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Perpetually resting in the shadow of the mountains, Hatch was the sort of lonely little town constantly on the wrong end of jokes about close-knit genetics. Dwarfed so completely by its surroundings, stunning mountains to the north and a sizeable lake to the south, there was seldom a cartographer who could be bothered even making note of it. In short, nothing much went on.
The days there were dull, grey, so same-y that it was nigh impossible to tell when one ended and another began. The monotonous drone of existence was quite happy to tick along in the background, a simple footnote of life in Geth.
It was because of this enduring mediocrity that when something of note actually did happen, it became the talk of the town. To this day, a young Faun still fondly reminisces one such strange occurrence, aided by his not inconsiderable talent for spicing up the more mundane details. Bran, for that was his name, had been having a morning that was exceedingly regular, his shift behind the merchant’s counter as tedious and uneventful as ever. As was the way of the universe, there were enough customers to be a nuisance but not enough to keep him from falling asleep right where he stood. His eyes, soft and brown beneath a mop of hair, were weary and slow, more often than not glassed over as he daydreamed of being literally anywhere else.
It was just past lunchtime that he heard them approaching, from quite a distance, mind you. It wasn’t that he was listening out for anything in particular, but more that they were being rather obnoxiously noisy. Two voices, both belonging to men, bickered incessantly over one another as they made their way down the dirt path. Quite what they were arguing about, it was hard to judge - in fact it was hard to tell whether they weren’t simply arguing the same side back and forth. It had to be about money or women, they were the only things men ever fought about around these parts, they were far too predictable for their own good.
“-ruined my day, ruined my clothes-“ The deeper voice cries, as if halfway through a very long and very improvised list. It was easy to imagine from his tone that he was counting each thing off facetiously on his fingers.
“-It’s only a bit of water.” The other one reasons, and his voice was lighter, friendlier, inexplicably more melodic.
“Only a bit of water?!” The first man says incredulously, “It’s ten degrees out, I’ll probably catch pneumonia and die.”
“Stop being such a drama queen, it’s childish.”
“Says the one who pushed me into a f-“ the bell above the door tinkled as he pushed his way inside, “-king lake!”
The one with the deeper voice turned out to be a human, some kind of sailor by the looks of him, with an eye patch and a scattering of roguish scruff on his chin. The legality of this sailing was something that Bran didn’t feel up to questioning, but he doubted any legitimate sailor could afford to dress himself so theatrically. The other, a half orc, had to stoop a little to get through the doorway - he wore much more practical attire, but with an exotic-looking instrument strung across his back, almost like a lute but with two necks.
As Bran took them up and down, he figured that they didn’t exactly seem the type to be fighting over women.
He never enjoyed serving the adventuring sorts. Sure, he found them endlessly fascinating, but they were a quick-tempered folk with more blades than sense, which seemed to ring true for at least one of his two new customers. Despite this, their intimidating air was dampened somewhat (as it were), by the fact that they were both dripping profusely onto the shop floorboards, the pair of them soaked to the skin.
“You say pushed, I say fell.” The half orc says, smirking broadly.
The pirate just glared sullenly at the shop display of hempen rope strung on the walls, silently fuming.
“And you know this whole situation could have been avoided if you hadn’t tried to steal my money in the first place.” The orc thinks for a second before adding, “or if you hadn’t accosted me on my way to make a deposit, for that matter.”
Oh, so this was about money after all.
“I would hardly call it stealing.”
The half orc gives a derisive scoff, but he was clearly having a lot of fun, “What would you call it then?”
“Uh… well…” he hesitates, spluttering furiously, “you were never going to spend it, plus it belongs to all of the Oxventurers, not just you.”
“Don’t forget that you gave me most of that money back when I was treasurer.”
The pirate shudders, “And that mistake haunts my every waking hour-“ having apparently given up perusing the shelves, he turns his attention to Bran rather suddenly. “-where is your strongest grog, my good man?”
More than a little taken aback, Bran points numbly to his right, to the top shelf laden with dark bottles. The manager had told him that you were supposed to drink the contents, although Bran reckoned that they’d be better suited as a cheap accelerant. The pirate strode towards them with as much dignity as a man could whilst looking like a drowned rat, reaching up on tiptoe. Clearly straining as hard as he could to grab at one, his fingertips only just brushed against the bottles, giving him no purchase. He huffed out a breath and dropped back down, then shot a glare at his companion without saying a word.
The half orc, who was a little over a head taller than his scowling friend, grabbed a couple of bottles from the shelf and dropped them down on the counter. He was fairly obviously biting back a grin.
Bran cleared his throat, “Is that all?”
“Yes, yes, just those two please.” The half orc smiled at him, and it was sweet and unexpectedly disarming.
The pirate promptly slid two coins across to him, along with a handful of water and some unidentified green-ish slime.
Brow tentatively furrowed, Bran looked down at the coins and back up at the pirate. He said nothing but he trusted his expression conveyed the general sentiment.
“Sorry I uh-“ the pirate gives his friend a meaningful stare, “ fell in a lake.”