First Quest (Part 1)
The Illuthar Continent glimmered in an era of unparalleled harmony and affluence, all credited to the sagacious leadership of Illuen D'Harven, the founder of the United Kingdom of Illuthia a mere four years ago.
Barnachia, the country's oldest and largest city, now teemed with over half a million inhabitants. However, the mountainous southern territories of the city remained a prickly thorn in the side of the knights whose duty was to uphold the city's safety. The craggy landscape was a nomadic haven where inhabitants rejected the norms of language, convention, and authority. Thieves' guilds had embedded themselves in the surrounding regions, entwining a web of power that spanned centuries. Furthermore, the region sat distantly from the epicenter of the Kings' Way and uncomfortably near the southeast trade route, making passage treacherous and bandit-infested.
As the duo journeyed through the area, Brad's thoughts meandered through the various challenges the region posed.
The area between the Seven Mountains' southern slope and the Charlatan Mountains, encompassing Barnachia in a broad arc, was notorious for the bandits and thieves that prowled the rough terrain. The knights on patrol themselves christened the place "Knight Damn." The bandits, on the other hand, were identified as "The Burrow" or the "Rescued Burrow."
"This land boasts the highest concentration of nonhumans," Ismeth observed as they rode through the countryside. "Shall we seek solace with the dwarves and indulge in a drink or two?"
Brad's reply was curt. "Have you familiarized yourself with the orders, Ismeth?"
Ismeth shook his head, nonchalantly chewing on a long straw.
"We have been dispatched to prevent a possible clash between a group of halflings and dwarves who are journeying to the town's fair."
"Aha," Ismeth exclaimed, "and now we find ourselves in a dire predicament. Just the two of us against the lot?"
Brad's eyes narrowed. "Do not be absurd. We will be under the command of a knight captain, Byron Stonecold."
Ismeth scoffed. "Double trouble, my dear Brad. The Stonecold captain is renowned for his ironclad heart and fierce temperament. I've heard whispers that his tactics are unconventional. Each man for himself, no camaraderie."
Brad shrugged, unaffected by Ismeth's cynicism. "The reports state that he was officially lamenting the lack of manpower. He demanded at least twenty men to accompany him."
Ismeth cackled, his cynical personality shining through. "Twenty men? What could he possibly do with so many? We could easily handle the halflings and dwarves ourselves. Charge at them on horseback and slice them down. Besides, there will be plenty of ale to go around."
"Enough, Ismeth," Brad reprimanded him sternly. "We must approach this task with utmost care and caution. We do not wish to get into trouble from the outset." Brad continued to caution his companion as they rode on.
Brad and Ismeth rode south to the foothills of the Charlathan Mountains, seeking to broaden their experience after months of training. Along the trade route, they encountered numerous horse-drawn carriages, each packed with merchants seeking fortune in distant lands. However, as they ventured further from the city, patrols grew sparse, and their journey became increasingly perilous.
As their journey neared its end, they stumbled upon a merchant caravan beckoning them with tempting respite, willing to grant the duo a generous pause in exchange for a fleeting protection on their travels. Yet, with utmost courtesy, Brad rebuffed their offers, steadfastly declaring their duty's urgency. Ismeth silently cursed Brad for missing out on a free meal and a chance to rest. From day one, he had observed Brad moving fast to impress the captain and reach their new assignments on time.
As evening approached, they finally departed the main road and made their way southwest towards the settlement, their bodies stiff and weary from the grueling seven-hour ride.
At the entrance of the Paledorn quarter, the southern wing of the Burrow, makeshift huts sprouted like mushrooms in the damp earth. Local kids gazed at the knights with sullen eyes, their whispers laden with hatred and contempt. Ismeth felt a pang of nostalgia, remembering his own youth spent in similar squalor.
"Aha, the thief guilds will know of our arrival before the captain does," Ismeth remarked, gesturing to one of the children who had been whispering and was now running in a particular direction.
Brad strode up to the pointy-eared boy, who still glared at them with suspicion.
"Good day, lad. Do you happen to know where the dwarven party has set up camp?" he inquired in a booming voice.
The boy didn't reply, but remained rooted to the spot.
"I reckon he's deaf," Ismeth remarked with a grin, turning to Brad. Then he bellowed at the little boy, "Are you deaf, you rascal? Answer me!"
The boy's legs trembled with fear as he pointed southward and bolted in the opposite direction.
"They only understand this language, Brad. You'll learn soon enough," Ismeth boasted, puffing out his chest like a peacock.
Brad shrugged, uneasy with the approach but desperate for any lead. The burrow was a labyrinth of treacherous streets and alleys filled with laundry on ropes, and every corner could be a potential ambush point.
"We must not venture too deep into these parts after dark," Brad said grimly. "That boy led us deeper into the slums."
Ahead lay a crossroads and a large crowd was roaring in the distance. Brad quickened his horse's pace and drew his sword, unveiling his shield. Ismeth, taken aback by his partner's sudden action, followed suit and drew his own sword, ready for any danger that lay ahead. In less than half a minute, Brad and Ismeth turned their horses left at the fork in the road and came across a wide plain where carriages were parked.
Among them, dwarves crowded together, forming a barrier with tower shields and round shields. Some of them held big, shiny hammers that glinted menacingly in the light. On the other side of the barrier, halflings carried whatever makeshift weapons they could find: scythes, spears, brooms, and sticks. Both sides were ready to attack, and the air was thick with the sound of chaos and uproar.
Without a moment's hesitation, Brad spurred his steed and positioned himself betwixt the two quarreling factions. The cacophony of clamoring voices and raucous clamor swelled like a tempest, testing Brad's resolve to unravel the tangled predicament. The stout figures of dwarves loomed before him, their tongues loosened by intoxication, rendering their words an unintelligible blur. Undeterred, Brad cautiously endeavored to raise his voice above the bedlam, attempting to bridge the auditory chasm between the disputing groups. Alas, his gentle endeavors proved fruitless, swallowed whole by the relentless turmoil that engulfed the scene.
"Silence!" he finally bellowed, his voice carrying like a lion's roar.
His voice thundered in the ears of the dwarves and halflings, startling everyone, including the horses. A few drunken dwarves stumbled and fell to the ground, while some cowardly halflings turned and ran. Even Ismeth, who had known Brad for three months, was taken aback by the sudden outburst. Brad, holding his horse's bridle tightly, looked like a flamboyant figure as his horse reared up. Finally, the big man had everyone's attention, and he began to speak in a calmer but commanding voice.
"I am Brad Silverhilt, a member of the esteemed Illuen Knighthood. Accompanied by my companion, Ismeth Crimsongale, we have arrived to lend an ear to you. But pray, might someone enlighten us as to the root of this commotion?"
A dwarven figure, standing at Brad's left, stepped forth with a jolly grin. "By the forge, lad, you sound like Demian's Horn of Doom!" he bellowed, his mane of red hair and beard aflame in the flickering torchlight. His brethren soon followed suit, chortling with mirth.
Meanwhile, a halfling, standing to Brad's right, came forward with a scowl etched on his weathered face. "These drunken dwarves have taken our rightful place!" he spat.
"Not at all, half-pint," a dwarf replied, his eyes flashing with a glint of defiance.
"Dwarfs the snot!" retorted one of the halflings.
A volley of race-specific curses was traded back and forth, threatening to rend the crowd apart. Brad, ever the level-headed one, dismounted his steed with practiced ease. With a mighty heave, he lifted a colossal log that lay nearby and hurled it into the fray, cleaving a path between the bickering factions. The log sailed through the air with awe-inspiring force, causing both sides to scatter in terror.
Once the chaos had subsided, the onlookers stared at Brad with a newfound admiration, whispering his name in hushed tones.
Brad narrowed his eyes, selecting a stout dwarf and a small halfling from the agitated crowd. "You," he said, jabbing a finger at the dwarf, "and you," he added, indicating the halfling. "Step forward onto this log."
"From henceforth, these two shall be your spokesmen. Any who dare to speak out of turn will feel the wrath of this mighty trunk upon their noggins. Do we have an accord?" he continued.
The crowd bobbed their heads in agreement.
"Now, what ails thee, dwarf?" Brad queried, his voice level and calm.
"We rented this space fair and square. Those shifty halflings crept in, uninvited," the drunken dwarf slurred.
"Very well," Brad acquiesced with a nod. He shifted his gaze towards the halfling, urging him to deliver his account with brevity. "And you, diminutive halfling, offer a concise and expeditious rendition of events." Brad's cautionary remark stemmed from his awareness of the halflings' penchant for loquaciousness.
"We had this spot first, sir," the halfling explained. "But these drunken oafs came in the night and chased us off into the bog below. Our wagons are now stuck in the mud, and they won't lift a finger to help!" his voice high-pitched and agitated.
"Aye, I understand. And who arranged this rental?" Brad queried.
"Corbin Thinfissle," they chimed in unison, sharing a startled glance.
"Where might we find this Corbin?" Brad asked, his eyes scanning the ramshackle inn to the north.
"Stony-Brokes Inn," they said, pointing to the crude wooden sign that creaked above the entrance.
Brad exchanged a brief nod with his partner, Ismeth, who dismounted reluctantly. "Good folk, hear me now. My compatriot and I shall make for this inn and negotiate with this Corbin Fissle character. The two on this log shall remain put until our return, and no man nor woman shall cross this boundary. Clear?"
"Or…" Ismeth said with a grin and pointed to the log.
The crowd nodded their heads in assent, awed by the commanding presence of these two strangers who bristled with swords at their hips. Brad and Ismeth made their way toward the inn, their footsteps ringing out across the cobblestones.
As they approached the ramshackle building, Ismeth's eyes narrowed in disgust. "So this is the infamous Stony-Brokes Inn. A den of filth and depravity," he remarked, flashing a crooked grin and a sly wink at Brad. "I have a feeling there will be trouble here."