The baroness's daughter Dacarly, the lady of Farenfield Prairie, was a dainty woman, polished in every aspect from her refined appearance to her ever-so-subtle mannerisms. Despite her youth, her sharp eyes carried an uncanny depth. Her mother, in contrast, was a haggard older woman draped in a black gown, the perpetual shadow of mourning hanging about her. She had yet to recover from the loss of her husband, who had succumbed to dysentery during one of Vistor's many crusades. Together, the two women stepped into the Broom and Beer Tavern, their disdain tucked discreetly beneath their fingernails and their desperation buried under the powdered facade of their porcelain high elf features.
There was a knock at Achilles's door. At the sound, he yanked a string looped around his finger, which pulled the handle down and swung the door open. As the door creaked ajar, he unwound the string, letting it slip away to rest lifeless in the doorway—beneath the poised heel of Baroness Dacarly's shoe.
"How may I help you today? It's not often the high society of Vistor deigns to dirty their heels trudging through the mud just to visit a humble fortune-teller," Achilles quipped, pulling a cigarette from his lips and smothering it in the ashtray.
"Consider yourself fortunate that we know of no psychic as well-regarded as you," Dacarly replied, her tone cool.
"Oh, really? And what, pray tell, am I so uniquely qualified to assist you with?" Achilles asked, a hint of skepticism in his voice.
"Well, my mother is dying. She's been coughing up nothing but blood, and I can't—"
Achilles swiftly cut her off. "There is no cure. My father had something similar five years ago, and he's currently dead." As if punctuating his words, he retrieved a fresh cigarette from his tobacco pouch, its surface infused with the sweet aroma of crushed brown leaves.
"You misunderstand me," the lady snapped. "I'm not seeking medical assistance. I need advice on how to secure the family inheritance."
"Oh, I see." Achilles leaned back, eyebrows arching. "Well, can't you just have her write you into her will?"
"It's not that simple, you thick-headed fool," Dacarly shot back. "My family is part of a branch lineage, long inactive in politics. My mother's protection comes solely from the retired Emperor, who was a good friend of my father once. But when my mother dies, the Emperor plans to relinquish the land, leaving it up for grabs to the local warlords."
Achilles's gaze drifted toward the window, his expression unreadable as he stared into the clouds. "Have you heard of the Free Party?" he asked, breaking the silence.