The awkward silence lingered on at the table of three, located at the corner furthest from the fireplace.
They had the troublesome introductions done; it went along the lines of name, job, and rank (they were in the military? and captains to boot?). He fed them what he always did to acquaintances- his pseudonym, he's a nobody, he's just minding his own business. They seemed to take it just fine, though their faces said otherwise.
There was something very unsettling about the way they stared at him; but that was not his immediate concern.
"... So as you know, I'm lost. I need your help to tell me more about Alistel." A church, a library, anything. Marco perked up. "In what way, Mr. Dullahan? Everyone in the continent knows about Alistel."
Yeah, except for me, apparently.
"So this is a continent? How large are we speaking of? Population?"
Raynie's brows furrowed in confusion. "Hold on a mo. Are you saying that you don't know Vainqueur?"
Dullahan shook his head in earnest. "I'm trying to find a way home. Here," he offered the duo two coins- two of different nations, having picked them up from his travels. Granted, the only thing he had on him right now was a bloody satchel and some useless money; he'll have to fix that later.
He was hoping for either of them to at least recognise the heraldry minted on them; but they shook their head. No luck. Defeated, Dullahan leaned back against his weathered chair, the legs creaking under his weight. "Well, I suppose we can give you a general rundown," Raynie offered, and Dullahan nodded; might as well get the most out of his stay here.
The more he knew about this continent, the better.
The year was apparently 154, which was three years into a 50-year peace treaty signed by the continent's superpowers: Granorg, Alistel, Cygnus, Forga, and Celestia. From Raynie's and Marco's explanation, the peace treaty was signed for the purpose of a joint effort in dealing with the rampaging problem of limited nourishing soil and desertification, where previously, the matter was to be resolved by war. The peace treaty was a feat in itself, seeing how it entailed international and interracial cooperation.
Relations between the allied nations, however, was tense. There was much debate to the Granorgnites' sealed-lips policy. Desertification was apparently advancing rapidly until a few months before the peace treaty was signed, when the phenomenon seemingly grinded to a stop, and Granorg apparently had the answers to it- but was unyielding in releasing information on the matter; and that hindered bona fide negotiations, especially against their previous arch-nemesis, the nation of Alistel.
The two also seemed awfully dodgy about the topic, however. Dullahan decided not to press on, and picked a different subject matter instead.
The sorcery that Alistel ran on stemmed from an ore by the name of thaumatech; it was the source of power for all the automatons that Dullahan had seen. The fact that ores mined from the earth could yield such otherworldly benefits was the first major indication that he really did not belong here.
"Which one is a coastal city? There's bound to be ships to other continents," Dullahan asked, laying out the torn map that he had been reviewing as the duo gave their summarised history lesson.
"I don't think we've ever found another continent, at least, none of us knows," Raynie said as she rapped on the table thoughtfully. "If we did, most would've decided get away from the dying continent already. But we're still here."
"If you need to know more about this, though, you could probably pay a visit to Granorg," Marco's fingers tapped at the western part of the continent on the map, before tracing a route from Alistel- going through a mountainous range, past a border checkpoint, and traversing through a steppe. Seemed reasonable on horseback.
"I suppose that's where I should head to next. I would thank you for your help, but I have nothing to offer in return," Dullahan started, but was cut off by Marco. "It's alright, Mr. Dullahan," the short captain said, "if anything, talking to you really helped us to calm our minds."
There was a painful silence that followed. The woman had stopped her binge drinking activities entirely. ... That explained their earlier behaviour, at least.
"... Did I remind you of a casualty of war? If so, I apologise," the blonde offered, his tone low, and tipped his cloth bandana slightly in respect. ... Not sure if the gesture meant anything in Alistel, however.
"Stocke is not dead!" Raynie roared, smashing the mug Dullahan hadn't realised she was holding- its' contents empty- onto the table. Raising herself from her seat, the woman stormed out of the tavern. Marco, giving an apologetic look to Dullahan and the rest of the eyes on them across the room, left enough coins on the table for the broken mug, and surprisingly, some money for him to purchase essentials. The lost traveler watched the stout fellow leave, chasing after his female companion.
Whoever it was, Dullahan raised his mug for a toast to Stocke- the man whose reputation with his mates just earned a stranger a roof to stay under for the night.