117: Full Moon Tavern

Chapter 116: Full Moon Tavern

Mist Town’s streets were narrow and winding, with trash piled high and puddles everywhere, making the ground uneven.

Most of the houses were simple single-story structures with wooden roofs.

However, closer to the town center, the buildings were slightly taller, with overhanging eaves and steep, tiled roofs.

As Arthur and Drax passed by, the townspeople looked at them suspiciously.

Most of the people here were shabbily dressed, their narrow faces full of curiosity.

Drax paid no attention to these gazes, striding confidently down the dirty street.

He let the mud splashed up by his heavy boots fall onto his cloak.

During this short walk through the town, his mood had already turned to anger, and his jaw was tightly clenched.

He couldn’t stand the weakness of these people and the lifeless atmosphere.

He was born in the arena, and even in the most difficult moments, he never gave up fighting.

He fought for his life, because he knew that one day he would escape that prison.

To run freely across the vast land, as his mother had said.

No, that’s not it, he thought.

He could tolerate some form of weakness.

After all, he was traveling with the Pioneer Group, and there were many halflings among them who weren’t even as tall as his knee.

They were more timid than others.

He didn’t know what he was upset about.

Perhaps this place made him feel like he was back in a cage.

Drax exhaled, slowing his pace to wait for Arthur.

He looked at his Lord, who was walking unhurriedly.

When Arthur approached the townspeople, they retreated, leaning against the dirty walls, their eyes downcast.

As Arthur walked among them, a few people showed a fleeting glimpse of hope on their faces.

Drax noticed an old couple making a prayer gesture over their chests as Arthur passed by.

But most of them, like the bearded man who had provoked them, had expressions of sullenness, pain, suspicion, and betrayal on their faces.

They were like children, these people.

earth mother, I shouldn’t fear them.

Arthur thought to himself.

In his previous life, he had seen a child look at his mother with the same eyes.

At that time, his mother had been sick for many days and couldn’t take care of him.

It was a childish reaction, a display of fear and immaturity.

As he walked beside his guard, Arthur said, “You are agitated, my friend. Is it because these people are too weak and pathetic?”

The orc remained silent.

Arthur continued walking and said, “You are a powerful warrior, Drax.

“Dealing with the undead is like dealing with biting insects to you.

“But not everyone is like you.

“Others fear the darkness, and their fear is normal, because they have no weapons to fight the darkness.”

“They have weapons,” Drax said.

“Do they?” Arthur gave a wry smile, “Wearing shiny armor, wielding sharp weapons, and proclaiming noble morals, all of this is wonderful.

“But most commoners in Qingfeng Valley and Amn do not have such luxuries.

“They are not our enemies; we are here to help them stand up.”

A ray of light pierced through the thick fog, illuminating the town square.

This light solidified in the mist, and Old Joe and Flora stopped beside it.

They saw a sign hanging above the open door, seemingly ready to fall at any moment, which read “Full Moon Tavern.”

“We can rest here,” Old Joe said, “This should be the only tavern still open in town.

“Go in, Flora, have a few drinks to warm up, and ask around for some information.”

A sallow-faced townsperson sitting by the tavern door quickly stood up when he saw them, fumbling for his short sword.

“Step back, you’ll hurt yourself,” Flora glared at the man and said.

“Damn outsiders.”

The man shouted, and his shouts attracted two other guys.

“May the Forest Mother bless all of you,” Flora clenched her fists, “I’m not here to fight you.”

“Get out of here, you forest—” Old Joe watched Flora’s fist shoot out like a snake, and he was startled.

Immediately after, her clenched fist slammed hard into the man’s face, sending him stumbling backward and falling heavily to the ground.

The other two immediately became alert, drawing their weapons and surrounding Flora.

But the young female monk swept them with a gloomy gaze.

They shrank back, neither willing to make the first move.

Old Joe breathed a sigh of relief.

Sometimes, Flora’s unyielding piety was truly difficult to deal with.

“Do not insult the gods,” Flora warned.

The man who was hit raised his head, looking at her in a daze, blood streaming down his beard in thick lines.

He was about to speak, but the words caught in his throat, and he just stared blankly at the young woman, his eyes wide with shock.

“Come on, we still have things to do,” Flora said to Old Joe.

Their arrival did not cause much commotion, as there were hardly any people inside the tavern.

It was clearly much warmer inside than outside, thanks to the roaring fire in the fireplace.

Three huddled figures occupied a table near the door, conversing in low voices, paying no attention to Old Joe and Flora’s arrival.

The two walked straight to the bar; ordinary wine clearly wouldn’t satisfy Old Joe’s stomach.

Having finally found a tavern, he needed something stronger to dispel the bad luck this place brought.

“Give me your strongest drink,” he said to the short, stout man standing behind the bar.

The man put down the glass he was holding and looked at Flora.

“A beer,” the female monk said.

The drinks were served quickly.

Old Joe gulped his down and then asked, “We have two horses that need looking after.”

The stout man pointed to the back: “The horses are in the back; you can lead them over yourselves.”

“Is there a stable here?”

“Yes, there is,” the short, stout man replied flatly, “but the stable owner is dead, bitten by a werewolf.”

“May the gods guide his soul,” Old Joe prayed, then asked, “Do you have feed for the horses?

“Our horses have been traveling for two days; they’ll collapse without good food.”

“No feed, only hay. If you want feed, go buy it at Littlefinger’s Trading Post.”

“What?” Old Joe confirmed he hadn’t misheard.

“Go to Littlefinger’s Trading Post, damn it, are you deaf? The trading post is right across the street!”

Old Joe nodded, tapped the table, and motioned for the bartender to give him another drink.

Flora stared thoughtfully at the ale in front of her.

She didn’t usually like to drink; ordering a beer was simply to make the bartender talk more.

“Did you hear that?” Old Joe whispered, “It’s Littlefinger’s Trading Company.

“To meet old acquaintances in a place like this. These guys are like cockroaches; they can survive anywhere.”

“The Black Goat Caravan often comes here, so it’s not surprising they have a trading post,” Flora said, “I’m more concerned about those three people in the corner.”

Old Joe glanced at the three, saying nothing.

When the bartender came over, he asked, “What do you have to eat here?”

“Only onion soup and oatmeal,” the short, stout bartender said.

“Then we’ll have two orders of onion soup and oatmeal.”

Once the bartender left, Old Joe spoke: “They don’t look like locals; they’re dressed much better than the locals.”

“Exactly. Let’s go to that table over there,” Flora tilted her head, indicating, “We can see them clearly from there.”

Old Joe understood.

The two went and sat at a table by the fireplace, from where they could perfectly monitor the movements of the three.