Chapter 3 Welcome to Winterstone #2
He was constantly aware of everyone moving his way and had to step aside more than once to avoid a collision. Suddenly, nine bell chimes rang from further within the city, which caused Kraghtol to freeze on the spot and promptly collide with a worker.
“Hey, look where you’re going!”
Kraghtol mumbled an apology and did his best to move his large body out of the way.
Only when he had reached the momentary safety of a building wall and wasn’t in danger of standing in the way anymore, did he realize something: Even though he was right in the middle of so many people, he wasn’t the center of attention.
Sure, he received his fair share of curious or even suspicious looks, something he was used to his whole life, but that was it.
Nobody stopped to scream and shout, nobody ran to the nearest orderkeeper just because of the color of his skin.
It was like the mere fact that he was within the city walls somehow meant he was no threat.
A smile crept onto his face. He had no delusions that this magically meant everyone would like him.
But it was a start, and he felt more accepted than he had ever felt in his entire life.
The ferrywoman had to be mistaken. It couldn’t be that difficult for him to find a place to stay.
Four bell chimes from the impressive clock tower marked the seventh hour since Kraghtol had set foot in the city of Winterstone, and he had to correct himself.
The ferrywoman had been too optimistic. It wasn’t just difficult to find a room; it was downright impossible.
Even though his appearance didn’t cause panic — at least in the bright sunlight of day — the people were still wary of him.
Most of the rooms available were simply not affordable for him, so he had to settle for the tiniest or most run-down places.
But those were often privately owned and, just as the old lady predicted, the owners of these places wouldn’t even consider letting a half-orc stay.
Sometimes, the rejections were veiled behind excuses, like the room needing renovation or it being just taken, but other times, the distrust was out in the open.
For the first few hours, Kraghtol had felt anger slowly simmering within him, stoked by every rejection, but after a while, that anger had dulled to a feeling of frustration.
He had gotten to know the general layout of the city: six districts were arranged in the shape of irregular petals around a central seventh one.
Remembering the advice from earlier, he had avoided the rich Silver Spires and the dangerous Oldport district, but he had searched fruitlessly in the other five.
Right now, he was at the point where the central Commercial Quarter bordered the Oldport region: the clock tower.
The tall building was a sight to behold, even despite Kraghtol’s sour mood.
It was a carefully maintained stone building with a high-rising tower attached to it.
And in that tower, at least three or four stories off the ground, was a large clock face on each side, showing the passing of time by two hands that advanced across the face by unseen forces.
Kraghtol couldn’t even fathom what mechanical marvels were necessary to drive this contraption, but it worked flawlessly and constantly.
Every full hour, a bell rang across the entire city, informing everyone of the current time, even when the clock itself was hidden from sight.
Kraghtol had never heard of something like that and at some point, he would have to ask someone about the building’s inner workings and why they built it right on the border to the city’s worst part instead of a more practical location like the Commercial Quarter’s center.
But right now, he had more important things to worry about.
He had two or three hours of daylight left, and if he didn’t want to sleep on the streets — which he was pretty sure was frowned upon — he would have to find a place to stay soon.
The half-orc pondered his options. The smallest — and thus most affordable — rooms he had seen were in the Crafters Quarter.
But aside from the mistrust he had experienced, most of those rooms were reserved for apprentices and journeymen of their particular craft.
And, unsurprisingly, nobody there offered a place for soon-to-be students of alchemy.
The Commercial Quarter and Frostgate District inns clearly catered to wealthier travelers, such as merchants.
He had the feeling he would have been able to find lodging there rather easily, despite his ancestry, but he didn’t have nearly enough money.
That left terribly few options. He could try to comb the Crafters Quarter again, head to the Silver Spires — whatever good that would do him — or try his luck in the disreputable Oldport.
He peered past the clock tower into the dirty streets. The afternoon sun filled the area with long shadows, and Kraghtol’s imagination added all sorts of bandits and cutthroats lurking in the darkness.
He shook his head as if to shoo away the figments of his imagination.
He shouldn’t let his fears get the better of him.
If anything, he was strong and intimidating.
And poor enough not to be of interest. Most probably, the warning of criminals here was exaggerated, too.
It was probably just the place where the poorest people of the city lived.
His chances of finding an affordable place might even be best here.
Determined, the half-orc straightened his back and let his shoulders roll before passing the remarkable clock tower and venturing into the narrow alleys that wound between buildings that had seen better days.
It wasn’t hard to guess the history of this part of town. Given its name, it had probably been the city’s harbor once, only to be replaced by the aptly named Newport.
The buildings to his left and right were in different states of decay, and some looked deserted, save for some rodents.
The plaster was crumbling under his feet, and an entirely unpleasant smell of rotting wood filled the alleyways.
Kraghtol briefly considered just making his home in one of these deserted houses but quickly discarded the thought.
That was most probably forbidden in some way, and the prospect of living through the winter in a ruin surrounded by rubble and filth wasn’t quite how he imagined his adventure to begin.
There were fewer people on the streets here than in the other districts, and most of the passers-by he encountered tried to hurry along their way as quickly as possible.
Something else was conspicuously absent, too: any signs hinting towards rooms for rent.
Over the course of the next hour, his frustration continued to grow until he was ready to return to Crafters Quarter for one more try there before the day was over.
However, just as he was trying to figure out which way to go, a nearby building caught his eye.
It was apparently a tavern of sorts, although that was only noticeable by the faded sign showing a mug.
There was no written name in sight, but judging by the environment, it wouldn’t have served much purpose, anyway.
It was as good a chance as any, Kraghtol figured and went inside with little of a second thought.
The interior of the house wasn’t much cleaner than the outside: the empty tables and chairs had seen better days, and the floor was so sticky from spilled ale that his boots produced a smacking noise with each step.
The only person currently in the tavern, the owner Kraghtol guessed, wasn’t much cleaner than his establishment.
A scruff bit of partially graying stubble, unevenly cut at least two days in the past, adorned a firm chin in a scruffy face.
He was chewing something, most probably tobacco, and he didn’t stop when Kraghtol approached.
The dark eyes, however, were unusually sharp and, for some reason, didn’t quite fit the rest of the tavern owner’s appearance.
Even though he was objectively weaker than the half-orc, this man looked dangerous.
But that was most probably just Kraghtol’s imagination running wild again. He ignored the thoughts and nodded a friendly greeting.
“Hello. I am looking for a place to stay for the next months. Do you have a room for rent by any chance? My name is Kragh Wulfspar, and I assure you, I pose no danger, despite my unusual appearance.”
He had practiced this greeting multiple times now, the first few dozen times in his head, and then in the presence of various other potential landlords.
The other man scrutinized him closely before pushing the lump of tobacco he was chewing on into his cheek and answering,
“Name’s Calder Rann. And yes, I got rooms. Question is: Can you pay?”
It was rare for Kraghtol to get this far.
“Of course, I got some coins. How much would it cost?”
Since the guild regulated the prices, this question was actually an inquiry about the size and general condition of the lodging.
It was one advantage of the system: You didn’t have to think about how to price your goods.
Given that, Calder pondered the question unusually long and finally answered with a return question.
“You look strong. Intimidating. Do you have any fighting experience?”
Kraghtol was confused. It didn’t sound like the tavern owner was trying to gauge whether he was a troublemaker.
“A… bit,”
Kraghtol answered carefully, and Calder crossed his arms, chewing a bit more.
“I actually got two rooms. Standard inn room, upstairs, nothing special. Will cost you 6 silver coins a month.”
That was surprisingly pricey. Kraghtol felt compelled to ask the obvious question, though.
“And the other room?”
“Ground floor, pretty small. Costs 1 silver coin… and a job.”
One silver coin! That, on the other hand, was exceedingly cheap. There had to be a catch.
“You want me to do a… job for you?”