Thargon proved to be an unexpectedly affable guide, despite his intimidating appearance and initial defensiveness. As they ambled through the streets of Blackwell, he kept up a steady stream of light conversation, pointing out landmarks, explaining local customs, and occasionally roaring with laughter at some observation Kiroth made. The tiefling seemed genuinely surprised, and a little impressed, by how Kiroth was handling the whole “dead, reincarnated, new world” situation.

  "You're taking this all remarkably well, halfling," Thargon rumbled, his heavy boots thudding rhythmically on the cobblestones. "Most souls dragged back by those Agmoth-botherers are a gibbering mess for weeks. Or they try to claw their own eyes out."

  Kiroth managed a dry laugh. "Well, you should have seen me earlier. It wasn't pretty." His mind flashed back to the stark terror on the altar, the hysterical laughter in the temple. And before that, the sheer, unadulterated misery that had led him to floor the accelerator on that snowy on-ramp. Yeah, "not pretty" was an understatement. He pushed the memories down. Best not to dwell.

  Blackwell, Kiroth quickly discovered, was surprisingly hilly. The streets rose and fell, sometimes sharply, reminding him of a few family trips he’d taken to Appalachian Ohio as a kid – those rolling, tree-covered inclines that always left him slightly breathless. Although here, the slopes were carved with canals that cascaded down tiers of moss-slicked stone, their waters glinting like hammered pewter under the bruised sky.

  As they crested the hill, Kiroth halted, struck by the view. Below, Blackwell sprawled in a bowl of terrain, its circular heart contained by towering stone walls. The canals he’d navigated earlier now revealed their logic: they ribboned through the city’s basin like a liquid labyrinth, flowing toward sluice gates embedded in the walls, where runoff spilled into culverts that fed the forested hills beyond. Bridges arched over the waterways—some sturdy and low, others spindly and draped with vines—connecting neighborhoods that clung to slopes like barnacles.

  The crimson sun cast long shadows, sharpening the contrast between the city’s chaos and the wilds outside its walls. Past the fortifications, the land rolled outward in waves of dark pines and gnarled oaks, their canopies rustling in a wind that carried the scent of damp earth and distant snow. And there, on the horizon, loomed the mountain – a jagged monolith crowned with ice, its peak glowing faintly white, as if the bloody sky dared not touch it.

  "This is… pretty big," Kiroth commented, his voice softer than he intended. "For a, uh… medieval city." The word 'medieval' felt inadequate, but it was the closest frame of reference he had from his old world.

  Thargon bristled slightly, though his amber eyes were twinkling. "Medieval?" he scoffed, planting his fists on his hips. "Well, I don't know what your old world was like, but I think we're pretty damn civilized here in Blackwell! We've got sewers, for fuck’s sake!"

  Kiroth felt that now-familiar mental ping:

  Insight Check: Success! (Target 10 / Rolled 13 + WIS Modifier -1 = 12)

  He caught the subtle lift at the corner of Thargon's mouth, the playful glint in his eye. This time, he knew Thargon was just ribbing him, a friendly jab. He laughed, a genuine chuckle that felt surprisingly good. "Right, right. Sewers. The pinnacle of civilization. My mistake."

  As they continued their trek, the character of Blackwell began to shift. The streets narrowed, the buildings grew shabbier, pressing closer together as if huddling for warmth or protection. More windows were boarded up, some crudely patched with mismatched pieces of wood. Strange symbols, perhaps gang tags or arcane graffiti, were scrawled on walls in what looked like chalk or charcoal. The air here felt heavier, a palpable sense of weariness and hard-luck clinging to the stones. It was clearly a poorer district, the kind of place that existed on the frayed edges of any large city.

  Kiroth glanced up at the bruised sky. The crimson sun was definitely lower now, casting even longer, more distorted shadows. A chill was beginning to creep into the air. He realized, with a jolt, that it must have been at least four hours since he’d walked out of the Temple of Agmoth. Pyronn had warned him to be back before nightfall. His stomach let out an audible rumble, a sharp reminder that the hearty stew from lunch was a distant memory.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  "Nearly there," Thargon said, noticing Kiroth's hungry gaze. "The Whale has food. Simple stuff, but filling. And the ale’s not half bad."

  "Good," Kiroth said. "Listen, Thargon… about getting back. It's getting late. Is there… somewhere around here a person could stay? If I don't make it back to the temple, I mean." The thought of navigating these increasingly dingy streets alone in the dark, under an alien night sky, was not appealing.

  Thargon grinned. "I’m shacked up at a hostel just a few streets over from the Whale. Nothing fancy, but it’s cheap and mostly clean. I can show you the way after we've had our fill, if you like. Assuming Sareth hasn't scared you off by then."

  A moment later, Thargon ducked into a narrow, refuse-strewn alleyway between two leaning buildings. Kiroth hesitated for a second, then followed. At the far end of the alley, a welcoming rectangle of warm, yellow light spilled from an open doorway. Hanging precariously above it was a crudely painted wooden sign depicting a skeletal whale, its bones picked clean by unseen scavengers, leaping from a foamy sea. The Withering Whale.

  They stepped inside. The pub was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of stale ale, pipe smoke, and unidentifiable fried foods. It was surprisingly cozy, though. Rough-hewn wooden tables and benches were scattered across a sawdust-strewn floor. In one corner, a human with a feathered cap and a brightly colored, slightly threadbare doublet – the absolute stereotype of a traveling bard – was softly plucking a melancholic melody from a lute. Behind a long, scarred wooden counter, a large figure was polishing a mug, occasionally pausing to serve the handful of patrons scattered throughout the room.

  There weren’t many people yet, perhaps half a dozen, nursing drinks and keeping to themselves. Kiroth scanned the faces, looking for someone who might be Sareth. Thargon, however, grunted.

  "Don't see her," he rumbled, his gaze sweeping the room. "Hmm. We should ask Billy where she is. He'll know." He gestured towards the bartender.

  They approached the counter. The bartender was indeed a large figure, and as he turned, Kiroth saw why. His skin was a dull, olive green, and two short, wicked-looking tusks jutted upwards from his lower jaw, framing a surprisingly friendly, if somewhat brutish, face. An orc, he assumed. He had a faded tattoo of a sea monster on one thick bicep.

  "Thargon, you magnificent bastard!" the orc-bartender boomed, his voice a gravelly baritone. He grinned, revealing more impressive teeth. "Finally decided to settle that tab from last night? Gratuity's twenty percent when you leave it open that long, you know."

  Thargon chuckled, leaning an elbow casually on the bar. "Billy, my old friend, you wound me. Why settle it when I can just keep it rolling? Start us off, will you? Two 'demon's kisses'." He winked at Kiroth. "You'll like these. Got a kick."

  Billy grunted good-naturedly and reached under the counter, producing two small, thick-glassed shot glasses and a dark, unlabeled bottle. He poured a finger of viscous, ruby-red liquid into each.

  "So," Thargon said, clapping a hand on Kiroth's shoulder, "Billy, this is Kiroth. Kiroth, this is Billy, one of the best damn pourers of questionable liquids in Blackwell. We’re looking for Sareth."

  Billy slid the shots across the counter. He looked Kiroth up and down, a flicker of surprise in his eyes at the halfling’s appearance. "Sareth, eh?" He smirked, his tusks looking even more prominent. "Hah! Got the hots for her, do you, little fella?"

  Kiroth felt that mental notification ping again, almost before Billy finished speaking:

  Persuasion Check (Denial/Sincerity): Success! (Target 9 / Rolled 11 + CHA Modifier 2 = 13)

  "What? No!" Kiroth said, perhaps a little too quickly, feeling his ears warm. "I… I don’t even know her. We just… Thargon said she might be able to answer some questions. About… things." He gestured vaguely.

  Billy’s smirk softened into a more understanding look. "Ah. Well, in that case, you’re looking for a job? Sareth’s always trying to recruit for her guild, or for one of her odd ventures. We’re hiring here, too, if you can wash dishes without breaking too many."

  Thargon chuckled, then his expression grew more serious. He leaned closer to Billy, his voice dropping slightly. "He's a lost soul, Billy. Freshly pulled. Ripped from the void by those priests at Agmoth’s temple just this afternoon." He glanced at Kiroth, a surprising amount of sincerity in his amber eyes. "He's holding up remarkably well, better than most I've heard of, but I know it must be harder than he's letting on."

  A look of genuine sympathy crossed Billy’s rugged face. "Damn. Another one? Those sun-worshippers don't quit, do they?" He shook his head, then looked at Kiroth with newfound respect. "Sorry to hear that, lad. Rough draw." He sighed. "But Sareth's not on shift today. She might swing by for a drink later, when the night crowd rolls in, but that won’t be for a good few hours yet."

  Thargon considered this for a moment, then nodded. "Fair enough. Well, in that case, Billy, my good orc, two pints of your best ale to chase these kisses down. And a table, if you please. Kiroth here mentioned he was hungry, didn't you? Let’s see what horrors your kitchen has conjured up tonight." He clapped Kiroth on the back again, more gently this time. The prospect of food and answers, even delayed ones, was enough to make Kiroth’s stomach rumble in anticipation.