It wasn’t hard to guess the history of this part of town. Given its name, it had probably been the city’s harbor once, only to be replaced by the aptly named Newport.
The buildings to his left and right were in different states of decay, and some looked deserted, save for some rodents. The plaster was crumbling under his feet, and an entirely unpleasant smell of rotting wood filled the alleyways. Kraghtol briefly considered just makinghis home in one of these deserted houses but quickly discarded the thought. That was most probably forbidden in some way, and the prospect of living through the winter in a ruin surrounded by rubble and filth wasn’t quite how he imagined his adventure to begin.
There were fewer people on the streets here than in the other districts, and most of the passers-by he encountered tried to hurry along their way as quickly as possible.
Something else was conspicuously absent, too: any signs hinting towards rooms for rent.
Over the course of the next hour, his frustration continued to grow until he was ready to return to Crafters Quarter for one more try there before the day was over. However, just as he was trying to figure out which way to go, a nearby building caught his eye. It was apparently a tavern of sorts, although that was only noticeable by the faded sign showing a mug. There was no written name in sight, but judging by the environment, it wouldn’t have served much purpose, anyway.
It was as good a chance as any, Kraghtol figured and went inside with little of a second thought.
The interior of the house wasn’t much cleaner than the outside: the empty tables and chairs had seen better days, and the floor was so sticky from spilled ale that his boots produced a smacking noise with each step. The only person currently in the tavern, the owner Kraghtol guessed, wasn’t much cleaner than his establishment. A scruff bit of partially graying stubble, unevenly cut at least two days in the past, adorned a firm chin in a scruffy face. He was chewing something, most probably tobacco, and he didn’t stop when Kraghtol approached. The dark eyes, however, were unusually sharp and, for some reason, didn’tquite fit the rest of the tavern owner’s appearance. Even though he was objectively weaker than the half-orc, this man lookeddangerous.
But that was most probably just Kraghtol’s imagination running wild again. He ignored the thoughts and nodded a friendly greeting.
“Hello. I am looking for a place to stay for the next months. Do you have a room for rent by any chance? My name is Kragh Wulfspar, and I assure you, I pose no danger, despite my unusual appearance.”
He had practiced this greeting multiple times now, the first few dozen times in his head, and then in the presence of various other potential landlords.
The other man scrutinized him closely before pushing the lump of tobacco he was chewing on into his cheek and answering,
“Name’s Calder Rann. And yes, I got rooms. Question is: Can you pay?”
It was rare for Kraghtol to get this far.
“Of course, I got some coins. How much would it cost?”
Since the guild regulated the prices, this question was actually an inquiry about the size and general condition of the lodging. It was one advantage of the system: You didn’t have to think about how to price your goods. Given that, Calder pondered the question unusually long and finally answered with a return question.
“You look strong. Intimidating. Do you have any fighting experience?”
Kraghtol was confused. It didn’t sound like the tavern owner was trying to gauge whether he was a troublemaker.
“A… bit,”
Kraghtol answered carefully, and Calder crossed his arms, chewing a bit more.
“I actually got two rooms. Standard inn room, upstairs, nothing special. Will cost you 6 silver coins a month.”
That was surprisingly pricey. Kraghtol felt compelled to ask the obvious question, though.
“And the other room?”
“Ground floor, pretty small. Costs 1 silver coin… and a job.”
One silver coin! That, on the other hand, wasexceedinglycheap. There had to be a catch.
“You want me to do a… job for you?”
Kraghtol asked slowly, while his mind was already painting all kinds of scenarios. He had asked about fighting experience, so perhaps he expected him to fight someone? Was there some kind of fighting competition or arena in the city? Or was the dark-eyed man involved in some criminal affairs and wanted to use Kraghtol to get rid of his enemies? Or perhaps…
“I need a bouncer. Sometimes, the folks around here have a few too many beers and start fights. You look intimidating enough to break them up, and strong enough to throw them out otherwise.”
That was tame compared to the images Kraghtol had been conjuring up in his mind. Still, he wasn’t entirely happy. When he had left Mistpine, he had hoped to leave the violence behind. But it seemed like it had gotten to Winterstone first and was now greeting the half-orc with its ugly grin. On the other hand, throwing drunkards out of a bar didn’t soundtoobad. And one silver coin really wasn’t a lot. He could easily earn that back by occasionally working on the side.
“So? What’s it gonna be?”
“I take it!”
