Fate of the Marked

Uncharted Sea

The owner stormed out from behind the bar, his footsteps heavy and purposeful. He was an elf, sure, but nothing like the slender, elegant figures I'd come to associate with his kind. This one was built like a boulder, muscles straining against his shirt and veins standing out on his forearms. His presence alone silenced the murmurs in the room.

He reached my table, slammed his hand down with a force that made my mug wobble precariously, and barked, "Shut up! Be in order! This is my pub!"

I blinked, startled, as his sharp, commanding voice cut through the tension like a blade.

His piercing gaze swung to Eryon. "You!" He jabbed a thick finger at him, then pointed to the seat next to me. "Sit down."

Eryon hesitated, his axes still glinting in his hands, but the owner's glare could have stopped a charging troll. Begrudgingly, he trudged over, muttering under his breath as he dropped into the chair beside me. Great. Just what I needed.

The owner wasn't done. He shoved a plate of food onto the table in front of us—a steaming, savory dish called Ashroot Stew, its rich aroma wafting up in waves. A hearty mix of thickly sliced root vegetables, chunks of spiced meat, and a fragrant broth that seemed to warm me just by the smell.

"This is on the house," the owner snapped, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Eat it."

Eryon, still bristling, looked like he wanted to protest, but one taste of the stew was all it took to quell his rage. He dug in with fervor, tearing into the meal as if it were his first in days.

I hesitated, then took a cautious bite. The flavors hit me immediately—earthy, savory, with a hint of smoky spice that lingered on my tongue. The broth was thick and comforting, exactly what I needed after a day spent in the biting cold.

The owner turned his attention to the drunken woman still lounging in her chair. "Susan!" he bellowed, his voice carrying across the room. "Go home! This is your fourth day in here."

Susan didn't even flinch. She waved her hand lazily in his direction, not even looking up from her drink. "Yeah, yeah, whatever, dude."

I hid a smirk behind my spoon. It seemed Drakemire had no shortage of characters.

After finishing our meals, the owner returned, refilling my Draeven brew without a word and pouring a fresh mug for Eryon. He leaned heavily against the table, his broad forearms resting on the edge as his piercing eyes settled on Eryon.

"All right, loudmouth," the owner began, his voice still carrying a trace of irritation. "What's your deal? Why are you storming into my pub like you own it?"

Eryon wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his voice gruff as he repeated himself. "I need a sea captain to sail me to the capital city. The sea here is dangerous, filled with creatures that'd drag you to the depths if you're not careful. I can handle myself—"

The crow on his shoulder let out a sharp caw, as if to emphasize his point.

"—but the sea? Bah. That's a beast of a different kind." Eryon scowled, his hand resting protectively on the hilt of one of his axes.

The owner raised an eyebrow. "You don't like sea creatures, huh? Big bad warrior afraid of a little water?"

The crow cawed again, louder this time, and Eryon shot it an annoyed glance. "Quiet, Moara," he muttered before turning back to the owner. "It's not fear. It's respect. Land, I understand. The sea? That's chaos. That's where creatures like her thrive."

My curiosity piqued, I tilted my head toward the bird. "The crow... you called it Moara?"

Eryon glanced at me, then at the bird on his shoulder, his expression softening for the first time. "Aye. Moara." He reached up, and the crow nuzzled his knuckles in response. "She's a shape-shifter. Not just a bird. She can take on any form she likes, but she prefers the crow. Likes to perch up here and squawk her opinions."