The Arkanist

Hardbottle

Jakn sat there for a couple of minutes, caught under her spell. There, he listened to what the others were saying. Most of it was rumor about her and the other half was admiring her natural talent and voice. While Jakn reminisced about the tale of Iyra and Larian, a couple men sat down next to him.

“Right brilliant she is,” one said.

“I could listen to her all day, I could,” another said, in a hard accent.

“She’s beautiful mates,” the last said. “That’s all I know.”

Jakn nodded to himself. “Yeah, she is.”

“At least this one knows what he’s talking about,” said the first one. “What’s your name anyway?”

Jakn gave him his name.

“Right,” replied the man. “Well this is Ren, Shaure, and I’m Thalec.”

“Glad to meet you,” said Jakn, shaking each of their hands. “Say, what do you know about her. Do you know her name in the least?”

The one laughed. “Nobody knows her name, lad. Not to mention she’s right mysterious. Never see her about save for on that stage. I’d give up my hand to see her in my bed, I would.” The others laughed.

“So nobody knows anything about her?”

“Yep,” replied the man. “And nobody has ever found out.”

Jakn nodded, and waved good-bye to the three men as he turned to go to the bar, the lovely girl playing on his mind. He was, truthfully, in love, as he believed it to be.

         It didn’t take Jakn long to get lost in the place. The Hardbottle was a monster of an inn, with three levels built of rich oak that rose on stout pillars carved with eloquence and building tiers and railed walkways that were connected by steep staircases. The bar was massive too, spanning almost half of the first level, with the stage occupying the other half with a vast space for seats and tables, all covered with dark cloths and laden with horns of ale and mugs of mead. Sitting on the carpeted floors, small wrought-iron braziers breathed red-hot flame, the embers drifting into the air with the laughter, and a great hearth roared like thunder beneath a dark brick mantle.

         He had been searching, quiet fruitlessly, for the girl. He did not know her name, only what she looked like, which would stand out in a crowd like a moon in the night sky. Through the dense throngs of people, all drinking and talking, he searched, tirelessly, finding himself lost and out of breathe most times.  In the end, he’d found himself on the third floor, and back again down to the bar, her luminous presence unaccounted. Jakn frowned at that, knowing only too well, he would not find her by any chance of luck.

Jakn heard the next performer appear on the stage, displaying an elegant harp, presumably fashioned out of supple birch as he found his way to the bar, rejoining some of his fellow troupers. Ekin had bribed the innkeeper into letting them stay the night free of charge, and bartered with the tenders into drinking free. Jakn was on his third mug of steamed cider when he decided it time enough to dive into his first horn of ale. He asked the bartender, a balding man with a peppered goatee, for some of the Anturan Ale, a dark bitter brew. It did not disappoint.

About midway through the night, Jakn got caught up near the bar. He had found himself drinking and betting with a group of country-folk, by the looks, who had had a fair harvest and looked to spend off their earnings on a good night. They were garbed in rough wools and ragged cloth, patched with various colors and materials. For about an hour and a half, they had been playing tallos, a game of runes the country folk created on rainy days when the fields were damp and wet. It was a complex game, but Jakn had learned it a good many times from a good many people and was confident in his skill.