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The window of the inn shattered into a thousand pieces as the bulky dwarf was thrown through it. Had he not been wearing his padded leather armor, he may have been sliced to ribbons on all the broken glass. Gorplin, son of Thorplin of Kaz-Ulum, landed in a heap on the cobblestone road outside The Graceful Gabbin, one of two inns in the city they were exploring.
Tory Greenwall, former commander of troops and member of Thoran's elite group of warriors, the Swords of the King, wasn't surprised that the dwarf had found himself as a part of an altercation with some of the locals. Being one of the only dwarves on a continent full of elves and a handful of humans could have that effect on anyone if they were in the same boat as he was.
Since sailing to Irradan and away from their homeland of Ruyn, the prince of dwarves had become more and more reckless. Not just with his fists, but with his words as well. This time, the stout dwarf had challenged the wrong sailor to an argument about why the dwarven race made the best ships in the entire planet. There had been more than a minimal disagreement.
Tory had enjoyed the first part of the conversation and had imagined that, had there been less ale in each of them, the discussion could have gone on without incident. But both were offended by the other's claim and Gorplin had lost the support of his comrades after a full two dozen slightly inebriated sailors realized the dwarf had insulted everything from their ship building abilities to their mothers.
Felicia Stormchaser, their fearless captain, had at one point rolled her eyes at the whole thing and continued her conversation with the tall and dark skinned owner of the inn. The man had almost agreed to give them board for a few nights in exchange for a fair price. Then Gorplin was sent through one of his two good windows. Tory imagined they wouldn't be receiving a warm welcome at the Graceful Gabbin for a long time.
He walked out of the inn to the cheers of the sailors, who had broken into song and a new round of drinks. For a moment, he just stood over Gorplin. The dwarf lay face down in the street, muttering curses in common speech and dwarven tongues alike.
“Let me back in there,” he sputtered finally as he found that his hands were useful for more than wallowing and he began sitting himself up.
Tory grabbed the back of his leather armor and pulled him into a sitting position. With Gorplin's considerable stockiness and current state, this was no small feat. He sat down next to the dwarf in the street and let out a deep breath.
“I doubt they'll let us back in now,” he observed as the rest of their crew filed out of the doorway and into the street, prodded by a very annoyed looking inn keeper. Tory saw a few coins being pushed into his hands by Felicia.
So had their journey gone since leaving Lone Peak and beginning their trip along the coast of Irradan. They would find a port, look around for inns and bars and the like to see what the local stories were about trees.
A big waste of time, Tory thought.
Not one pub, from River Grove to Brewood, had legends about trees, especially really big, important ones, which is what Tory always envisioned when he thought of what they were looking for. And so they either stayed at an inn, if funds allowed or if their crew could keep out of trouble, or else they slept on the boat. The Willow's Flight had served them well. The ship could take a beating in a storm and keep riding out the waves for a fortnight.
Tory was not one to love sleeping on the vessel, however. He tried to make his hammock hang from some support beams in the direct middle of the boat. He had failed to find the center quite right. As a result, he claimed the off-balance rocking kept him awake at night.
Felicia hadn't even considered his complaining worth a second conversation. Urt had held up a hand when Tory wanted to push her further. Being a hand shorter than Urt and nowhere near as broad, Tory did not dare defy the bulking, catlike man.
Every night they slept onboard the boat, then, was a constant battle between Tory trying to find just the right spot for his hammock and Gorplin complaining that he couldn't sleep with all the noise Tory was making. Even Jurrin, their ever-polite halfling companion, had taken to stuffing copious amounts of cloth into his ears to help him rest.
Theirs was a ragtag crew, there was no denying it.
“Back to the boat, you lot,” Felicia said without giving Tory or Gorplin a second glance. “We sleep there tonight.”
The walk back to the boat was a somber one. Tory was not at all looking forward to another restless night on the floating hammock holder and it seemed like Gorplin was going to continue to be in a bad mood for the rest of the evening.
“Uncouth sailors...” he mumbled under his breath as he staggered down the road.
Tory gave him a small push forward.
“Who's uncouth?” he asked, feeling more than a little put out. “Didn't you call one of their mothers a...”
“Stop yammerin',” Felicia said from the front of their group.
Tory could tell her tone was one of annoyance.
He didn't blame her.
While Felicia could live on a boat for the rest of her days and be content, there was a slight disconcerting feeling Tory was getting from her. Perhaps she was just as disappointed as he was that they hadn't found any information about any trees or legends of trees. Brewood was the third city they had traveled to. There were still plenty more to try, but with their lack of any substantial leads, it was beginning to look bleak.
Darrion was a kingdom that was wholly based off of their sea trade. Ships sailed from one port to another, carrying wool and wheat south, while furs and leather went north. Darrion had many legends and tales to share. Barmen told of elves who could build entire cities with just a thought. Sailors talked of pirates in the inner sea who could sneak upon a vessel undetected to attack it and then vanish without a trace. Monsters lived in the woods to the north. Giant spiders and elves who were as tall as three men stacked on top of one another.
But not one story about a tree.
Not one.
The suns had set and the stars above were burning brightly in the crisp night air. Tory wrapped his arms around himself and thought about complaining of the cold. As if knowing what was on the tip of his tongue, Felicia gave him a hard look.
It was more than enough to convince him to keep quiet.
As they turned the corner of the street that would take them all the way down to the docks, a flash of orange and red came from the main thoroughfare. A commotion of people, torches, shadows, and various sharp and long objects pierced the night. The buildings along the street were red with firelight and shouts drifting over the deceptively peaceful area of town they had just walked through.
“Draw swords,” Felicia commanded, unsheathing her blade and turning to look at them. “That's a riot if I've ever seen one.”