Moren turned to look at Veska as she led them down the busy streets. "Are you sure this is the way?" She asked as they left one of the main roads and headed down a few side streets. Moren glanced down to see Nox trotting happily at her side. The buildings were starting to change from newer designs to older architecture.
"I'm taking us down a shortcut," Veska replied with a shake of her head. "I've been here several times over the past few years, and the Alehouse is the best place to stay." She linked her hand behind her head as they walked. "It's getting late, and workers from all over are on their way to have a hot meal and watch the matches before calling it a night."
"Matches?" Jayden asked, dodging a few passersby as they stepped out of the side alley and seemed to be following the crowd. "Wait, are there Pit Fights here?" He looked at Veska with an Incredulous look. "Ethos banned those decades ago."
"It was a big deal back in Stormhaven," Moren chimed in with a hint of excitement in her voice. "My parents attended and even sponsored a few fighters." Pit Fighting had been popular for the last century. Pit Fighter faced off against all races and even monsters like a Basilisk or a Chimera. Moren knew from her studies that the early years were fatal to thousands of combatants until several groups of Wizards found ways to prevent lethal blows between combatants with runes. Monster battles still had a high chance of fatalities, but the prizes were massive and carried a higher payout for survivors.
"That and they have some of the best acts around," Veska said, giving Moren a knowing look. "Hopefully, you can stay out of trouble." She let out a dramatic sigh before speaking in a quiet voice. "We haven't been in the city one day, and you have foiled an assassination attempt on the Queen herself." She admonished playfully.
Moren rolled her eyes and playfully shoved her older sister. "I swear, I don't ask for these things to happen," She scoffed, and both women fell into a giggling fit. "I just want a warm meal and a room for the night."
Jaycen gave Moren a smirk. "You are making it difficult for me to look after you like I promised my Mother," He joked and ignored the scowl from Moren. "She will give me an earful when she hears about this."
"Then don't tell her," Moren grumbled, reaching down to scratch Nox behind the ear. She noticed the crowd was growing steadily with a mix of various day workers, and even a few carriages were heading in the same direction, of varying levels of prestige. "You are a mighty warrior; just don't cave when she questions you."
Jaycen snorted. "You know how my mother is," He said sarcastically. "That woman gets information from anyone when she sets her mind to it." Jaycen shuddered at the thought of being on the end of her endless questions until he cracked again.
"Alright," Veska said, changing the topic and ignoring the memories of being interrogated by Tabaxi's woman. "Without further ado, the illustrious and legendary establishment in White Stone," She led them to a large opening in the street. "The Ironfist Alehouse and Rest!" Veska made an exaggerated gesture of pointing in the direction of their destination.
Moren and Jaycen's jaws dropped at the sight before them.
Moren stood at the edge of the cobblestone street, her gaze sweeping upward to take in the sheer size of The Ironfist Alehouse and Rest. It loomed before her like a mountain hewn by dwarven hands, vast and unyielding, each stone block stacked with a precision that only centuries of tradition could produce. The polished gray stone was cold and timeless, veined with shimmering silver that caught the light just so, making the entire facade glisten like veins of precious metal running through bedrock.
The massive iron doors at the entrance were a sight to behold. Each door was carved with elaborate scenes—a saga of White Stone's history, etched in sweeping strokes and fine lines that seemed almost alive. Battles with wyverns, alliances with elves, and forging legendary weapons all immortalized in cold iron. The doors bore the scars of age, softened only by the gentle patina that hinted at countless hands over decades, pushing them open.
Above them hung the sign for the establishment crafted from thick iron bars twisted and knotted into dwarven runes. It was bordered with carvings of ferocious beasts and hammer-wielding warriors, each metal curve hinting at ferocity and pride.
"By the gods," Moren breathed as she scanned every square inch to see more intricate details, the longer she stared.
"Sylphara's breath," Jaycen mumbled at the incredible sight.
Veska laughed lightly. "That is a common reaction for those seeing this wondrous place for the first time. "I stared at it for almost an hour, the first time I was here before I entered." She gestured for them to follow her inside.
Inside, the Alehouse was a world unto itself. Thick iron sconces lined the stone walls, each holding torches that cast a warm, amber glow across the hall, lighting every carved crevice and engraved rune. The light flickered over murals painted on high ceilings, each brushstroke telling a piece of dwarven lore—legends of ancient gods, dragons, and heroes.
The sound of low, rhythmic chanting drifted from the brewery, a vast cavernous space where dwarven brewers worked amidst rows of oak barrels, each as large as a person, and copper vats gleaming from recent polishing. The air was rich with the scent of barley and hops, mingled with the faintest notes of caramel and smoke.
Here, dwarven songs filled the room, voices deep and resonant, accompanied by the clinking of mugs and the sounds of laughter. Everywhere Moren looked, patrons gathered, some around heavy wooden tables in animated conversation, others lost in the quiet companionship only found in old alehouses.
A grand staircase wound up from the main hall, its balustrades carved into roaring griffins, each one bearing the fierce craftsmanship of masterful dwarven hands. The stairs led to the upper levels, where the Inn lay—a collection of sturdy rooms, each outfitted with rich tapestries depicting scenes of battles and feasts, thick wool blankets, and fire-lit hearths. From above, faint strains of harp music filtered down, blending with the clamor below, creating a harmony that was both ancient and welcoming.
Moren lingered, soaking in the atmosphere, every sense alive with the texture and energy of the place. This was more than an alehouse; it was a fortress of tradition, a crucible of culture, a testament to White Stone's history and its people. Moren felt an inexplicable kinship with it, as if, just by being there, she was stepping into something larger than herself.
"You two can gawk later," Veska said excitedly, pulling them out of the entryway. "We need to get a table before the seats are all taken, and we have to wait for an opening."
Moren, Veska, and Jaycen were approached by a dwarf with a braided beard and eyes as keen as polished steel. With a respectful nod and a gesture toward the bustling crowd, he guided them through the grand hall, weaving past tables filled with patrons engaged in lively chatter, tankards raised, and plates piled high with hearty fare. The sounds of laughter and clinking mugs enveloped them as they passed.
Their table was a solid slab of dark oak, nestled in a cozy alcove near a broad stone hearth. The fire crackled warmly, casting a flickering glow over the table's deeply carved dwarven runes, worn smooth by generations of hands. They took their seats on the sturdy benches beneath them, covered in thick animal pelts that added a touch of warmth to the stone-walled space.
As they settled in, a stout dwarven server approached, her face lined with the smile of someone who had served countless meals and heard as many stories. She handed them menus made from thick leather parchment, each dish scrawled in Common, Dwarven, and a few other languages. Moren's eyes scanned the offerings: smoked boar with rosemary honey glaze, venison stew slow-cooked with root vegetables and thick-cut potatoes, hearth-baked bread infused with herbs, and a Dwarven cheese platter that boasted cheeses aged to perfection.
Veska couldn't contain her excitement. She leaned forward, eyes twinkling as she scanned the menu. "Honey-glazed boar, venison stew… This place really knows how to keep people coming back, huh? Moren, we're getting the boar. You have to try it."
Moren smirked, taking in Veska's eagerness. "Fine, but if it's anything like the last 'must-try' you recommended, I'm holding you personally responsible."
Jaycen chuckled, looking over the options thoughtfully. "I'd trust a Dwarven chef with my life. Their stews alone are worth the journey. I think I'll try the venison stew." He closed the menu and added with a smile, "If it's as good as they say, you'll see me making regular pilgrimages to this place."
The server returned, and Veska took the lead. "Right, we'll have the honey-glazed boar and the venison stew and throw in one of those cheese platters," she said, her voice bright with anticipation. "Oh, and three of your finest tankards of Ironfist ale, please."
Moren raised a brow. "Three, Veska?"
Veska grinned mischievously. "You can't just sip Ironfist ale, Moren. You have to embrace it. It's an experience, not just a drink."
Jaycen chimed in with a laugh. "She's right, Moren. Besides, it's good to let loose a little."
Moren sighed, relenting with a small smile. "Alright, I suppose if I can survive a wyvern battle, I can handle a tankard of ale."
When the food arrived, Veska's eyes widened. "Now, this is what I'm talking about." She raised her tankard. "To Dwarven hospitality—no one does it like they do."
Jaycen lifted his own tankard, his voice a warm rumble. "To the Ironfist Alehouse, may it always stand strong."
Moren joined in, feeling the weight of the moment, the camaraderie thick as the stew they were about to enjoy. "To friends and unexpected adventures."
They clinked their tankards, the metallic chime mingling with the surrounding clamor. Veska took a hearty bite of the boar, sighing contentedly. "Moren, you've got to try this. Sweet, smoky, tender—this is a masterpiece!"
Moren took a tentative bite, eyes widening in surprise. "Alright, Veska, I'll give it to you. You know your boar."
Jaycen tore off a piece of bread and dunked it into his stew, letting out a satisfied sigh after his first bite. "This… this is how food should be. You can feel the heart in it like every bite tells a story."
Veska grinned, leaning back with her tankard in hand. "That's the beauty of a place like this. It's not just food or drink—it's generations of tradition. Every song sung here, every story told, it all leaves a mark."
Moren looked around, taking in the boisterous laughter, the songs echoing from distant tables, the hum of countless conversations. "I think I get it now. This place feels alive, like it's more than stone and mortar."
Jaycen raised his tankard again, his voice softened. "To White Stone, the people who built it, and to us for finding our way here."
As Moren took a long sip from her tankard, the earthy taste of the Ironfist ale grounding her senses, she allowed her gaze to wander around the bustling Alehouse. It was a rare sight to see so many people of different races and ranks under one roof, all united by the simple pleasures of food, drink, and lively company.
To her left, a group of dwarves sat at a heavy wooden table, their beards braided and decorated with silver clasps, each one a testament to their lineage. They laughed heartily, their voices booming as they clanked tankards with a group of half-orcs. Despite the dwarves' stout pride and the Half-Orcs' warrior-like postures, they exchanged stories as equals, any lingering rivalries softened by the familiarity of shared history and ale.
Across the room, a table of elves sat with an air of quiet elegance. They wore traveling cloaks embroidered with intricate patterns, their movements graceful even as they sipped from delicately crafted goblets. Their eyes flicked around the room, taking in the sights with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. At the same time, a few of them nodded respectfully to the dwarves across the hall, acknowledging the rich legacy of the Ironfist Alehouse and the honor of sitting in its walls. Moren caught the eyes of one of the elves, who gave her a polite nod, a subtle recognition between travelers in an unfamiliar land.
In one corner, a group of merchants dressed in the finery of the upper class leaned over their table, discussing business with an intense focus. Their coats were fur-trimmed, and their fingers were adorned with rings that sparkled in the warm firelight. There were apparent differences in wealth between them and a table of simple, rugged adventurers, yet no one seemed out of place here. The merchants exchanged wary glances with the adventurers, but when one of the merchants spilled a drink, a large, grizzled warrior nearby leaned over, grinning as he handed him a cloth. Laughter erupted, bridging the gap between the two tables for a moment.
Closer to the arena pit entrance, Moren spotted a few nobles sitting in private booths slightly above the main floor. Their clothing was finely tailored, embroidered with crests and insignias from prominent families. Servants hovered nearby, ready to refill their goblets or fetch whatever they might desire. But even the nobles looked out over the crowd with a certain reverence, their postures relaxing as they observed the revelers below. She could tell they enjoyed the anonymity of the Alehouse, a rare place where titles held little sway and even the wealthiest shared space with the common folk.
A pair of Halflings sat near the fire, telling animated stories to a gathering of gnomes and humans, who laughed heartily at each twist and turn. Their voices were high and lively, hands gesturing wildly as they recounted tales that may or may not have been true. They seemed entirely at ease, their laughter mingling with the deep, baritone songs of a Dwarven chorus at a nearby table.
Adventurers, warriors, scholars, and travelers were all mingling with ease. The Ironfist Alehouse acted as a leveler, drawing together people of every background and creed. Here, titles were left at the door, and any hierarchy that might exist outside its walls faded into the thick, amber-lit air. In the Ironfist, the strength of one's story, the boisterousness of laughter, or the simple pleasure of shared drink truly mattered.
As their plates lay empty and their tankards drained, Veska leaned forward, a mischievous gleam in her eye. "Alright, enough sitting around! The match is about to start, and I'm not missing it. Come on!" She shot to her feet, tugging on Jaycen's arm and giving Moren a playful nudge.
Moren groaned lightly, though the sparkle in her eyes betrayed her own excitement. "Can't let you have all the fun, now, can we?" she replied with a smirk, standing up and straightening her cloak.
Jaycen, laughing, allowed Veska to pull him along. "This should be good," he said, looking back at Moren. "Let's see what all this fuss is about."
They wove their way through the bustling Alehouse, following the growing crowd as they converged on the entrance to the arena pit. The air grew electric with anticipation as the sounds of cheering and chanting grew louder. As they passed through a wide stone archway, the arena opened up before them, vast and impressive, its circular pit surrounded by tiers of stone stands filled with spectators. Torches and enchanted braziers illuminated the space, casting a flickering, almost ethereal light across the sand-strewn pit below.
Veska's grip on Jaycen's arm tightened as she scanned the stands, her eyes catching sight of three open seats near the front. "There! Perfect view!" she exclaimed, tugging him down the steps toward the seats. Moren followed, feeling thrilled as they found themselves so close to the action.
They settled in just as the final spectators found their seats, the crowd's energy building to a fever pitch. The pit below was quiet for a moment, save for the sounds of shuffling and murmurs as people leaned in, eyes glued to the arena. Then, a horn sounded—a deep, resonant note that sent a shiver down Moren's spine. The crowd roared in response, voices blending into a single wave of sound.
The announcer's voice boomed across the space, echoing off the stone walls with palpable excitement. "Ladies and gentlemen, warriors and wanderers! Tonight, we have a special treat! Facing off in the arena: the formidable duo of Donarr Brightscale, master of martial arts, and his partner, The Wrecking Rabbit, Reza Quickfoot, our recently crowned 8-time champion of the Pit!"
Moren's eyes were drawn to Reza as she took in every detail of the woman's imposing figure. Even from a distance, Moren could tell that Reza stood at least 5 inches taller than her and had a powerful presence that seemed to command any space she entered. Reza's muscular frame was accentuated by her unique armor, crafted from what looked like the ribs of a massive beast, artfully arranged to cover her chest and shoulders, giving her a primal and fearsome look. The armor was adorned with thick, fur-lined trimmings, contrasting with her caramel skin and adding an air of raw strength and wild resilience.
Moren could see the woman's striking, vibrant, ice-blue eyes that seemed almost to glow, gleaming with fierce determination and a hint of mischief that Moren had come to know well. Her wild, ash-colored hair fell in thick braids down her shoulders, interwoven with smaller bone and metal trinkets that jingled softly with her movements. The elongated white rabbit-like ears framed her face, giving her a unique blend of elegance and savagery. A black mask that looked like a bear's snout covered the lower half of her face. Around Reza's waist was a belt with a large gold buckle that shone from the lights around her.
Moren was still staring when the rabbit woman adjusted her grip on the massive war club. "That thing is huge," she said as Reza adjusted the club to her shoulder. "How can she wield something so big?"
"Some people like partners with huge clubs," Veska said with an impish grin. "She definitely has good control and precision from the few fights I saw her in last year while I was in the city."
"Stop," Moren said, looking away from the barbarian woman with a scowl at her sister's innuendo.
"I bet if you woo her, she would use her club to give you a night to remember." Veska continued with a laugh. "I would recommend you find ice for afterward when she bruises your pelvis."
"Shut. Up." Moren growled, her face burning a dark red.
Jaycen just shook his head and waited for the crowd to calm down before the next pair was announced.
The announcer continued, his voice dripping with drama. "And on the other side, we have Miaria, the Elven Spellsong, wielding her elegant longsword, and her husband, David Ironwood, a warrior of unmatched tenacity with his heavy mace and shield!"
Across the arena stood Miaria, a slender Elven woman with a fighter's build, every inch of her radiating speed and precision. She held her longsword with a practiced ease, the blade glinting in the torchlight as she sized up her opponents with sharp, calculating eyes. Beside her, David Ironwood, a tall, broad-shouldered human with a grizzled beard, gripped his mace in one hand and held his shield steady in the other. His stance was solid and unyielding, exuding the quiet confidence of a seasoned warrior.
Moren leaned forward, captivated by the sight. "This is going to be something else," she murmured, unable to tear her eyes away from the four combatants. Moren felt an overwhelming admiration that pulled, an inexplicable draw toward this woman who seemed larger than life. She was captivated, almost spellbinding. In that moment, Moren felt a strange sense of longing—a yearning to understand this woman, to peel back the layers and see what lay beneath the strength and power. She felt a quiet, undeniable desire to know Reza, to uncover the person behind the warrior, to perhaps even share in that wild spirit that seemed to overflow from her every pore.
She was so enthralled with staring at the stunning woman that she didn't notice the wicked smile on Veska's face or Jaycen hiding a smile behind his hand while pretending to cough.
The horn blared through the arena, snapping Moren back to reality as the atmosphere shifted instantly. The crowd fell silent, holding its collective breath as the combatants squared off. Miaria, the Bladesinger, moved first, her longsword glinting dangerously as she darted forward like a shadow. Her movements were fluid and precise, and every step was a calculated maneuver as she closed the distance between herself and Donarr.
She came at him with a series of rapid, high arcs, her blade singing through the air with deadly accuracy. But Donarr was ready, his stance solid and unyielding. In a blink, he shifted his weight, sidestepping her strike with an effortless grace that belied his muscular build. As her blade whistled past, he struck with lightning speed, his clawed hands slicing through the air, aiming to destabilize her. Miaria twisted her body at the last second, narrowly avoiding his blow, her feet light and quick as she rebounded and reset her stance.
The crowd gasped and cheered, the intensity of the match already electrifying the air. But while Miaria was nimble, Donarr's reflexes were sharper than a finely honed blade. He watched her every move, calculating and anticipating. She lunged again, attempting to catch him off guard with a deceptive feint, but Donarr didn't flinch. Instead, he met her advances with rapid strikes using his fists, elbows, knees, and even his long tail, moving in a deadly rhythm that forced her onto the defensive.
Meanwhile, Reza faced off against David, the clash of their weapons echoing through the arena like thunder. David raised his shield high, bracing for impact as Reza released a fearsome battle cry and swung her Kanabo with full force. The iron-studded club smashed against David's shield with a bone-rattling impact, the sheer force of it causing him to skid back, his heels digging into the dirt. The crowd roared, excitement surging through the stands as Reza pressed her advantage.
Unfazed, Reza swung her Kanabo in a deadly arc, each strike relentless, a tempest of power and fury. David grunted with each blow, his shield denting under the ruthless onslaught, yet he held his ground, gritting his teeth as he absorbed the punishment. With a quick twist of her wrist, Reza changed direction mid-swing, her Kanabo coming around from a different angle, forcing David to pivot just in time. He retaliated, bringing his mace down with a powerful strike, aiming for her exposed side.
Reza reacted instantly. With a snarl, she brought the shaft of her Kanabo up to deflect his blow, the clash of metal on metal reverberating through the arena. She twisted away, her muscles rippling under the strain, and for a brief moment, their eyes met—warrior to warrior, each acknowledging the other's strength.
Moren leaned forward, her heart pounding as she watched the brutal exchange. Reza and Donarr were forces of nature, their unique styles contrasting yet complementing each other on opposite sides of the ring. Jaycen and Veska cheered beside her, their voices adding to the swelling roar of the crowd.
Back in the pit, Miaria saw her opening. She lunged at Donarr with a flurry of rapid slashes, her blade moving faster than the eye could track. But Donarr's movements were like water, fluid, and adaptive. He ducked, twisted, and pivoted, avoiding each strike with razor-sharp precision. Then, with a sudden burst of speed, he surged forward, catching her off guard. His hands closed around her sword arm, twisting it in a practiced motion that disarmed her with brutal efficiency.
Miaria stumbled back, her eyes wide with shock, but Donarr didn't finish her off. Instead, he released her, and his respect for her skill was evident in his stance. The crowd erupted, half cheering, half gasping at the display of mastery and restraint.
Meanwhile, Reza's fight with David reached a fever pitch. She swung her Kanabo in a powerful, upward arc, its force causing a gust of wind that rippled through the arena. David brought up his shield to block, but the blow was too powerful, and his shield shattered under the impact, splintering into pieces. The crowd's roar intensified, the sheer brutality of the blow sending a thrill through everyone present.
David stumbled back, unarmed and vulnerable. But rather than showing fear, he held his head high, a defiant gleam in his eyes as he faced Reza. With a respectful nod, he lowered his mace, signaling his defeat. Reza, grinning fiercely, returned the nod, lifting her Kanabo in salute.
The announcer's voice rang out, declaring Donarr and Reza the victors, but the crowd was already on its feet, their cheers a deafening crescendo. Moren clapped and shouted, feeling the thrill of victory as if it were her own. Veska whistled while Jaycen nodded in admiration.
As Donarr and Reza left the pit, she raised her Kanabo in triumph while Donarr simply inclined his head, his calm, steady gaze a stark contrast to the fury he'd shown in the arena.
"That," Moren said, catching her breath as the excitement washed over her, "Was incredible." Moren felt her heart flutter as she watched Reza remove her mask and flashed the crowd a fierce and stunning smile. A slight flush crept over Moren's cheeks as she realized her gaze had lingered a moment too long. Moren looked away, a mixture of embarrassment and excitement bubbling within her. For the first time in a long while, Moren felt something unfamiliar—a spark, a thrill, a feeling she didn't have a name for but which made her heart race in a way she couldn't ignore. Moren stole one last glance at Reza. Moren knew that this encounter had already changed something within her, awakening something she couldn't yet understand.
"Agreed," Veska replied, a wide grin spreading across her face. "You barely took your eyes off the lovely Miss Quickfoot." She had to suppress a chuckle as Moren's face flushed slightly darker. "I fear the poor woman was going to burst into flames if you stared at her any harder."
"I was just admiring her as a warrior," Moren said, trying to ignore Veska snorting at her response. "She, uh, I was just admiring her technique. She's impressive, that's all." She crossed her arms and looked away from her sister.
"Uh-huh." Veska's grin widened, clearly enjoying Moren's flustered reaction. "Her techniques, right. Is that what they're calling it now?" she leaned forward in her seat and rested her chin in her hand.
Moren shot her sister a warning look, trying to regain her composure, but Veska wasn't about to let this go. "Come on, Moren. I saw how you were looking at her, and let's not forget how your jaw dropped when she flashed that smile." Veska teased playfully.
"It's not. I mean, Reza's strong," Moren mumbled, feeling the heat in her cheeks intensify. "And she looks capable." She was sure that steam would start pouring out of her ears at any moment.
"Capable?" Veska burst into a quiet laugh, clearly delighted by Moren's flustered attempts at justification. "Oh, she's definitely capable, alright. And I bet you'd love to 'admire her technique' up close, wouldn't you?"
"Veska!" Moren hissed, though the half-hearted scolding only made Veska laugh harder.
"Hey, no shame in it! She's a stunning warrior," Veska teased, giving Moren a playful nudge. "I just never thought I'd see you, of all people, so tongue-tied. Usually, you're the one with all the snarky comebacks, but it seems like Reza's stolen all the words right out of your clever mouth."
Moren sighed, but a small, reluctant smile tugged at her lips. "I don't know what you're talking about," she muttered, though even she couldn't quite believe herself. Moren knew that it felt different from her recent feelings with Sylara, as it was fun, but their relationship had no chance of things getting serious. These emotions remind her of her time with her first love, Tiana.
"Oh, sure, sure," Veska replied, rolling her eyes dramatically.
Moren groaned, covering her face with her hand as Veska's laughter rang out. "Fine," she mumbled, peeking at Reza from the corner of her eye, "Maybe she is stunning and interesting. But it's not like I have a shot with her."
"You don't know until you try, Momo," Jaycen said with a gentle smile. "Why don't we watch a few more matches and then get our rooms for the night?" He patted his cousin on the shoulder. "Who knows, maybe you two will cross paths."
"That sounds like a good idea," Moren agreed as the next round of competitors were making their way into the arena. "I have no idea when Master Lucius will return from his meeting with the Queen, but I'm sure we can use the rest."
Veska settled back into her seat and got comfortable before throwing her arm around Moren's shoulder. "After we get our rooms, how about we have a few more drinks to celebrate your new title?"
Sounds good to me," Moren said as her eyes moved back to the arena to see a pair of amateur fighters facing off against one another. "I'll have to start my investigation tomorrow morning."
"Afternoon," Veska corrected her sister. "We plan to have more than a few drinks, and getting an early start will not be an option." She flashed them both a Cheshire grin.
Jaycen sighed and leaned back in his seat. "This is going to be a long night."