"Is it just me, or is there something… wrong… with this drink? I've barely finished with my second mug yet my head's already starting to spin."
"Nah, ye just be a priss who can't take the good ol' kick o' mead." The barkeep chuckled.
"Oh, shut up you midget grizzly bear," Malakros grunted. "I'm serious. This isn't the same honey-laced bliss as before. An elf could mix up a better batch than this pint of dwarf piss you gave me."
"Bah! Watch yer tongue, boy. Don't getcher pantaloons in a bunch. I haven't done nothin' to yer drink. Just a drop o' business genius, nothin' else."
Jorlak's grin immediately told the Malakros that the dwarf was up to no good. Doing the smartest thing any sane person would do, he spat out whatever of the drink that still lingered in his mouth. "The hells, Jorlak?"
The dwarf slapped a small vial onto the merchant's palm. "Deadair extract, boy. Just a wee drop, mind ye."
"Deadair?" Malakros echoed as he held up the glass against the light, examining the thick brown liquid. He pulled the cork out and passed the rim below his nose. There was no defining odor to warn him of its potency, and immediately he felt his lungs squeezed empty and his consciousness blink. He slapped the cover back on before any more damage could be done.
"Aye, powerful stuff. The bush grows in far off areas in the north. A dram o' sap is enough ta knock a wyrm out cold."
Malakros gasped and hacked as he struggled to get his words in place. "And is there a sane reason why you'd mix something this deadly into a patron's drink?"
"As I said, boy. Nothin' but business genius. Prices've gone up. Mead, beer, ale, the whole lot. Now I ain't got a worry with ye tall folk when it comes to splittin' kegs. Ye prissy bunch ain't no better than elves. It's them half-orcs that's givin' me pause. And recently, some of me kin moved into town. Now that's gonna be trouble."
"I don't get it. Why not just raise prices?"
"Bah! Hearin' that from ye's like hearin' good advice from a madman o' Talos."
Malakros, the merchant who boldly opposed the principles of business and pricing, couldn't help but wince at the statement. Jorlak hit the nail on the head.
"Anyway, for the same reasons as ye, I can't hike the coin. I've gots me a loyal bunch o' drunks who keep on comin' back 'cause they know me ale can still reach their pockets. But dwarves and them half-orc runts can tip back barrels without pause, and that's where the problem is. If I keeps on givin' me stuff at the same prices, then I'd be bled dry."
"I see now." Malakros smiled. "You'd still be giving them their fill, it's just that they'd be easier to knock out, right?"
"That's me boy!" Jorlak clapped the man on the shoulder. "Now, aren't ye supposed to be goin' after that dream girl o' yours? Stop drinkin' already and haul yer ass over to the plaza! She's on the third wagon, just past the weapons merchant."
Malakros raised a slender brow. "And just how in the hells do you know that?"
Jorlak pointed at his ear buried beneath that shock of brown hair. "It's somethin' we call "listenin'", boy, now get yer arse movin' already!"
Malakros got out of the tavern with an unexplained feeling in his chest. He was not really sure if it was the tension, the anticipation of running into that woman, or if it was because of the mead Jorlak had served him. For a split second, the world seemed to wobble uncontrollably. Then he was then pretty sure it was the mead. Malakros shook some of the dizziness away and silently cursed the dwarf and his foul concoctions.
Malakros was beginning to have second thoughts as he sped down the street. He had no idea what to say to that pretty druid, Jaheira, should he manage to spot her. There was absolutely no guarantee the lady would even think of entertaining invites for drink or dinner coming from a stranger such as he. Both barely knew each other, apart from the brief hellos they exchanged back in his shop. Still, it was worth trying. One has no idea of the things he can achieve the moment he decides to challenge the impossible.
The plaza was busiest during midday, and market day merely added to the bustle. Numerous caravan wagons hailing from the different towns, some even coming all the way from the Icewind Dale. Merchants, along with their contingent of guards, showcased their wares. Weapons forged from the best of steel and skill hung on racks, the tempered metal polished to a mirror sheen that gleamed under the bright sun. The mixed scents of exotic spices and perfumes shrouded the marketplace in an intoxicating veil that whisked the senses away off to a slice of paradise. Carpets and tapestries woven from fine silk drew stares from browsers and buyers alike.
During his time in the military he was trained to sharpen his eyes to a level like that of a marksman's. The archery captain once made him wear an eye patch, of which he was instructed to put over each eye alternately every month. As he understood it, it would help him see better in the dark as well. This allowed Malakros the ability to appraise and discern things from considerable distances—a boon to his then future career as a stalker. And it wasn't long before he sighted his game. Jorlak wasn't lying. There, just a few steps away from the weapons on display, stood the woman who had smitten him.
Malakros nearly yelped as someone grabbed him by the arm and pulled him to the sidewalk.
"There you are!" the pink-haired girl screamed. "I knew you'd come looking for her!"
"Eh?"
"You're that merchant guy from Brook's Dame, right? You've come looking for Jaheira!"
"Err… yes. You got that right. Just how is it you know I was going to run after her?"
"Men have that "look" when they're stuck by the lightning bolt of love."
The merchant snickered at the cheesy romance reference as his porcelain visage glowed a rosy red. "Was it that obvious?"
The girl rolled her eyes, grinning. "Would you just stop delaying and man up already? Cross the street, for crying out loud."
"Alright, fine, fine!" Malakros nodded his sincerest thanks. "But yeah, just before I go," he took the young lady by the shoulders and spun her so that her back would be facing him. Without a moment's thought he slid his hand down her waist, right beneath the belt and just mere inches above her right buttock. Imoen's face crimsoned in baffled rage and fought the urge to start casting a spell to rain down meteors on the lecherous merchant! But to her chagrin, it turned out that Malakros wasn't trying to feel her up. He held up a small but ornate dagger and winked before vanishing off into the crowd.
He was about to call out her name when peripheral vision caught something quite out of the ordinary. Figures clad in hooded black robes, and long serpentine staffs in hand. In tow were some barrels with wicks sticking out. The small group stopped for a while. One of them pointed at several directions, then raised his hand up as if calling for attention. Suddenly, there was a flash of light. And then they were all gone. Malakros immediately understood. Surely, they had to be foes
His warning cries was drowned by simultaneous blasts that rocked the entire town. Splinters, glass, and torn steel flew in all directions. Malakros hadn't even gotten to his feet when another explosion tore across the heart of the plaza. Screams of panic and despair filled the afternoon air. Thick smoke blocked out the sun, plunging Dawnbrook into an hour of darkness. Malakros forced himself to stand. The side of his face was covered in scratches. A sizeable chunk of glass was buried deep in his shoulder. Gathering his will he grasped the crystalline barb and pulled it free in one go. Malakros immediately applied pressure on the wound to prevent further bleeding. He whispered a prayer of thanks that it missed his neck's vein. The stench of burning flesh churned his gut. His thoughts raced back to Jaheira. She wasn't far from where he spotted the hooded ones. But upon seeing the devastation, his mind could only fear for the worst.