This is a subject matter that Fresh not only wasn’t expecting in the least, but also has literally zero experience with. So, taken aback by the barkeeper’s direct request for her help with such a thing, she simply doesn’t really know what to say, in all honesty and just kind of stares at her in awkward silence, occasionally looking around at her friends. Basil seems to catch herself first.

“Set her down, Shamrock,” asks the priestess and Shamrock obliges. Rather than standing, the barkeeper simply falls to her knees and continues to sit there with her hands clenched as tightly together as her teeth and eyes. She’s beyond terrified. Fresh doesn’t think that the woman is knelt down as a gesture of respect. Her legs simply gave out beneath her. Even from up here, she can see the sweat pearling on the unscarred parts of her skin that it can still form on.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” says Fresh, realizing that saying this isn’t going to help. As far as the barkeeper, a normal person of this world, is concerned, she herself may as well be the devil in human form.

Basil turns around, looking towards Jubilee who seems to be thinking as well. Jubilee nods to Basil, Basil nods back. The two of them have come up with some unspoken scheme, which Fresh doesn’t like in the least, given the serious context of this conversation.

“I’ll do anything,” begs the barkeeper. “Do you want my soul? It’s yours! Please!”

“Uh… no, listen -” starts Fresh, wanting to get off the cart to console the barkeeper who she, at least in the back of her own mind, still considers as a kind acquaintance who went out of her way to warn them once before. As far as Fresh feels, she still owes her something anyway. But this is clearly out of her league. Jubilee stops her, holding her back with a free hand.

“We’ll see what we can do,” says Jubilee. “But we’ll need something in exchange,” they explain, pointing at her. “And no, we don’t want your soul.”

“Jubilee!” hisses Fresh, pulling her friend back and away. “That’s too much! We can’t ask her for anything!” she whispers, feeling somewhat aghast at her friend. “It’s wrong!”

Jubilee leans in towards her. “Look. I’m sorry, but we don’t have time for your moral bullshit!” they hiss back, whispering into her ear. “This is a once in a lifetime opportunity, we’re not wasting it!” says Jubilee.

“It’s not a waste!” hisses Fresh. “Basil?!” she asks quietly, looking over to the priestess who is listening in as well. She sits there, fidgeting with her sleeve. Basil looks away, having nothing to add to the debate this time. But Fresh knows that she and Jubilee are on the same page here, seeing this as some golden opportunity. When did her friends become so heavy?

Fresh narrows her eyes, holding Jubilee back as she leans out of the cart. “I don’t know if I can help you,” she admits. “Basil?” asks Fresh. If anyone knows about the restoration of bodily damage here, it’s Basil.

She shakes her head quietly. “I don’t know,” admits the priestess. “I’ve heard of some druids near the southern-border, who have expertise in the matter, but -”

“I’ve asked them,” says the barkeeper, interrupting Basil. “I’ve been to every city I can go into and to every village. I’ve asked everyone,” she says, still holding her head down against her clenched fists. “That’s why you’re the only person left. There’s nothing that anyone else can do. Please, I’ll give you anything!”

“Do you know how it happened?” asks Basil. “You can get up, it’s okay,” says the priestess, apparently feeling bad now too. But the barkeeper doesn’t budge. Basil looks back towards Jubilee, nodding once towards Fresh. “Do you want to take her inside?”

“Yeah, come on goo-brain,” says Jubilee, grabbing her wrist. “Let’s let the adults talk.”

Fresh indignantly pulls her hand free from Jubilee, jumping off of the cart and going to the barkeeper, who flinches together with the sound of every step coming towards her. The anqa, Thyme starts to get rowdy as she approaches. Basil jumps off and steps in between them, calming it back down.

“Sorry about my friends, they’re nice people, really,” says Fresh, glaring back up at everyone. “But they can also be real JERKS sometimes,” she notes, making a point out of it as she looks particularly long at Basil and Jubilee. “I don’t know if I can help you,” says Fresh again, bending down and grabbing the icy cold bundle of fingers of the barkeeper. “But I’M,” she says the word extra loud for emphasis. “- going to listen.”

First grabbing her grimoire, she helps the elf get up and the two of them move to the side of the room, sitting by some crates in the back, while Basil and Shamrock bring the cart back around again, consoling a very confused and annoyed anqa. Fresh allows Jubilee to accompany her, but warns them wordlessly with the coldest glare that she has ever had to make, that they better not say a single word.

And so, they spend the first hour of their arrival in this new city like that, painting the freshly growing memory of what is supposed to be a new start to their lives, with the truly horrible story that the barkeeper has to tell. Fresh doesn’t say anything, just listening to the further reaffirmation that she receives. It proves to her once more that this world, in and of itself, is tainted in some way. Deep down at its very core, something has long since been broken and apparently, the same can be said of the people.

The barkeeper tells the story of when she was living in a small village, a long time ago, out in the giant forest. She and her friends had unwittingly wandered too far towards the central-city while collecting herbs and hunting. The perimeter-guards there had found them. Her friends were tortured and executed and she, after her body was beaten and used, was ruined inside and out by hot-metal before being let go as a warning to any others to stay out of the vicinity of the central-city.

Fresh sits there, staring at the ground as she listens and while the elf tells her story, she remembers the word Jubilee had used to describe the people who lived in that place, when she made the flying sheep, she remembers the emphasis they had placed on that singular description of them and the clean-burning venom in their voice.

‘Demons’.

Now, many, many years later, the elf only has one real dream in life, the one thing she can’t have. After the barkeeper tells her story, Fresh feels obligated to tell her theirs, at least the filtered version. Jubilee, perhaps still heeding her unspoken warning, says nothing and doesn’t interrupt her, as she explains how they moved away from the north and then how they are now moving here. But that’s about it, the information regarding her patron or any of the real details, she leaves out. She’s just trying to have the elf realize that she isn’t some evil creature that one needs to undergo a soul-selling pact with. But she also tells her that this is beyond her scope, while she flutters through her grimoire.

She notices as she flips every damp page, how heavy they all seem to feel. Wasn’t the world just a lot lighter only a week and a half ago, when they left the mountain? She rubs the back of her head, not finding anything. “I promise I’ll look,” says Fresh, finally closing her grimoire. “But…” she shakes her head. “I really don’t know if there’s anything I can do,” she says, averting her eyes.

The barkeeper nods, also staring down at the stones below them for a while. “If you need anything. A connection. Money. My blood. You can have it!” promises the barkeeper. “You’re moving? I can help with a structure!”

Fresh grabs her scarred hands, shaking her head ‘no’ and standing up. “I really promise that I’ll look. For fr -”

Her grimoire falls down from her lap as she rises upwards, the wet spine slapping against the stones. The book opens up and as both covers strike down against the ground. Fresh sees the black splashes fly out of the pages, some of them dribbling against the off-white cuff of her fluffy robe.

She leans down, picking up the grimoire and looks at the open page. Fresh hates what she sees there; a spell. A ritual.

She hates that the fountain is giving her this now.

This wasn’t there in the grimoire before, when she looked just a second ago, she’s sure of it. She had gone through every single page. It just appeared there literally right now. Freshly written, the ink is still dripping wet. That means the fountain has decided for her. Fresh’s eyes read over the spell and it makes her deeply unhappy to see, in a way. Because it means that the fountain had a solution the entire time. But it simply didn’t care in the least.

Only now, after the barkeeper has made a tangible offer of exchange, that it apparently considers useful in some way, is it willing to let her see this.

Fresh sighs, closing the grimoire and nodding once. She knows what she has to say and she knows that if she doesn't, that the fountain is going to make her say it anyways. “I might have an idea, actually. But can we get a room and settle in first, please?” she asks, smearing wet ink on her face as she rubs her eyes, which feel deeply tired all of a sudden.

The barkeeper nods, getting up right away.