Despite the fact that it was only late summer, the air outside was already quite cool in the evenings. The breeze that made its way through the town’s winding streets carried and whipped cloaks about, slamming doors open and shut without so much as a warning if one forgot to lock them. Situated a few leagues from Yvaine, the river town of Dorney served as a checkpoint to the capital. It was, as a result, a major commercial hub for the continent. Its natural resources provided many a traveling merchant with the necessary commodities, carts, drinking water, and so on. Gale was no exception as he led his dark bay gelding, Echo, through the gates, keeping his head down and blending into the line of grain-wagons.

At the eastern gate, a guard in a faded cloak stopped Gale to inspect his road-pass. Gale did not try to catch the eye of the plainclothes watchmen leaning against the nearby buildings; he kept his gaze low, looking like just another road-weary traveler.

“I assume you’re looking for a place for the night?” the gate-guard asked, stamping the parchment.

“A quiet stall for my horse, Echo, and a clean room for myself,” Gale said, keeping his voice polite. “I also have a fresh stag to trade. Is there a reliable butcher within reasonable distance?”

The guard pointed a leather-gloved thumb down the main thoroughfare. “Even better, friend. We’ve got one in town. Take the second left toward the market square. Look for Master Weylan’s shop; he has the guild monopoly on venison. As for a bed, The River's Rest is just past the square. Tobias runs a clean house, and his stables are dry.”

“My thanks,” Gale said. He nudged Echo forward, the cart creaking behind them.

The River's Rest was a sturdy, two-story building of timber and river-stone, its whitewashed plaster greyed by coal smoke. Gale bypassed the front door, pulling the cart around to the rear yard just long enough to speak with the inn’s stable hand.

The young boy was sweeping loose straw near the doors. Gale called him over and dropped three copper bits into his palm.

“I’ll be back in half an hour to turn my gelding in,” Gale said. “Have a dry stall ready for him, and a good heap of dry hay—no grain, mind you. His stomach doesn’t take well to rich feed. Oh, and if you’ve got a stray apple or a bit of fruit, he’ll be your best friend. Leave the cart harnessed for now. I am taking the stag down to Master Weylan’s.”

“Yes, sir. Right away,” the boy said, the coppers vanishing instantly into his pocket.

Gale stepped through the inn's side door to quickly secure a room before running his errand. The common room was warm inside, smelling of food, particularly roasting onions. Behind the counter stood a broad-shouldered man wiping down the polished oak bar.

“You must be Tobias,” Gale said, setting his gittern case carefully on a bench. “The gate-guard said you keep a clean house.”

“I do,” Tobias said. “Two silver shillings gets you a private room upstairs, dinner, and breakfast. Coppers for the stable.”

“I can pay in coin,” Gale said, “or I can play for my keep. Two sets tonight, and two tomorrow to keep your patrons drinking. You can charge me the full rate in the morning if the crowd isn’t pleased.”

Tobias looked at the gittern case, then at Gale’s quiet, observant posture. “A fair wager. We will call it a trade, but I’ll need you to pay for your horse’s feed.”

“Fair enough,” Gale said with a faint smile. “Though he’s an easy keeper—just hay and water will do. I have a field-dressed stag in my cart outside that I am taking to Master Weylan’s shop now. I will return shortly.”

Tobias brightened. “Master Weylan? If you are going there anyway, would you drop off this slate with my weekly order? His apprentice usually forgets to swing by on Fridays.”

“I can do that,” Gale said, taking the chalk-marked slate from Tobias’s hands. “I have some work to do after I return, might it be possible for me to take my lunch in my room?”

“Most certainly,” Tobias replied, clearly pleased that the errand of running to Weylan’s was off his hands. “We’ll have some onion stew, bread, and cheese brought up.”

With his room secured, Gale returned to his cart and drove Echo back out through the yard toward the market square. Master Weylan’s butcher shop was easy to spot, identifiable by the heavy iron rack outside and the rich smell of salt and woodsmoke.

The transaction was straightforward. Weylan, a stout man with forearms stained with salt and grease, inspected the stag. Finding the meat well taken care of, Weylan grunted in approval, handed Gale four silver shillings, and took Tobias’s slate with a nod of thanks. With the venison sold, Gale returned to The River’s Rest. He unhitched the cart in the yard and led Echo into the waiting stall with a quiet pat to his neck. Tobias greeted him as he reentered the inn and informed him that his wife, Mary, had brought up his lunch as soon as they’d seen him pull into the yard. Gale nodded his thanks and carried his longsword and leather gittern case upstairs to his room. The space was modest but clean. Gale set his gittern and his pack on the rope bed. He unbuckled his sword-belt, leaning his longsword against the wall near the head of the bed, then turned to the wrapped tray of food that sat on a small wooden table by the window.

It contained onion stew, still piping hot, that filled the small room with a rich, savory aroma. He’d originally smelled it when he first entered the inn, but having the source before him made his mouth instantly water. It was a dark, deeply caramelized broth, thick with soft, golden onions that had been simmered down until they practically melted on the tongue. Alongside the bowl rested a thick slab of crusty, wood-fired rye bread, heavy and warm, topped with a generous layer of sharp, melted farm cheese that had bubbled into a golden-brown crust over the top. Gale tore off a piece of the bread, dipping it deep into the broth to soak up the savory liquid before taking a bite. The combination of the sweet, rich onions, the tangy melted cheese, and the hearty, broth-soaked bread was nothing short of perfection—a simple, comforting masterpiece that warmed him straight to his bones and made every mile of the road worth it. If this was the caliber of food he’d be getting for the next few days, his stomach would be more than satisfied with the arrangements.

When finished, he brought the dishes back downstairs and thanked Mary profusely, praising her culinary skills and conveying his excitement for future meals. Tobias smiled widely as his wife attempted to brush off the compliments, though the slow creeping blush and the twitch at the corners of her stern mouth made it clear she was immensely pleased. The innkeeper pulled her close as Gale turned to leave, kissing her noisily on the cheek.

Gale chuckled to himself as he returned to his room, pulling his small leather pouch from his jerkin to take stock of his current repertoire of songs for the night.

His long-time lyricist back in Firthside, a large coastal fishing town far to the west, had recently retired. The man had been an old sailor, “beached” by bad leg injuries that kept him from going back out to sea. He had taken up writing lyrics to pass the time and turned out to have a rare, beautiful knack for it. But in his old age, the sailor admitted he simply did not feel the same creative spark anymore, choosing instead to spend his remaining years quietly with his grandchildren. That left Gale’s repertoire stagnant, and he was determined to find a new partner without having to return to Yvaine, thus leading him to Dorney.

He found the local Scriveners Guild office near the busy river docks. In the outer office, a young apprentice clerk sat copying municipal tax records, the scratching of his quill filling the room. Behind a heavy wool curtain lay the private workspace of the up-and-coming lyricist Gale had been seeking out.

She was a sharp-eyed woman with a splash of dried ink on her chin, surrounded by stacks of dry court filings and ledger books. When Gale introduced himself and explained that he wrote songs, she offered a dry, professional smile and gestured to a high-backed wooden chair.

“Linnet,” she said, shaking his hand and leaning back. “Most of my week is spent drafting dull boundary disputes for the local sheep farmers, so a musician looking for actual poetry is a welcome distraction. What do you have?”

The ice broken, Gale smiled faintly and laid out a sheet containing his rough musical outline and the core refrain. “I have the melody, but the lyrics need a more delicate touch than I’m capable of.”

Linnet picked up the parchment, scanning his notations with a practiced, analytical eye. “We will start with a standard trial. One silver shilling as a speculation fee. I can write you three distinct draft variations for the first two verses by tomorrow evening. If you like my work, we can sign a formal contract for three silvers, and I will send you lyric sheets by request.”

“Sounds great,” Gale said, placing a single silver shilling on her desk. “I will return tomorrow.”

Leaving the guild-house, Gale walked a street over to the licensed money-changers' bench near the docks. He had fifteen silvers from his stone and three left from the venison. Wanting to keep his physical coin purse light and unremarkable, he deposited fourteen of his silver shillings into his regional ledger, leaving himself with just five silvers and a few coppers for his immediate road expenses. His bulk funds remained safely recorded under his capital Letter of Credit, tucked flat inside the lining of his boot.

By evening, The River's Rest was packed to the rafters. The air was thick with the rich scent of roasted mutton and spilled ale. The common room hummed with a dozen overlapping conversations from the hungry locals. Gale took his seat on a three-legged stool near the hearth. The heat of the fire warmed his back as he pulled his gittern from its case. He took a moment to tune the strings, the bright, clean tones cutting through the ambient noise and drawing a few curious glances.

With a deep breath, he struck the opening chords of The Maid of the Silver Dell. He started with its signature flowery introduction, his fingers dancing across the strings in a delicate, cascading pattern. A group of women sharing a pitcher of cider paused their conversation, turning to watch his hands as they danced over the strings, while an old boatman in the corner stopped chewing his pipe to listen properly. As the melody built, the rhythm shifted into a bouncing, joyous tempo. Right on cue, the crowd began to join in. Boots started tapping on the floorboards, and a few hands began to clap along to the beat.

Gale’s eyes swept the room, his fingers steady but his mind suddenly on high alert. Please, he thought, not again. He had a sudden, vivid flashback to his last gig, where a pair of enthusiastic but entirely tone-deaf drunks had clapped so violently off-beat they nearly derailed the entire song.

Sure enough, his eyes locked onto a burly, red-faced fellow near the bar. The man was grinning widely, raising his heavy hands to join the rhythm half a beat too late. It was a rhythmic disaster in the making, already beginning to confuse the table next to him.

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Thank you for reading!

xoxo,

tsiagisel