Keeping his head down not to catch too much attention, he continued his track, and what appeared beyond the main gates and past the tens of feet of cavern rock they moved underneath, was a layered city of marble beauty.

To his right, he could see the ocean and the lower docks; the smell of salt assaulted his senses as the breeze drifted across his face. Buildings sprouted from the ground all the way down the hill towards the docks.

Turning his attention to the left side, he saw more buildings built into the hill, except these were of even more exquisite beauty than the ones on the right side of the main road.

And to top it off, he could see at the highest point of the hill, built directly into the cliffside, a building that looked like a palace. Colors of white and sky blue could be seen everywhere, and he could see the faintest colors of green.

Staring at the palace, Resven could ponder a guess as to who the building belonged to, ’The Morvayns...’

Pulling his hood over his head, he walked towards the lower docks. In most cities, taverns and inns would be located in the poorer areas, and he ventured a guess that this city was no different.

The smell of baked bread and assorted spices flowed with the breeze and assaulted his nose. Clamor of the townsfolk rang through the air, and small children ran past Resven as they laughed and played through the larger streets. 𝑓𝑟ℯ𝘦𝓌𝘦𝘣𝑛𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓁.𝑐ℴ𝓂

He wandered through what seemed to be some market streets before he eventually reached a building that looked to be something akin to a tavern or inn based on the name - The Iron Tankard.

Walking into the building, he was grabbed by the atmosphere; music played as bards and minstrels danced at one end of the building. Men played cards and a variety of games as they shouted while they drank.

It was quite a sight to behold. The tavern was well lit and larger than Resven had expected, but he did not stop to take everything in and look like a fool. A moment later, he wandered towards the other end of the building where the bar was.

"What can i get ye?" a vigorous voice rang in his ears as he took his seat.

A man behind the counter came across him. He was tall, maybe around 6 feet 6, and had a rough-like beard and bald head. Throwing the cloth piece over his shoulders, he stared at Resven with an inquisitive gaze.

"You’re best mead will suffice."

The man nodded before leaving, and Resven was left to his own devices. ’They say taverns are the best sources of information; let’s see where that is true.’

He turned towards the bards as they sang, paying attention to what they were singing. Bards were well known throughout the world for their singing and storytelling abilities, which they incorporated into their singing.

Whether their stories are real or not depends on one’s own belief...

After listening for a few seconds, Resven could guarantee that at least this bard was just singing a tale for a tale. Turning his attention to the conversation of others, he tried to hear whatever he could.

It did not take long for a conversation to capture his attention. In one corner of the tavern, there was a group of men. Bulked with muscle and scars, looking like they’ve never had a wash in their life.

’Most probably blacksmiths.’

He concluded after sizing them up.

"Bah! Naught but a nest o’ blood-suckin’ maggots, the lot of ’em! They bring us ore as brittle as dry bone, then stand there wonderin’ why the steel snaps! What do they expect me to forge with—frozen mud?"

One of the men spoke loudly, cursing as anger filled his expression.

"Aye, but if we don’t deliver, they’ll be skinnin’ us for leather. With the lads marchin’ to face that scaled devil, they’ll want the blades finished all the same—brittle or no."

One of the smaller men could not help but sigh as he spoke, his body slumping slightly as he spoke.

"And then what? We hand ’em these blasted brittle toothpicks, and when the Mormaer’s lads get chewed up by that beast, he’ll be lookin’ for heads to roll—ours! Forge ’em weak and let men die, we’re dead men walkin’. Sit on our hands and do naught, he’ll have our hides for rugs just the same. We’re caught ’tween the hammer and the anvil, we are!"

’Interesting, looks like the clan is prepping to face off against a beast...’ Feeling he would not be able to gather much further information from the two men except for how well they do in cursing competition, he moved on to the next conversation.

He did so a few times as he shuffled around the room, until two separate conversations caught his attention, both of which were slightly hushed, and he needed to concentrate to even hear.

"I’m tellin’ ya, true as I’m standin’ here! I seen the bloody terror meself! Forty foot o’ scale an’ slime if it was an inch, thick as a warehouse, an’ movin’ so fast me eyes could scarce track the wake. It breached—loomed right out the black water—an’ coiled ’round them hulls like a snake ’round a rat. Sunk ’em whole, it did. Sixty souls dragged down into the salt, an’ the tide... abyssals, the tide turned red as a sunset with the blood of ’em!"

"Aye, sure, Maeve! And I reckon the beast caught one whiff o’ your rot-gut stench and turned tail, leavin’ you squealin’ in the muck while it swam for cleaner waters, eh?" Another man laughed and chided the other man in mock and evident disdain.

The man called Maeve was fuming as he listened to the laughter and insults thrown his way. His face turned red, but from anger or all the mead the man had, Resven could not tell, but he quickly diverted his attention as the two men started brawling.

’I wonder if that is what the Mormaer’s army is hunting? But if so, why would they need swords? Swords won’t do them much good on the open sea.’