larnala stood, picked up his mug, and sauntered over.

“I’m looking for work,” he said, easy and smooth. “You lot seem like professionals. The kind I wouldn’t mind bleeding beside.”

A few of them turned. One squinted. “You’re cutting into our drinking time, drow. Go see our recruiter on Dolheller Road.”

Larnala glanced at the bar. “A round of ale for your table. My coin.”

The mood shifted. One of them gave a nod. “Well, now you’re speakin’ the right language.”

A bald human mercenary with bristly moustache pulled over a stool with a boot heel and made room. “Come on then, long-ears. Let’s see if you’re any good at toasts.”

The drinks arrived, and Larnala raised his mug. “To the mercenary life,” he said.

“Short jobs and long pay,” one replied. The mugs clinked.

“It feels as if the city is on the brink of something,” Larnala said after a sip. “You hear about the break-in at the Assembly?”

One of the Broach leaned in, elbow on the table. “Word is someone got caught sneakin’ around where they shouldn’t’ve been. They’re still holdin’ ‘em, from what I hear.”

Larnala’s tone stayed casual. “Who?”

“Dwarf, they say.” The man shrugged. “No name, no ensign.”

“They’ll get what they want outta 'em,” another said, cracking his knuckles. “Then—” He dramatically mimed a snap across the neck. The others snorted.

Larnala chuckled with them. Drained his mug. Left a few coins on the table and slipped out without a fuss.

They hadn’t said the name. But they didn’t have to.

______________________________________________________________________________________

Hootalin and Gok stood across the square from the Bastion, eyeing the granite monstrosity from the shadow of a tobacconist’s stall. The prison sat squat and immovable, like it had muscled the other buildings out of the way. Guards patrolled the parapets. Down below, two goblins were being bodily hauled through the front gate by city watchmen.

“If they got her in there, we can forget it,” Gok said, arms crossed and scowling. “That place looks like it eats folks an’ spits out the bones.”

"Normally, I would agree," Hootalin said. "However, you're not the only one that knows magic." 

She put her feathered hands together, and whispered words that sounded like gibberish to Gok. Then, she vanished in an instant. Gok blinked. Reached out a hand. “Wha—” His fingers touched Hootalin.

“That’s incredible. And concernin'...”

"I'm going to fly up there, see if there's a way in from there."

"Aight, and I has a plan too. See how they're haulin' me brethren in there? Seems like discrimination to me. I'm going to demand to see if they're being threated right, for I'm a representative of the Goblin Rights Coalition." He winked at Hootalin's last known location. "Hello?" He held out his hand again, feeling nothing this time. "Agh." He set out for the front gate. 

“I’m here on official business,” Gok announced. “Inspector from the Goblin Rights Coalition. Just doin’ me due diligence.”

The two halberd-wielding guards didn’t even blink as he introduced himself. One snorted, spat, and the other looked at him amused. 

"I best give the inspector a tour, Berric, we don't want to get into trouble with the folks over at the Goblin Rights Coalition now do we?" 

Berric shrugged. His colleague continued: "Hold the fort for a second will ya?". He opened a smaller door inside the large, iron-banded gate, and waved Gok over. "Right this way, sir."

Even Gok admitted that the prison reeked—sweat and mold permeated the air. Most cells were empty, but Gok could her high pitched wailing coming from around a corner. They passed the city guardsmen as they entered the corridor with a cell filled with goblins in various states of hangover and apathy. Making sure to take in every detail, he started to get feeling the guards were too relaxed, even bored. 

"Now, tell me inspector, does this hold up to your lofty standards?" the guardsman said, leaning on his halberd. 

A bony, green-tinted hand reached out between the bars. "More Ale," a goblin prisoner groaned.

Gok turned toward the sound of the earlier howling. At the far end of the hall, a goblin in rags stood barefoot in his cell, facing the back wall. Without warning, he let out a piercing shriek, flinging his head skyward like he was trying to scream his way through the ceiling.

"Right," Gok said, "this is what I'm talking about."—He nodded at the screaming prisoner—"That’s trauma, that is. He's been clearly mistreated," he said as he strolled towards the cell, his guard guide in tow. 

“Oi, Gob. What’s ailin’ ya?” Gok asked in the Common language.

The goblin turned towards him slowly. His eyes were wild, his grin even wilder. 

“Welcome to heeeellllll,” he sang, then followed it up with a gurgling, throat-wobbling laugh.

Gok glanced at the guard. “What’s his deal?”

“I think the torture finally broke him,” the guard said, scratching his chin.

"Eh..."

The prisoner spun in a full circle, arms raised like he was on stage. “They’re kiiiiiilliiiiiin’ us in here!” he howled.

Gok froze. “That true?” His gauntlet hand flexed.

"Oh, yeah. I lost count how many we've done in this week." He grabbed his halberd with two hands, and held it sideways across his waist. "We either stomp their heads or chop it off and kick it around. Keeps morale up." 

Another laugh boomed from the cell. For such a little creature, he could make quite the noise. 

"Ah, well. I think I've seen enough." Gok took a careful step back. "Everything is in order here, I'll be on me way now."

"Are you sure you don't want to see the torture chambers?"

"No need," Gok said."Don’t wanna clog me schedule." He made a brisk exit. This prison seemed to be exclusively used for drunken or insane goblins, not dwarven criminals.  

He walked back to the tobacconists stall, expecting Hootalin to be there topping up her dwindling supply of pipe fuel. He sat down on the sidewalk when he couldn't find her. Come on, damn owl, the dwarf aint in there.

Suddenly, a hefty metal key dropped in his lap, followed by the sudden appearance of Hootalin right beside him. 

“Got somethin’ shiny for ya.”

"Shittin' saints, that invisiblity business is gonna be a headache." Gok held up the key. "What we have here then?"

"Lifted it from one of the guards up top. I think it opens some of the stairwell doors, but perhaps it opens other doors too."

"Ye didn't go 'n check?"

"Didn't want to chance it. Doors opening on their own are always suspicious. I say we meet up with the others back at the Assembly and see what they found out."

______________________________________________________________________________________

New town, so I'll treat myself, Ruffstrom thought, as he strolled through the cobbled back alleys of Aurorhaven with a whistle on his lips and coin burning a hole in his pocket—or so was the sensation he experienced. He found his way to a poky little weapons shop tucked between a chimney sweep and a vendor selling pickled eels. The shop’s sign was a faded plank that simply read “WEAPONS,”. Ruffstrom appreciated the simple but effective advertisement. 

Inside, a gnome with one boot on the counter peered at Ruffstrom as he entered the shop. No wall or shelf was left unclaimed in this confined boutique of armements. The bladed weapons seemed well made, albeit too brutish looking for Ruffstrom. He half lifted a short sword from a rack, paused, and looked at the gnome, who regarded him silently. Behind the counter, Ruffstrom spotted a collection of hand crossbows mounted to a swiveling rack, each pointed straight into the shop. At him, specifically.

“What can I get ya?” the gnome asked in a raspy voice. 

Ruffstrom put the sword back and folded his arms. “I’m looking for something elegant. Deadly. A weapon that suits a gentleman of wit and distinction.”

“Try the next shop over,” the gnome muttered.

"My friend, great misfortune will beset us all if I'm forced to wield a subpar blade. Now, your fine establishment, though humble, holds a fine collection of instruments. We gnomes, after all, have a nose for quality.” He tapped his own.

"Maybe I got something here for ya," the shopkeep sighed. He dragged out a wooden box from behind him, set it on the counter, and slid open the top. Inside was a slim rapier with a slightly curved guard.

“Had a noble's crest on it once. Filed it off,” he said gruffly.

“I’ll take it,” Ruffstrom said with a grin, "and this dagger," he said, as he grabbed a bare dagger from a shelf as if it was his rightful due.

“For twenty-eight gold, it’s yours,” the gnome replied, deadpan. “Minus the box.”

Ruffstrom raised an eyebrow. “That seems... negotiable. Allow me to explain why I think—”

“This ain’t the fish market,” the gnome cut in. “Twenty-eight gold is the price. Can’t pay it, put the dagger back and quietly exit my shop.”

"My kinsman, do you not recognize me?" Ruffstrom said, opening his arms.

"Wha—?"

"I'm Ruffstrom Darkridge, of course. Faces can be tricky, I know. We all look so alike after all," Ruffstrom laughed. 

The shopkeep stood perfectly still for a moment, his eyes two narrow slits as he stared intensely at Ruffstrom. Then they burst open.

"By Morgrum, I—I—," he stammered. 

"Don’t sweat it, Tell you what. Ten gold for the lot. And as a personal favor, I’ll do you one better—I’ll tell everyone about your shop. The very best must-have weapon for a Bravian sellsword here in the big city.” He made a graceful half-circle gesture through the air as if conjuring headlines.

The gnome finally cracked a smile. “Ten gold it is. And I’ll throw in the box.”

He packed the weapons neatly and slid the bundle across the counter.

“The Spark and Steel,” he added.

“Hm?” Ruffstrom replied absently, counting coins.

“The name of this shop.”

“Right,” Ruffstrom nodded and handed him the coins. “I’ll remember that.”

He did not.

______________________________________________________________________________________

By noon, they regrouped outside the Assembly. The plaza before the red-bricked edifice was busy with market stalls, their awnings flapping in the wind. A large fountain gurgled at the eastern edge, while the side adjacent to the river was cut in half by chains going across the plaza, marking the line between public commerce and official business.

Guards in polished breastplates armed with halberds policed the market, or stood on guard at various locations by the Assembly, faces locked in indifference.

Pen arrived first, and saw that Grunk and Rennik were already there, leaning against a wall on the edge of the plaza. Grunk’s eyes scanned the main entrance, while Rennik pretended to tie a bootlace, murmuring under his breath as Pen approached. 

“Well,” Rennik said, straightening, “our girl’s most likely in there.”

“She being questioned?” Pen asked.

Grunk shrugged. “If she ain’t yet, she will be.”

They waited for the rest. Larnala found them first, and not long after that Hootalin landed without a sound beside a marble planter, her cloak fluttering like a second pair of wings. A moment later, Gok stomped towards them with a tired scowl.

Gok and Hootalin shared what they’d discovered about the Bastion prison—namely, what they hadn’t.

"Doesn't sound like she's being held there,” Rennik said. “Still in the Assembly, then.”

The group eventually spotted Ruffstrom perusing some market stalls, his new rapier dangling from his hip. Hootalin darted over to fetch him. 

Once all together, Hootalin didn’t wait for further speculation. "I'm going to scout around." She soared upward, hard to spot by all but the birds. The rest watched her go, pretending to be tourists as she glided past upper windows like a drifting shadow.

A wide inner courtyard hollowed out much of the building’s true footprint. Through some of the windows, she spotted a long hall lined with oak and suits of armor, an archive room stacked with scrolls and volumes. Oddly enough, a clerk was sweeping some of these into a pile in the corner. Empty corridors. Dusty offices. No cells. No Mara. 

Pen, meanwhile, paced. Ruffstrom leaned on a bench with Gok.

“I don’t see a good way in,” Pen muttered. “Not without raising alarms.”

"Oh, there are plenty of ways in," Larnala said coolly. "This is an oversized manor, not a defensive castle." He surreptitiously pointed at the roof and the windows of the corner towers. "If one makes it up there, it's child play. Approaching from the river is probably our best bet."

Pen was about to reply when Gok held up a finger, eyes squinting toward a guard posted near the north gate. The goblin muttered a curse, then chuckled, and began strolling over like a man bumping into an old drinking buddy.

“Well, if it ain’t Zander Flint,” Gok said.

The heavy set guard blinked. “Corporal Pigbreath?”

The guard had a thick, red sash tied around his waist.

“You still breakin’ everything I fix?” Gok ribbed the man, who grinned at him.

“No, no. Armor’s still holding together. Thanks for that, by the way.”

Several other guards loitered nearby, some idly watching Gok’s approach. Two were armed with harquebuses—clunky, iron-barreled firearms that had become increasingly common among Bravian forces.

“Drinks tonight?” Gok offered. "Wanna talk to you about some things."

Zander hesitated, glancing at his fellows. Then he gave a nod. “Sure. I get off just before dusk. Try The Second Barrel—south side, near the dyer’s quarter.”

Gok casually strode back to the others. "We got us a way in," he whispered. 

______________________________________________________________________________________