Chapter Text
Chendrok was not a particularly large or wealthy city, despite its good location. A major trade road crossed a slow-moving river, allowing ease of access for both people and resources. Supported by this, the city had worked up to a population of several thousand, mostly human. However, heavy traffic did not always mean heavy purses. The wooden buildings were largely unpainted, the streets were unpaved, and in most places, the businesses came and went so frequently that signs were simply not hung by their doors. One notable exception was a squat log-walled building, whose dingy sign with peeling paint identified it as the Black Briar Boar – a reference to a once local legend, now merely a children’s story. It was probably the most popular tavern in town, mostly because of its location a scant hundred yards from the city’s east gate, but also because of its reputation for “no questions asked”.
Outside, in the light foot traffic under scattered clouds noontime clouds, a large man dragged a smaller girl towards the tavern. The man – tall, sturdy, and moderately well-dressed – pointed at the doorway with one hand, while the other gripped the cloak of the girl, who was slender to the point of being underfed and barely five feet in her tattered cloth shoes. “We’ve had this discussion,” he said in a stern, I-don’t-want-any-back-talk voice, “You're puttin' too much effort into scams, and you’re not getting any better at pickin’ pockets. Now, we took you off the streets, and we paid good money to house you, feed you, and clothe you. We even taught you a trade. Several trades, back on point. And you’re gonna continue to be a coin-earning member of our family, ain’t you? Or do you think you’d be better on your own? Do you, Salia?”
The expression on her face, framed by long light-brown hair, would have told anyone who cared that Salia was between an especially jagged rock and a hard place with spikes mounted on it. Nobody wanted to be thrown out on the street with literally just the clothes on their back – Chendrok was no exception to this rule. That, and the clothes on her back amounted to a dress patched up so much it was now mostly rags, plus a drab brown wool cloak she’d outgrown four years ago, so that wasn’t much either. But what this man, Flen, her…the safe term was “mentor” because “owner” wasn’t technically true…was demanding was still something she'd test refusing. "Wait, ‘Uncle' Agglex said this guy was big, wearing leather armor, and carrying a mean-looking hammer. Do you really want me practicing 'lifting' on some barbarian who could--"
"Stop stallin'," Flen interrupted.
Salia dared a bit further. "Come on, I'm better with cons. You know I'm better with cons. Just let me--"
“Stop stallin’! It's time for you to work under pressure. You won't learn nothin' if it means nothin' if you fail. And I'm done with you leaning on only one of your trades -- not after all the time we spent preppin' you. Soften him up with a con if you want, but if you don’t come out of there with a handful of his coins, without him knowing, then you and I are going to have a long talk about what you owe me. We clear?”
Salia bowed her head, effectively nodding in acceptance of the lesser of two evils. Flen shoved her towards the Black Briar Boar’s open doorway.
The stranger in town ‘Uncle’ Agglex (not her real uncle, obviously, but a colleague of Flen’s) had spotted was easy to pick out. Even with his back turned towards the door, the wide-shouldered figure in hardened leather armor, with a steel-headed sledgehammer across his back, had to be six foot six, maybe taller. He was seated at the bar, hunched over a plate of something Salia couldn’t see. The way the bulky visitor was eating, it was either really tasty, or he was really hungry. Salia could see a large pouch at one hip, and a weather-beaten backpack sitting by the figure’s booted feet. She’d seen a lot of travelers and their gear, enough to know the high-quality functional travel gear from the cheap ones sold by the low-rent businesses around the market square. These were the former, so there was hope for some coin after all. And it looked like she could reach the purse and the backpack without making it too obvious.
Still, Salia was really, really not looking forward to this. She couldn’t see his face, only the back of his leather helmet (bobbing up and down as he devoured his meal) but she could see enough. Not only was this mercenary, or whatever, quite tall and broad, he had thick arms and serious weapons – not just the large solid steel hammer over his back, but also some kind of war-hatchet at his hip. If things went badly, she could very easily be badly injured or killed. Would Flen throw her out on her own if she tried, and failed? He would if she gave up, that part was for certain.
The mark seemed the wandering warrior type, most likely either here on some mission, or stopping by on the way to some mission. Pretending to be a tour guide who knew everyone and everywhere would be the con to run…if she was allowed to run one, which she wasn’t. But it might get her within arm’s, or more importantly fingers’, reach.
This would either work, or she would get torn in half.
“Excuse me, sir, could I help you find –“ was as far as she got, before the stranger turned around.
‘Uncle’ Agglex really, really should have mentioned that the visitor was a dragonborn. The pronounced reptilian snout was a giveaway, as were the mottled brown and yellow leathery scales on his face, resembling bronze that spent too long outside. The ropy tendrils that came out of the back of his head were tucked under his leather helmet’s back flap, but she could see them now that he had turned to face her. And the fingertips of his leather gauntlets were missing, exposing short, dull claws, like a large hound’s. Salia had seen a few dragonborn before, as they weren’t completely unheard of, but knew little about them. He probably spoke Common, but how did they act? What did they want? Were there special punishments in dragonborn culture for pickpockets?
Oh, gods, she was going to get torn in half, wasn't she?
These and other thoughts ran through Salia’s head as she stood, effectively paralyzed, as the scaled warrior finished chewing a mouthful and swallowed. A bout of silence followed.
Finally he spoke. A soft, deep voice, heavily (and unfamiliarly) accented, asked “Find what?”
“Um, what's going on in town? I mean, if you’re hunting for someone, or something, or…” she stammered to a halt, wringing her hands. This was going horrifyingly badly. The bad start had prevented her from taking a single step closer to the stranger, who was now staring directly at her hands. She suddenly found the floorboards and her shoes worthy of a staring contest. If she could bottle and sell awkwardness, she’d be rich beyond her wildest dreams any second now.
She could feel the dragonborn’s snake-like eyes on her, and she started trembling with nervousness, followed shortly by fear. If there were any sounds being made in the rest of the tavern, she couldn’t hear them over her own pounding heart and sudden bout of panicked sniffling.
The soft voice came again, quieter this time. “No, thank you.”
Her head whipped up. “Wait, please, I need to get – “
He interrupted, his voice seeming to bury hers. “I’m passing through, not staying. I don’t need you.”
Salia stood there for a moment or two, mouth open, but found no words to force through it. This exercise was over, and she had failed. Dejected, she turned and left the building, ready to face whatever punishment Flen would levy on her.
Flen, being no idiot, knew by Salia’s slow, shuffling pace and hanging head that she’d come away empty-handed. “How in the Nine Hells did you screw this up?”
“He was a dragonborn! He barely speaks Common! I didn’t know what to do!”
Flen kneeled and grabbed her by both shoulders, shouting directly into her face. “That’s no excuse! After all I’ve done for you, all these years, and your first –“ As Salia started crying in fear, Flen started shaking her to maintain her full attention. “Your first real challenge, your first chance to prove you've learned, you belong in our family, your…” he trailed off, his eyes looking behind her.
Salia turned to follow his gaze. The dragonborn was leaning against the doorway of the Black Briar Boar, staring directly at the two of them. While she was not an expert with reptilian faces, she was pretty sure what was written on this face was “I strongly disapprove.”
Flen clearly saw it, too. Flen, himself, was an imposing figure, standing over six feet and muscular. But he had aged twenty years past his prime, losing some hair and growing a tad soft around his slightly-expanded waistline in the process. And, even past that, the stranger was half a foot taller, probably a hundred pounds of muscle heavier, armed, and armored. Again, Flen was no idiot. A straight-up fair fight was not going to be his best friend. Grabbing Salia’s arm, Flen growled “We’ll talk about this at home,” and dragged her away as fast as the two of them could go.