Swordsman's Regression: Reawakened as a Necromancer-Chapter 51: Drunken Storytellers

Percival returned to Ostuary.

Now aware of Mercius’s unfinished business, he walked down the hot cobblestone streets with purpose.

Floating in front of him was his new Quest:

⸢Contract Quest: Determine the well doing of Alenya Crestveil. Possible extra quest depending on result of initial quest⸥

Percival wasn’t sure what to truly make of this Contract Quest. He couldn’t tell yet whether it was a difficult one or not.

However, it did shed a new light on Mercius Seagrave.

Percival recognized that the brute, powerful Knight had a soft, personal part of him. Perhaps that was the whole point of these Contract Quests, not merely the fulfillment of their regrets.

Ostuary sprawled around him. If it had been loud the night before, by day, it was a deafening roar.

Brine, gut-fish, and expensive spices filled the air with their exotic smells. Not to forget the stench from the mouths of Traders, screaming prices for silk imported from the Elf Kingdom, while dockworkers hauled crates of iron ore destined for the Dwarf forges.

Percival walked through the press of bodies, his dark cloak drawing a few wary glances in a city of bright tunics.

Some called to him, asking if he wanted spices or bone-healing plums.

Percival didn’t want to buy anything.

He wanted information.

He couldn’t just storm the Baron’s Fort, put a blade to a clerk’s throat, and demand to see Alenya Crestveil.

Well, he could.

But, for the sake of not putting a target on his back, he wouldn’t.

So, he pivoted to his next option: the drunken haunts of the city.

The same spots where the women had caressed him last night, luring him to come drink with them.

It was the best place to get information.

No one spilled more tales than a drunken man.

Percival stopped in front of the tavern near the docks.

It was a squat building. The smell of stale ale and sawdust was strong even from outside here.

He could hear laughter and the tankards thudding against wooden tables. He ducked his head and entered.

The interior was dingy, but at least, it was a good escape from the merciless sun.

Percival saw Fishermen, off-duty caravan guards, and other types of laborers wiping soot from their faces and filling their stomachs with ancient alcohol.

He moved to the bar, slapped three silver coins on the wood, and pointed to a large pitcher of the house ale.

He took it, and allowed himself a drink.

In his last life, Percival had enjoyed the expensive wine of the crown. Now, he had to offer the commoners the same courtesy.

Bleh.

Screw courtesy. This was awfully bitter.

He turned from the smiling woman and scanned the room.

Which of these men would be willing to tell him about what’s happening in this damn city?

In the corner, he spotted a group of four men gathered around an older-looking table. They were red-faced, loud, and angry.

Perfect.

Percival walked over and pulled up a stool at the edge of their table.

He didn’t ask for permission.

He simply set the heavy pitcher down in the center of their circle.

The men stopped talking. A burly Lvl 57 Fisherman with a wounded left eye glared at him.

"Who invited you, pretty boy?"

"No one," Percival said, his voice flat but not aggressive. He nudged the pitcher forward. "But you look like good men who have run dry. I am bored and curious about your company."

"You seem irritated about something in this city."

The fisherman eyed the pitcher, then Percival.

His thirst won.

Grunting, he grabbed the handle, and poured a generous measure into his empty mug.

"Irritated is a simple way to put it, you wolf," the man scoffed, wiping foam from his lip. "But aye, we are irritated. It’s this damn city. It’s becoming unlivable."

"Is it the trade?" Percival asked, leaning back.

"It’s the tolls!" a thinner man with ink-stained fingers shouted. "We were hoping Jon Goldtower would fix the mess, but aye, this city is more ruined than we thought. The taxes have doubled but the results are too slow."

"Too slow? I’m barely even seeing any results."

"Goldtower?" Percival asked, his brows creasing slightly. "I thought Ostuary was ruled by the Highbards." 𝘧𝑟𝑒𝑒𝘸𝘦𝘣𝑛𝑜𝘷𝑒𝓁.𝘤𝘰𝓂

The table erupted in bitter laughter.

Percival, surprised, raised a brow.

"You really aren’t from around here, are you, wolf?" the Fisherman sneered. " The Highbards? They’re toothless dogs now. Ever since the Crestveil family lost their Dukedom some months ago, the Highbards lost their protection."

"Aye," the Lvl 47 Trader nodded vigorously. "The Crestveils fell out of favor with the Crown. Corruption, they say. We think they crossed the King."

"Whatever. Anyway, once the Crestveils lost the province, the Highbards lost the Barony. Goldtower took over."

Percival took a slow sip of his own ale. "So the Highbards are gone?"

"Gone? Hah!" The Fisherman slammed his mug down. "I wish. They’re still here. Like rats in the cellar. Desperate to get their power back. They squeeze their own tenants harder than Goldtower does, trying to scrape together enough coin to bribe their way back into court."

Percival mulled over this.

If this was true, then Mercius was right about the Highbards. They were truly willing to do anything to maintain power.

A family of foxes.

But now, he needed to probe deeper to get the information he was really here for.

"I heard a story once," Percival said casually, swirling his drink. "About the former Baron. Tristop Highbard. Didn’t he have a wife from the Ducal family? A Crestveil?"

The table went quiet for a second. The men exchanged glances.

Percival worried that he might have pushed his luck.

"Why you askin’ about her?" the Fisherman narrowed his eyes. "Don’t tell me you have a thing for old broads, you silly wolf."

They erupted into laughter, mocking the young Awakener.

"I don’t blame him! We all love wine when it’s older, don’t we?!"

"Kekekeke!"

"Yes, we do!"

Percival waited for their wide mouths and yellow teeth to close before he responded. "I have seen paintings of her, and I’ll admit, she was really beautiful."

"Aye, Alenya Crestveil," the Trader sighed. "A beauty, she was. Or is. Tristop Highbard married her years ago."

"Were they in love?"

"In love?" The men almost burst out laughing again. "Do you think politics care about romance, boy? It was a pact, see?"

"The Highbards needed the Crestveil blood to legitimize their claim on Ostuary. We don’t know what the Crestveils needed the Highbards for, but it had to be something good, see?"

"A business deal," Percival murmured.

"That’s all it ever is with them nobles," the Fisherman spat. "Coincidentally... This happened around the time of the Fourth Mortal War. The Battle of Brackenbridge, yeah?"

"Yeah," another man chimed in. "Maybe the Crestveils needed the Highbards’ military support. I recall they married her off to Tristop to seal the alliance before the war really kicked off."

"We were all children at that time."

"Ah yes. Simpler times."

Percival nodded. So far, everything aligned perfectly.

Mercius had been sent to die, and while he was marching to his doom, his betrothed was being sold to secure a Barony.

"Is she still alive?" Percival asked. "The Lady Alenya?"

"Alive? Suppose so," the Fisherman grunted. "Though you wouldn’t know it to look at the city. She’s a ghost."

"What do you mean?"

"They keep her locked up tight," the Trader lowered his voice, leaning in. "Tristop well, he keeps busy, traveling to neighbouring cities, trying to reclaim the throne even at his age. But even when Tristop was Baron, and especially now... nobody sees Alenya. They say she’s forbidden to leave the Old Fort."

"We’ve seen her maybe three times in ten years," the Fisherman added. "When Tristop regarded us in front of the fort, or in the courtroom. The Highbards claim she’s ’frail.’ I say she’s a prisoner."

Percival set his mug down.

"The Old Fort," Percival repeated. "Is that where the Highbards live?"

"Aye. On the cliff overlooking the violent river. Goldtower took the Baron’s Fort, so the Highbards retreated to their ancestral fortress. Brooding up there like vultures."

"I see," Percival said, standing up. "Thank you for the ale. And the stories."

"You leaving the pitcher?" the Fisherman asked, eyeing the half-full vessel.

"It’s yours."

"Hehehe," the man grabbed the handle. "You’re alright, wolf."

Percival walked out of the tavern and back into the blinding afternoon sun. He pulled his hood up, casting his face in shadow.

So, Alenya Crestveil was alive.

She was a prisoner, which meant more than likely, Percival was going to have to murder the Highbards.

Still, her living conditions had to be determined. Then, Mercius would determine if the Highbards will be slaughtered.