The quant township of Bagsrad was like any other—the tavern being the only noteworthy place of investigation. For Hanar the Mighty and Loseph the Cunning, these poor living areas were often the best places for gathering information. The people in these towns longed to feel a connection with the kingdoms, and as such, rumors swirled furiously, and travelers passed through unchecked.
Every poor man working in the mines, the mills, the fields, or the Courier's Cavalcade always ended the day’s hard labor in the tavern. Each with stories to tell and rumors heard on the road; every soul eager to be the center of attention—even if only for a moment amid drunken comrades. Hanar took pride in his conversational talents, moreso in his natural affinity for withdrawing truth from fiction.
Mud sloshed under each step, heavy boots smashing into the wet soil. Upon their arrival to the small township, their nostrils were greeted with the stench of the working class, a foul aroma that Hanar despised. The heavy rain followed their travel the past two days, slowing their pace—calling to need unprepared stops to wait out the heaviest bits that blurred their vision under the starless night sky.
The tavern doors parted, chatter fell mute as the patrons set their eyes upon Hanar, the hulking mammoth of a man whose reputation preceded him. Loseph, his plump, dwarf partner, stood under the archway beside him—his reputation known as far and wide as Hanar’s.
The two sopping men shared an assured glance, then patted water from their shoulders and breastplates. Hanar scanned the tavern, his eyes squinting in concentration, his mind sizing up the seven drunken men huddled around a table in the corner; the only patrons inside. Let one o’ them drunkards unleash a cross tongue.
Loseph, the unassuming dwarf, strode toward the tavern keep—his usual predisposition for haste on full display. A quality that irked Hanar more than he felt it a benefit.
"Aye, barkeep," the confident dwarf said. "Two o' yer best ales for me an' me ridin' mate."
The tavern keep’s eyes widened, halting his towel wiping—cleanliness no longer a priority; Hanar had grown accustomed to similar reactions.
"I know ye two," the barkeep said. "We don't want no trouble here."
The slouching behemoth under the archway straightened his posture, his broad frame nearly spanning the full width of the entrance. A sly grin crawled across Hanar the Mighty; he revealed in the recognition.
"Pour the damn ale," Hanar said in a slow droll. "We ain't lookin' fer trouble. We come here same as these fine lads”—his giant, bald head angled at the only patrons in the tavern—"to relish in the merriment o’ the day."
"Not much merra-ma-ment 'round here," the barkeep said. "Rain damn near washed the mines out."
"That so?" Loseph said from behind lowered eyes.
The inscrutable dwarf climbed an empty stool, holding his sheathed sword out wide, making room for his round figure—the large weapon drawing eyes, as was its custom. Hanar chuckled at the reaction. Wait’ll they spy the sword on me back.
Loseph threw his head back and waved at the lumbering Hanar. "Bring yerself, Hanar; we earned a good ale."
The towering man stroked his bushy beard—brow heightened—and paced the tavern, thuds bounding from the floor like thunder beyond the dry walls of the drinking establishment. He kept focus on his ears until he heard gasps; then, his pace quickened.
"An honest ale from an honest man," said Hanar, snatching the mug of brew from the counter.
The barkeep threw the damp towel over his shoulder as he regarded the visitors. "What brings men o’ yer kind 'round here?"
"Ye don't fancy the small talk?" Loseph replied, froth bubbling atop his mustache. He slammed a meaty hand upon his tall partner's bicep. "A man after me own heart!"
Hanar the Mighty's devious grin slithered into place again, followed by a barrage of howls and unsettling cackles. The barkeep nervously pressed his lips together, and Hanar knew he was unsure about joining the bounty hunters’ laughter.
"Ye know who we are!" Hanar said. "Yet ye ask why we're here? Why, for a hunt, o' course!"
The tavern minder scratched his neck; eyes slanted perplexingly. "Hard to imagine anyone worth a bounty 'round these parts."
"The world is cluttered 'bout with the hard to imagine," the dwarf said, his mug of ale hiding his froth-bathed mouth.
"I give to ye straight," Hanar said after a loud belch. "We're lookin' fer a woman, though, by most accounts, the wench be built more like a girl."
The barkeep's brow furrowed. "What sort o' girl?"
Loseph leaned closer, gesturing with his finger to the barkeep, urging him.
"The magic kind o' girl." His beady, dwarven eyes widened. "The Runaway Sorceress, the Fire Starter in the East, the Flame of Novera”—his tone lowered—“Essie the Damned."
Hanar dropped his forearm on the counter, a forceful thud echoing across the small tavern. He leaned over the bar, his upper body extending past the drop rail that guarded the empty mugs.
"We heard tale o' a explosion in the sky, not more than a fortnight's past," Hanar said. His forehead stretched, nose crinkling. "A great trail o' flame coverin' the twinkles o' night, a maddening cacophony o' screeches an' wails, disappearin' livestock in the days after, then the rain that's been fallin' on this land fer more than a week."
With an eyebrow arched, the dwarf leaned reclined on his stool. "Sounds like the work o' a mage to me."
The barkeep's face flushed white as a ghost—his complexion a mirror of the towel on his shoulder. His fingers tapped the counter. Hanar and Loseph stilled, holding like statues. The tavern keep’s eyes raced back and forth between them. Hanar was but a man, though a giant of one; he couldn’t hear the tavern keep’s heart beating—he wasn’t inclined in the magics—but he noticed the sheen forming near his hairline.
Finally, after a long moment, Hanar’s stomach rumbled; Loseph grinned wide, bellowing laughter with his partner. The tavern keep’s shoulders slumped, a noticeable relief washing over him. Hanar had always found pleasure in exercising his stature in ways most would deem uncomfortable or disturbing. The sight of fear upon those who could never handle the life of a bounty hunter never failed to tickle what he had left of a heart.
Hanar’s rumbles slowed, and he shot a knowing glance at his partner.
"So," Loseph said, pausing to take a swing of ale. "Tell us what ye know about these transpired events."
The tavern keep’s shoulders fell to stone again, rigid anxiety rushing back to him.
"This girl causin' problems fer folk," Hanar said, following up after Loseph without missing a beat. "The cure fer yer troubles stands before ye."
The tavern owner shook his head, his mouth agape. He stuttered, fumbling his words, then fell silent. Hanar’s brow raised; The poor lad knows something.
"Yer lookin' fer the wrong girl," the barkeep said, his voice noticeably lowered.
Lospeh's gaze snapped to Hanar; both men regarded each other with tilted heads. Hanar raised the mug to his lips and emptied the ale in one gulp. He returned a smile at the tavern keep. Then, after he suspected the keep had believed his sincerity, he slammed the mug onto the counter, shattering the glass.
“Sorry,” Hanar said. “Don’t know me own strength, it seems.”
The tavern keep shook his head again, wiping glass off the counter. “No need, no need.”
Hanar leaned closer; he was sure the keep could smell the ale dripping from his beard. "I'd wager the girl causin' all o' this trouble to be the same that we hunt."
"No, ye don't understand,” the tavern keep said, his mouth scrunched. “The cause o' our troubles is the girl ye hunt after…" His eyes found Hanar; the bounty hunter saw fear in them, but it wasn’t fear brought upon by their visit. “She be the wrong girl to be huntin'."
"I assure ye," Hanar said, showing his teeth, "we only hunt what we know we can kill."
"Ye don't want to meet this girl in the cold o' night."
"The cold o' night,"—Loseph waved his hand—"the bright o' day, don't matter to us. We collect on the hunt."
“I heard tell o’ ye twos”—the keep leaned away from Hanar—“and I heard tell o’ the Flame. Never woulda believed any tales about that girl, but I seen the fire with me own eyes.”
His gaze moved from Hanar, focusing somewhere behind them, clouds hazing his pupils. “I seen what she can do. A whole herd o' cattle slaughtered, an' she ain’t lift no fingers. I seen her rise in the air an' stay there. I heard she can talk to the dragon that lives in the caves. I-"
"Balderdash!" Hanar said, his bellows stunning the tavern keep. "Ye speak o’ fairy tales. No one talks to dragons; they be wild and unruly, got no need to listen to no one—not even a mage."
"I tell ye! It's true!" the keep said. "Denny seen it with his own eyes!"
The frail tavern keep directed his gaze at the table of patrons across the bar. "Aye! Denny! Get over here, ye lousy, drunken dullard !"
A short, dark-haired young man gingerly rose from the group crowded around the small table. Hushed voices from his party fell mute as Denny paced to the bar. Hanar frowned at the sight of him; a pathetic, weak excuse of a man who would never amount to more than an extra hand in the mines—a hand that, Hanar was sure, caused more problems than cured.
"Denny," the barkeep said, his voice elevated, "tell these unaware hunters what ye seen."
"Aye," Denny slurred. "Fill me another mug."
"Come off it, Denny. Out with what ye know." The keep crossed his arms. "Ale after ye talk."
The two hunters, one the size of a giant, the other no taller than a bar stool, regarded the swaying patron. He reeked of ale and piss, hands covered in filth, clothes splotched with dried stains. The patron belched and grabbed his gut. Hanar had half a mind to throw him out into the rain then and there.
"I seen," Denny said, pausing to belch again, "I seen the Flame o' Novera wave her hand an’ the dragon lay down. She touched the beast, an’ it squalled like a babe nursin' from a teat. Fire shootin' from the creature's nose an’ the Flame bathin' in it."
"Poppycock!" Loseph said, his face scrunched in disbelief. "No man can tame a dragon, much less no girl! Were ye drunk when ye spied these dreams ye speak of?"
"No!" Denny said, his face long and begging for attention.
Hanar scoffed. Keep speaking or meet me sword.
"I were leavin' the mines, day before the rain started,” Denny said. “The girl was in a field, the Burry Plains, out past old Wiggins’ Farm."
Denny's head sagged, his finger circling the air.
"I walk it home when the mines act finicky an' we leave after dark, faster to get to the creek by passin' through the field. I started in an' she appeared from nowhere, a big ole glowing ball in the sky, then the Damned fell right from it! The dragon came shootin' down from the clouds. I didn't even see the beast until I was over the ridge!"
Hanar held his gaze on his partner; the wrinkles in his brow hardened. A long silence lingered over the four men clustered around the bar. Sweat beaded on the barkeep's brow, his cheeks reddened, eyes darting between Hanar, Loseph, and Denny.
Loseph reclined again, hand upon his chin in thought. He shared another glance with Hanar; then, the giant loosed a hardy, mad rush of laughter. In all his years of hunting, Hanar had heard many stories, but none as preposterous as the fiction poor Denny tried to pass as fact.
Loseph grinned, his dirty and jagged teeth showing. His belly shook, laughter rumbling through his vocal cords, blasting the air with his sour, ale-drenched breath. He slapped his worn hand against his hunting partner's bicep.
"Do ye hear that, Hanar?! She came from a great ball o' fire in the sky! The girl soothed a dragon!"
"Aye, Loseph, aye!" Hanar said. "What kind o' ale ye be servin' round here?!"
"Are ye spikin' this hogwash with Telly Shrooms?" the dwarf howled. "Are ye servin' the nectar o' Blue Poppies?!"
“Tis’ true!” someone shouted from the rear of the tavern, their declaration carrying over the hunters’ raucous laughter.
Amid chuckles and trembling diaphragms, the hunters swiveled to see another lad standing at the only table that held patrons. This man was older, older even than Loseph, with gray hair, a long beard, and a plumb belly. His dirty shirt was wet with froth and spilled beer, no doubt accrued throughout the night of arguments among lush comrades. Another sad soul lost to the mines.
The patron pointed at the ceiling, his head raising with his finger. "I seen the girl twice now. Once on me own land, holdin' a calf in the air with her mind magic, blood flowin' from the animal, whirlin' around the Damned mage, her eyes white as snow, her hair dark as the devil himself. She ain't hurt me or me boys or me wife. She even apologized after, said the calf were weak an' sick. Ain't sure how she knew that. Damn troublesome creature weren't eatin' for many days before she came round."
Loseph pivoted on the stool and locked eyes with Hanar. The Dwarf's face stretched. "Aye, ye hear that, Hanar? Blood magic?!"
Hanar broke his gaze from Loseph and regarded Denny, then the tavern keep. The meek men looked like they’d believe anything. Though, that was the case with the backwoods towns in the realm.
Hanar rested his meaty paw on Loseph’s shoulder. “Perhaps a mistake been made.” He lowered his head, and the tavern held in a stillness that could rival prayer at church. Then, the giant's shoulders quaked as another burst of devious chuckles roared from the hunters. "He talkin' o' blood magic! Such a thing ain't real!"
"Seems to be the creek by that Blue Poppy field be drivin' yer minds mad!" Loseph shouted amid struggled gasps. "Ye never drink water from near a Poppy field!"
"Go on, lad,” Hanar said, his face red and puffy, “lay yer tall tale on us!"
"Ain't no tall tale!" the old patron said. "I seen her ridin' that dragon not more—"
"Oh, spare us the posh!" Loseph interrupted.
"Dragon ridin' be a wives tale,” Hanar said. “Old stories to scare the young into stayin' outta caves." These towns were always the same. Mindless men spouting fantasies to cure the dullness of their days. Hanar despised men who folded under the weight of their own weakness. He turned to square up with the old man across the tavern. "Any o' ye got anything o' use to tell?"
"I be tellin' ye hard-headed hunters, I seen-"
A mighty thud clapped the air like thunder from a furious storm. Hanar's fist smashed a hole in the counter. The brute regarded the old man again, a concentrated look of anger upon the giant's face. "That's enough outta ye!"
"What about ye lads? Huh? Ye bein' too quiet," Loseph said, speaking like a parent scolding a child.
None of the other patrons moved from the table, but their collective attention was locked on the hunters across the room.
"Ye be Hanar the Mighty and Loseph the Cunning," a younger lad said.
"Ye bastards butchered an entire township just to catch a thief," another said.
"An' I heard the thief only had fifty coin on his head!" the old man shouted.
"Aye," the dwarf said. "What a cryin' shame it'd be fer the same fate to befall ye fine folk."
Hanar took a lumbering step forward, his hands upon his hips, one gripped on the hilt of the sword. "Ye know who we be," he said. "Tell us where Essie the Damned be hidin' at. In the caves? By the waterfall? In the gulch?"
A long moment passed, an uncomfortable and anguished silence lingering over the patrons. Hanar held his stance, a firm resilience resting beyond his gaze, the look of a man who’d witnessed horrors most could only imagine. What’s another few notches?
Loseph hopped off the stool, stroking his thick, brown beard. "How come I be getting' the feelin' that ye lads ain't lookin' to tell us where this Damned girl be."
"I told ye," the barkeep said. "Ye lookin' fer the wrong girl. Ye don't want to be face to face with the Flame."
Hanar whirled around in a frenzy, his sword unsheathing with deft precision and aiming at the tavern keep, the point stopping a breath from his neck. The giant hunter moved with graceful quickness—the behemoth was no stranger to this dance. The hunter leaned in, the point of the large sword pressed against the frozen man's chest, piercing his shirt and poking flesh.
"An' we told ye," Hanar said through gritted teeth, "we only hunt what we know we can kill."
"Please!" the old man shouted. "Don't hurt Mavin!"
Denny slumped onto a stool, his elbows carelessly resting on the counter, his drooping eyes peering at Loseph. "An' what if ye done bit off more than ye can chew?" Denny burped again. "The Damned will come an' kill all o' us."
Loseph drew his sword. He swung upon retrieval, and the blade sliced Denny's back. The intoxicated man yelped and fell, crashing to the floor, breath forcefully exiting his lungs. Loseph moved with haste, a surprising vigor remaining in the old dwarf. His blade sang through the air, finding flesh again and cutting Denny's neck.
The maimed man gurgled, attempting to scream, but his severed vocal cords failed to obey. He grabbed his neck, trying to smother the gaping wound, blood gushing forth the same as the torrential downpour outside the tavern walls.
The patrons at the table froze. Their flushed faces would lead one to believe a ghoul had revealed demented plans.
"Listen, ye sore sights," Hanar said. "Tell us where the Damned be or all o' ye drunken bastards will join Denny."