Agenar’s journal, page 224

Woke next to Val today, on a lumpy straw mat in the room above Yeoman’s Apple. Seems the barkeep made the standard assumption that a man and woman who spend all day drinking together and fall asleep in each other’s arms require only a single pallet upon passing out.

“Well, isn’t this embarrassing,” I kicked Val awake too.

“No,” she answered, lurching out of bed to the chamber pot.

Young love can overlook all. A pity this ain’t it.

I’d gone to the Apple, recommended by Travis as the “more interesting” local drinking establishment, while the rest of the group went to collect on their Tri-Point Mine contract. I needed cash – rations are cheap in The Glade, but it still costs coin to eat – and with the Tankard of Sobriety, I can always win a drinking contest. And this time, I had stories that would surely draw a crowd.

So I’d been drinking and lying and telling true tales about great ants and floating eyeballs with arms, and building up a nice little pile of silvers and coppers, when Val came in and dropped a sack of gold on the table.

“What’s this?” I asked. She’d almost spilt my ale.

“Your share,” she said. “From the mine, duh.” She turned to the barkeep and called for a drink.

“Well, okay.” I quickly shuffled the loot into my rucksack. “Didn’t expect that. Thanks.”

“Thank me by buying the booze.” She shouldered her way to a seat by my left hand, then added, “We’re not supposed to discuss the mine, got it?”

“Oops,” I laughed. “What you think I been telling these blokes? But they don’t believe it, so no worries, right?”

“Hrrump.” Val drained her mug and handed it back for a refill before the serving girl could leave. “I can see I’ll need a lot more of this.”

“Okay,” I said once everyone had settled in again, “let’s change the subject. Tell me about that cute elf, the ranger.” A groan went up from the table, and we were immediately left alone. I took the opportunity to finish my tankard and call for the next round in a fresh glass. I had gold. To the ninth hell with sobriety!

When collecting information, I find it better to let others talk as they will. They are more likely to tell me what I want to know if they don’t know what that is, and silence is a great motivator of speech. My tales of the mine have loosened other tongues, and from far corners I hear hushed rumor of a dragon attack near Sriss, or trappers beset by – something – in the Northwest. Someone worries that Voss has gone missing, until told that Hot-legs Jen hasn’t been seen either, so they must have run off together. Yet time and again I hear threat of an Orc invasion from the North, and all seem agreed that The Glade is no longer safe.

Val, her handsome Elven features more pronounced in the firelight’s soft glow, leans her head on my shoulder. She is soon snoring, and when I awoke it was morning.