Dawn of Adventure {Book One of The Paths We've Traveled}

Chapter Forty-Four: On the Lookout

The year was X796. The hot January breeze blew off of the ocean, ruffling the hair of many and causing the inhabitants of Moci to clutch their things tighter. The moored ships in the harbor rocked with the wind and the waves, forcing the newcomers to the port town to watch their step as they returned to dry land.

A young man leapt off the largest ship, his black boots connecting with the warped wood of the docks. He adjusted the collar of his jacket, the top of the fabric disappearing under thick strands of hair. He stretched his arms as he began to walk, his shoulders laden with the backpack containing all of the possessions he'd brought to Coracre with him.

He couldn't help but stumble slightly as he walked down the docks. A month at sea would do that, he thought to himself, amused. At least I don't have to go right into a fight. It would be most cumbersome.

The man wandered the streets of Moci, searching for something only known to him. People tended to step out of his way, instinctively avoiding his sharp gaze and purposeful walk. He exuded power and strength, evident in the set of his shoulders and the way he held his head high.

He paused in the middle of a street, glancing up at the restaurant sign hanging over the road. He seemed to deliberate for a while until a growl sounded from his stomach. He snorted, shaking his head and proceeding into the restaurant. Guess that solves that problem. I hate to waste time yet... well, everyone always thinks better on a full stomach, don't they?

He slipped into the building, the large number of people making him immediately regret the fur-lined coat he still wore. He dodged around waiters and patrons enjoying their midday meal, making his way to the bar where the only empty seat made itself apparent. He claimed it quickly and waited for the bartender to notice him. It didn't take too long.

"What can I do for you sir?" The man drawled, slinging a slightly damp dishcloth over his shoulder.

The man smiled, pulling his jacket off and revealing the tight grey shirt he wore underneath. He ignored the sound of women swooning. "Whatever the special is today and the largest cup of water you have. Some information would also be gladly appreciated."

The bartender frowned slightly, motioning at one of the waitresses as he leaned on the bar. "Information, huh? Say, where are you from? I recognize your accent but I can't place it."

"Ishgar," the man said, cracking his neck.

The bartender snorted. "Ishgar's a pretty big continent. Care to be any more specific?"

"Apologies. I'm from Fiore."

The bartender snapped his fingers. "That's it. We had some customers a couple of years ago from Fiore. It's a very identifiable accent. Hey, do you know any wizards? There's so many famous guilds and wizards from Fiore that you must know some."

The man nodded, stretching his arms again. His brow was furrowed slightly, but he answered the question the bartender had posed. "Yes, I've met many powerful and amazing wizards. I've even had the honor of working with some." The bartender's eyes widened in shock, but before he could press the foreigner any further, the man continued. "Do you happen to remember who those customers from Fiore were? I understand that it was a while ago, but I'm actually looking for some friends of mine, and any leads or information would be of great help."

The bartender drummed his fingers on the bar, thinking. Then he slapped the wood. "I'll get back to you on that." He turned away, serving the other customers while he thought.

The Fiorian sat in relative silence, sighing or mumbling to himself every so often. He was the subject of many curious glances, the handsome foreigner with broad shoulders and a tight shirt and a slight frown. The scars that carved his skin at random did little to lessen the intrigue. And on his face...