The cobbles that paved the road to the western gate of Werfendale began to emerge from the trampled mud less than a half-mile from the gatehouse, at first as isolated hazards that would turn an ankle or cause a cart to lurch unexpectedly, then as conspiring pairs or trios that required the constant attention of weary travelers lest they suffer a bust knee or drop precious goods being brought to or from the regional market. Even as the road ran past the half-dozen guards who slouched in the hot, windowless gatehouse or who stood, hands on hilts, on either side of the gate, the road still looked to have misplaced as many cobbles as it had retained, the uneven surface passable at only the slowest of paces.

All the morning’s visitors to the market having already passed the gate with the rising sun, the guards watched as small and widely spaced groups approached the town at a crawl. Men of greater aspiration might have found much to appraise in each of the groups, but the guards watched only for threats to their lives or their jobs. The halfling riding a gray Newfoundland pony a half-length ahead of two half-elves and a half-orc appeared to present no threat to either, and the two guards flanking the gate did not affix their full attention to the party until it stopped before them for inspection.

Without removing his gaze from the halfling, the older of the two guards pressed a thumb to one nostril, leaned forward, and blew mucus to the ground, most of it missing his worn boots and finding mud and an occasional cobble. “Purpose?”

The guards’ attention shifted as not the halfling but the half-orc spoke. “We’re just going to Fellgrave.” Even through her nearly overwhelming mental fatigue, Reeve detected both the brusqueness of her voice, particularly with its orcish inflection, and the guards’ glances at each other as they stood more erect, their palm-capped hilts shifting forward to be less obscured by their paunches. The last thing she wanted was trouble from a few small-town gate guards. “Sirs,” she blinked her dry eyes hard a few times in an effort to think more clearly, “Werfendale,” she was careful to say the name correctly as it appeared in her UI, “is a safe haven on our route, and we simply seek supplies and information on the land between here and Fellgrave.”

The guards examined Reeve a moment longer, then the older nodded, but his stance did not relax. “Why is this halfling bound to his mount? The Council does not condone passage of known slavers.”

With a frown she fought to hide, Reeve wondered if the Council, and the guards, would allow passage of those who did not identify themselves as slavers. Perhaps for the right price.

“No, certainly not,” Walter said, patting the rope that circled his waist and then his pommel, “I have a tendency to lose my balance when my UI appears—“ Walter could hear what he was fairly certain was Reeve face palming. “—ah, that is, when my mind wanders during our long travels.” He cleared his throat and smiled in the way he did at the beginning of difficult conversations in his job back in HR.

“Of course, of course,” the senior guard said, practically beaming at Walter, the guard’s chestplate shifting lower and farther forward as he relaxed, no longer interested in this group, ready to await the next to the gate.

“But the bridge to Fellgrave is washed out,” the younger guard said. “You’ll be needing a guide to take you the way of the ford.”

“Of course the bridge is out.” Reeve blew a raspberry in frustration, assuming the guards, now under the influence of her father’s Charisma, would no longer take offense at the slightest opportunity. “And where would we find a guide?”

“Guides of the Guild can be found at The Golden Gander,” the senior guard said. He turned and pointed to a large shingle displaying a gander inlaid in gold, the shingle hanging from the peak of a neatly thatched building a few blocks beyond the gate.

Reeve frowned at him. “And?”

The guard looked back at her, his face hardening slightly.

Reeve nudged the back of her father’s thigh where it rested on the pony’s flank.

Walter looked around, startled, at his daughter, who raised her eyebrows and tipped her head toward the guards.

“Oh, yes,” Walter said, turning back to the guards. “And?”

The younger guard nodded knowingly. “Well, Guild guides be the best money can buy, if you judge by the coin you’ll be parted from, but the last two Guild guides to leave Werfendale for the ford are yet to return.”

“How long ago did they leave?” Reeve said.

“Three moons, the last.”

“Brilliant,” Reeve said. “And what other options…” She shook her head in frustration and nudged her father.

“And, uh, what other options are there,” Walter looked back at Reeve, “for guides?”

Reeve nodded.

“I’s heard,” the younger guard said quietly, “that non-guild guides mays occasionally frequent The Wailing Loon,” he turned and indicated a building almost directly across from the first and then turned to the twins, “though I can’t in good conscious suggest ye ladies visit Th’ Loon, understand?”

Reeve squinted against the still-low sun to make out the second tavern. There was no shingle, though a broken beam above the entrance might have once held one.

“Let’s go,” Reeve said and patted the pony’s haunch hard enough that it resumed its slow progress along the uneven road.

“Gentlemen,” Walter said with a slight bow as he came even with the guards.

Reeve reached out a hand to catch Walter’s slow slide to the side and push him back plum in the saddle. As they passed under the stone arch of the gate, she noted the compass rose carved into the keystone. She checked her UI and found that their spawn had indeed just auto-updated.

Looking up the street, sun in her eyes, the stench of waste rising from the gutter, she thought, I need a break or I will kill someone. Possibly three someones. And maybe a pony. She frowned, wondering what had become of the little girl who, just a few grades ago, could barely look at a pony without bursting into tears of joy. She even felt different than the person she’d been three weeks ago, game time. She sucked a small piece of Forrest Mushroom, Non-Poisonous, from between her teeth, a remnant of their paltry dinner the night before.

“Twilights, can you stable the pony and then take Walter with you to the market to get our provisions? I’ll go check out the Loon and see if there’s a way we can shortcut this objective.”

“Reeve, Honey,” Walter said quietly, “you know they don’t like it when you call them that.”

“Thanks, Dad. I’ll keep that in mind.” Reeve looked at the twins and raised her eyebrows.

“I would be pleased to have Wurmslayer accompany me to the market,” Dawn said.

“And I will accompany you to the tavern, Wurmslayer’s spawn,” Dusk said.

Reeve looked between the twins. She looked at her father, who gave her a toothy halfling grin. Reeve’s right eye twitched. “Whatever,” she said, turning and walking toward the tavern without any attention to whether Dusk would follow.