Nothing ever happens in Raykin. It’s a quaint, tiny village, but despite being right in the center of the Kingdom of Oryndale no major road passes through. The vast majority of its population are farmers, ranchers and ranch hands, and the shopkeepers that keep the few, dilapidated shops along the main street open. The most exciting thing about the town is Raykin’s one and only tavern, the Bars and Scales. It’s completely normal as taverns go with a low-lit interior, a few wooden tables gifted by the woodworker next door, beams along the ceiling with hanging lanterns glowing with soft, golden light, and an ancient, stained bar with more gifted stools down its length. It’s almost noon, as the barkeep handed off food and drinks to a few patrons who had wandered into town from the fields, as the lunch rush subsides. This is the routine that kept the bar open and has withstood the test of time since Raykin was founded around it. What makes this day different from all the others at the Bars and Scales are three out-of-towners who garner questioning stares, and are here to find answers to a cryptic invitation.
A fiery, young halfling is in the back of the tavern cheating some drunk patrons out of their coin. It’s his usual fakeout, a ploy that he’s become pretty adept at pulling off. He keeps throwing just a little to the left, becoming increasingly frustrated as he tries to overcorrect and start throwing too much to the right. A few losses, and his boisterous attitude triples the bet, all or nothing. Then, in a streak of ‘halfling luck,’ the game quickly turns in his favor. Sometimes, if he’s lucky, he can get his meal and drinks paid for and then some. But today the grift is mainly to pass the time more than anything else.
The game comes to a close as Findall Tallfire lands his third bullseye in a row. His victims groan and complain as he collects his earnings with a smirk. Findall pockets the gold, puffs out his chest, and saunters over to grab a drink at the bar. While the barkeep fills his mug with a surprisingly decent tap beer, Findall takes out the invitation that brought him so many miles from home, to this boring old village. He reads it again, twirling the card in his hand as he looks around the Bars & Scales. That man hasn’t arrived yet. The barkeep coughs pointedly, and Findall realizes he’s been kicking the bar anxiously. Gods, he hates waiting.
The early morning rain had drifted away by the time Findall left his home that day. Familiar door chimes announce his exit from the bakery just a few blocks away from home. The weather had brought in a chill that seemed to be sticking around, and Findall was thankful he grabbed his scarf on the way out. He missed the warmth from the fresh ham and cheese croissant he finished a few yards from the bakery, but he was hungrier than usual after his morning work out. Findall thanked the gods he didn’t have a hangover, as a man caught his eye. He stopped and gave the human a once-over. He looked to be in his early 30s, tall, dark features, handsome if he weren’t wearing an ostentatious purple cape and feathered hat. The man sticks out like a sore thumb, yet nobody else seemed to notice him. Findall couldn’t help himself. The curiosity got the best of him, as it usually did. “Hey there! What’s going on today?”
The human continued walking and brushed off Findall’s attempt at chatting, “Sorry, I’m busy.”
Huh, that’s rude, Findall thought. He followed the human. “Busy doing what, fella?”
“I’m looking for something - someone.”
“Oh, great! I’ve been around these parts for just a little while here, so I know a lot of interesting characters. Like if you’re looking for One-Eyed Joe, he’s over there!” Findall pointed to an older half-elf lounging on a crate just inside an alley, lazily whittling a piece of wood. One-Eyed Joe blew some of the wood scraps off his lap as he sat up and squinted annoyedly with his one good eye as they passed.
“Or Crazy Susie? She’s a little bit wild, if you know what I mean. Don’t get too close or she might pull a dagger on you. But she moves slow, so she’s pretty easy to dodge around.”
A barely concealed, frustrated sigh escaped the human through gritted teeth as searched the people on the street, “It’s hard to find the people that I’m looking for. Really don’t think you’ll be able to help with that.”
Findall lit up at a chance to prove himself useful, jogging to keep pace with the human several feet taller than him. “Well, who are they? What do they look like?” Findall said, sizing the man up. “You seem pretty easy to find in that outfit, so I figure your friends would be too!”
The human stopped suddenly and pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes and finally turned to look at Findall, the halfling could tell immediately the human expected to see someone else — maybe a young kid — trailing behind him but instead lowered his gaze at this red-headed halfling grinning up at him. A look flashed across the human’s face for a moment, sizing Findall up, but was gone just as quickly. This deflated Findall slightly — he was used to being underestimated. The human reached into the pocket of his pack, searching, and said, “I really don’t think you can help me.”
Findall waited just long enough to create an awkward silence, losing interest in this dead horse of a human, “Well, another time maybe? Hope you find those people!”
Findall turned on his heels, not seeing a wagon come quickly around the corner. Instinctively, he back pedaled to not get run over but only managed to fall flat on his ass as the wagon rolled straight through a puddle and splashed him with muddy rainwater. He could hear the human chuckle quietly to himself and walk away, his boots clomping on the cobblestone, muttering under his breath, “Definitely not you.”
“Well you neither, tall guy! Keep walking!” Findall pulled himself out of the puddle and wiped himself off, angry at being embarrassed. “You and your tall arms! Go reach that top shelf!”
Findall turned up and down the street to see if anyone noticed, but the people continue on about their business, taking no notice of Findall or anything that just happened. Not wanting to feel any more disappointment or embarrassment, the halfling decided to retreat home and spend the day inside moping. At least now he had an excuse for stopping by for another croissant.
Home was much more comforting, mediating and practicing movements in Findall’s private training area. He moved through the stances that his old mentor Ghel Parish used to guide him through back at the monastery, feeling the flow of the energy within him as he flowed through the stances. Ghel had always noted Findall’s ability to connect with the energies around him, and had supported him more than the rest of the monks. But then again Ghel had always been more of a parental figure than his own birth parents anyways. Subconsciously, he began to strike the practice dummy harder at the thought of his parents. They never stood up for him. They never did anything except chastise him. It didn’t matter what he did, it was never enough. And then they gave him up without hesitation -
The dummy splintered at an explosion of force, showering the room in bits of wood and straw as the room fell silent. Findall breathed heavily at the expenditure of energy, the frustration pulling him out of control. The halfling took a deep breath, remembering the balance Ghel would harp on him about, and centered himself again. He moved through the final maneuvers of the stance, releasing the rest of the energy he had pulled into himself. He took another deep breath, and released it. Control is key, he reminded himself.
In the silence, Findall caught the sound of something stumbling in the alley behind his home. It must be the damn raccoons poking through the trash again, he thought as he walked towards the backdoor and dusted the wood chips off of himself. He cracked the door open and poked his head out before rolling his eyes. It wasn’t the damn raccoons, it was that damn purple cap sticking up from behind the garden wall. Findall groaned pointedly as he walked into the back garden, “Dammit, tall guy. I can see your stupid hat! What do you want?”
The hat stopped, and the human’s face peered over the garden wall. He was visibly confused at seeing Findall. He looked down at something Findall couldn’t see behind the wall. What was up with this guy? The human’s face twisted into even more confusion as he walked over to the barred gate and into full view. Findall could see that the human was holding a curious round object before he asked, “Hey, can you come out here for a second?”
“Why?” Findall asks.
“That’s what I’m asking myself right now.”
“Well, you’re asking yourself but you’re also asking me.”
“I — what? Never mind, just — please, the ‘why’ is hard to explain.”
“Sure. What do I have to lose,” Findall said approaching the garden gate. “I could probably take you anyways.”
Findall passed through his carefully curated and almost fully dead garden to the gate. He unlatched the gate and the metal separating the two creaks open as he caught the man saying under his breath, “No way. You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“What are you doing with your hand there, creeper?” Findall joked as he settled the gate against a wall of half-dead ivy. “If you wanted a show, you could have just asked. You got the money, I got the moves!”
This earns Findall a forced laugh, the human now clearly uncomfortable with this whole interaction. He held out his hand with the curious object toward Findall. It was a clear glass orb, encased in bands of some silvery metal etched with arcane sigils that pulsed rhythmically and made no sense to Findall. Magic wasn’t something that he could ever figure out, but he could figure out that the interior of the orb shifted from being clear to a translucent, pale red.
“That’s cool. Did you want to come inside? I can make some tea and we can talk about your ball,” Findall asked, trying to milk as much out of the uncomfortable situation as he could.
“Ah, no. I have somewhere else to be. I - “ the human ran a hand down his face in exasperation. “Look, can you just hold this for a second?”
“What is it?”
“I can tell you, if it works.”
“Okay, sure why not?”
As soon as Findall grabbed hold of the orb, it instantaneously shifted from a pale red to a deep, swirling crimson. It didn’t change weight but Findall swore the crimson became more solid, and it began to glow softly with a red light that pulsed in time with the sigils on the silver bands.
“Well, look at that,” the human said with forced enthusiasm. He reached into his pack and pulled out an expensive looking envelope of deep purple paper that matched the mans cape and hat. “You’re who I’m looking for, apparently. This is for you.”
“Cool! Are these coupons? I could definitely use some,” Findall asked, matching the man’s feigned excitement.
“Yeah. They are absolutely coupons.”
A moment passed, and Findall held back a laugh before the man broke the silence first, “Just take it. And give the orb back.”
Findall laughed as he took the envelope, feeling redeemed from his earlier embarrassment back on the street. This human clearly needed him for something, and his underestimation led him here to be tormented. It is karma after all, Findall thought as he handed over the orb. Findall noticed that the moment the orb left his hand it crimson drained away and returned to the pale red it was previously.
The man tucked the orb back into his pack and said, “That envelope contains instructions for what to do next, if you’re interested. See that you are present at the time and date listed, and we’ll continue from there.”
Findall shut the gate as the man walked away down the alley, “Bye, tall guy! Thanks for the coupons!”
The man turned the corner and out of sight, and Findall let the facade fall. He eagerly tore the envelope open, once again letting the impatient curiosity take over. A card the same color paper as the envelope was tucked neatly inside. Written in a beautiful script with shimmering gold ink, the card read:
‘The 13th. Noon. Bars & Scales. Raykin.
But only if you’re looking for - ‘
“But only if you’re looking for — for what?” Findall asked frustratedly. The end of the sentence was blank. He turned and flipped the card every which way, but nothing else was written on the card. Findall stared blankly at the golden ink. His brow furrowed.
“And who the fuck is Raykin?”