“My friends are dead,” hissed the elf woman from last night, sword drawn, eyes wild. The early morning patrons of The Purple Unicorn eagerly watched the unfolding drama.
A wry smile crept across Furnok’s lips. “Seems you need some new friends then.”
The woman swung for his head. Furnok dove under the table grabbed the centre leg and stood up using it as an oversized shield. “Lady, you’re starting to p!ss me off.”
“You selfish! Arrogant! Heartless! Jackass!” Her sword chocked pieces out of the table but didn’t penetrate. “This is all your fault!”
Furnok struggled with the weight but as the next blow hit the wood, he surged forward knocking the woman and the table over. As she tried to get up, Furnok placed his mace on her cheek. “Choose what you say next very carefully.”
“You could’ve saved my friends,” she cried, silvery tears running down her face. “Why didn’t you?”
“Your friends, your life, are not my responsibility.” Furnok lifted his mace off her face and casually spun it. “Everyone’s time is eventually up, theirs happened to be sooner than YOU would’ve liked. Which is why you should live as if today might be your last. For it is.”
Furnok brought the heavy weapon down with the thud, inches from her face, the heavy metal biting deep into the wooden floor. “Come at me again, it will be the last thing you ever do.”
He then spat right on her face. The barkeep went to speak but the priest raised his mace and pointed at him to warn that now would not be a good time for questions; and the priest exited the bar. Furnok wandered up towards Cloudwater’s square noting that the half-orc was readying his warhorse. Harkus smiled, waved and was left feeling dejected as Furnok paid it no mind nor acknowledged it.
Furnok removed a scroll from his sleeve and scanned the crowd. On the parchment was a charcoal sketch of a man along with his name; Ingmarl Copperson.
“This could take ages,” he muttered as he stepped up onto the fountain, cupped his hands as he cast thaumaturgy cantrip which made his voice thrice as loud. “INGMARL COPPERSON! MAKE YOURSELF KNOWN!”
The town of Cloudwater looked at the stranger yelling at an abnormal level. A man in rusty brown clothes matching the drawing walked forward, black hair, pockmarked skin. “I am Ingmarl. You?”
“Furnok. You have information on my brother?”
Ingmarl nodded. “He was last seen at the old monastery a day’s ride west from Brightwain, though that news is about a week old.”
Furnok frowned at the information, dug out some coins and handed them to Ingmarl’s outstretched palm. “If I find out you lied to me…”
Ingmarl noted the threat but didn’t cower. “You need a guide to Brightwain? I know a guy.”
“Does he come with a spare horse?”
Ingmarl rolled his eyes at the priest. “Are all you holy men cheapskates and skinflints? You lodging at the Unicorn?”
“Is there another fine establishment in town?”
To be continued
Notes:
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