Chapter 19: Main Street Tavern

As they ambled along the road leading to the city gates—the very gates they'd just secretly escaped from—Isla nervously rehearsed their plan. She was visibly anxious, fretting that something might go awry.

"Remember," she hissed, for what felt like the hundredth time, "subtle. We ask about the Black Market subtly . Got it?"

"Yeah, yeah, subtle," Aren muttered, his gaze sweeping over the rolling hills. Subtle, my ass. This is like asking for directions to Mordor. "Relax, Isla. You're going to give yourself an ulcer."

Three carriages had already passed them by. One driver had even offered them a ride, but Isla had politely declined, wary of being recognized by the merchants, particularly since the city was now so close. How does she manage to be both terrified and eager for adventure at the same time?

The city gates loomed before them, imposing structures a full three meters (10ft) tall and reinforced with iron bands. On each gate, the emblem of Stormborn was prominently displayed: the head of an Ursai, the very mystical beast they had encountered in the forest. As they approached, the guards halted them. Their armor was slightly different from that of the castle guards, simpler and less ornate.

"Halt! State your business!" one barked, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. A wagon ahead of them was waved through without a second glance. Guess they're profiling.

Isla remained silent, her face hidden beneath the deep cowl of her cloak. Here we go. Aren stepped forward. "Just travelers, looking for honest work."

The guard scrutinized them, his gaze lingering on Isla's hooded figure. "Got any weapons?"

They shook their heads. The guard gestured for them to step aside, and another guard patted them down roughly. Satisfied they were unarmed, the first guard spoke again. "You wield Ether?"

Again, they shook their heads.

"Move along, then. And try not to cause any trouble."

Stepping through the gates, they were greeted by a breathtaking vista. A broad, lengthy avenue paved with beige cobblestones stretched out before them, seemingly all the way to the castle. Riders on horseback, merchants with their carts, and bustling city folk filled the thoroughfare, each going about their business. Low, stone buildings lined both sides of the street, each with a small awning displaying wares for travelers: dried and cured meats, flasks of water, various decoctions and potions, accessories, and clothing. Aren recalled seeing the main market square on the map of Stormia, located further west, confirming that these were merely small-time traders. The combined aromas of food, potions, and the general market air pleasantly filled Aren's nostrils. It was his first time seeing so many people at once in this world, and it felt less like a medieval realm and more like the bustling heart of a modern Earth city, judging by the activity.

Merchants hawked their wares, their voices rising above the din of the crowd. The air thrummed with energy, a chaotic symphony of sounds, smells, and sights.

"Why are you just standing there? Let's go, we don't have much time," Isla urged, waving for Aren to follow.

They proceeded, as planned, towards the nearest tavern, conveniently located on this main street. Along the way, Aren scanned the faces around him, hoping to spot other races besides Veridians, perhaps elves or orcs. However, he saw only ordinary humans. Their clothing was of a higher quality than Aren and Isla's current attire, indicating the city's prosperity—it was the Dominion's capital, after all.

A short distance later, the roadside stalls thinned out, and they passed several intersections. It seemed the flow of people dispersed throughout the city along these paths, with the concentration of commerce primarily at the entrance and the main market square.

Isla turned towards one of the buildings. "Here we are, the first tavern." It was a two-story structure, distinct from the others, which were made of stone, because it was constructed from wooden beams. Above the entrance, a sign read "Main Street Tavern" in English, legible to Aren. They clearly didn't waste any creativity on the name. Besides, can I read this because of some magic related to interdimensional travel, or is it actually English?

"Just remember the plan," Isla said, her voice tight with anxiety. "Ask about work, listen for rumors, and for gods' sake, don't act like you own the place."

"Alright, just relax. Even with that hood, I can see you're on edge."

Aren strode confidently inside, Isla trailing close behind with a sigh. The tavern was both spacious and cramped, packed with people seated at round tables scattered throughout the room. Opposite the entrance was a bar counter spanning the entire length of the building, from wall to wall. It, too, was crowded. Waitresses in wide dresses, with rather generous cleavage, bustled about, carrying large wooden mugs filled with drinks. How they managed to hold so many mugs in each hand was a mystery to Aren. The clientele was diverse, ranging from well-groomed, stately patrons to adventurers clad in leather armor with swords strapped to their backs. There were also plenty of obvious drunkards who had come to indulge in the middle of the day. The aroma was a complex tapestry woven from stale ale, questionable hygiene, and a hint of something vaguely resembling cooked cabbage.

Only a few glances were directed at the newly arrived visitors; most patrons paid them no mind, their attention focused on the waitresses and arm wrestling at one of the tables. Aren and Isla approached the bar, and Aren requested two mugs of mead.

The man behind the bar, a portly fellow in his fifties with unkempt stubble and messy hair, quickly served their order. Aren suddenly realized he didn't have a single coin. He shot a look at Isla, hinting that she needed to pay. She hesitated for a moment, then fumbled around and tossed some copper coins onto the counter.

Great, now all of Stormia will think I'm a gigolo.

The bartender gave Aren a disapproving look before collecting the coins.

Okay, I'm probably not going to get any useful information from him now. I should have been more professional.

Aren and Isla quietly began sipping their mead. Unlikely to be recognized in this crowd, Isla slightly lowered her cowl, though she remained cautious. They eavesdropped on the conversations around them. It was difficult to focus on any single discussion, as the tavern was brimming with noise, everyone chattering as loudly as they could. Mostly, the patrons flirted with the waitresses and complained about their work, fretting about the neighboring Dominions potentially invading and ruining everything.

Not far from Aren, at the counter, an old man of about 55, slightly intoxicated and clearly a local regular, stared at Aren as if he were some strange zoo exhibit. Aren sensed the gaze and turned to meet his eyes. Their stares locked, a silent exchange of disrespect. The patron had never encountered such a brazen youth. What's this brat looking at? Both of them thought simultaneously.

The old man, emboldened by drink and the perceived slight, broke the silence. "Well, boy ," he slurred, his voice thick with ale and disdain, "haven't seen your face 'round here before. You lost, or just stupid?"

Aren, his own inner old man bristling, took a slow sip of his mead before answering. He kept his voice low and even, a stark contrast to the drunkard's boisterous tone. "Neither. Just enjoying a drink. Something you seem to be very familiar with." He matched old man's emphasis.

The drunkard's face reddened. "Cheeky pup. Back in my day, youngsters knew their place." He spat, narrowly missing Aren's boots. "You wouldn't last a day in the wilds."

Youngsters huh?

Isla subtly tugged at Aren's sleeve, a silent warning, but he shrugged her off. This was escalating faster than he'd anticipated, but his pride wouldn't let him back down.

"Is that a challenge?" Aren asked, his voice still deceptively calm, but with a dangerous edge creeping in. "Or just the ramblings of a man who's seen more tankards than sunsets?"

The drunkard sputtered, his eyes widening in drunken fury. He pushed himself up from the counter, his movements unsteady. "Why, you little…! I'll teach you some respect!"

He lunged forward, hand raised to strike, but his inebriated state betrayed him. He stumbled, his fist flailing harmlessly past Aren's head. Aren easily sidestepped, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Careful there," Aren said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Wouldn't want you to spill your drink."

The tavern erupted in cheers, the noise instantly doubling as the crowd fueled the brewing fight. The drunkard roared in frustration, attempting another clumsy attack, but before he could connect, the bartender slammed a heavy mug down on the counter, the sound echoing through the tavern.

"Alright, that's enough!" the portly bartender bellowed, his face flushed with anger. He pointed a thick finger at the drunkard. "Berin, you've had your fill for today. And probably tomorrow, too. No more drinks for you. Get out!"

The raucous tavern fell abruptly silent. Berin, momentarily stunned by the bartender's intervention, glared at Aren one last time, muttering curses under his breath. He then shuffled towards the exit, grumbling and casting resentful glances back at Aren.

The bartender, still fuming, turned to Aren and Isla. "Sorry about that," he said, his voice gruff but apologetic. "Berin's a harmless old fool when he's sober, but a right menace when he's had a few too many. Try to ignore him."

"No problem at all," Aren replied, a smug satisfaction settling in his features. Thinking he'd handled that drunkard perfectly, putting the arrogant fool in his place. Isla, however, seemed to shrink further into her hood and cowl, practically burying her face in the fabric.

"We're just passing through," he continued, addressing the bartender, "looking to earn a few coins. Any suggestions for a couple of... eager travelers?"

The bartender wiped down the counter, his gaze thoughtful. "Work, you say? Well, you've come to the right place! Stormia's always got something for those willing to put in the effort. For young folks like yourselves, the Adventurers' Guild is usually the best bet. Plenty of quests, monster hunts, that sort of thing. As long as you've got the stomach for it."

Aren leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice. "The Guild, huh? Heard of it. But... let's say we're not afraid of a little, uh... extra risk. Something a bit more... discreet, perhaps? With rewards to match, naturally." He subtly stressed 'not' and 'discreet'.

The bartender's brow furrowed. "Discreet, you say? Hmm..." The bartender pauses, looking around the tavern before continuing in lower voice. "There's an information broker who sometimes frequents the Adventurers' Guild. But finding him... and getting him to talk... that's another matter entirely."

Aren's lips twisted into a wry smile. "Right. The Guild. Naturally." He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, more to himself than anyone else, a glimmer of understanding in his eyes.

Isla's shoulders slumped, her earlier enthusiasm visibly deflating. "It was worth a try, I suppose," she mumbled, barely audible above the tavern's din.

Aren clapped her on the back, a gesture of reassurance. "Don't be so down, Isla. A real secret wouldn't be blurted out to the first person who asked, would it? Let's finish our drinks and see what this information broker has to offer."

They finished their mead in silence. Pushing open the heavy wooden door, they stepped back into the bustling street. Isla, despite having consumed only one mug, swayed slightly, her steps a touch uneven. Aren watched her, a sigh escaping his lips.

This is going to be a long day. I just hope she doesn't get us both into trouble. The image of Darius's disapproving face flashed before his eyes, followed by a vision of himself being unceremoniously ejected from the castle. A more pressing question, however, began to nag at him: Just how much trouble am I willing to get into for this girl?