LewdKaiser
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31 — Bent Nails
🕑 Added 2025-07-16 19:35:57 +0000 UTCFor once, Rennia Perrillion was in genuine awe. For the first time in her mediocre life, she had not just witnessed a great city from afar, but was walking in one. She was actually inside a big city—one you could put fifty Kibblestadts inside of.
And with awe came unease. For a moment, all she did was stare at the long, winding stone roads, the crowded plazas, and how busy everything seemed to be at once. The spires that dominated the air, the smoke and smog that were belched from chimney rooftops, the scent of sweet baked goods that enchanted her nostrils. The carriages and caravan crews that were all over the continent.
She stared upwards, mouth agape, at the one giant and seemingly magical tower that stood over all the other buildings. Her foot slipped on something wet, and she fell forward, landing into someone.
She recoiled instantly and held out an apologetic gesture, hands held forward.
"Watch where you're going, bumpkin girl, this ain’t some mud grovelling hovel." the merchant shouted at her, furious.
"Excuse me—bumpkin?" She was offended. Sure, she had never gone out much from her town, but that was no way to treat a lady with random insults. She raised her voice, intending to snap back at the fat merchant. "Get off your highhorse, I'll have you know I—"Ishmere caught her and pulled her to the side, giggling nervously.
"Calm down. Just a minor stumble. We're not getting held up again, much less arrested."
The merchant spat at the ground and gave her a nasty look. Rennia looked away—her pride was bruised, but she she knew they couldn't afford a scuffle.
The pair pressed onwards onto the market square, pressing through masses of dirty and sweaty bodies. It was certainly hard for her to admire the beauty of the city between the dozens of rude, brash, and seemingly stone-cold people. A street preacher was yelling in the distance, a sword clasped in his hand, shouting about war gods and devils. Little urchins were attempting to swipe from stalls, and older sick folk huddled on street corners, the masses uncaring.
She's never seen so much moral entropy at once, a sight to behold, sure.
"Are you sure you know which way to go?" Rennia asked Ishmere, shuffling through another dense crowd of people.
"Unless the world turned upside down in the last few years, then yes. Follow me."
Someone brushed up against the side of her ass. She turned, and half the moving crowd was already shifting. Flushed and flustered, she jumped, causing people to stare at her. Ishmere locked hands with her without question, and they started running.
They stopped after a short jog. "What an arsehole, I hope you hadn't stopped me. I wanted to spot the permit."
Ishmere shook her head.
"Let's deal with the carpentry arrangement first. You can knock someone's teeth out much later." Rennia grunted. What was with this city and open perverted freaks? Rennia wasn't used to such open, promiscuous feelings with strangers. Even with Ishmere, the events of what had happened between them she chalked up to purely class bullshit.
The atmosphere around them seemed to be very hostile. Maybe it was because she was a foreigner—maybe they could sense her from a mile away.
A few blocks and a couple of misdirections later, they moved inside the industrial quarter of the market square. Things were much quieter and louder at the same time—smoggier and dirtier, full of soot, flames, and old men. Sawdust and anvils being hit. Carts being unloaded, young folk who had no business near an industrial sector were working. It was cruel and inhumane. When she was a few years younger, work would amount to nowhere near a few chores, and by few she meant it. Her mother spoiled her in that regard.
Oh mother
The duo stood at the end of one such hideous street when a group of what could only be adventurers strode by. Weathered and scarred and fierce-looking, men twice her height and women with bloodstained armor, carrying daggers on their hips. Her stares had caught their attention.
"Well, well. What's this little field mouse staring at? My blade or my hips? Carefull, farm girl" the lady jested, and the men laughed.
Rennia looked away, embarrassed and ashamed. She had done the same thing, hadn't she? But the adventuress was nice—wide and anchoring of hips, arms folded, definitely the bitchy type. But the type of gal that could give you a good time.
Ishmere nudged at her. "Come on, almost there! And stop distracting yourself with a group of hideos barbarians. This city is civilized at best."
"Jeez, And damn it all, Ishmere! I've never set foot in a city this size, everything smells like piss and smoke, strangers are grabbing my ass, and I'm hauling enough gold to buy a small kingdom while you stride around like we're on a pleasant evening stroll! Would it hurt you to slow down a bit? I know you're eager to get your tavern running and all, but lugging all this coin is making me tired."
Ishmere shrugged. That seemed to be how she operated—uncaring, focused on herself. Rennia's chest tightened briefly, remembering how they met and what they would be doing.Civilized—maybe it was a stretch for the gremlin of a woman. But everything seemed to be hostile since her transformation.
Their visit to carpenter workshops ended up being an early disaster. Two of the earlier workshops had been perfect until they weren't. The organization of the places was clean, full of exotic woods and construction, and friendly staff. However, the quotes they gave for the reconstruction of the Ebon Guild were egregiously expensive—15,000 single gold coins, which was roughly 95% of the value of what Rennia was carrying on her back.
In Ishmere's own words: "They're overpricing us because they think we're two vulnerable women, it happens."
What Rennia respected about the gold standard in Ivarcant was the fact that the gold value was based roughly off its size, unlike her home where the lack of diversity made it much harder to count.
After visiting a few more woodworkers and carpenters, Rennia was starting to lose hope they would find someone willing to repair the decaying hovel of a tavern. Ishmere had stayed cool, counting routes on her hand—destinations. One remained.
"These people know they can charge for desperation, I suppose. I have only one option left."
Rennia grimaced. She was getting tired of lugging these coins around—her back was starting to crack, forget aching. "Only half a dozen more, Master?"
"Oh, pipe down with your whining. I didn't want to resort to this, but I don't have much of a choice. Just bear with it an inkling longer." She said this as if walking another half-mile wasn't going to kill Rennia.
They left the district and had gone deeper, close enough so that they were bordering the slums. They came upon a half-abandoned, half-decaying shack. It smelled of burned pine and wet wood and something very fermented. Rennia felt as though she had stepped into a beer keg.
A man resided inside—old, disinterested, uncaring. A bottle was clenched in his hands, which he swigged and suckled on the tip, a cork lodged in his fingers like it was a wedding ring.
Ishmere greeted him. "Old Bent-Nail Hobble, is that you?"
Rennia whispered in her ear. "What are we doing here? This is clearly a man who has given up on everything except that bottle."
"Trust me, this is a reliable but only slightly unstable man. I know him—we go way back."
That wasn't much of an assurance. Rennia wasn't sure Ishmere knew what a contradiction was, because you didn't put unstable and reliable in the same sentence.
"Go away. No witches welcome here. Wizards, guards, or adventurers—leave me be, wench."
"Hobble, you poor thing, what happened to you?" She feigned concern, rennia thought her acting was off.
Hobble, the old fellow, suddenly became attentive. He loomed forward—parts of his teeth were missing. Rennia lifted the right corner of her mouth and frowned at the tooth sticking out. Ishmere sure had a habit of picking strange company.
"What happened? I'll tell ya what happened, ya dead thing—you happened." He hiccupped, and a bubble left his mouth.
What the fuck is he drinking?
"After you died in that fire, I got a bad rep. They said I did terrible construction, business went out the window, maintenance jobs slowly whittled down. They said my beams were rotten, my joints were weak, that I built your tomb instead of your tavern. Word spread like plague—'Don't trust Hobble, he builds coffins.' Jobs dried up, coin vanished, and my love..." He burped and let out a whole breath of air.
"I'm very much alive, you drunk bastard—and I need a good carpenter to repair and fix my Ebon Guild. Maybe even one of the people who originally built it."
"Fuck off—"
Ishmere tapped against the backpack, and then he went silent. His gaze lingered on Rennia, suddenly spotting her as if she had popped out of existence. His eyes loomed too long on her chest or next to her hips, and the way his mouth was moving—she wanted no part of it.
"Well, how does seven thousand gold sound, with interest for every day you're working?"
The bottle fell to the floor, and old Hobble stood upright. Rennia balked. That was still a hefty sum, but his behavior was concerning.
"Where, when, and how much of the original tavern?" Hobble stroked his beard, and his hands disappeared somewhere beneath his shirt.
"We will negotiate tommorow, preferably the entire structure ASAP."
Hobble raised his hands, with almost sobering conviction. "I'll be there in the morning, and I'll be bringing some of me boys."
Ishmere smiled at him. "Very good. Rennia, give the man his sack of coin. "
Make no mistake, she was eager to let go of the weight off her back. However, giving this barely stable man so much money—it would certainly be used for alcohol. More hobos. Just what Rennia needed: old drunks and sexually perverted masters.
Rennia, unnerved, didn't let her concern go to waste. "You're just going to trust him like that?"
Ishmere shrugged again. "Believe it or not, sometimes you have to nudge someone to get the best out of them. You're making a terrible mistake, Rennia, and I can see you're impulsive, but don't judge based off appearances—it's inherently a flawed tactic if you intend to adventure again."
"Yes." And yes, she got the message. Assumption was one step away from either a reward or a horrible death. "I get your message—no need to preach to me."
"I'm just saying."
"So what now? Did we come all the way for this. Just this—a man who will be ironing nails and wood together?"
Ishmere replied dryly, "Of course not. Food stocking, licenses to be paid, a grave stove to dig, and some old friends to visit—but you will do none of that."
"What?"
"Nothing. Where we're going first, let's go to the market proper. I have something in the area I need to do."
Comments
LewdKaiser
Sorry typo, will also 4 other chapters today/tommorow
Keeshah
Did I miss 31 somehow?
