Billy grunted an affirmative and gestured towards an empty, slightly wobbly-looking table in a darker corner of the pub. Thargon slid into one side of the booth, Kiroth onto the other. They drank their ‘demon’s kisses’ first. They were thick, syrupy, and tasted overwhelmingly of sweet elderberries, but with an alcoholic kick that burned all the way down Kiroth’s throat and settled warmly in his stomach. It wasn't unpleasant.

  A few minutes later, Billy brought over two foaming tankards of dark ale and a platter piled high with what looked like fried fish and roasted root vegetables. Kiroth, his hunger now a gnawing beast, dug in with an appetite that surprised even himself.

  Intoxication Check: Success! (Target 12 / Rolled 16 + ‘Hafling Metabolism’ Modifier 2 = 18)

  He ate like a starving wolf, consuming a portion that would have left his old, lanky human self groaning and bloated. Here, in this compact halfling body, it just seemed to… disappear. He was already halfway through his second tankard of ale, a surprisingly smooth and malty brew, and while he felt a pleasant warmth spreading through his limbs, he wasn't feeling particularly intoxicated. Back on Earth, two pints of strong ale on an empty stomach would have had him well on his way to slurry speech and questionable decisions.

  "Heh. Seems what they say about halflings and their appetites isn't just tavern tales," Thargon remarked, watching Kiroth demolish a piece of fried fish with amusement. He himself was nursing his first pint at a more leisurely pace. "You're putting it away like a seasoned campaigner."

  Kiroth grinned around a mouthful of roasted turnip. "Guess this body runs hot," he mumbled, then took another long swig of ale. It felt good, this simple act of eating and drinking in a warm pub, the earlier anxieties momentarily receding.

  Time slipped by easily. A couple of hours passed, marked by the slow emptying of tankards and the gradual filling of the Withering Whale. The dim, cozy atmosphere of the early evening had transformed into a more raucous, lively scene. The lone lute player had been joined by other musicians, forming a surprisingly competent, if somewhat ramshackle, band. A human with a wild mane of red hair was now squeezing mournful yet energetic tunes from a set of bagpipes that looked like an angry octopus. A truly massive bugbear – a hairy, goblinoid creature with long arms and a flat, bestial face – was enthusiastically slapping complex rhythms out on a large hand drum, his head nodding in time. The overall effect was a sort of sloppy, melancholy jig, music that made you want to tap your feet and cry into your beer simultaneously. The patrons, a motley collection of races and social strata, were louder now, their conversations and laughter blending with the music.

  Kiroth was just leaning back, enjoying the cacophony and the surprisingly mild buzz from the ale, when a shadow fell over their table. He looked up.

  Standing there was a dwarf woman. She was much shorter than Thargon but built like a miniature battering ram, with broad shoulders and a no-nonsense stance. Her hair was a startling silver, braided intricately and adorned with what looked like polished knuckle bones. Her eyes were a keen, piercing blue, and a faded white scar sliced diagonally across one cheek, from her temple to her jawline, giving her a permanently stern and somewhat dangerous expression. She had a tankard of her own gripped in one gauntleted hand.

  Her sharp blue eyes flicked from Thargon to Kiroth, lingering on the halfling with undisguised curiosity and a hint of disdain. "Well, Thargon," she said, her voice a gravelly alto, "who's the little shrimp you’ve dredged up this time?"

  Kiroth felt a familiar mental twinge:

  Insight: Failure! (Target 11 / Rolled 5 + WIS Modifier -1 = 4)

  He didn’t catch any underlying intent in her question, just… directness. Dwarven directness, perhaps. Still, the word ‘shrimp’ stung a little.

  Thargon, however, just grinned lazily. "Easy there, Shiela. He's no dredged-up bottom feeder. Just another weary traveler enjoying the fine hospitality of the Withering Whale. Like me."

  The dwarf woman, Shiela, raised a silver eyebrow, her gaze still fixed on Kiroth. "Oh, really?" she drawled. "And where might a tiny traveler like yourself be from, love? Somewhere they breed 'em small and pale, I take it?"

  Kiroth, still feeling the pleasant warmth of the ale and perhaps a touch more confidence than was strictly warranted, decided to play along. He drew himself up slightly on the bench.

  Deception: Success! (Target 15 / Rolled 14 + CHA Modifier 2 = 16)

  "From the north," Kiroth said, trying to imbue his voice with a casual, well-traveled air. "Past the Eyeb Mountains." He waved a dismissive hand. "Just passing through Blackwell for a bit. Seeing the sights."

  He caught Thargon shooting him a surprised, almost impressed look from the corner of his eye. The lie seemed to have landed.

  Shiela snorted, a sound that could have dislodged small rocks. "The Eyeb Mountains, eh? Long way from home, little sprout." Her blue eyes, though still sharp, lost some of their initial abrasiveness, replaced by a calculating curiosity. "They play Spickets up north, do they? Or have you forgotten the rules since you crossed the peaks?"

  Kiroth blinked. "Spickets?" He shook his head, trying to look thoughtful rather than utterly clueless. "Can't say I recall that one. Been a while. Might need a reminder."

  Shiela grinned, revealing surprisingly even teeth. "Good. Keeps it interesting." She gestured to an empty space on their table. "It's a game of skill, mostly. Marbles, a grooved board." She pulled a small, drawstring leather pouch from her belt, the contents clinking softly. "And a bit of friendly wagering, of course. Say, five silver pieces a game? Or are you too skittish for that, mountain man?"

  Kiroth’s heart sank slightly. Money. He had absolutely none. He glanced at his knife, still sheathed at his belt. It was the only thing of conceivable value he possessed.

  "Don't have any coin on me at the moment," Kiroth admitted, trying to sound unconcerned. "But…" He reached down and unbuckled the knife, laying the sheathed weapon on the table. The tarnished silver of the pommel gleamed dully in the pub light. "I'd be willing to bet this. Against your five silver."

  Shiela’s silver eyebrows shot up. She picked up the knife, her calloused fingers examining the weight and balance, even sliding the blade partially from its sheath to inspect the steel. She whistled softly. "Decent craftsmanship. You sure you want to risk a good blade on a game you don't remember, sprout?"

  Kiroth shrugged, feigning a confidence he didn’t feel. "What's life without a little risk?" He hoped he sounded more like a seasoned gambler and less like a desperate, penniless transmigrator.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Spickets: Success! (Target 13 / Rolled 16 + DEX Modifier 1 = 17)

  The game, as it turned out, involved flicking heavy glass marbles with surprising precision into scoring grooves on a battered wooden board Shiela produced from a larger sack. It required a keen eye and a steady hand. Kiroth, much to his own astonishment and Shiela’s grudging respect, found he had a knack for it. Maybe it was the halfling dexterity, or maybe just blind luck, but he won. Not by much, but a win was a win. Shiela counted out five gleaming silver pieces into his palm, the cool weight of them feeling more significant than any currency he’d handled in his old life.

  "Huh. Beginner's luck," Shiela grumbled, though there was a grudging admiration in her tone. "Or maybe those mountain folk do know a thing or two after all." She scooped up her marbles. "Another round?"

  Before Kiroth could answer, a sudden flash of bright, emerald light erupted beside their table, accompanied by a high-pitched, mischievous giggle. Kiroth yelped, nearly jumping out of his skin, his hand instinctively going to where his knife used to be.

  Standing there, or rather, hovering at about eye level, was a tiny, winged creature no bigger than Kiroth’s hand. It glowed with an inner green luminescence, its delicate, insect-like wings beating in a blur. A fairy. Beside it, grinning broadly, stood a young human man, perhaps in his early twenties, with a mop of unruly brown hair and a playful smirk. He wore simple traveler’s clothes, but a well-made short sword was strapped to his hip.

  "Boo!" the young man said, his grin widening as he saw Kiroth's startled reaction.

  Thargon let out a booming laugh, slapping his knee. "Corym, you asshat! Still trying to give old tieflings a heart attack, are we? And Liana, lovely as ever." He winked at the glowing fairy, who did a little loop-the-loop in the air and giggled again.

  "Just keeping you on your toes!" Corym said cheerfully. He then turned his attention to Kiroth, his gaze curious. "Didn't mean to scare you, friend. We’re a bit mischievous sometimes." The fairy, Liana, zipped closer to Kiroth, her tiny, glowing face regarding him with bright, inquisitive eyes.

  "This is Corym," Thargon explained to Kiroth, gesturing with his tankard. "And the bright spark is Liana. Corym’s a fellow associate of a certain… guild. Same one Sareth sometimes moonlights for."

  Kiroth felt that subtle mental ping, quicker this time, a familiar sensation:

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

  Corym’s gaze, while generally friendly, kept flickering towards the bar, towards the crowd, a subtle searching quality to it. And when Thargon mentioned Sareth… there was a definite spark of interest in the young man’s eyes, a little too keen.

  "Sareth?" Corym asked, perking up. "You know her?" His question was directed at Thargon, but his eyes darted to Kiroth.

  Kiroth shook his head. "No, not personally. But Thargon mentioned she might be able to help me with some… questions I have."

  "Well, if you're looking for Sareth, your timing's impeccable. She just walked in." He jerked his thumb towards the crowded bar area. "Over there, trying to get Billy’s attention. See her?"

  Kiroth followed Corym's gesture. His eyes scanned the throng of people pressed against the bar, the air thick with smoke and chatter. And then he saw her: a woman, leaning against the counter, waiting for a drink. Even from this distance, he could see the distinct, delicate points of her ears, peeking out from coppery-red, ginger hair that fell in loose waves past her shoulders. She wore practical, dark leather armor that looked well-used but well-maintained. Sareth. The other lost soul.

  Liana didn't wait for an invitation. With another delighted giggle, she darted away from Corym and zipped across the crowded pub like a living sparkler. She weaved effortlessly through the patrons, around tankards held aloft, and under the low-hanging wooden beams, making a beeline for the copper-haired woman at the bar. Kiroth watched as Liana, a tiny green comet, approached Sareth from behind and gently tapped her on the shoulder with a glowing fingertip.

  Sareth turned, and Kiroth saw her face properly for the first time. Her reaction to the fairy was one of easy familiarity; a warm, welcoming smile spread across her features as she leaned down slightly to say something to Liana, too low for Kiroth to hear over the pub's din. Then, Liana gestured with a tiny, shimmering hand directly towards Kiroth’s table. Sareth’s head turned, her gaze sweeping past Thargon, Shiela, and Corym, before landing squarely on Kiroth.

  Her eyes. They were a startling, captivating shade of purple, almost the exact hue of the bruised twilight sky from earlier, deep and flecked with lighter violet. Framed by thick lashes, they were intense, intelligent, and seemed to see right through him. She had a spray of light freckles across the bridge of her nose and the tops of her cheeks, and a small, silver ring pierced one nostril. Even from across the room, Kiroth felt the impact of her gaze like a physical touch.

  A strange nervousness fluttered in Kiroth’s stomach, a sensation he couldn't quite name. It wasn't fear, exactly, nor was it attraction in the way he’d felt that disastrous pull towards Alice. It was… something else. Anticipation, perhaps. The feeling of standing on the precipice of something significant. He took a long sip from his mug, realizing it was practically empty, the last dregs of ale doing little to soothe the sudden dryness in his throat.

  Sareth pushed herself off the bar, a heavy-looking goblet of some dark liquid now in her hand, and began to make her way towards their table. She moved with a fluid, confident grace, the leather armor creaking softly with each step, weaving through the crowd as easily as Liana had.

  She stopped directly in front of Kiroth, her purple eyes fixed on him. "Hey," she said, her voice a pleasant alto, surprisingly gentle for someone clad in warrior's leather. She glanced at the empty mug in Kiroth's hand, then at Corym, who suddenly looked rather sheepish. "Thanks for buying me a drink." She winked, a gesture mirrored by Liana, who had zipped back to hover excitedly beside Corym’s head.

  Kiroth blinked, momentarily confused, then caught on. "Ah, of course," he managed, trying to play along smoothly. "Least I could do. Thanks for… for coming over to meet with us." He gestured vaguely around the table.

  Sareth pulled up a spare stool from a nearby table and sat down, placing her goblet on the already crowded surface. She took a sip, her purple eyes never leaving Kiroth. "So," she said, cutting straight to the chase, "Liana seemed to think you had something important you wanted to ask me about. What is it?"

  Kiroth hadn't actually thought this far ahead, hadn't planned what he would say. The truth, blunt and unbelievable as it was, seemed like the only option.

  "I'm… I’m a lost soul," he admitted, the words tumbling out before he could second-guess them. He saw a mixture of expressions flicker across the faces around him: understanding from Thargon, mild surprise from Corym, a new level of calculation in Shiela's eyes. "From that temple. Agmoth's. The priests… they put me into this body. This morning."

  As soon as the words were out, a profound change came over Sareth’s face. The casual curiosity vanished, replaced by a deep, knowing sorrow that seemed to age her features in an instant. Her purple eyes softened with an unmistakable empathy, a shared understanding that resonated with Kiroth more powerfully than any of Pyronn's pronouncements.

  "Damn," she breathed, her voice low and filled with a weary resignation. She looked directly at Kiroth, her gaze holding his. "We need to talk, then. Properly." She glanced around the noisy, crowded pub. "Not here." She stood up, setting down her drink. "Let's go outside for a bit. Get some air."

  Kiroth didn’t hesitate. He got to his feet, a strange mix of apprehension and relief coursing through him. He was unsure what this conversation would entail, what secrets or burdens Sareth might share, but for the first time since waking up on that cold stone altar, he felt a flicker of something other than pure, bewildered isolation.

  He followed Sareth as she navigated back towards the entrance of the Withering Whale. She pushed open the heavy wooden door, and they stepped back out into the narrow, refuse-strewn alleyway. The sky above was no longer a bruised purple; it was a deep, velvety black, pricked with unfamiliar stars and the faint, crimson glow of the distant sun having finally set. The air was cold and carried the damp chill of the coming night. The raucous noise of the pub faded behind them, leaving them in a sudden, intimate quiet.