107

The Imp’s. The name suggests a dwarf-oriented establishment, but the front door is easily large enough for the taller species to get in. As if to confirm your suspicion of welcome a gracile humanoid of a species unknown to you enters, a tall two-horned creature with chalk white skin and no hair.

You are greeted at the door by an elf, a rather short elf, and fairly stocky. She’s very pretty nonetheless; most likely cross-species. You ask her if you can speak to the owner, if she isn’t the owner herself. She smiles saying she isn’t so fortunate yet, and bids you follow her.

Inside it is warm, very warm. You wonder if it must get particularly cold up here at night, and if people here like to go a little overkill scaring it away. You spot a fireplace on the far side of the main room: it isn’t burning strong, but it’s definitely burning. Perhaps you are simply less sensitive to temperatures, being from the wilderlands beyond the forest.

Seated at the tables and standing at the bar is a repeat of all that you saw at the market place: a mix of every vaguely two-legged beast with a full mind, mingling together, sharing wine, meat and every other edible or drinkable substance under the sun (or the counter perhaps).

The elf introduces you to the current Imp after briefly explaining his title. Years ago apparently the Imp was actually a dwarf, but after one of his sons left the place to an unusually small human, tradition has simply been for the owner to be any old short creature. This particular incarnation takes the form of a tiny little orc with one missing lower canine, named Fred.

“Wassup then? Am I being nicked?” asks Fred. You shoot a **** look at the elf. Both of them are silent for a moment, utterly unreadable. Then, her lip cracks on one side and they break out laughing together.

“Don’t worry,” says the elf, “No one thinks you’re a copper. We’re just seeing how foreign you are. How far did you travel to get here?”

Amazed at the opportunity, you spill them your story, your being the unused wheel in your family, your trek across the old Wood up above, your wanting to start a life in the Citadel. Fred immediately pegs your hope to be helped finding employment, and starts spewing names left and right faster than you can think. A look of reassurance from Celia, the half-elf allays your fear of losing track; she probably knows most of this stuff. Mere paragraphs of ramble later Fred realizes you must be having trouble juggling all that he is throwing at you, and apologizes. He slows down just enough that you are able to understand the following: you can stay without charge for a day if you work the stables and find an apprenticeship or some sort of paying work by the end of tomorrow. You accept.

After thanking Fred the orc profusely, you are offered a drink on the house for your travels. If you wish to drink, turn to 23. If you prefer to rest until either dinner or your share of work in the stables, turn to 33.