With a chilling breeze of the morning, Guto and Frøya start going to the city.
Guto and Frøya navigated the maze of alleyways and thoroughfares, their destination clear in their minds, their old house, the one they had abandoned when they left the city.
They approached the narrow street where their former home stood.
"We'll only be here for a short while, Guto. Just long enough to retrieve our old clothes and blend in with the city's residents."
Guto nodded. They couldn't afford to stay in the city for too long, not with Throel's men on Guto's trail. He followed Frøya up the creaky wooden steps and to the door, which swung open with a protesting groan.
Inside, dust motes danced in the filtered sunlight that streamed through the cracked windows. Cobwebs hung in forgotten corners. Guto and Frøya moved with purpose, seeking out their old clothes in the bedroom.
Frøya's fingers brushed against a faded fabric, and she pulled out a their clothes. "These should do," she murmured, holding it up for Guto to see.
Guto inspected the clothes it was his old cape and mask. "Oh, I remember this." he said. "That should help you stay out of any bounty hunters sight." She responded.
After gathering their old garments, they changed into it and left the house.
***
The raucous sounds of the city's pub enveloped Guto and Frøya as they stepped inside. The dimly lit establishment was filled with a motley crew of patrons, their voices raised in laughter and conversation. It was a lively scene.
Guto and Frøya made their way to an empty table in the corner, where they could observe the pub's antics. The centerpiece of the commotion was a burly man with bulging muscles, challenging anyone brave enough to face him in an arm-wrestling competition for a handful of coins.
As Guto watched the man flex his biceps and boast about his strength, an idea began to form. Perhaps this braggart would be their ticket to information about the mysterious flasks they had found on the train.
Guto leaned over to Frøya and whispered, "I've got an idea. We'll challenge him to an arm-wrestling match and ask him about the flasks. What do you think?"
Frøya's eyes sparkled with amusement, and she nodded in agreement. "Sounds like a plan. But don't get too carried away."
Guto approached the boastful man, who looked down at him with a cocky grin. "You there!" Guto called out. "I'll take you up on that arm-wrestling challenge."
The man's expression shifted from arrogance to amusement. "You? Hahaha you're just a scrawny fellow. Sure, I'll humor you."
The crowd around them gathered eagerly, anticipating an easy victory for the muscular man. The rules were explained, and the contest began. Guto's arm trembled under the force of his opponent's strength, and he struggled to hold his own. The spectators roared with laughter as they watched him struggle.
After a tense few moments, Guto's arm was forced down, and the burly man declared himself the victor. The crowd cheered, and Guto grinned sheepishly, seemingly defeated.
But then Frøya stepped forward, a mischievous glint in her eye. "May I try?" she asked innocently.
The man, still brimming with confidence, agreed, thinking it would be an easy win. The crowd's laughter continued as Frøya positioned her arm on the table, opposite the man's massive appendage.
As the match began, a hush fell over the pub. Frøya's face remained calm, her fingers gently grasping the man's hand. But when the signal was given, her arm moved with lightning speed. The man's eyes widened in shock as he struggled against her formidable strength.
To the astonishment of everyone present, Frøya's arm began to push the man's hand down. His futile efforts to resist her were met with laughter and cheers from the onlookers. With a final triumphant push, she slammed his hand onto the table.
The pub erupted in laughter and applause, and the defeated man stared at his arm in disbelief. Frøya graciously accepted her winnings and turned to Guto with a sly smile.
Guto couldn't help but chuckle behind his mask. Frøya shrugged. "Sometimes it pays to be underestimated."
As the pub's crowd erupted in laughter and applause, the defeated man stared at his arm in disbelief. Frøya, with her sly smile, graciously accepted her winnings from the good-natured onlookers.
With the coins in her hand, the man, his ego slightly bruised, offered them with a sheepish grin. "Well, you earned these fair and square. I've never met someone with such strength in such a petite frame. Impressive!"
Frøya waved off the coins, her smile softening. "Thank you, but I have something else in mind." She reached under her robes and retrieved a small, nondescript flask. Its contents remained a mystery to them both.
The man's curiosity piqued as he examined the flask. "What's this? Another challenge?"
Frøya shook her head. "No, we're looking for information about this flask. It's important to us."
The man furrowed his brow, genuinely puzzled. "I can't say I know much about flasks, but I do have a friend who's into all sorts of oddities. He might know something. Here, let me write down an address for you."
He tore a piece of paper from a nearby napkin and scribbled down the address of his friend's residence. "Tell him I sent you. His name's Hector. If anyone can help, it's him."
Frøya accepted the piece of paper with a nod of gratitude. "Thank you," she said sincerely.
***
A mysterious figure in a dimly lit room. Cloaked in shadows, the figure's voice dripped with anticipation. "Finally, looks like Dyskólios was not lying after all. You took your time, Amber."