Chapter 40: 3.2 – The Keep over the Borderlands

Robin sneezed. The thing about towns is that they are full of people, and when they’re full of people, they’re usually full of smells. In this case, Robin could smell food cooking, the scent of sawdust from a bit of construction further down the street, animal scent from the stables on the back of the wayfarers’s inn, and several other smells he couldn’t quite place.

At least it didn’t reek of the worse bits of a large gathering of people all in a small place. And while he had initially feared he’d be wading through streets choked with raw sewage, it looked like enough people in the settlement knew versions of [Cleanse] or [Legerdemain] and kept the place sanitary.

Robin had posed as a mountain trader, complete with a small brace of animals Ora-Jean had hunted down for him to trade. He was issued a day pass, warned to keep it on him at all times, to present it to any watchperson who asked to see it, and sent in. It was an unexpectedly autocratic level of control from what Robin expected to be a much more medieval sort of town. Not that pop culture had really stood him in good stead with his expectations so far.

In any case, he was inside! His first visit to a town not of Earth! And it was wildly apparent every way he looked. There were different architectural styles, many he could identify as having elvish elements thanks to his [Bardic Lore]. He didn’t see many elves, though. Halflings, yes, the occasional dwarf, several goat- and weaselkin, lots of humans—well, humanoids. Robin watched as a young woman with dusky skin and hair of flame walked past, careful not to edge too close to any of the occasional thatched buildings.

Robin found his way to a market square and traded his game and furs for a small bit of coin. He wasn’t used to haggling as such, but he’d been along plenty of times when his dad had done so (ah, the life of a farmer) and his knowledge skills and perks helped fill in the gaps. Enough that he was sure he’d gotten at least a decent deal.

Thus provisioned, Robin revved up his Gossip skills and asked around about the local taverns. It was completely within his character and key to the next phase of the plan: gathering intel. It didn’t take long until he knew where he was headed next.

Robin stood outside a large building. It was whitewashed and painted in a style not unlike what he thought of now as ‘Earth-Tudor’, and the sign hanging out front bore the painted image of a large silver bell and a huge, tusked-and-hairy pig: the Bell and Boar Tavern.

Stepping inside, it was clear this was a popular place. It was large and open on this level, with benches carved out of each of the walls, and rectangular tables lining the edges of the room. Smaller, round tables were scattered throughout the middle of the room. A raised stage stood at one end, while the bar stood at the other. Robin could easily spot the door to the kitchen. It was open and blazing with light and clatter.

There was someone playing a harp and singing on the stage, but Robin ignored her for now in favour of getting a drink first. A drink said you were approachable. A drink said you were here to relax. A drink gave you something to do with your hands so things were less awkward.

The bar was polished oak, clearly lovingly cared for. A large, jovial man with muttonchops stood behind the bar, arms crossed. Behind the bar, Robin could clearly see the bill of fare. Listed drinks included ale, small beer, wine, honey mead, and birchbark tea. If Robin had wanted or needed food, the bill of fare listed options like stew, bread, roasts of fowl or joint, cheese, fruit, and pudding.

Robin paused looking at the mead. Mead was the last thing he’d drunk before waking up in this world. Was that a good sign or a bad one? Good, he decided, and ordered one.

‘Excellent choice!’ The barkeep beamed at him. ‘You clearly have the finest of tastes, young man!’

The man’s voice was the verbal equivalent of being slapped heartily on the back by an overly enthusiastic uncle. Robin managed a smile and a few words before extracting himself to find a seat.

Well over a dozen patrons were scattered throughout the tavern, though the space was so large it felt anything but crowded. In one corner, a pair of old men were clearly several pints along even though it was only early afternoon. Across from them was a group of four individuals whose dress and manner just screamed ‘adventurer’.

There was a curly-haired halfling woman in shining chain mail, with a tabard and shield each bearing what looked like some sort of religious sigildry. A buff man with a snide face sat across from her. He was wearing a combination of furs and breastplate which did not fit at all with his bizarrely bare legs and open helm sporting rampant dragonwings.

Robin decided he looked like a right pervert.

The other two occupants of the table were standing and clearly in the midst of a heated argument. The more striking of the two was a glamazonian blonde, all muscles and scars and fierce-as-fuck runway eyes. Whatever the problem was, Robin decided he was on her side. The other guy was equally tall and rangy, with a lot of gold jewellery, the fantasy equivalent of bell bottoms and a harness, and what Robin suspected were some kind of enchanted sandals. There was no reason to wear sandals like that in the mountains in spring, unless they were bloody well enchanted.

As he watched, the altercation hit a high point and the woman lunged across the table, grabbing the man by the harness and hauling him across to her. Effortlessly, she spun him around until she was holding him, upside-down, by the waist. She started shaking him violently until glimmering coins, sparkling gems, and even an expensive-looking book fell out of his pack and pockets.

‘Oi! Not in here!’ A voice echoed through the tavern. ‘If you’re gonna scrap, you take it out back to the alley like the rest of the rubbish!’

A young man with dusky skin and night-dark hair started over. Robin had seen him delivering drinks and collecting empty flagons as he waited at the bar. He wasn’t a tavern wench, of course. Tavern swain? Barswain? Yes. Barswain.

Before the situation could escalate further, however, there was a resounding chord from the stage. The notes rippled through the air, causing an almost visible disturbance as they passed, and leaving stunned silence in their wake.

‘I was in the middle of my set,’ the woman on the stage said mildly. ‘It’s impolite to interrupt a performance.’

She sat upon the stage like it was the throne of all the world and she the queen. Flaming locks of auburn hair, eyes of emerald green, and a figure so generous it would make Father Christmas look like a greedy miser.

If that wasn’t a maxed-out Charisma stat, Robin didn’t know what was!

Then, as if that weren’t enough, she promptly ignored the patrons of the tavern and launched into another song. But what a song! She sang of clear mountain air and sunshine over snow-capped peaks, she sang of the pride of the people who made their home in this place, of the cry of the hawk and the glory of unbending stone.

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She was stunning, silver-tongued, and sex-on-harpstrings, a lethal combination. Robin knew better than to try and buy her a drink, but the alter-ego he was developing, his performance persona? He, Marq, certainly might. Of course Marq would also challenge her right here, right now, on that stage. Robin knew enough to know he’d probably lose, though. He was still getting a feel for his new bardic skill set.

Robin chose the better part of valour, for now. He had a mission. He caught the handsome barswain as he passed.

‘That sort of thing happen often in here?’ Robin jerked his chin toward the adventuring party, who were now all sitting quietly—if sullenly—and nursing a round of ales.

‘More often than I’d like, considering I’m the one that usually has to deal with it,’ the lad huffed.

There was something odd about his eyes, Robin noticed. He didn’t know what it was precisely, but there was a strange, fey touch to them. Not that it was creepy. Quite the opposite, really.

He managed to get only a few sentences out of the guy, Avanus, before the barswain slipped off, ostensibly back to work. Robin noticed he went directly over to a shady-looking character who slipped in the door just long enough to take a small pouch from Avanus and slip off again.

Interesting.

Robin made a mental note of that little fact and moseyed on over to talk to the two inebriated gentlemen. He had a lot of information to gather, and only so much time to do it in. His pass was only good for the day, after all.

Fortunately, the two old codgers, like old people in any small town, loved nothing more than to gossip and swap stories about everyone and everything in a hundred-mile radius. If they didn’t know it, it was hardly worth knowing. Or so well hidden, you’d need a map and compass to find it.

For the price of a few drinks, Robin got a lot of good information out of them, about who worked which gate and when, what their personal failings were, and more. Of course he had to sift it out of reams of chatter about this feller being the son of that lady, who was from off t’other side of the mountain, or oh weren’t it a scandal that he ran off with blah blah blah.

He even got plenty of gossip and speculation about Avanus. A good enough lad, the two old codgers thought, though it’s a pity he’s caught up in some shady business with…well, it was rebels or organised crime or those strange folk out in the wood. The two old men couldn’t quite agree on which.

Whatever it was, Robin marked Avanus out as someone definitely worth investigating a bit more. In fact, this tavern had quite a few interesting characters. His eyes drifted back to the red-haired bard on the stage.

‘She’s a good performer, is our Lena,’ the older of the two codgers, Liam, said with a nod. ‘Could do well for herself in any of the big cities to the North, and she travels a lot, aye, but she always comes back here to play for the town.’

Robin couldn’t tell if that was pride in a local made good, or pride in some sort of relative or descendant, but he decided it ultimately didn’t matter. In places like this, that line could get very blurry.

‘Not that these new fellers in charge as makes it easy on her, or any entertainers, these days,’ the other codger, Willam, grumbled. ‘Ye’d think they as had a grudge against havin’ a good time!’

Oho. A bit of unrest with the new overlords. Robin was happy to hear that. Might make for a nice diversion, when the time came.

‘I’m a bard myself,’ he said, not really paying attention to what he was saying, his mind sorting through all the fresh information the two old men had provided.

He should have kept his mouth shut. The two old men immediately seized on that fact and began to make trouble. After all, couldn’t have a stranger to town showing up the local talent! Not that they’d ever believe that possible. But best put the stranger in his place anyway, right?

The two codgers hassled him for details, egging him on more and more to ‘show ‘em what ye’ve got’. Robin tried to downplay things, to defuse the situation, but in that, he failed spectacularly.

The two old men appealed to a higher authority.

‘Oi! Lena!’ Liam shouted. ‘Ye’ve got yerself a rival!’

Robin suddenly found himself on the receiving end of a very pointed stare from the woman on the stage.

Fuck.

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