Argrave, without much option, took Durran to an establishment that he knew had private rooms for eating. Dawn was just arriving, so their timing could not be better. Some Vessels ran the place, but they worked for Aurum, so Brium would likely never find out about them. Even still, ever cautious, Argrave had warded their conversation.

Of all the characters in ‘Heroes of Berendar’ barring the custom-made one, Argrave had definitely played Durran the most. Melanie stood at a close second. They were fun to play, mainly, but Argrave liked their personalities the most. He understood them well. It helped him plan a course of action for this conversation rather quickly, suppressing his panic.

Durran was a fairly tall and lithe man with light brown skin and wavy brown hair that generally contributed to his natural charm. With his robe set aside, one could see the golden tattoos all along his skin, some marred by scars. Unlike during the raid, he did not wear his wyvern scale armor, instead bearing simple brown leathers.

“Trying to kill me with the weight of debt?” inquired Durran, who’d taken two chairs to both sit and support his feet. “This place is expensive.”

“If you’re destitute after raiding Argent, I’ve got to seriously question if you can understand this conversation through your haze of stupidity,” Argrave returned, leaving his arms atop the table. “You’d have to be stupid to lose that much money, after all.”

Durran laughed, then set his glaive against the wall. The cloth wrapped around the blade fell away briefly, revealing a black edge that didn’t look metallic. “Shiny bits of metal don’t mean much in the mountains, unless it’s steel.”

“But I know you spend more time away from the mountains than most,” Argrave said, and Durran merely grinned, saying nothing. “Surprised Boarmask isn’t here. Busy feeding the poor, saving people, giving sermons?”

Durran frowned. “Gods above, how much do you know?” He took his feet off the chair and leaned in. “What’s my mother’s name?”

“Trick question. You don’t know,” Argrave shook his head.

Durran leaned back. “Was asking as a joke, but…” he looked to Anneliese and Argrave. “You three… what in the gods’ names are you? Super-spies? Can’t guess your angle. Northerners—northern elves, at that, sticking out like pearls in the sand.”

“I’m the only one you need to worry about,” Argrave shook his head. “So, you want to illuminate me on this genius idea you had to ruin everyone’s plans? Yours, mine? Were you feeling a little suicidal today?”

Durran looked uneased, but he set his feet back on the chair. “I don’t know. I had to know who in the world was talking about something I’ve done my best to keep quiet. I kept thinking about it. The whole thing made me uneasy, had to do something. I just—” he started to shake his head, then paused. “Hold on. I came here to ask questions, why am I feeling interrogated?”

“Because I’m better at talking,” Argrave answered smoothly. “Just because it’s weighing at you, you trod across the desert and cause all of us undue trouble? You have to work on that impulsivity. It’s a liability.”

“Better than sticking about, waiting. You want something, you’ve got to—” He stopped, then held his hand out and shook his head. “Whatever. I came here to demand some answers about—”

“And what makes you think you deserve answers?” Argrave interrupted at once. “If I hadn’t told you anything, you’d be leading your tribe to the slaughter. You’d throw yourselves against Aurum and Argent, dying en masse, and then Brium would butcher your people—or perhaps it’d be better to call it ‘dehydrate’ your people. Let’s clear the air.” Argrave pointed at Durran. “You didn’t come here for answers. You came here because you can’t stand that psychopathic wannabe poet with a spray-on tan played you for a fool, and I stopped you from running off a cliff with your tribe following just behind.”

Durran’s face tensed, anger and defensiveness both seizing him. The door of the room opened soundlessly, and the servers outside stopped at Argrave’s ward. Argrave dispelled the ward with one hand, refusing to break his gaze from Durran. The innkeeper and his serving staff entered.

“The meal for today’s goat meat, with the house spices plus some gold flakes, courtesy of the Lord of Gold, blessed she be,” the fat innkeeper explained gruffly. “Some bread from the farms, recently baked, and a soup. Considering you’re mostly foreigners, and one of you is an unmarked tribal… twelve gold.”

Argrave pointed at Durran. “He’ll pay.”

The innkeeper looked down at Durran, holding his hand out. Durran finally broke his gaze away from Argrave, then reached to his pocket. He counted out the coins, then passed them to the innkeeper.

“Enjoy,” the innkeeper left them, then he and the serving staff filtered out, recognizing the tension in the room.

As soon as the door was shut, Durran began immediately, “First of all, none of that’s been established. You don’t have a shred of proof. If I hadn’t seen you coming from Cyprus, even your association with Brium would be up for question.”

Argrave laughed as he brought back the ward, blocking out the sound. “What do you want, pal? A journal detailing all of his malice? Maybe a poem or two about sucking your people dry? Sorry, fresh out of incriminating things.”

“Brium promised—”

“Promised what?” Argrave interrupted. “That he’d leave your people alone? Maybe liberate some of the people underneath Aurum and Argent’s control, allow them to return to the tribes? And—let me guess—he swore under the name of Fellhorn? He’s a Vessel of Fellhorn, you must’ve thought—surely he can’t break that vow.”

Durran stared wrathfully, and Argrave leaned back into his chair.

“You trust the guy willing to kill his own people to get ahead? He’s jumping at the idea to get at other Vessels, to get this whole town under his control. It’s not because he thinks the other two are tyrants. It’s because he won’t share power with them.” Argrave tapped his temple. “I thought you were a cynic. How’d you fall for this scam? You owe me a hell of a lot more than this meal. You owe me the lives of thousands.”

Anneliese pushed a plate closer to Argrave. “You should eat,” she urged.

A bit taken aback by the consideration amidst the heated argument, he picked up the fork without much thought and began eating. Durran stared heatedly, making Argrave find it difficult to enjoy the taste of his food.

He had time to finish chewing, and so Argrave continued, “Look. Listen. I get where you’re coming from. You feel like you’re on a sinking ship, and so you’re desperate to find anything that’s going to help your people.” Argrave waved his fork. “Don’t let that desperation make you stupid. If there was any dissent among the Vessels about the southern tribals fate, things would never have progressed to the point they had. You’re dumb, but not that dumb.”

Durran crossed his arms, and Argrave continued to eat.

“Stop holding back. Tell me what you’re really thinking,” Durran shook his head.

Argrave lowered his fork and started laughing, caught off guard. Durran joined him in laughter.

“Gods be damned,” Durran wheezed out after they’d finished. “Look what you’ve done to me. How am I to eat when you hit me with a gut-punch like that, you bastard?”

“Truth is a heavy meal, isn’t it?” Argrave picked up his fork. “It tastes foul, too. But it’s good for you. Good for all of you.”

“Takes a while to digest, that’s for certain,” Durran finally removed his feet from atop the other chair, then leaned into the table, picking up his fork. “I don’t know. You make a lot of sense, but… I’m not sure. Not sure about too much. I have to look into this.”

“Well, whatever you do, don’t pull this little stunt on Brium,” Argrave said firmly. “You’ll find that conversation much drier than this one, I promise you.”

Durran chuckled, weighing the fork in his hand before setting it down as though unable to stomach the food before him. “You won’t answer me, though? About how you know Gebicca?”

“I spoke to her,” Argrave shrugged.

“Where?” he asked.

“Northwestern part of the mountains, crushed beneath rocks.”

Durran bit his lips. “What’d she look like?”

“Uhh… jet-black skin, black hair… long-ish, I suppose… sharp, big nose, a bit angry-looking, and a pretty broad chin.”

“And her eyes?”

Argrave paused. “I don’t know. I didn’t gaze into her eyes as she died. Bit weird.”

“Yeah. Don’t know why I asked. Can’t remember, either.” Durran picked up the spoon, settling on the soup. He looked confused.

Argrave enjoyed the meal, feeling quite self-satisfied with the contemplative silence that followed. “Pretty good, isn’t it?” he nudged Anneliese’s elbow.

“Very… hot,” she confessed. “It is too much.”

“Come on,” Argrave pressed. “The more you eat, the easier it gets in the future.”

Durran swirled the bowl of chunky soup around, saying little. Finally, he let the spoon go, and raised his gaze to Argrave once more.

“Alright. Let’s forget all this other nonsense. I just want to know—what’s your position in this? You working beneath someone? Rivals from another town? Interfering for the northern kingdoms? Wandering prophet, maybe, got a god to sell me? That last one would explain all the things you know that you shouldn’t.”

“Argent has something I want. Can’t get it from them directly, so I have to use the tools I’ve got.” Argrave took a bite as he allowed Durran to process his words, and once he’d finished chewing, continued, “I could just go along with Brium, but I don’t fancy letting the Vessels run things uncontested. Hence, I want your people to come out ahead.”

“If things are as you say, I think it’d be best to just let Brium throw himself on the sword.”

“You could,” Argrave agreed, though he did feel a bit disquieted at the notion of the southern tribals backing out. “I know you’re not the type to do that, though.”

“Pfft. What do you know about me?” Durran leaned back, putting his feet up once more.

“Let’s see… your father was a tribal chief, you’re a self-studied mage after you found some stash of spell books—oh, and you’re hiding that fact from the tribe. Especially your father. You like gardening, but this embarrasses you. You killed your uncle because he was… well, worthless, frankly. You hate the traditionalists of the tribes, but you want to see your people flourish nonetheless.” Argrave planted his fork into the meat before him. “Need I go on?”

Durran had grabbed the table while Argrave was speaking, and now he stared wordlessly ahead. Argrave could practically see the thoughts running through his head—Argrave had disclosed things that Durran had never told anyone. He was just shy of having an aneurysm, Argrave suspected.

“I have some more embarrassing bits, but I spared you from that,” Argrave commented. “Mostly because I didn’t really want to say them.”

Durran rubbed at his chest. “Never thought the first one to take my breath away would be some weird-looking northerner. Gods, I—”

Durran stood up, stepping towards his glaive. Argrave watched him.

“List—” he pointed, then stopped himself, curling his fingers into a fist. “I’ve gotta… I’ve gotta go.”

He grabbed his glaive and then made for the exit. Argrave dispelled the ward, allowing him to pass. Once the door had shut, Argrave grinned smugly and hunched over his food.

“I think the food is splendid,” Argrave shook his head wistfully. “Let’s take our time.”