On this night, as Jorgen descended the Blood Crow Inn's first floor, many conversations and meals temporarily halted in the room. Eyes turned toward him, mostly cautious and curious gazes. He turned and took a seat at the bar, ordering a main course and a glass of moonlight wine. The previously cooled bustling atmosphere gradually regained its liveliness.
Though he had only been here for two days, it seemed his identity was no longer much of a secret among the townspeople. The more isolated the town, the more likely residents were to share common interests. Jorgen couldn't help but remember what Althea had said about "Darkshire having nothing to do with Stormwind's regulations." Now he realized there was some truth in that statement. Whether it was in Stormwind, Goldshire, Booty Bay, or even Western Plaguelands, he could sense the clash of diverse lifestyles, the constant struggle for what they each needed. But these townsfolk, shrouded in their perpetual mist, seemed to have a remarkably synchronized pace of life. Maybe it was due to the lack of activities in a place that often remained in darkness, where people struggled to find ways to fill their time. Or perhaps the blurred concept of day and night made them like rodents in a burrow, unconcerned with the distinction between "tomorrow" and "today."
After a short while, a young woman sat down next to Jorgen. "Well, well, a MI7 agent who doesn't know the proper way to enjoy moonlight wine? That's not what I expected."
Turning his head, Jorgen noticed the woman was trying her best to present a natural-looking, pleasing smile. When their gazes met, she seemed momentarily shaken, involuntarily blinking her eyes. Still, she maintained the posture of her cheek supported by the back of her hand, skillfully showcasing the curve where her neck met her collarbone. Most Darkshire residents chose conservative clothing colors like brown or olive green, but she was dressed in a striking crimson dress.
"I'm not a connoisseur of spirits," Jorgen remarked.
The woman chuckled a few times, as if this were some sort of joke worth contemplating. "I could teach you, so you'd know how the 'Moonlight' got its name. Would you be willing to buy me a drink so I can demonstrate?"
"No, that's not my intention. Go back to wherever you came from."
"Hey, no need to be so rude, right? Or do you prefer things slow?"
"Leave, now."
The woman understood that Jorgen was serious. Her brow twitched slightly, but she still tried to maintain a composed expression as she bid a "goodbye" and left.
"Master Jorgen, forgive me if I'm meddling," the innkeeper, using a white cloth to polish glasses, walked over from the other end of the counter and said, "but luckily you drove her away. Getting entangled with that girl would have been troublesome."
"What's that all about?"
"Well, she's always trying to flirt with out-of-town guests, especially those with distinguished backgrounds like yours, and then getting someone to take her away. But it never goes beyond that second step; she's never been successful. This time she dared to approach a MI7 officer, so her audacity is quite something. But don't get the wrong idea. The girls in our town are all good and honest girls. None of them are like her anymore. An officer from MI7 must be strict and disciplined, how could you fall for her tricks? It's obvious without even thinking."
Not necessarily, because you've never met Field Agent Elin, Jorgen thought. The innkeeper's words prompted him to glance back; the woman in red was now sitting alone at a round table, with other patrons keeping their distance. Amid the somber tones of attire assembled from dull colors, her vibrant red stood out oddly. If she simply wished to leave a place like this, there was nothing to blame her for. Unexpectedly, he thought of another woman surviving in the darkest of places. Her concerns weren't about leaving, but rather about holding onto what she already had.
"Send a drink to her table for me," Jorgen said to the innkeeper. "Don't tell her who it's from."
It was a technique Elin used to insistently talk about—send an anonymous drink, observe the reaction, then decide whether to reveal one's identity. But Jorgen intended only the first step. As he saw the server place the drink on the woman's table, she looked up with a hint of surprise, prompting Jorgen to turn away immediately. He realized it was a clumsy move, the kind that Elin could tease him about for at least half an hour. Perhaps it was an awkward, even somewhat insincere apology that might appear hypocritical to others, but he wasn't sure how to do it any better.
To clear these unnecessary thoughts from his mind, he decided to inquire with the innkeeper.
"Have you heard of someone named Abercrombie?"
"Of course, there's no one in this town who doesn't know him. He hasn't done something wrong, has he?"
"I heard he's studying alchemy."
"That's just what he says. Who knows what kind of weird stuff he's really messing around with. But I guess it's related to his wife who hasn't left the house for a year."
"She hasn't left the house?"
"Right, nobody's seen that woman named Eliza outside her house for a whole year. I'm not trying to be disrespectful, but maybe she's already died inside there. Nobody really has the spare time to worry about that. She's probably still alive, though, because I haven't smelled anything foul around his house, hahaha…" The innkeeper quickly realized that this wasn't much of a tasteful joke, so he stopped laughing.
Jorgen recalled that when the carriage passed by Abercrombie earlier in the day, he did hear him mutter something about "for my wife."
"Is she seriously ill?"
"They've been married for forty years, and her heart's been problematic all along. I don't really know how serious it is, but rumor has it that Abby spent his fortune trying to cure her, even selling his membership in the Alchemy Society. But not a single doctor could diagnose her. Speaking of which, you can't avoid mentioning Lord Gondore's kind heart. Not long after he formed the Night Watch, he hired Eliza as a maid to do some simple chores, paying her fifty silver coins a month. Abby hardly works. If it wasn't for the money Eliza earned, they would have starved to death long ago. A year ago, when they were about to clash with those bandits, Lord Gondore, considering it unsafe for Eliza to be with him, sent her home to rest but continued paying her salary. Even though his own wife was in an uncertain state, he still cared about a person of such low status by his side... Lord Gondore is truly admirable. It's just a pity..."
The innkeeper realized he was venturing into sensitive territory and stopped himself. One of his phrases piqued Jorgen's interest.
"You mentioned Lord Gondore's wife from a year ago. What happened to her?" He remembered that name: Morticia, the absentee at the Abercrombie family dinner.
"Ah, it's really quite distressing to talk about. Lady Morticia, despite her young beauty, had lost her eyesight and her origins were unclear. I might be saying something impolite, but perhaps Lord Gondore couldn't help but marry her out of compassion for the poor and unfortunate. Just before that great battle, Lady Morticia went out with some servants to gather herbs outside the town. She got lost on the way and was captured by a gang of bandits. If not for her eyesight issue, it might not have ended that way. Even though Joseph eventually managed to rescue her after the battle, by that time Lord Gondore had already passed, and they didn't even have a final meeting."
What Jorgen knew was that the council arrested Gondore on charges of organizing an illegal militia and detained him in the town's jail, awaiting his return to Stormwind for trial. Using his own prisoner's garments as a makeshift rope, Gondore had hung himself from the bars of the skylight.
"You must admire him a lot," Jorgen said, "I see you've got a portrait of Gondore hanging here."
"I'll tell you, Lord Jorgen. My second son is about to be born. As soon as he's old enough, I'm going to tell him the story of Lord Gondore to educate him, to teach him what kindness and manliness mean. And when I have grandchildren, I plan to do the same. There are many in town who are willing to do this."
The townspeople's admiration for Gondore was evident, yet they seemed to casually overlook the abnormal circumstances of his death. Jorgen thought that perhaps this was how legends of heroes managed to persist. They had their public and private lives, and in the public eye, they condensed into a single point.
At that moment, the inn suddenly became noisy. Someone was shouting:
"Staven, you're finally out of your estate again. When was the last time? Midsummer Fire Festival or Hallow's End?"
"Great poet, are you out seeking inspiration? I'm waiting for your new work, to give as a birthday gift to my wife."
Jorgen turned to see Staven Mistrmantle entering the tavern. Just like during the day, his gaze was fixed on the ground, his tense body hunched awkwardly, as if invisible walls of air always pressed against him, making every step a struggle. The people around him kept teasing, the topic centered on his poems. Some recited nonsensical or lewd lines in a peculiar tone, claiming they were "reciting your great works"; others lamented that they couldn't enjoy their meals due to being unable to read Staven's new compositions. Each taunt prompted laughter almost as loud as their initial mockery. These laughs seemed to solidify into tangible projectiles that hit Staven, but he couldn't evade them or strike back; he could only hurry through this stretch as though he were a startled criminal on display.
Staven finally reached the counter, spotted Jorgen, and without greeting, he rapped the surface of the counter and said, "Stuff, give it to me."
"It's been ready for a while." The innkeeper retrieved a large package from under the counter and handed it over with both hands. Staven cradled it, the protruding tip of the package grazing his chin, forcing him to twist his head aside.
"Hey, why don't you count it?" the innkeeper said. "Don't come complaining later about me missing this or that."
"Not counting. If it's really missing, I'll come find you," Staven said, clutching the package and then suddenly remembering something. As if attempting to make amends, he turned towards Jorgen and said, "Good evening, Lord Jorgen," before taking a step and walking towards the exit.
"What did you give Staven?" Jorgen asked.
"Oh, you know him too? Mostly food and some daily necessities. Can you believe someone with noble blood would live like this? Always gloomy, never leaves his estate, comes to collect his essentials from me every two weeks. Fortunately, this part of the money is considered part of the rent that the town council has to pay him. Otherwise, I wouldn't want to do business with him."
Staven was very thin, and the large package slowed his steps. So, before walking out of the inn's door, he had to endure more taunts and jeers. One person extended a foot in his path, not intending to actually trip him, and quickly withdrew it. Just as he was about to escape the brunt of the mockery, almost reaching the exit, a man seated in the center of the tavern stood up; his voice carried over the establishment.
"Staven, hold on. Don't think I don't know what you've done."