"Where are you, Child of Prophecy?" Merke asked himself again as he crept up the dock. He didn't mean to sneak about like he did, but now he'd been doing it for so long that it was second nature, a subconscious action. His limbs were thin like an insect's, and his steps were quick and soundless. The docks were empty, which was natural given that the sun had long set.
As he came to the edge of the docks, he noticed that there were two armed men guarding the edge, spears in one hand and lanterns in the other. They wore heavy plate mail, an expensive choice for such a small town. It had been some time since he'd been to the mainland, but the last time he'd been here, they wore little more than padded leather.
There has been talk of war on the mainland. It would be unlike the Wood Coast to get involved in such a frivolous fight. Just what is going on here? …Might that Child of Prophecy have something to do with this? He mused to himself as he slithered between the guards, nothing more than a moving shadow.
"Who goes there?!" The men shouted, feeling as though the darkness around them was moving. There was no answer. They raised their lanterns and looked about frantically. The dark was no longer safe, for creeping things of all kinds made it their home. Perhaps it had never been safe, and they were just now awake to its dangers.
If only I had more to investigate than rumors. They have their place, stirring men to riot, ruining reputations and inciting hysteria, but not in potentially world altering events. A scowl crossed Merke's thin face as he slunk down the road.
A cold wind howled, rattling shutters as it tore through the town. Merke pulled his cloak about him in an attempt to keep the wind at bay, though this ultimately did woefully little as the bone chilling wind assaulted him anyway, forcefully stopping him in his tracks.
Merke grunted in frustration, and turned his attention to searching for an inn. If his memory served him correctly, there should be an inn twenty meters or so north from where he now stood. He set off again, struggling against the wind. It was quite cold back on the Iron Island, but this was simply something else.
The warm glow of a fire came into view as Merke rounded the street corner. He chuckled to himself. His memory was right. War or not, at least this inn was still here. It was a large building, two stories in height. The lower floor was a tavern. Typically Merke didn't care for alcohol, at least not for recreational purposes. But with such bone chilling cold, perhaps some Devil's Spit wouldn't be so bad.
As the wind continued to howl, Merke fought his way to the door, wincing as the frozen metal bit into his flesh as if his gloves weren't even there. All this for some rumors. He grit his teeth as he turned the knob and pushed the door open. A wave of kind warmth took hold of him, beckoning him into the tavern.
Merke pushed the door closed with such force that he may as well have slammed it shut. All heads turned towards the noise, the first time he'd been seen tonight, though their attention left him as quickly as it had come. The tavern was well lit by a half dozen chandeliers and a blazing fire in the fireplace. Ten round tables were set up around the main room, each placed apart with just enough room for one person to move between them. Each table was full, several large men and women sitting around each one.
To the right there was a long oak counter where a large, well built bartender stood, staring directly at Merke, who walked over to the counter, allowing his cloak to fall freely as he walked. He sat down at the counter and shivered slightly, before looking up at the bartender.
"Quite a fearsome expression. Are ya new here?" She asked, pulling a mug from beneath the counter as she spoke.
"Something like that. Can I get a drink?" Merke asked, pulling a bronze coin from a pocket in his cloak and placing it on the counter.
"Sure thing. Devil's Spit do it for ya?" She took the coin and began filling the mug with the drink before Merke even had a chance to answer.
When she turned back with the mug, Merke nodded. She placed the mug on the counter and turned to another customer. The bartender was quite tall, though Merke reckoned that he was slightly taller. That said, she was far more muscular than he was. Perhaps she'd been a lumberjack, or even a soldier before this, if her scars were anything to go by. Nevertheless, she was certainly very attractive by any standard.
Merke took a sip of his drink. True to its name, the Devil's Spit was unnaturally hot. It tasted faintly of cinnamon, but most people only drank it in competition to see which competitor was the toughest. Merke grunted after swallowing the drink that burned all the way down his throat and placed the mug back on the counter. Perhaps he'd wait to take another sip.
"Barkeep." Merke called. The bartender turned back to him a few seconds after he spoke, smiling at him kindly.
"What can I do for ya?" She asked.
"Do you have any open rooms? And if not, do you know of anywhere else that I can stay the night?" Merke asked in the smoothest and coolest tone he could muster.
"Aye. We've got a few. Two crowns a night, and that'll cover a bath and breakfast." She said, nodding as she spoke.
Merke reached back into his pocket and produced two gold coins and placed them on the counter. The bartender took them and reached under the counter, placing a bronze key on the counter. Merke took the key and flashed her a thin smile.
"Before I go, have you heard anything interesting lately? I've traveled far, so I'm not quite up to date on the goings on." Merke asked, his voice smooth as silk. If rumors were all he had, then he would do his best to turn them into facts. It was what he was best at.
"Ah, a traveler, aye? I always love to hear the tales of the road, so I'll share the local rumors if you'll share a tale or two with me." The barkeep asked, her eyes glimmering as she spoke. The glimmer portrayed interest with a faint edge of desperation. He was leaning closer to soldier as her previous occupation, though from what he'd heard, injury was a major threat in the life of a lumberjack, so he wouldn't be surprised either way.
"Sounds like a good deal to me." Merke said with a wink. He took a sip of his drink, gesturing for her to speak.
"Well, aside from all the private gossip I've heard, there's talk of war. Supposedly the Thorned King is preparing some kind of attack on Galdan. Personally, I think it's an empty rumor, since it's the raving of a madman, that madman, in specific." The barkeep said, pointing at a dark corner of the tavern.
There sat a mangy man, who's attire was most parts heavy and ragged. A thick and heavy beard hung from his face, greasy and wiry. Beady eyes peered out from under thick eyebrows, and a rough mug was held tightly between his hands.
"He certainly looks the part. Did he say anything else?" Merke asked, turning his gaze back to the barkeep.
"Aside from his typical gibberish, he's also mentioned a Child of Prophecy of sorts. That rumor's got fewer followers than the war one, though." The Barkeep said as she placed her hands on the bar.
"Is that so? People will believe anything, won't they?" Merke remarked. He took another sip and stifled a cough.
"Indeed. In times like this, the more negative rumor gaining traction is rather worrying. But enough about this, what were your travels like?" The barkeep asked, leaning closer to Merke. Her eyes were shining with anticipation and something else, something the skinny traveler knew all too well from his days in court.
She's too close. I'm not really in the mood for this, but information is information. Merke thought, and leaned in closer to the barkeep, leaving just enough distance between them that he could dodge if she tried anything.
"I was in Hillford a fortnight ago. The count, Barquious Braxxon was slain alongside his entire family. The whole royal court is up in arms about it." Merke said, keeping direct eye contact with the barkeep as he spoke. Her eyes widened, and her face flushed. Merke could place the source of her reactions easily enough.
"There's no way! All of the Braxxons?" The barkeep exclaimed in a hushed tone. The Braxxons were popular with the common folk. It would seem that she had the sense to keep news like that quiet. A slight grin worked its way onto Merke's face. Sense like this was rare in these parts, at least in his experience.
"Indeed. It should be the talk of the town by tomorrow morning." The traveler said calmly.
"Shit, do they at least know who did it? These are the Braxxon's we're talking about. They wouldn't go down easily." She asked, a puzzled look on her face.
"From what I've heard they haven't the slightest clue. Only rumors as of now. Of course I have my own theories." Merke said, taking another sip from his mug after he spoke. His drink was almost empty. He wanted to order another, but he suspected he wouldn't get the chance to drink.
"Oh? Are you willing to share those theories?" The barkeep inched closer, a slight smile crossing her rough lips, exposing her teeth. One of her bottom front teeth was missing, though the others were in shockingly good shape, at least for someone this far out.
"I'm afraid they only range from the obvious to the sublime. The Archibalds come to mind, but their rivalry was so public that even attempting such a bold attack would be cause for small war." Merke mused. She was going to make a move now.
"... I like your face, and your mind, Stranger. Share a bed with me tonight, and if you manage to impress me, I'll return your crowns as a bonus." The barkeep asked, a playful spark in her eyes. A full grin stretched across Merke's thing face, revealing deathly white, nearly pointed teeth.
"I like that deal as well." Merke said, winking at the barkeep as he accepted her proposal.
"Then allow me to seal the deal." She said, quickly closing the gap between them and kissed him full on the lips.
When she pulled away, her face was flushed bright red. Slight color tinged Merke's pale face, and the traveler downed the rest of his mug and stood up.
"I like the experienced ones. Let me close up, and then we'll get to it." The barkeep said. She walked to the other end of the bar, and began to ring a bell. By the third third ring, the bar began to clear out. Men and women headed to their rooms, and others stumbled out into the merciless night.
"Don't break this one, Tabitha." A drunken man called out as he shuffled out into the night. A wash rag flew from the bar and out the door, and would have struck its mark if not for the frozen wind blowing it off course.
"Piss off Tiggs!" Tabitha called after the drunk, who gave no reply.
When the door finally closed, Tabitha locked it and took Merke by the shoulder, and led him into her room.
The door shut softly, leaving a single soul in the bar. The mangy man watched them enter, and took a notepad and pen from his pocket and began to write.