Chapter 2 - The Elusive Dwarf

The group stayed in the cellar for a bit after Grunk and Rennik had left, letting some time pass for the heat upstairs to die down. 

“There’s some things from me shop I need to pick up before we leave,” Gok said. 

"Let’s stay out of trouble,” Pen said gravely. “The quicker we’re out of town, the better.”

“We’ll be in and out in no time,” Gok said. 

The rest of the party obliged, albeit testy. Hootalin split off and went for her cart, which she would bring over to the shop. 

They approached the street with the workshop low-key, avoiding any guards. Larnala peeked around the corner of a building and spotted a few guardsmen loitering near the door of the shop. He warned the others to stop and hold.

The main officer scribbled something on a piece of paper, which he affixed the note to the door and then left with the other guards. Waiting a few more moments, Hootalin told the others it was clear to move in.  They approached the door and looked at the message.

Missif of the constbulary of Taran. Cpl. Pigbreth, at the tyme of writin we were unable to find you. This evening, there was a bit of rowdines in the Last Last tavern, and eywitnssess claim that you and some friends of yours fogt with civileans. This cowst considerbel damages to the establisment of Mr. Padmos. Sinse it is cleer that you were the defending partee, we have tried to levie compensasion for the damages on the offending partee, but this yeelded very little monies. Mr. Padmos would be very pleesed if you could pay for the remainder of the incurd damages. Plees do so at your earliest conviniens. 

“What’s it say?” Ruffstrom said, craning his head.

“Why the hells did he put it so high?” asked Gok. “Police brutality,” he spat.  

Larnala read the message out loud. “If I understand this fellow’s attempt at writing correctly, It doesn’t seem like you’re in trouble.”

Pen tore the paper from the door, and dismissed it with a nonchalant crumple. “They can let those idiots do a few days of hard labour to pay for Mr. Padmos’ precious table.” 

“I got a spell that’ll mend it, sure—but I like yer idea better,” Gok said, slappin’ a hand on the door. “Need a minute. You lot stay out here.” He rushed inside without waitin’ for a reply.

“Maybe leave the door open,” Ruffstrom said. “Air it out.” 

While Gok was busy inside, Hootalin’s horse trudged onto the dimly lit square, her covered wagon in tow. 

“I made some more space inside. If Pen rides next to me and the rest of you go into the cart, it should all fit. And before you say anything, there’s currently nothing… illicit inside.”

______________________________________________________________________________________

The journey ahead would span more than half a day. To expedite their river crossing, they decided to use a ferry rather than taking the longer route across a bridge. The first rays of a new dawn started hitting the solitary trees dotted around the rolling grasslands as the Daria river filled the horizon. The immensely wide river cut through the hill like a ribbon through silk.  

Arriving at the ferry mooring, they found a few other passengers waiting on the muddy river’s edge as well, all of them casting suspicious and annoyed looks at the group with their cart. 

“Yer planning to take that aboard?” said a stocky and sun-leathered halfling in a weathered oilskin vest. He sat on a few stacked crates on the jetty in front of the ferry. The ferry looked sturdy and capable of transporting a tavern full of people.

“We’ve got coin,” Pen said from the bench. 

The halfling gave a noncommittal shrug, scratching at his chest through a hole in his vest. “It’ll float, I reckon. Just don’t blame me if the planks groan like they’re dyin’.” 

“We’ll take our chances,” said Hootalin as she hopped off the cart, giving Cocaine a reassuring pat. 

“But we’re dealing with square feet here, and you’d be taking a lot of it,” the halfling said, while glancing at the sky. “Less space for travelers means less fare for me.” He wandered over to the cart with his palm raised as the group climbed out, stretching their limbs and letting out groans.  

Pen eyed the small group of waiting passengers and determined that they wouldn’t even fill up a fifth of the ferry's deck. He looked around to see if there would be any more people coming to hitch a ride, but they were the only ones there. He slowly produced a single gold coin, and held it a little too high for the halfling.  

“Like I said, we’ve got coin. Singular.”

“Fine,” the halfling said, jumping up with surprising dexterity to snatch the coin. He then reached for a whistle dangling from a rope on his hip and blew on it.

“Alright everyone, we’re taking off! Get aboard one by one!”

The party guided the cart aboard, ignoring the glances from the other passengers—who looked to be mostly peddlers and wanderers. Once everyone was aboard, and the ferryman gave the signal, they pushed off.

The river was placid at first, though the smell of stagnant reeds clung to the edges. The ferry creaked under the weight of cart, cargo and bodies, but made steady progress.

“I’ll never get used to boats,” Gok muttered, staring at the sluggish water, well away from the edge.

“You know, a dip in there could do you some good,” Pen said, leaning on the railing.

“Don’t ye dare,” Gok said, baring his pointed teeth. 

Larnala stood quietly at the back of the boat, arms folded as if deep in thought, while Hootalin and Ruffstrom sat at the cart. Every so often, while evading Ruffstrom’s questions, Hootalin turned her head, scanning the reeds on both sides of the river.

“What do you think that circle around Althena means? On the map,” Ruffstrom said coyly, glancing at Hootalin. The owlin’s impassive expression didn’t help. Hootalin was quietly filling up her pipe again, taking her sweet time mulling over the question.

“No clue,” she said after a while. 

“Come now, you’re from there. You got to be. There’s something going on there. Maybe it’s a treasure map…” Ruffstrom rattled on.

“I didn’t see an X,” Hootalin said, lighting the pipe. 

“Not all treasure maps have X’s. They can have circles too.”

“So you’d have to dig up all of Althena then?” 

“Well, why don’t you tell me your Althenan secrets so we can narrow it down?”

Before Hootalin could complete a dismissive eye-roll, a  sudden jolt knocked everyone slightly off balance. The ferry listed a few degrees to starboard.

“We hit something?” asked Ruffstrom.

The ferryman looked back, eyes narrowing. “Not unless the river’s grown teeth.”

Then came a second jolt—followed by a terrible groan of wood and the panicked whinnying of Cocaine. 

“What the hells was that?” yelled Gok, while Pen leaned over the railling to find out where the damage was done.

From the side of the ferry, a long splintering crack spiderwebbed outward. Water began to gurgle in. Pen jumped back.

“Leak!” cried the ferryman. “Everyone to the other side!”

“Hold up,” said Gok, a sudden determined expression on his face. He pushed a passenger aside. “I got it.”

He knelt by the breach, muttering under his breath, and laid his palm against the torn wood. Glimmering silver threadwork briefly danced across his gauntlet as the crack began to close. The mending spell did its work, slowly knitting the broken slats together.

Larnala grabbed Pen’s shoulder. “We have to shift the cart!” He jabbed a thumb at it. “Balance it!”

The group and some of the other passengers pulled the wagon to the higher side of the deck, while Hootalin guided the horse. The cart groaned, the floor planks flexing, but it stabilized.

The ferry rocked once more, then steadied.

“Almost there…” Gok hissed through gritted teeth.

The last threads of magic sealed the gap. Gok pulled his hand away with a huff. “Fixed.” His grin was short-lived as he then realised he’d been half submerged. 

Some cheers went up from around the boat. The ferryman came over to clap him on the shoulder. “Glad I took you aboard.” But Gok was distracted: from the reeds they’d left behind, a shape moved—a figure in dark clothes retreating into the underbrush.

A cry interrupted them. One of the passengers—a pale young man with a weak chin and even weaker balance—had fallen into the river and was flailing wildly. The slow current took him away from the boat. 

“Help!” he sputtered, arms flapping. “I can’t—!”

Hootalin grabbed a coil of rope from the cart, handed one end to Pen and flapped into the air. “Got coin?” she asked, hovering near him. 

The young man coughed and thrashed. “Wha…” Yes! Help—!”

Hootalin threw him the rope, which he gripped. “Reel him in, Pen,” she yelled, flying back. 

“We’re getting paid for this rescue,” Hootalin said, hitting the deck of the boat as Pen Ding just about yanked the lad in with a powerful pull. The lad lay panting on his back at the edge of the boat, and opened his eyes to see Pen, Ruffstrom and Hootalin standing over him. Hootalin lowered her head and gave him a piercing, inquiring stare. 

It took a while before he understood the expression. His quivering hand reached into a pocket, and he produced 2 silver coins. 

“Your life's only worth two silver pieces? And so slow to offer it up too?” Ruffstrom put his foot against the lad’s side, and kicked him back into the water.  

“Darkridge!” barked Gok.

“He’ll float. Kid needs a lesson in bartering.”

A moment later, the lad bobbed back up, gasping and spitting water. The group hauled him aboard again—and this time he had 5 silver to spare.

“See,” Ruffstrom said triumphantly as Pen grabbed the coins. Behind them, the others looked at the sight with disapproval. 

The ferry reached the far bank, with some of the passengers not even waiting until the boat was properly moored. 

“Next time,” Gok muttered, wringin’ out his sleeves, “we’re takin’ the damn bridge. And we were bein’ watched.” He pointed toward the far bank. “Someone was hidin’ in the bushes. Didn’t catch a face, but I saw ’em plain as day soon as I patched the boat.”

“Waiting for us to sink, no doubt,” Larnala said. 

“Let’s find them,” Ruffstrom said, cracking his knuckles.

“No time,” Pen growled. “We get to Aurorhaven. We’ll deal with shadows later.” He looked around at the halfling inspecting the side of the boat. “A refund first, I think.” The others agreed.

“No refunds,” the ferryman said immediately as the party approached him.

“We almost drowned,” Pen replied flatly.

“Almost doesn’t mean did,” the ferryman said, puffing out his chest. “Look, I appreciate your help, but these things happen from time to time.” He laid a reassuring hand on the side of the vessel. “A mere scratch as what happened there is not enough to scupper her.” 

“We were bloody sinking before I stepped in,” Gok said.

Ruffstrom stepped forward, smiling like a man about to make a generous donation—except in reverse. “Now listen, friend. It’s a matter of principle. You see, we boarded this ferry under the impression it would remain above water.”

“It did!”

“Barely,” Hootalin added. “I’d say we provided a free rescue service to your other passengers. Seems only fair we get compensated for that.”

The halfling, still blustering, found his voice faltering under the party’s increasingly persuasive arguments—especially when Pen leaned over him and Gok casually started fiddling with his gauntlet. Eventually, with a sigh that carried years of regret, the halfling reached into his belt pouch and produced a few coins.

“Here,” he muttered, holding out the fare. “And... a little extra. For the trouble.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard,” said Ruffstrom, counting the silver.

Some passengers lingered. A woman even thanked them. Another offered them a piece of smoked fish. They declined.

With their coffers a few coins heavier and their image as (un)loveable rogues once more reinforced, the group rolled out the cart, ready to continue their journey. 

Hootalin lingered behind a moment and looked back across the river, squinting toward the reeds. “Give me a minute,” she told the others. 

She flapped off across the river in a low arc, vanishing into the misty banks. She returned shortly after, wings twitching.

“Nothing,” she said. “Whoever it was, they’re gone.”

“We’ll keep our eyes peeled,” Pen said, adjusting the straps on his gear. 

They pressed on, reaching the outskirts of Aurorhaven as the sun clawed its way toward its zenith. The city loomed like a great stone leviathan rising from the riverbed, all towers, bridges, and proud banners. They made their way toward the Bravian Assembly, a sprawling block of bricks with square towers making up the corners. It stood firm as the river seemed to have changed course slightly over the centuries. The walls on the riverside of the building disappeared into the water.

Before converging there, the group split to pursue their own threads.

Pen ducked into a twisting alley where the buildings leaned in like eavesdropping conspirators. He knocked on a faded red door, the kind that only opened with the right words. The slot slid open, revealing a glimmer of eyes.

“Password?” came the gravelly voice.

Pen replied with a phrase from years past.

“Fuck off,” came the response.

He tried something else—a phrase his protege Quentin used to toss around when they were still neck-deep in the smuggling routes out of Aria.

That one worked. The slit closed. A few seconds later, the door groaned open.

The safehouse hadn’t changed much. Same smell of damp wood and old boots. The man inside looked Pen over, sniffed once, and stepped aside. “That wasn’t the password,” he said.

“But who else but a good friend of Quentin would know that one?,” Pen replied. The man gave an approving humph. 

The man filled him in. Quentin had moved up on the criminal ladder. He was boss now. Owned this place. Owned a dozen like it. Apparently, he even paid the taxes.

Pen was offered a health potion from a dusty shelf—probably expired, probably still good—and told the city was heating up. Mercs everywhere. High-ranking ones too. And the Assembly had grown twitchy.

______________________________________________________________________________________

Larnala, in contrast, had simpler ambitions: beer. He found a tavern Pen had vouched for and slouched into a seat where he could keep his back to the wall and his ears open.

Most of the clientele wore leather in varying stages of decay. At the next table, a cluster of mercenaries hunched over mugs—a rowdy bunch whose laughter rolled like loose barrels and drowned out half the room. They wore the insignia of the Company of the Broach: gaudy brass pins shaped like broken wagon wheels. They lacked subtlety. And sobriety. Two things Larnala counted on.

He listened. The talk bounced from raunchy jokes to gambling  to the goings-on around town.

“I still say lettin’ that silver lizard have run of the Assembly’s a mistake,” one grumbled. “Place is supposed to belong to all the companies.”

“Still does,” another replied. “She just gets the keys to the doors. Assembly’s busier than I’ve ever seen it. Half the captains in the damn region are sniffin’ around. Something’s brewing.”

When the chatter started drifting back to more mundane things, Larnala stood, picked up his mug, and sauntered over.

“I’m looking for work,” he said, easy and smooth. “You lot seem like professionals. The kind I wouldn’t mind bleeding beside.”

A few of them turned. One squinted. “You’re cutting into our drinking time, drow. Go see our recruiter on Dolheller Road.”

Larnala glanced at the bar. “A round of ale for your table. My coin.”

The mood shifted. One of them gave a nod. “Well, now you’re speakin’ the right language.”

A bald human mercenary with bristly moustache pulled over a stool with a boot heel and made room. “Come on then, long-ears. Let’s see if you’re any good at toasts.”

The drinks arrived, and Larnala raised his mug. “To the mercenary life,” he said.

“Short jobs and long pay,” one replied. The mugs clinked.

“City’s heating up,” Larnala said after a sip. “You hear about the break-in at the Assembly?”

One of the Broach leaned in, elbow on the table. “Word is someone got caught sneakin’ around where they shouldn’t’ve been. They’re still holdin’ ‘em, from what I hear.”

Larnala’s tone stayed casual. “Who?”

“Dwarf, they say.” The man shrugged. “No name, no flag.”

“They’ll get what they want outta him,” another said, cracking his knuckles. “Then—” He mimed a clean snap across the neck. The others snorted.

Larnala chuckled with them. Drained his mug. Left a few coins on the table and slipped out without a fuss.

They hadn’t said the name. But they didn’t have to.

______________________________________________________________________________________

Hootalin and Gok made their way to the Bastion, observing the granite monstrosity from an opposite street corner. The fort looked like it had bullied all lesser building away, as it stood squatly on a large square. Guards could be seen walking the parapet, and a few goblins were being bodily dragged into the large front gate by the city watch. 

"If they're keeping her there, we can forget it," Gok said. 

"Normally, I would agree," Hootalin said. "However, you're not the only one that knows magic." 

She put her feathered hands together, and whispered words Gok that sounded like gibberish to Gok. Then, she vanished in an instant. Gok's eye grew wide. He held out a hand and still felt the owlin.

"That's incredible. And concerning," Gok said. 

"I'm going to fly up there, see if there's a way in from there."

"Aight, and I has a plan too. See how they're haulin' me brethren in there? Seems like discrimination to me. I'm going to demand to see if they're being threated right, for I'm a representative of the Goblin Rights Coalition." He winked at Hootalin's last known location. "Hello?" He held out his hand again, feeling nothing this time. "Agh." He set out for the front gate. 

The two polearm-wielding guards didn’t even blink as he introduced himself. One snorted, spat, and the other looked at him amused. 

"I best give the inspector a tour, Berric, we don't want to get into trouble with the folks over at the Goblin Rights Coalition now do we?" 

Berric shrugged. His colleague continued: "Hold the fort for a second will ya?". He opened a smaller door inside the large, iron-banded gate, and waved Gok over. "Right this way, sir."

Even Gok admitted that the prison reeked—sweat and mold permeated the air. Most cells were empty, but Gok could her high pitched wailing coming from around a corner. They passed the city guardsmen as they entered the corridor with a cell filled with goblins in various states of hangover and apathy.

"Now, tell me inspector, does this hold up to your lofty standards?" the guardsman said, leaning on his pike. 

A boney, green-tinted hand reached out between the bars. "More Ale," a goblin prisoner said.

Gok's head spun towards the sound of the same sorrowful wail he'd heard before. A goblin in a cell at the back of the hallway stood with his back to them, threw his head back gave another