Ivan and his brothers walk into the Weary Wanderer, the light of an old sun warm and bright as it spills through the windows, bathing the patrons in hues of orange and yellow. A few heads turn upon hearing their entrance, but most never notice them, busy as the establishment is.

"Why does it feel like it's been moons since I've been here?" Artur says.

"Maybe because Father's actually putting you to work," Erik mumbles.

Ivan flicks his gaze toward Erik, expecting to see the subtle but sour expression that's dominated his chiselled features over the past few days, but he sees the barest hint of a wry smile on his face instead.

Artur scoffs. "Found your sense of humour, did you?"

"I hope so," Ivan says, "Not sure I can put up with more of his sulking."

"Yeah, yeah," Erik mutters.

They weave between the occupied tables and wandering patrons toward the bar, where a statuesque figure clad in billowing cloth and tight leather draws Ivan's eye.

Khaliss leans over the bar, nursing a half-consumed drink. She's engaged in conversation with Lorys, who enjoys a rare moment of respite from serving customers. As Ivan and his brothers approach, Khaliss and Lorys look their way, small smiles dawning on their faces.

"Three wolves walk into a bar and... I'm sure there's a joke in there somewhere," Lorys says, "What'll it be?"

Ivan looks between his brothers, and they nod in agreement. He turns his gaze toward Lorys again. "The usual."

"Three Tapper ales coming right up, getting rarer by the day," Lorys says. She catches the silvers Ivan flicks her way, one after the other.

"You three have the look of men at the end of a hard day," Khaliss says, her melodic voice reaching Ivan's ears as her lips curl into a sympathetic smile.

He chuckles. "I think that's true of most people in this tavern. I'm sure you've had a trying day yourself, though your countenance is no less graceful for it."

Khaliss' smile turns wry and her lips part, but whatever witty words dance on her tongue fail to slip past before Erik scoffs. "Shameless." As Lorys places his pint on the bar, he snatches it, bringing it to his lips and drinking.

Khaliss hums with laughter, low and sonorous from deep in her throat. "Sylfir and I have been working hard, though it is our minds that have been put through their paces, not our bodies. I do not mind the work, but Sylfir grows restless. She was not made for the cold quietude of a church library."

Artur chuckles. "Yeah, most druids aren't." He pushes a pint toward Ivan as he takes his own in his hand and drinks. Ivan follows his example, letting the cold liquid slip down his gullet. As he draws the tankard away from his lips, he wipes them with his sleeve, a hum of satisfaction rumbling in his chest.

"So, what is it you're looking for in the church library, exactly?" Erik says.

"A way to cleanse the land of the necromantic influence of the beast and its master," Khaliss says.

Erik frowns. "I thought you'd be looking for ways to kill the thing."

"Would that things were so simple." A small sigh leaves her lips. "There is no quick solution to the beast and its master. We must wait for aid to arrive. In the meantime, we look for ways of mitigating the damage already done."

"And we're grateful," Artur says, nudging Erik.

"Of course," he mumbles.

"Enough talk of beasts and men," Lorys says, "Get enough of that in this tavern already."

A bitter laugh catches in Ivan's throat. "What else is there to talk about? Little news and no travellers come this way thanks to the beast."

"And the travellers that do are here to kill it," Artur says, drawing his tankard away from his lips. "There's not much room to talk about anything else. Just doesn't seem as important."

Lorys sighs. "Can't believe I'm saying it, but we need Tim in here. Could use the distraction."

Erik's expression turns sour, like someone's put something in his ale. He shakes his head. "Anything but Tim."

"I'd have to agree."

Heads turn toward the familiar voice, and Ivan watches Sylfir emerge from the stairs by the bar, a wry smile on her face and a folded piece of paper sandwiched between her slender middle and forefinger. 

"Too easily roused when he's in his cups." As she comes closer, she gives the piece of paper to Khaliss.

The drow accepts it with a curious tilt of her head. "And what is this?"

"A few notes plucked from a book I think you'll find interesting. It's in my room if you want to take a deeper look—I don't have it in me right now."

Ivan notes the quiver on her hip and the shortbow at her back. "Venturing into the forest again?"

She shakes her head. "Not today. Only heading to its fringes. There's a good spot for target practice in the commons, eastward where the river curves and disappears into the woods."

"By the tree stumps?" Ivan says, "Used to practise there myself back when—"

The makeshift door rattles hard as it slams against the wall. The noise has Ivan pivoting his head toward a looming figure standing in the doorway, bearing all the gusto expected in the eldest son of a noble. At least, the closest Old Joe could get to one in this village.

Tim strides through the tavern with a couple of working lads some might hazard to call his friends, though neither of them wears the same garish grin and would be better described as spineless sycophants. His eyes fixate on Ivan first, then Erik, then Artur.

"One, two, three wolf pups come to drink the rest of the day away."

"The only one content on drinking their evenings away is you," Erik says, his voice bordering on harsh, almost enough to make Ivan wince. "I'd be surprised if you had any memories of a sunset."

Tim scowls. "And I'd be surprised if you had any memories without that stick up your arse. Loosen up a little—get another drink."

"Seems you've already got friends to drink with," Artur says.

Tim bats him away with a meaty paw, his rugged, scarred face scrunching up. "Ah, don't be worryin' if you ain't got coin enough—I'll buy you another round."

The words sting Ivan's pride, and he can't help the mirthless laugh that escapes his lips. "I'd worry more about the drink itself than the coin to buy it. You've been drinking enough for the whole village—your father couldn't hope to make enough to satisfy you."

"Aye, drinking like a man who's trying to forget. Your memory is probably bad enough to make Shar blush," Erik says, "Must be like staring at a blank page—gods know you're just as dull as one."

Whatever mirth there is in Tim's face evaporates, leaving behind a hardened countenance. Ivan's eyes flick down to his hands, slowly balling into tight fists.

"All right, lads. I don't want it getting too exciting here. Not sure how many planks of wood we've got left, and I don't want to replace the damned door again," Lorys says, "Take a seat, Tim. You'll have your ale soon enough."

Tim takes one plodding step after another as he glares at Erik, knocking him with his shoulder just before taking his seat at the bar with his lackeys. It's all Erik can do to stay on his feet as the contents of his tankard spill onto the floor.

The air in the tavern seems heavier now. Khaliss finishes the remnants of her drink, not inclined to nurse it any further. "I will take my leave. You can find me in my room if you need me."

Sylfir nods. "I'll come and see you later."

Khaliss pushes off the bar and weaves between Ivan and Sylfir, disappearing as she climbs the nearby staircase. Sylfir takes her place at the bar, flagging down a barmaid.

"A cider, please."

The barmaid nods, reaching for a pint glass and pouring a perfect pint with practised ease. With a gentle push, she slides it to Sylfir, who takes it in one hand and lifts it to her lips. The wood elf cranes her neck back as she consumes it, and Ivan's eyes widen as he realises she's emptying the glass without taking a single breath. With the ease of a sailor, she drinks until there isn't a drop left, and places the pint glass back on the bar, pushing it toward the stunned barmaid.

Then, she turns on her heels and makes for the exit, a self-satisfied grin on her face. Her bright eyes lock onto Ivan for a split second, long enough to convey a silent invitation.

"I'm heading out for target practice. Feel free to join me, if any of you are interested."

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

A little bit of trivia: Shar, also known as The Lady of Loss, is a goddess in the Forgotten Realms lore whose domains are death and trickery. Her worshipers are characterised by a desire to forget, hence Erik's insult to Tim.