The Age of Mercenaries

Tales sat at the bar, staring at the Western Wasteland old ale in his hand, and brooded for a long while.

During that time, Kuaishang went in and out of the tavern, sweating profusely as he rummaged through account books and checked figures, busying himself with the property Kandar had left behind. Louisa, Dean, Mackey, and the members of Dant's Greatswords also arrived one after another, heading upstairs to hold a meeting with Siman and Old Hammer.

"Wyatt, are you sure it's all right for you to sit here?"

Dean squeezed into the noisy tavern. Before heading upstairs, he glanced doubtfully at Tales, who was sitting off to the side with a swollen face.

"Of course." Tales pulled his face out of his cup and burped. He glared balefully at Tampa on the other side of the bar, his teeth itching with irritation. "I'm very familiar with the Tavern Owner."

"Good." Dean gave Tampa a suspicious look. "Tampa is a fairly reliable mercenary broker. He knows a lot of people. If you're trying to find your way home, perhaps..."

Tales nodded stiffly.

Dean shrugged and went upstairs to attend the mercenaries' internal meeting.

Time passed, and soon Bladefang Camp welcomed the night after sunset.

People came and went through the tavern, raising cups and exchanging toasts.

Quite a few people noticed Tales sitting in the corner, but most were driven away by Tampa's glare.

The bards sang with smiling faces to attract business while warily guarding against their competitors. Scantily dressed girls swayed coquettishly between the tables, periodically using the valleys between their breasts to draw out money. Elsewhere, people with hidden faces or mysterious bearing crouched behind tables, gesticulating and arguing in hushed voices beneath the tabletops, conducting filthy deals that Tales probably didn't want—and didn't dare—to know about.