Day of Tomes, 13th of Suhin, Year 401

Jack watched Layla walk away.

“We should’ve been watching her. A month… fuck…” Jack sighed.

“You know, mate, it’s that kind of thinking that’s going to eventually get you in trouble with Erin,” Rory bit a piece of his bacon and waved it at the nightbringer.

“What?” Jack’s head slowly turned to face Rory.

“You’re removing the tart’s agency in the situation. She could’ve fed during the walk. She was testing herself. Like that time she won the server contest for picking Twilight Peonies by staying up for ninety-six hours straight. Maybe it got out of hand. Maybe she bought some new ability that messes up her being able to feed off us. Maybe she was just worried she’d go nutty and eat one of us. But ultimately, it was her choice, Jack,” Rory waved the bacon again, then popped it in his mouth.

“Huh…” Jack stopped moving, Rory watching as the wheels turned over in his head.

“And ultimately, given that she hasn’t freaked out and eaten anyone, I’d say she’s doing okay for having a magic sex addiction,” he smiled gently.

The salesman picked up another piece of bacon, retrieved a scone from his storage, and built himself a bacon, egg, and homefries breakfast sandwich.

Rory: Tart.

Layla: Not a good time, Rory.

Rory: Tell Jackson you’re okay, so he’ll stop brooding out here.

Layla: I’m fine, Jack. I’m just gonna take a long bath, and when Erin wakes up, I’ll ask her to help me out.

Jack: Okay, El. I’m… sorry… I guess.

Layla: Fuck, Jackson. Go… clean my armor, or something.

“See,” Rory took a bite of his sandwich. “Communication is key.”

“Yeah,” Jack sighed. “Hey, Tilly, do you want Layla’s plate?”

“Don’t mind if ah do, lad,” the innkeeper picked up one of the home fries and nibbled at it experimentally. “Oh, my. Did yeh say you were teachin’ Findam how ta make these?”

“They’re just mapras tubers chopped and seared in bacon grease, with a dash of salt and ground pepper,” he smiled.

The dwarfess looked down at the plate and issued a short grunt, then picked up another home fry and popped it into her mouth.

“Mapras are fer boilin’, laddie,” she eyed him.

“They’re for a lot of things, and I’ll teach Findam how to make all of them. Maybe we can get a break on our tab?” he laughed.

“Oh aye, laddie. If’n yeh can teach that old mountain goat to cook beggar’s mash into somethin’ like this, I’ll buy the recipes off yeh fer a fair price,” she nodded, and the boys watched her start counting imaginary coins again.

Jack gathered up the sacks of laundry and armor from behind the bar, adding Layla’s gear to the pile and harassing Rory to produce his leathers until he finally did so.

“So, you’ll arrange for these to be laundered, Tilly?” he plopped the sack of laundry on a barstool.

“Aye, laddie, but leave it by the door, not on the bar,” she wrinkled her nose at the… fragrance of the rucksack.

“Done. I’ll be back later, Rory. Try to stay out of trouble today,” he grinned.

“No promises,” the salesman replied around his sandwich.

Jack stepped out of the Yam into the harsh daylight, pulling his hood over his head and his cloak tightly around him as the stinging sensation of the sun crept across his skin. He reached under the hood and ran a hand across his freshly shortened hair, cut last night with a pair of shears he’d borrowed from Tilly. It wasn’t exactly a salon cut, but Tilly had helped him clean it up enough that he didn’t feel like a homeless albino anymore. She’d sold him a razor as well, a big, straight-handled affair that would fit in among Rory’s arsenal better than a barbershop, but it had done the job.

The crisp autumn air rolled down the street, bringing a riot of scents from the east. Jack could smell the bakery most clearly, but the sweat of people making their way down the street, the soot of chimneys burning, the smell of a dozen restaurants serving breakfast and preparing lunch, and the faint hint of sea air all drifted past him as he walked away from the inn.

He walked south, back toward the Hunter’s Guildhall, then took a left onto the wide boulevard that led into the Marked Ward. The street bustled with foot traffic, the occasional rider mounted on creatures that were almost horses, and wagons full of goods and produce. The clamor of barkers and hagglers blended with the tamer drone of dozens of conversations, mixing with the patter of feet and the clop of hooves and wagon wheels, all of which was underlaid with the riot of color and the swirling pattern of scents that floated across the entire district, all of these things shifting, ebbing, and flowing from moment to moment as Jack simply walked down the street.

He sighed contentedly.

Jack had always liked people. Maybe not as much as Rory, and certainly not as much as Layla...

He snorted at the thought, then stilled himself and bit his lip to stop the involuntary smile.

“That wasn’t funny, Jack,” he whispered to himself.

On his right, a huge triangular open-air bazaar was cast into shade by a massive tent. On his left, another street branched off and dog-legged back north.

Then he walked into the square, and the city’s central plaza opened up in front of him. On the right, a temple to Heleyl occupied a prominent position in the square, but wasn’t so large or elaborate that it seemed to dominate the space. He scowled and kept walking.

On the left, a wide park spread out, occupying half the plaza, with a large pond in the middle. Couples lounged together on the green, children played catch or chase, and several citizens fished in the wide pond. In the center of the water, a large fountain continuously sprayed a column of water some thirty feet into the air. The rest of the square was dominated by traffic coming and going to and from the three main avenues of the city. To the east, the direction he had come, the boulevard led back to the Cross Gate. To the north, the street split the Market Ward and the Black Ward, though the east side of the street was still entirely mercantile businesses rather than crafting establishments. Finally, to the south, the road headed back into the town, before splitting to head west into the Black Ward and leading to the Hollow Gate. The other fork led more or less directly south, straight to the Thorn Ward.

Jack’s destination was on the north side of the Black Ward, a master smith named Raegyn Ashhand, whose shop was located on the other side of a small city reservoir called “the Lock”. The Lock provided the Black Ward’s fresh water, but was especially important to the crafters of the northern side of the district. Property value rose sharply as shops and buildings approached the reservoir. Apparently, you could walk out the front door of Ashhand’s shop and stumble into the Lock.

Jack walked past the park and onto the northern avenue. He continued to stroll up the street, keeping an eye out for the sign that would indicate the small crafting plaza that directly surrounded the Lock. After a few more minutes, he turned a corner to the left and immediately saw the sign across the street. Negotiating the crowd and a hurried teamster with a wagon loaded down with casks, he crossed the street and stepped into the alley that led to the plaza.

He stepped into the Lock park, passing several shops, until he stopped to stare at the massive, open reservoir. The Lock’s walls were waist high, and as he walked up to the edge, he could see the bottom through the crystal clear water. In the center of the water, a swirl of blue mana disgorged hundreds of gallons of water in a steady stream. Jack could see openings at the street level along the sides of the Lock, which according to Tilly, spread throughout the Black Ward, acting as a sewer system that washed away the district’s human and chemical waste.

“First time in Moryven?” a burly man covered in soot, wearing a thick leather apron called to him from across the plaza.

“That obvious?” Jack smiled.

“A bit, yeah. The Lock’s worth a gawk or two, though. I’m Orden. What brings you up here?” he reached out and shook Jack’s hand, his grip strong and firm, without being overly aggressive.

“Looking for Ashhand’s smithy. I’ve got some armor that needs maintenance,” he looked around, noting that the largest building in the plaza was an open-air smithy with a half-dozen workers pounding steel and twice as many watching or doing grunt work.

“Well, you’ve found it. That’s Raegyn there,” the big man pointed to the largest forge in the smithy, where an inhumanly tall red-haired woman with arms blackened by soot up to her elbows slammed a hammer the size of Jack’s head into a sword bigger than Layla.

She reached out, and an apprentice placed a large gem into the waiting hand. She clenched her fist and the gem exploded into a writhing matrix of aether a foot across. Then she slid the swirling pattern of mana down the length of the red-hot metal, allowing the aether to soak into the weapon.

She lifted the hammer again, then looked around abruptly, eventually finding Jack and the burly smith across the plaza.

“ORDEN, QUIT FONDLING YOUR DICK AND GET BACK TO WORK!”