Ch 5.1 - The Tranquil Pavilion

Ben and Chloe wound their way through the crowded streets of Barville. The port city throbbed with noise—markets ringing with haggling cries, the scent of sea salt mixing with sweat, ale, and smoke. Everywhere they turned were beastmen: traders hawking goods from carts, labourers unloading ships, and hard-eyed adventurers swaggering past in weathered armour.

Somewhere among them was the man they sought—Kraven Dumbskull, a seasoned adventurer of the wolf tribe. Ben’s master had said a scar in the shape of a cross marked his chest. But finding one wolf in Barville’s tangle of taverns was proving near impossible.

By the time they pushed through the doors of their eighth tavern, even Ben’s patience was wearing thin. The air was hazy with pipe smoke and spilled beer. He slipped a coin to the barkeep.

“Seen a wolf beastman with a cross-shaped scar on his chest?”

The orc beastman wiped a mug and shook his head.
“Not here. Try the next street.”

Ben clicked his tongue. “No luck here either.”

Beside him, Chloe was already perched at the counter, bright-eyed. “One of your best ales, please!”

The bartender obliged, sliding her a frothy mug to the brim.

Ben stared. “This is your eighth drink. Haven’t you had enough?”

Chloe laughed, cheeks a little pink. “For some reason, I never get drunk. But the ale here is strong—I might actually manage it this time.”

“Please don’t,” Ben muttered, rubbing his temples. “I can’t go searching for your bodyguard while dragging you through the streets.”

She raised her mug anyway, grinning. “Then you’d better find him soon.”

Ben sighed. At this rate, he wasn’t sure which was more impossible—tracking down Kraven Dumbskull or keeping the nun sober.

His master’s instructions echoed in his head: If not the taverns, check the brothels.

He groaned. “I can’t believe it’s come to this.”

He leaned on the counter and asked, “Hey, could you point me toward the red‑light district?”

The orc bartender blinked, caught off guard but quick to recover.

“Uh, sure, head down to the lower docks. But…” He hesitated.

“But what?” Ben prompted, already regretting it.

“Well,” the orc said, lowering his voice, “most of the brothels here are run by beastmen. You won’t find human girls, but if you’re into beastwomen—well, they’re vigorous, wild, great stamina—”

“Huh?” Ben frowned, confused.

The orc leaned closer, whispering conspiratorially, “If it’s your first time, I’d suggest a deer girl—docile but plenty spirited. They’ll ease you into—”

Ben’s expression iced over.
“I’m going there on business. Not pleasure. Keep your nose out of it.”

The orc flinched back, raising both hands. “Ah—of course, sir! My apologies!”

Ben rubbed his temple, muttering under his breath,
“Why do I even talk to people?”

At the same moment, Chloe slammed her empty mug on the counter.

“Seconds!” she chirped, grinning proudly, a frothy moustache clinging to her upper lip.

Ben groaned. “Look at your face.” He fished out a handkerchief and wiped her mouth. “You’ve had enough. We’re leaving.”

Chloe pouted but slid off the stool. They started for the door—until she suddenly stopped.

“Wait! I need to go powder my nose.”

Ben glanced back, irritated. “We don’t have time for your makeup.”

She huffed. “Idiot. Just wait here.”

Before he could reply, she vanished toward the restroom.

It took Ben a second to realise what she’d actually meant—and by then, she was already gone.

Ben waited near the tavern wall with his eyes half‑closed while Chloe was gone. The room behind him hummed with low voices and clinking mugs until a rougher tone drifted from a nearby table.

“That’s right—a human diplomat from the Church arrived at the port a few days ago,” one beastman muttered.

Ben’s ears twitched. Three beastmen were hunched over their cups, voices low but bitter.

“I heard the Warlords’ Council was called because of him,” another said.

“I saw that bastard getting off the ship,” growled the third. “Cracking a whip at our own kind, treating them like beasts while they hauled his cargo. Should’ve sent him to a water grave!”

“Why didn’t we?” one demanded.

“BRAVE adventurers were guarding him,” the big one replied. “High‑ranked blessed children. None of us would’ve made it ten steps.”

Their mugs slammed against the wood. “If the Warlords have any pride, they’ll reject whatever scheme the Church is pushing. Next time that diplomat leaves port, we should gut him and free our brothers. This is the Isle, not their holy land.”

Around them, others began murmuring, anger rolling through the room in waves.

“Those Church bastards think they can walk over us here…”

Ben eased deeper into the shadow, keeping his head low. Drawing attention now would be asking for a fight.

Since the Virtue Lux was slain, the Church’s been desperate, he thought, rubbing his chin. Now they’re aiming for the Isle.

“They’re up to something,” Ben muttered.

“Who’s up to something?” a voice asked at his elbow.

Ben turned; Chloe had returned, wondering what Ben had just said.

“It’s nothing,” he said quickly, pulling the veil lower to hide her face. “Keep that covered. You stand out too much here.”

Seeing the seriousness in his eyes, Chloe simply nodded. Together, they slipped out of the tavern and into the noisy streets, heading downtown to continue their search for their missing party.