22, Fall of 515 AV
The overwhelming volume of people and noise in the Rearing Stallion never failed to give Baelin a headache within minutes. One would think that he’d get used to the boisterous nature of the tavern after having spent so much of his life in the cacophony of smithies, but there was something intrinsically different and distressing when the noise was from conversing people.
The tavern was bustling with activity and Baelin cursed himself for not being able to get out of the Ironworks early enough to get here when it was a bit more manageable. The half-Dhani took solace in the fact that it was at least somewhat removed from Stormhold. After five years in the fortress city he should consider himself a local, but the city still didn’t feel like home. If he was being honest with himself, it felt more like a prison. Large walls kept him trapped, Nuits roamed the city with liberty, winters were cold enough to keep him subdued and frozen, and there was an always present, overwhelming crush of people.
It was hell.
The half-Dhani passed the dimly lit tables and worked his way to the bar. He was here to try and “socialize,” not eat. And while the food did look interesting, Baelin saw little benefit from sitting at a table by himself and hunched over his plate with just enough light to make out what he was eating. The scenario hardly seemed to lend itself to information gathering.
He would have much preferred the Broken Casket over the Rearing Stallion. It was where he went for beer normally. The kelp beer was much cheaper, if saltier, and the foreignness of its patrons tended to make Baelin feel more at home than the mass of Sylirans packed into the more locals-oriented tavern.
Baelin stepped to the side to let a barmaid rush by him with her hands full of mugs. He caught a whiff of chocolate from one of the mugs and cocked his head in consideration. While the drinks here may be annoyingly overpriced, the quality was commendable.
The bulky man turned back to the bar and found an open spot to stand. The owner, a gruff older man, eventually took notice of him. Baelin leaned over the counter and said just loud enough to be heard, “Ale.”
The man’s mustache twitched with what Baelin figured was either amusement or annoyance. When Baelin didn’t say any more, the owner offered what was available, going through the limited variety with the monotony of a memorized list. Baelin didn’t particularly care and ordered whatever the last one was. Gnarled hands went about filling the well-used mug with a practiced ease. Baelin gave a tight-lipped smile in thanks as he fished out a silver miza from his makeshift pocket and passed it over.
The half-Dhani stood awkwardly at the bar with his drink, recognizing that he needed to talk to someone to make this trip worth it but being entirely unwilling to make eye contact. He stared intensely at his ale, slit pupils tracking the sway of the foam as the wood of the bar creaked slightly under the weight of its patrons.
Baelin sighed and rubbed calloused fingers into his forehead, the scythe on his palm contorting while his fingers worked. He had to make this work. He was an Eiyon now. He has been for two seasons. Dira had trusted him enough to give him this gift, whatever it was, and he hasn’t done shyke with it. The half-Dhani’s desire to put a final end to the walking corpses wasn’t only something he would like to do, it was a responsibility. And yet here he was, milling about a city with likely hundreds (or at the very least tens) of Nuits and he couldn’t find a single one.
Baelin hissed through clenched teeth in mounting irritation and took a swig of his ale. His lips reflexively quirked in approval of the drink. It really was rather tasty.
You can do this, he mentally grated, How hard can it possibly be? All he had to do was find someone, talk to them, figure out if they knew any Nuits, and then try to find some kind of way to track the blasted thing down.
Baelin scanned the tavern to pick out whom to talk to and felt his stomach twist unpleasantly. How on Mizahar was he supposed to do this? Baelin was utter rubbish at striking conversations with others. Very skilled at keeping to himself and even better at glaring nastily at anyone who dared to try to start up a chat. Not so much at reciprocating a dialogue or beginning one.
Stop being such a child, he nearly hissed aloud, Just talk to someone.
Or, at the very least, he could glare at them until they felt the need to snap at him. He’d count that as progress.
The overwhelming volume of people and noise in the Rearing Stallion never failed to give Baelin a headache within minutes. One would think that he’d get used to the boisterous nature of the tavern after having spent so much of his life in the cacophony of smithies, but there was something intrinsically different and distressing when the noise was from conversing people.
The tavern was bustling with activity and Baelin cursed himself for not being able to get out of the Ironworks early enough to get here when it was a bit more manageable. The half-Dhani took solace in the fact that it was at least somewhat removed from Stormhold. After five years in the fortress city he should consider himself a local, but the city still didn’t feel like home. If he was being honest with himself, it felt more like a prison. Large walls kept him trapped, Nuits roamed the city with liberty, winters were cold enough to keep him subdued and frozen, and there was an always present, overwhelming crush of people.
It was hell.
The half-Dhani passed the dimly lit tables and worked his way to the bar. He was here to try and “socialize,” not eat. And while the food did look interesting, Baelin saw little benefit from sitting at a table by himself and hunched over his plate with just enough light to make out what he was eating. The scenario hardly seemed to lend itself to information gathering.
He would have much preferred the Broken Casket over the Rearing Stallion. It was where he went for beer normally. The kelp beer was much cheaper, if saltier, and the foreignness of its patrons tended to make Baelin feel more at home than the mass of Sylirans packed into the more locals-oriented tavern.
Baelin stepped to the side to let a barmaid rush by him with her hands full of mugs. He caught a whiff of chocolate from one of the mugs and cocked his head in consideration. While the drinks here may be annoyingly overpriced, the quality was commendable.
The bulky man turned back to the bar and found an open spot to stand. The owner, a gruff older man, eventually took notice of him. Baelin leaned over the counter and said just loud enough to be heard, “Ale.”
The man’s mustache twitched with what Baelin figured was either amusement or annoyance. When Baelin didn’t say any more, the owner offered what was available, going through the limited variety with the monotony of a memorized list. Baelin didn’t particularly care and ordered whatever the last one was. Gnarled hands went about filling the well-used mug with a practiced ease. Baelin gave a tight-lipped smile in thanks as he fished out a silver miza from his makeshift pocket and passed it over.
The half-Dhani stood awkwardly at the bar with his drink, recognizing that he needed to talk to someone to make this trip worth it but being entirely unwilling to make eye contact. He stared intensely at his ale, slit pupils tracking the sway of the foam as the wood of the bar creaked slightly under the weight of its patrons.
Baelin sighed and rubbed calloused fingers into his forehead, the scythe on his palm contorting while his fingers worked. He had to make this work. He was an Eiyon now. He has been for two seasons. Dira had trusted him enough to give him this gift, whatever it was, and he hasn’t done shyke with it. The half-Dhani’s desire to put a final end to the walking corpses wasn’t only something he would like to do, it was a responsibility. And yet here he was, milling about a city with likely hundreds (or at the very least tens) of Nuits and he couldn’t find a single one.
Baelin hissed through clenched teeth in mounting irritation and took a swig of his ale. His lips reflexively quirked in approval of the drink. It really was rather tasty.
You can do this, he mentally grated, How hard can it possibly be? All he had to do was find someone, talk to them, figure out if they knew any Nuits, and then try to find some kind of way to track the blasted thing down.
Baelin scanned the tavern to pick out whom to talk to and felt his stomach twist unpleasantly. How on Mizahar was he supposed to do this? Baelin was utter rubbish at striking conversations with others. Very skilled at keeping to himself and even better at glaring nastily at anyone who dared to try to start up a chat. Not so much at reciprocating a dialogue or beginning one.
Stop being such a child, he nearly hissed aloud, Just talk to someone.
Or, at the very least, he could glare at them until they felt the need to snap at him. He’d count that as progress.
