As Argon and Brolan trudged through the filth-strewn lanes of the slums, they engaged in coarse conversation, harsh words echoing off the close-set, crumbling buildings around them.
"Charles suggested we consider working for some pampered Seric noble," Argon grumbled, the disdain clear in his voice. "Could make our lives easier."
Brolan bristled at the thought, a deep frown furrowing his brow. "Work for a noble? I'd sooner kiss a Trolls's ass."
"Is that what you did before you became my personal cook and pack mule?" Argon retorted, a nasty grin spreading across his face. "Don't tell me, you were a gigolo, weren't you?"
Brolan's face flushed, his fists clenched tight. "Fuck off! That's none of your damn business! I'm just another slum rat"
Argon laughed at his expense, relishing Brolan's outrage. "You're right, Brolan, I don't give a shit about your past. Right now, all I want to do is kick back and relax. We've been up to our necks in shit for too long. Time to enjoy the spoils."
The rough laughter had subsided into a lingering silence when Brolan posed an unexpected question, "What do you even do to relax, Argon?"
Argon caught off guard, took a moment to consider it. "Relax?" He repeated, a spark of anticipation flickering in his eyes. "Well, I can think of plenty of ways."
A crooked smile twisted Brolan's face, intrigued by the mischievous glint in Argon's eyes. "Like what?"
"Like... going to a good tavern. Drinking until the world spins. Listening to some half-decent bard blaring out ballads," Argon began, his voice distant as he imagined the scene.
"And then?" Brolan prompted, his interest piqued.
"And then," Argon continued, his grin growing wider, "We stumble our way to a brothel. Find ourselves some company for the night."
Brolan's eyes widened at that, a flush of excitement colouring his cheeks. "Now that's a plan I can get behind, especially the brothel part."
It seemed that for all their bickering, there were some things the two men could agree on wholeheartedly.
Resolving to follow Argon's plan, the pair swiftly navigated their way out of the slums, their armour glinting menacingly under the high sun.
As they made their way through the narrow, filth-laden streets, a ragged-looking man detached himself from the shadows, drifting uncomfortably close to Argon. His clothes, little more than tattered scraps of fabric, hung loosely off his bony frame. His unwashed hair was a dishevelled mess, falling in matted locks around a face that was sunken and streaked with grime. His eyes, vacant and hollow, seemed devoid of any spark, reflecting the harsh reality of a life spent in the underbelly of the city.
Without missing a beat, Brolan stepped in, his bulky frame acting as a formidable barrier between Argon and the vagabond. With a swift, well-placed shove, he sent the man stumbling backwards.
"Move, you disgusting fuck!" Brolan barked, his hand moving instinctively to the hilt of his short sword that was fastened to his side. The threat was clear, and his voice echoed ominously in the narrow alley.
The vagabond, wide-eyed with terror, had no intentions of causing any further trouble. His feet scrambled over the uneven ground as he scuttled away, disappearing into the labyrinth of alleyways from which he had emerged. With a last terrified glance over his shoulder, the man was gone, leaving Argon and Brolan once again to their own devices.
Chuckling from their encounter with the vagabond, Argon teased, "Well, if I knew all it took was the promise of a drink and a woman, I would've taken you sooner. You've become quite the impenetrable barrier!"
Brolan laughed heartily, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he responded, "Well, of course, master. There's nothing quite like a good drink and a warm woman to bring out a man's loyalty!"
With spirits high, they confidently strode towards the bustling merchant area. Even the gate guards, usually stern and indifferent, seemed to shrink back at the sight of Argon's intimidating black helmet, a stark contrast against the bright sunlight.
Once inside, they were met with a variety of sights and sounds. Vendors were haggling, goods were being displayed, and amidst all this, there were a number of taverns vying for the attention of the passersby.
There was the "Salty Wench," an older establishment with an atmosphere of seasoned wood and worn-out stone. It gave off an aura of stories shared over countless tankards of ale. A little further down the street was the "Laughing Griffin," a newer place with a gleaming sign. It boasted modern comforts and expensive drinks. And nestled between them was the "Twisted Boar," a charming tavern with a rustic exterior and inviting warmth emanating from within.
Surveying their choices, they opted for the "Twisted Boar," its inviting aura promising a warm and comfortable environment. It seemed like the perfect place to relax after their recent strenuous endeavours. They walked in, ready to lose themselves in the promise of hearty ale and good company.
As Argon and Brolan stepped into the Twisted Boar, they were greeted by the sights, sounds, and smells of a bustling tavern. Patrons filled the space, their animated conversations creating a symphony of chatter, laughter, and occasional argument. The walls were adorned with a variety of trinkets and memorabilia, each piece carrying its own history.
In one corner, a group of rough-looking mercenaries was sharing war stories, their faces rough with grizzled beards and marked with scars. At the counter, a couple of well-dressed merchants were engaged in a hushed conversation, their eyes frequently darting over to a pile of contracts and scrolls spread out between them.
A vivacious barmaid with chestnut hair tied back in a loose braid quickly approached them. "Hello, sirs. May I lead you to your table?" the barmaid asked, her bright smile unwavering under the cold stare of Argon's black helmet.
"That one, in the corner," Argon responded curtly, his gloved finger pointing towards a secluded spot that offered a panoramic view of the room.
"Ah, of course, sir," she stammered, a blush rising to her cheeks. "My apologies, I should've asked. Please follow me."
Once they settled in, she unfurled a small parchment displaying the day's selection of rice wines. "We have a nice variety today, sirs. The Seaside Harvest is light and refreshing, perfect for a hot day. The Mountain Dew is a bit stronger, full-bodied with an earthy tone. And of course, we have our Golden Pearl—expensive, but worth every coin, offering a bouquet of subtle flavors that dance on the tongue."
Argon perused the list, his finger tracing along the parchment. He paused at the mention of the Golden Pearl, the allure of luxury briefly tempting him. However, the practicality within him kicked in, and he finally settled for the Mountain Dew and a hot meal.
"The Mountain Dew it is then. Some food a solid choice, sir. I'll bring it right away," she said before scurrying away towards the counter.