I clasp his shoulder in the warrior's grip, feeling the coiled tension beneath his fur. "May your enemies tremble at your approach, brother."
"And may yours lie broken at your feet." He returns the clasp, then looks between Forla and me. "When the blood-debtis settled, I'll seek you out. We shall conquer Protheka and damn the dark elves to shit filled graves!"
“Sounds like a plan, my friend.” I reply.
"Then it's settled." Rophan turns toward the waiting boat, then pauses. "Watch yourselves in this place. The Fisher People... they're not what they seem."
We watch him stride down the pier, his hooves echoing off wet stone. The crew receives him with that unsettling deference they showed earlier, guiding him aboard with fluid movements. He disappears below deck.
"Let's get out of here," Forla whispers, voicing what we're both thinking.
I nod, scanning the empty harbor. "We'll head north along the coast, away from this wrong place."
The Fisher People have retreated to their dwellings, but I can feel them watching from behind shuttered windows. Every shadow seems to hold pale faces, every whisper of wind carries the sound of voices speaking in tongues I don't recognize.
"Something's not right about any of this," I mutter, my hand instinctively moving to my sword hilt. "The way they look at us, like we're..."
"Meat," Forla finishes. "Like we're meat they're deciding how to prepare."
We start walking toward the village edge, our footsteps echoing off stone walls that weep with moisture. The houses lean inward as if listening to our conversation, and the carved fish decorating their eaves seem to track our movement with painted eyes.
"We'll find shelter outside the village," I say. "Sleep rough for one night, then put this place behind us forever."
But as we reach the last row of houses, a figure steps from the constant mist.
He's human—tall and weathered, with the deep tan of someone who's spent years working the sea. His hair is steel-gray, pulled back in a sailor's knot, and his clothes are simple but well-made. Unlike the other Fisher People, there's nothing immediately wrong about him. No pale eyes or needle teeth, no unsettling fluid grace.
"Travelers!" he calls, his voice warm and welcoming. "Leaving us so soon?"
I place myself between him and Forla, but he raises his hands in a gesture of peace, a genuine smile creasing his weathered features.
"Easy, friend. I'm Anchor—named for my inability to stay in one place for long." He chuckles at his own joke. "I heard strangers had come to Penmorvah, thought I'd offer proper hospitality before you venture back into the wild."
There's something disarmingly honest about him, a straightforward manner that contrasts sharply with the other villagers' strangeness. When he smiles, I glimpse normal human teeth, and his eyes are a warm brown instead of that unsettling pale green.
"We appreciate the thought," Forla says carefully, "but we have business north."
"Of course you do. Everyone's got business somewhere." Anchor nods understanding. "But you look like you've been traveling hard. When's the last time you slept on a proper bed? Ate a hot meal that wasn't trail rations?"
The questions hit harder than they should. We've been sleeping rough for days—cold ground, insufficient shelter, always watching for pursuit. My ribs ache from arena wounds that never fully healed, and exhaustion weighs on both of us like lead cloaks.
"I've got a place just outside the main village," Anchor continues, gesturing toward a path that leads up the hillside."Nothing fancy, but it's got a good fire, hot food, and a proper bed with a real mattress." His grin becomes slightly wicked. "Sturdy frame too—built for activity, if you take my meaning. Strong enough for a lady to take an orc pounding without so much as a creak."
Heat floods Forla's cheeks, but she laughs despite herself. There's something refreshing about his crude honesty after the Fisher People's unsettling formality.
"We don't want to impose," I say, though the offer tempts me more than it should.
"No imposition at all. I don't get many visitors worth talking to." Anchor's eyes twinkle with genuine warmth. "Most folks who pass through Penmorvah are either Fisher People—and they're strange as sin—or merchants too busy counting coin to share a proper drink."
I look at Forla, seeing my own exhaustion reflected in her face. When's the last time we felt truly safe? When did we last have privacy, comfort, the simple luxury of not sleeping with one eye open?
"Just for the night," she says quietly. "We leave at dawn."
"Wouldn't dream of keeping you longer." Anchor beams. "Come on then. Let's get some food in you, some warmth in your bones. The hills will still be there tomorrow."
He leads us up a winding path that climbs away from the village proper, chatting easily about the weather, the strangeness of the Fisher People, the best routes north through the mountains. His manner is so normal, so refreshingly human, that some of my tension begins to ease.
Maybe not everyone in Penmorvah is touched by whatever wrongness governs the Fisher People. Maybe we've found the one genuine soul in this cursed place.
