“I never knew that there was such a big group of Dwarves in Harito,” Benger says to Emlyn.
“It was common to find them dealing in jewelry or weapons,” Emlyn shrugs, “where I come from. Most anything metal, really. I didn’t know that they were here. I’d have come here sooner to see if they might know of any other Cymry. I didn’t even think to ask if they were here.”
“Why would they know that?” Benger asks.
“We always traded with them,” Emlyn shrugs, “Both buying and selling. There were a few of their traders who were even welcome in our keep when they’d make their trading runs through our area. My grandfather had known some of them since he was a boy. Dwarves live a long time. I used to practice with their guards when they’d come to visit.”
At Atres’s look, Emlyn explains, “Don’t let their height fool you. Dwarves are stout fighters. When I was younger, we were roughly the same height, and they were always quite skilled. It was also beneficial to practice with them, as they often use hammers, axes, and spears. I learned how to counter their attacks and a few tricks for using these weapons myself. We even visited them at their Taig quite a few times, while I was still young enough to be allowed to do such things.”
Finally, heading down a narrow lane, the trio reaches a building made of heavy stone blocks with bronze and mithril doors, guarded by a couple of Dwarven guards outside. The Clan Rune Axe sigil, featuring crossed axes decorated with artificers’ runes, is carved in bronze on the door. Emlyn stares at the sigil for a long moment with a slight frown. Smiling, Emlyn greets them and shows her slip. A brief conversation in Dwarvish ensues, followed by one of the guards thumping his spear on an iron plate. Moments later, the door opens, and Emlyn leads them into the bank.
The interior of the dwarven bank is a fortress of wealth and craftsmanship. Its grand entrance opens into a vast hall supported by towering stone columns, each etched with runes of prosperity and protection. The air carries the faint scent of polished metal and earth, a reminder that this is very much a dwarven bank.
The walls gleam with veins of gold and silver, left deliberately exposed as a testament to the riches within. Heavy iron chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceiling, their warm glow reflecting off polished floors. Behind a row of counters made from black granite, stern-faced clerks in finely wrought armor tally ledgers with precision, their quills scratching like pickaxes on parchment.
Security is paramount for Clan Rune Axe. Armored sentinels stand at every archway, axes resting against shields embossed with the bank’s crest featuring crossed axes decorated with artificers’ runes. Massive vault doors, reinforced with mithril and rune-locks, line the far wall, each humming faintly with protective enchantments. The atmosphere is one of solemn trust and unyielding strength, where every transaction feels as enduring as the stone beneath your feet.
Ares looks around, almost awestruck, and Benger’s jaw drops briefly before he snaps it shut. When the work bank was mentioned, this wasn’t what either of them had pictured. Emlyn takes it in stride, since her family’s done business with Clan Rune Axe for generations. A young-looking woman steps forward to greet Emlyn.
“Welcome to the Clan Rune Axe Bank. I am Vadmeni, and I’ll be happy to assist you and your friends. Please, come this way.”
Leading them to a private conference area, Vadmeni continues, “What brings you here?”
“I sold off some jewelry,” Emlyn replies, passing her slip to Vadmeni.
Vadmeni looks at the slip and becomes thoughtful. “This is more than we’d like to release at once, and probably more than you’d like to carry through the city with no more than two guards. Would you like to open an account with us? We could transfer the funds into your own, private account.”
“That might be helpful,” Emlyn nods. “I’m planning to buy a horse and a few other things.”
“Easy enough. Once you find the animal and agree on a price, you can give them one of our exchange chits,” Vadmeni nods. “Nearly every merchant in Harito will accept them. Or we can release a portion of the sum to you, or both. If I may, I would suggest you use our exchange chits for your larger purchases. Without your signature and seal, we won’t accept them. This way, you don’t have to carry all that money around and risk it being stolen. Some areas of Harito are known for being... problematic.”
Vadmeni explains the chit system in detail and shows Emlyn how to accurately indicate amounts. “If these are as widely accepted as you say, then the chits will be fine, but I’d like to get a hundred ducats in coin,” Emlyn agrees.
“Easily done,” Vadmeni smiles and has Emlyn fill out all the forms and stamp them. Once Vadmeni counts out the ducats that Emlyn asked for, Emlyn looks at the exchange chits and smiles, “So that’s why merchants are so willing to accept them.”
Vadmeni nods, “Yes, they can see if they’ll be valid. I should probably tell you that House Terfel still has accounts with us. If you need access to those funds, we can verify your House affiliation with your tattoo and grant you access. We weren’t aware that anyone from House Terfel had survived the culling of your people, but we kept the accounts just in case one of you had. If you would like to claim them, please let me know. I’d be happy to start the process.”
Emlyn looks at her wide-eyed for a split second, nods, and swallows hard, “That won’t be necessary. Would you happen to have done the same for the other Houses?”
Sitting back, Vadmeni looks at Emlyn curiously, “We have. Whatever you’re afraid of, know that dwarven banks and our bank, in particular, are known for their discretion. Our customers’ affairs are kept quite private.”
“Perhaps you can answer a question for me. Has... Has anyone from House Irilan, Machen, Fardd, Munad, Dongal, or Rethen ever claimed any of their funds?” Emlyn asks softly, “I’m hoping that perhaps, if they survived...”
Vadmeni frowns for a moment, considering, and checks some records, “No, I’m sorry. No one has. At least, not yet.”
Emlyn nods and looks sad. “Thank you for checking.”
Deep in a Taig, a bell sounds, and the boy grabs the thin metal plate that spits out.
Running, he goes to find his father. “Da! Da! There’s a message for you.”
Otrin catches the boy up and swings him around before taking the message and reading it, and then rereading it.
“Gods above!” Otrin calls to his wife, “At least one of them has survived. I’d given up hope. Someone at the clan bank in Harito just checked on the House accounts for Terfel, Irilan, Machen, Fardd, Munad, Dongal, and Rethen. I can’t think who else would ask about that combination of Houses.”
His wife, Gendini, sticks her head out of the kitchen, “That narrows it a bit, eh? But which ones?”
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Stroking his beard, Otrin considers, “No way to tell without going to Harito to find out. They’ll likely not be using their real names if they’re still hiding. I’ll need to see them to know.”
“I’ll help you pack once I’m done with supper,” Gendini replies.
Otrin sighs and picks up the boy, “Koter, I need you to be good for your mama while I’m gone. Can you do that for me?”
Koter nods, and Otrin sets him down and laughs as the boy scampers off. Muttering a prayer to Umir, God of the Forge Fires, Otrin sets about packing for his trip to his clan’s bank in Harito. Stopping briefly, he scribbles out a few notes and calls Koter.
“Come here, boy,” Otrin says, “I need you to go find Vorlig, Loket, and Gramin. Don’t stop and play or talk to your friends or anything else until you put these notes into their hands. What you do after you put these in their hands is up to you, as long as you’re home for dinner. This is important. Got it?”
“Yes, Dada,” Koter says before running off.
Otrin is still packing when a knock sounds, so he goes to answer the door. “I’ve got it. Keep cooking, woman.”
Gendini laughs as Otrin opens the door. “You got my note?”
Loket nods. “Which ones?”
“Don’t know,” Otrin says. “We’re going to Harito to find that out.”
“I guess I’d best go pack then,” Loket says.
Vorlig wanders up next. “What’s this about packing?” Gramin asks from behind him.
“At least one of them finally surfaced, after all this time,” Loket shrugs.
“I’d given up on that. Shouldn’t they be dead of old age by now? Humans don’t live that long,” Gramin grumbles.
“Should and is aren’t always the same thing,” Otrin replies, “as you well know. Especially when there’s at least one god, probably more, involved.”
“True enough,” Gramin sighs, “True enough. That does always seem to upend any notions of common sense. I suppose I’ll go pack up, too. Best we go well armed, since there’s no telling what any of that lot has gotten themselves into.”
“Ah,” Otrin grins, “but it was always the best kind of trouble. There was always a good fight involved and lots of ale afterwards.”
Seeing Emlyn’s distress, Atres moves closer behind her.
“Come on, lass,” Atres says softly, “Let’s get to the horse market and find you the most amazing horse. You can shop all you like, and we’ll carry everything.”
Vadmeni chuckles, and Emlyn forces a smile she’s clearly not feeling. “You’re quite correct. We have things to do today.”
Emlyn stands and bows politely to Vadmeni. “I do thank you for looking. I hope it wasn’t any trouble.”
“None to speak of,” Vadmeni confirms. “We look forward to doing business with you.”
As the three walk out, Atres puts an arm around her shoulders, and to Vadmeni’s surprise, Emlyn not only allows this but leans her head against his arm for a moment before turning her face up to speak to him.
Atres leads them back out of the pedestrian area and hails a carriage. Soon enough, Emlyn is prowling through the rows of pens. The scent of hay, leather, and warm earth hangs thick in the air as the afternoon sunlight spills over the rooftops of Haymarket Square. The horse market is alive with motion, hoofbeats clattering on packed dirt, traders shouting prices, and the low murmur of deals being struck in half-whispers. Stalls and paddocks line the perimeter, each one showcasing a different breed: sleek desert coursers with eyes like polished jet, shaggy mountain ponies bred for endurance, and towering warhorses with braided manes and iron-shod hooves. Their coats gleam with recent grooming, and their breath clouds in the cool winter air.
Next to each pen is a tent for the proprietor, since these often aren’t animals to be packed up and herded about. Buyers move through the crowd with practiced eyes, nobles in embroidered cloaks, caravanners with dust-stained boots, and farmers looking for a sturdy plow horse. Each horse is paraded, trotted, and sometimes galloped in a wide ring at the center of the square, where the crowd gathers to watch and wager.
Vendors hawk bridles, saddles, and feed from carts nearby, while children dart between legs with sticky fingers and wide eyes. A few musicians play lively tunes from atop barrels, and the occasional whinny or snort punctuates the rhythm of commerce. At the far end of the market, a raised platform hosts the auction, where the rarest and most prized steeds are sold to the highest bidder. Here, the tension is thick, the bids fast, and fortunes can change with the drop of a hand. Emlyn knows that she can’t afford the auctions so she’s looking for something less appreciated.
She finally finds one horse that interests her, but someone has beaten her to the prize. Shrugging, she moves on until she’s standing in front of a pen full of tall, long-legged, graceful horses with curled ears. A few of them wander over to investigate Emlyn, huffing and snorting.
The proprietor steps out of a tent, “Ah, Jagannath seems to like you,” he says smoothly, “That’s rare. He’s… particular. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Sampath. I see you are interested in our horses. Are you just curious or looking to purchase?”
“Purchase,” Emlyn says, “If I like one of them.”
“There is much to like about them,” Sampath nods, “We breed them for great stamina, but they are also quite capable of lengthy bursts of speed, as well as being fearless jumpers. I can saddle up a few of them, and we can go outside the city where you can truly test them.”
“That seems reasonable,” Emlyn nods.
The man calls out, “Ravi, come and saddle up Jagannath, Mahavir, Balaram, and Abhay. I will be taking our guests outside the city. Mind things until I return.”
The boy scrambles to tack up the horses Sampath has indicated, and to Emlyn’s eye, the four seem to be the best of the group in the pen. Jagannath dances beneath Emlyn when she mounts, but the big grey calms quickly once Emlyn gives him a couple of pats. He swivels his head to look at her and bobs his head, giving his equine approval. Atres mounts the glossy black Mahavir, who huffs a bit at the size of his passenger. Benger, choosing quickly, picks the roan and white Balaram. Grinning, Sampath mounts the spotted and speckled Abhay and leads them out of the city.
Once outside the gate, Jagannath pulls at the reins, so Emlyn gives him his head. Jagannath leaps into a gallop, racing ahead of the others. When heading straight for a fence, Jagannath gathers himself and easily clears it, still sprinting as he hits the ground. Laughing, Emlyn reins him in and returns to a more relaxed pace.
“He’s a showoff,” Emlyn says to Sampath.
“He seems to want to impress you,” Sampath grins. “I’ve had a few offers for him, but he was… problematic for the other buyers. I told you he’s particular, but he seems to like you. Come, try one of the others. Maybe Abhay, here, would suit you better.”
In the end, Emlyn tests all four horses but ultimately chooses Jagannath.
“I think you have chosen wisely,” Sampath tells her. “He seems delighted to be in your care. I believe he will be a great friend and ally for you. He has great heart, but also a great temper when he dislikes someone. Where shall we deliver him?”
Emlyn pauses for a moment, thinking.
Smoothly, Atres steps in as Emlyn considers, “You can deliver him to the King’s Guard stables. Once there’s space for him at the Temple, you can move him there.”
“As you wish,” Sampath says smoothly. “I will have Ravi deliver him later today. Since you are taking him, I’ll give you his tack as well. He’s big for one of our horses, so his tack probably won’t fit another horse.”
Emlyn eyes the brightly colored tassels and pom-poms that adorn everything and mentally imagines what it would be like with all that snipped off, then nods. “That would be appreciated.”
“If you or any of your friends should need a horse,” Sampath grins, “Tell them to come see me.”
“Well, except for you,” Sampath grins at Atres, eyeing the tall, heavily muscled man, “I think you need a bigger beast than one of ours. Although if you were interested, I might be able to cross one of ours with one of the big cart horses. That could produce some interesting offspring. Something like one of these, but more to your scale.”
Having seen what price Emlyn haggled for, Atres shakes his head. “Not at my current rate of pay.”
Still smiling, Sampath shrugs. “If you change your mind...”
Walking away, Atres looks at her. “I think you chose well, too. The beast seems to like you quite a bit. He’ll do well for you.”
“Now the real work of training him begins,” Emlyn sighs. “But he’s got a lovely, smooth gait, even when he’s nearly flat-out. I don’t know if we have a training arena.”
“The King’s Guard has one,” Atres supplies, “and you’re entitled to use it. I’ll show you how to schedule it. I’m interested to see what you teach him to do. I might want to do some of that with my horse.”
“The first step is to get him used to my plate,” Emlyn says. “The shine of the metal, the weight, and the noise of it sometimes frighten horses when they’re not used to it.”
Fish Killer wings his way back to Harito and circles over the inn, screeching. Kethas grabs his thick, padded glove and a pan of meat before heading outside. Holding out the glove, Kethas waits for Fish Killer to land. Fish Killer folds his wings and plummets, rotating at the last moment and spreading his wings to slow down.
He lands on the offered glove and gives Kethas a disconsolate whistling cry.
Wisely, Kethas doesn’t laugh. “It’s good that my clanmates sheltered you. Sea Hunter said it was a terrible blizzard, and he was glad to miss it. I was a bit worried about you. Still, you’re back.”
Bobbing, the hawk flaps and screeches.
“Three of them, with their dogs. That’s good. Yes, I have food for you. Come back tomorrow so I can keep my promise to you.”
Boltir’s Atres Watch Current Count: 1 "Former Flame" snubbed and 1 "Nerve Strike" witnessed.
Observation: "They reached the Street of Jewelers and ran into some high-born harpy named Marissa. Atres acted all 'disinterested,' which was a good move, I'll admit. But then Nia! She used a nerve strike to turn the woman's arm into a limp noodle when she tried to slap her. My beard is standing at full attention! A woman who can neutralize a socialite without breaking her stride is a woman who needs a Skald to write her a battle-hymn. Atres is still winning on the 'cuddling' front, but Nia is winning on the 'don't-mess-with-me' front. I'm giving Atres a penalty for having 'freely offered' ladies floating around the city—it’s bad for the brand! "
Boltir’s Tip Jar Current Total: 52 coppers, a discarded silk fan (nicked from Marissa), and Snips (the crab) is currently trying to use a magnifying lens to start a fire in the jar.
Boltir’s Plea: "Did you see that? Nia is sketching her own jewelry at the Dwarven shop. She knows quality when she sees it! Toss a copper in the jar so I can buy Snips a tiny smithing hammer—he’s decided he’s the 'Master Jeweler of the Jar' and is currently trying to facet a piece of gravel. Also, leave a review if you think Atres should have let Nia punch Marissa instead of just numbing her arm!"
Have you ever met someone awesome and known you weren't the right person for them? I might use some of it. Let me know in the comments.