The moment Lucan stepped inside the Hollow Tankard, the oppressive chill of the Evermarch forest yielded to a comforting wave of warmth. The air hung heavy and fragrant, a rich tapestry woven from the savory aroma of roasting boar, the yeasty tang of spilled ale, and the earthy scent of damp wool clinging to weary travelers. Laughter, punctuated by the rhythmic strumming of a lute tucked into a corner, created a lively, if somewhat rough, ambiance. Towering over most of the patrons, Lucan's pale violet eyes, a subtle mark of his frost-touched lineage, scanned the room.
In a dimly lit corner, bathed in the inviting glow of a wall-mounted lantern, Sera waved him over. Her golden braid, a common sight among the Western Elves of the Evermarch, swung gently with the motion. Beside her, Briane sat with her usual stern posture, though the flickering light from the nearby hearth seemed to soften the sharp angles of her face. Mark occupied the space beside Briane, his broad shoulders slumped, his gaze fixed on the dark liquid in his tankard as if it held the answers to his grief. He remained lost in his sorrow, not even glancing up as Lucan approached.
"Lucan!" Sera's voice, carrying a melodic lilt reminiscent of the ancient groves of Elderglen, held a note of genuine relief. "Come, sit. We've saved you a spot right by the fire."
He offered a curt nod, his gaze momentarily lingering on the other occupants of the tavern. A motley collection of Dunmire's guards, their worn leather armor and the occasional flash of steel speaking of their constant readiness, mingled with a few weathered travelers and locals. No overt hostility met his gaze, but a palpable curiosity, a silent assessment of the imposing stranger, followed him as he settled onto the sturdy wooden bench. Despite his size, his movements were surprisingly fluid and quiet.
"Smells a damn sight better in here than out in those haunted woods," Lucan grunted, the rich, smoky scent of roasting boar making his stomach growl in protest.
"We took the liberty of ordering you some stew," Sera said with a kind smile, gesturing to a steaming earthenware bowl placed before him. "And ale. Their honey rosemary cider is quite popular, but after your… eventful morning, something a bit stronger seemed appropriate." Her eyes flickered discreetly to the dried, dark stains on his tunic.
Briane, her gaze direct and unwavering like the hardy folk of the Evermarch, offered a curt nod of acknowledgment. "You acted swiftly, sellsword. That lad… Brent. His mother will bear a sorrow that will cling to her like the morning mist." Her voice, though somber, held a stoic understanding of the harsh realities of life in this free but constantly threatened land.
Mark finally stirred, his red rimmed eyes lifting to meet Lucan's briefly. "Thank you," he mumbled, his voice thick and hoarse with grief. "For… for everything you did."
Lucan simply shrugged, picking up the heavy wooden spoon and inhaling the fragrant steam rising from the stew. "They made their choice."
As he ate, the hearty broth warming him from the inside out, Sera began to paint a picture of Dunmire. It wasn't a bustling hub of trade like the river cities Lucan might know from the south, but a strategically vital keep governed by young Prince Rowan. Its significance lay in its position as a bulwark of the Evermarch, one of the last free realms standing against the encroaching shadow of the Eastern Dominion. She pointed out the modest market square, more geared towards supplying the garrison than exotic goods, a small, unassuming temple dedicated to the Earth Mother, and Master Elara's apothecary, a place she spoke of with a hint of nostalgia.
"Borin Stonehand, the finest armorer in the province, has his forge near the south gate," Briane added, her gaze sharp and practical. "His work is strong and reliable, essential in these lands where skirmishes and raids are never far off. But be warned, his prices reflect his skill."
Lucan nodded, mentally cataloging the information. "My armor's closer to scrap metal than protection. A visit to this Stonehand seems unavoidable."
He glanced towards the tavern entrance, his gaze lingering on the empty space where he'd seen the unusual pair. "Saw a couple of Drow outside earlier. They not welcome in here?"
Sera's brow furrowed slightly, a shadow crossing her delicate features. "Most folk in the Evermarch… they cling to old fears. Whispers of Underdark incursions, tales of dark magic wielded by those who dwell beneath the Godspine. Prejudice runs deep, especially towards those whose home lies in the darkness."
"Gorok, the dwarven proprietor of this establishment, is particularly stubborn in his views," Briane added with a sigh, a hint of exasperation in her voice. "Says they bring ill luck. The dwarves of Thurn'Durak, beyond the Godspine, are more concerned with the quality of steel and the secrets of the Riftgate Vault than such surface superstitions, but Gorok… he's a traditionalist through and through."
Lucan grunted, a hint of bitterness in his tone. "Superstition. A convenient tool for those who seek to divide and conquer." He instinctively touched the small, violet stone hidden beneath his tunic, a tangible link to a heritage that had often made him an outsider.
A young serving girl, her eyes wide with a mixture of curiosity and a flicker of apprehension, approached their table to refill their tankards. Lucan noticed the slight tremor in her hand as she poured his ale before quickly retreating. He let out a silent sigh. Such reactions were a familiar burden.
As the evening deepened, the lute music grew more lively, and the tavern filled with louder voices and boisterous laughter, Sera turned to Lucan, her expression earnest. "So, Lucan, what brings a sellsword of your… caliber to the Evermarch? This isn't exactly a well-trodden path for those seeking honest coin, not with the dangers that lurk in the passes through the Godspine Mountains."
He hesitated, swirling the ale in his tankard, the amber liquid catching the firelight. "Passing through," he said finally, his voice carefully neutral. "Looking for… opportunity." He kept his answer deliberately vague, unwilling to share the complexities of his past or his true purpose with these newfound acquaintances.
Mark, who had remained withdrawn, his grief a palpable presence, suddenly stirred. "I… I need to see to Brent," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "His mother… she needs to know." He pushed himself heavily to his feet, his face pale and drawn.
Briane placed a comforting hand on his arm, her gaze filled with a quiet understanding. "I'll go with you, lad. Some duties cannot be delayed."
As they moved towards the tavern entrance, Sera looked at Lucan, her eyes filled with a quiet sorrow. "They were good people, Lucan. Brent was… just a boy, helping his father in the butcher shop."
Lucan met her gaze, his own unreadable. "The fires of the Eastern Empire care little for innocence. Death is a constant companion in these lands."
Sera's expression softened with a sad acceptance of the brutal realities of their world. "No. I suppose not." She paused, then added, "If you do visit Borin Stonehand, please mention my name. Sera Dalen. He might… remember my mother's skill with healing draughts. It could… influence his pricing."
He offered a rare, small smile, a brief flash of something that hinted at the man beneath the hardened exterior. "Appreciated, Sera."
As the evening wore on, Lucan found himself observing the other patrons with a keen, practiced eye. He noted a group of men huddled in a dimly lit corner, their hushed conversations and furtive glances suggesting more than just idle gossip. He saw a richly dressed merchant engaged in a heated argument with a burly member of the town guard near the bar, a subtle reminder that even within the relative safety of Dunmire, tensions simmered.
He finished his stew and ale, the warmth and nourishment easing some of the persistent ache in his battered body. The phantom weight of his ruined armor served as a constant reminder of his immediate needs. Borin Stonehand's forge, and the potential cost of his services, loomed in his thoughts.
Just as he began to consider his next move, a sudden commotion erupted near the tavern entrance. The heavy wooden door swung inward with a jarring thud, revealing Captain Dorrell, his face etched with a grim urgency, followed closely by two of his guards, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords. Dorrell's sharp eyes scanned the room, his gaze lingering on various faces before finally settling on Lucan.
"Sellsword," Dorrell's voice boomed, cutting through the lively murmur of the tavern. "I need a word with you. Outside."
An immediate hush fell over the Hollow Tankard. Every head turned, every conversation ceased. The shifty-eyed group in the corner went still, their clandestine discussion abruptly halted. Even the lute player's fingers stilled on the strings.
Lucan slowly pushed himself to his feet, his hand instinctively drifting towards the familiar weight of his greatsword's hilt. "Looks like my quiet evening is over."
He met Sera's worried gaze, offering a reassuring nod. "Stay here. I doubt it's anything I can't handle."
He followed Captain Dorrell out into the twilight, the collective stare of the tavern's occupants burning into his back. The cool night air, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth, was a stark contrast to the smoky warmth he left behind. Whatever Captain Dorrell wanted, Lucan had a sinking feeling it wouldn't be a friendly exchange.