The Tiny Tavern

Branric polished a mug absently with a towel that had probably been clean once upon a time, but now bore the permanent smudge of long service and spilled stories.

"A dark pour for a darker mood, eh?" he said, voice like gravel rubbed with honey. "You’re not the first to order heartbreak in a mug, friend, and I doubt you’ll be the last."

He set the clean-enough mug beneath a squat earthenware tap, the kind not labeled, and pulled slow and steady. The drink flowed like oil, black and thick, with a scent somewhere between roasted chestnuts and the last hour before dawn.

Sliding the mug across with a practiced ease, Branric gave the stranger a measuring look.

"Four copper buys the pint," he said, "but the story behind the thirst’ll earn you the next."His smirk twitched just a hair wider, eyes gleaming with that tavern-born curiosity — not nosy, not pressing, just open.

"Or you can drink in silence. Some do. Some need to. But the chair you chose has heard tales before. It might be listenin’."

Branric leaned in just a bit, forearms resting on the bar, the smirk never leaving but softening into something closer to interest.

"So then — a skilled hand, is it?" he echoed. "And what sort of skills are we talkin’, friend? The kind that build things, mend things... or break things in ways that don’t heal?"

He flicked a glance toward the hearth, where the shadows of weapon racks and dusty old helms loomed like forgotten sentinels.

"Plenty come through lookin’ for work. Fewer know what kind of work they’re askin’ for. Fewer still know what they’re offering."

He tilted his head.

"Tell me plain, Orryn — if I send word, if I pass your name — what should I be sayin’ you do that’s worth the risk of rememberin’?"

Branric rubbed his jaw, the beginnings of a grin curling beneath the silver in his stubble.

"Custom work, huh? You’ve got the itch of a maker about you — the kind who sees problems as puzzles and carries more tools than grudges, don't you?"

He leaned in slightly, dropping his voice just enough to separate this talk from the rest of the tavern noise. The fire popped behind him, the shadows of old weapons twitching on the walls like they were listening in.

"There’s a forge in the Trades Ward — old bones, dwarven make. The kind of place that remembers when the stones were laid. Grusk Ironsunder runs it now. He is a half-orc with arms like siege towers and a mind sharper than most elves I’ve met. Used to be a brawler, now he’s a blacksmith and entrepreneur."

Branric picked up a mug idly, not to drink but to have something to turn in his hands.

"He’s been trying to tame that forge. But it’s not just rust and dust down there. The last owner — some wild-bearded alchemist-turned-artificer — left it crawling with clever traps, strange contraptions, and something Grusk calls the clicking thing. Never seen him rattled, but even saying the name sets his jaw tight."

He set the mug down gently, gaze steady.

"Grusk isn’t looking for another sword arm. Oh no. He needs a brain behind nimble fingers. Someone who knows how to disarm what shouldn't have been armed in the first place, and maybe even get the damn thing working again. He’s offering coin, sure, and gear if you earn it. But more than that — it’s a place where a clever hand could leave a mark. Not just repair work. Real crafting. Reclaiming something ancient and turning it into something new."

Branric’s smirk faded slightly.

"Truth be told, I passed word to a few. First one was a young lad — tinkered well enough, but rushed in alone. Grusk found pieces of him. Called the forge cursed after that, but I don’t think it’s a curse. Just… unkind to fools."

He leaned back, stretching his shoulders before nodding toward the door.

"Zyra was here earlier — you’d like her. Sharp. She’s off to the Yawning Portal now, looking to meet with Grusk and find some help. You catch her, you might just walk in together..."

He shrugged, then grinned.

Branric watched the toast in silence, nodding once — deep and slow. He took the coins without ceremony.

"Best head to the Yawning Portal and ask for Grusk directly. He’s not hard to spot — big, scarred, looks like he could headbutt a troll and then offer to fix its armor. If Zyra’s there, you’ll meet her soon enough. If not, Grusk’ll size you up and decide whether you're worth throwing into the fire."

He leaned against the bar again, smirk returning like a coin flipped back into a waiting palm.

"And if you do come back in one piece, you’re buying me the next round. Tavern tradition."

The door creaked open as Orryn stepped out into the alley’s crooked light. Behind him, the hearth crackled, the weapons on the wall gleamed dully in the flickering glow, and Branric turned back to the bar, already polishing a new mug for the next tale to walk through.

Branric was polishing a short glass with a rag that had seen better days, the kind of absent-minded work that gave a man time to think, when his eyes lifted and he saw Shmautz. The smirk curled just a little deeper into his cheek.

"Well now," he said, voice rolling like thunder through velvet, "I thought I smelled jungle rain and old parchment."

Branric set the glass down and leaned slightly over the bar, studying the tall, furred newcomer with a glint of amusement in his ale-colored eyes. "Haven’t had a Tabaxi in here since the one who paid in cursed teeth and left by the roof."

He gestured with a tilt of his chin toward the hearth — one chair sat empty, bathed in firelight, as if it had been saving itself for just this sort of traveler.

"Seat’s warm. Ale’s cold. And if your claws ache, I’ve a salve behind the bar, though I warn you — it smells like a troll’s backside."

He poured a mug without being asked — a dark, nutty brew with just a whisper of spice — and slid it smoothly down the bar to the nearest stool.

"No name, no story, not unless you offer one. But the drink’s on the house if you can tell me where you’ve been, and why your eyes say you didn’t like it much."

Branric’s smirk softened into something close to kindness, but he didn’t press. He turned away, tending a pot behind the bar, giving Shmautz time to sit, drink, or vanish — as his kind were known to do.

Branric gave a small nod of approval at the name and the gulp. "Fur like Sun," he repeated, like he was tasting it on his tongue. "That’s the kind of name you don’t forget, even if you try."

He tilted his head slightly. "Now, I’ve poured drinks for princes pretending to be beggars and cutthroats claiming they’re scholars. You say you failed your duty — but from where I’m sitting, you’re alive, upright, and not bleeding. Which means there’s still a road ahead."

Branric pulled a small wooden bowl from behind the bar and slid it over — it held a few crisp slivers of dried meat and something that looked suspiciously like spiced crickets. "For the palate," he said casually.

He gestured, slow and easy, inviting without pressure. "So tell me... Or don’t." - He smiled.

"But if you do — start with what it means to be a 'valet' in your clan. And what broke, when it went wrong."

When Shmautz finished, Branric reached for the empty mug, refilled it without a word, and slid it back across the counter like an offering — not of ale, but of understanding.

"Well," he said after a pause, voice low and warm, "if that’s what failure looks like, the gods have strange standards."

He leaned back a bit, folding his arms across his broad chest. "Let me tell you something, Shmautz of Fur like Sun: it’s easy to wear honor when nothing’s gone wrong. But it’s what you do after the fire that shows if you’re still standing — or just smoke pretending to be a man."

Branric gave a slow nod, not out of sympathy, but a kind of shared understanding. "You didn’t run. You got the chief out alive. You carry the shame instead of hiding behind excuses. That doesn’t sound like broken honor to me. Sounds like someone who needs a new path. So, let’s put it plainly: are you looking for coin? A cause? Something dangerous that needs claws in the dark? The factions in Waterdeep are always sniffing for talent, especially the kind that knows how to stay quiet and sharp. Or…"

A flicker of that signature smirk crept back in.

"…perhaps you want to stop protecting important people and start doing something interesting for a change."

He gave Shmautz a steady look. "There’s a job or three I could put in front of you. But the question is — what do you want, now that the leash is off?"

"Cheers indeed, Shmautz of Fur like Sun… or whatever you choose to be from now on."

Branric filled his own mug — something deep and rich, nearly black — and raised it in a brief, silent toast, then took a sip.

"There’s no shortage of jobs in Waterdeep. The city’s a spiderweb of opportunity — if you know which strand to follow. But I need to know first… what you’re good at. A claw is a claw, a blade is a blade — but I’d rather match you to something that fits you. Are you a silent shadow who slips in and out without a ripple… or a warrior who meets danger face-on? Do you gather information… find hidden things… resolve disputes… or… create a little chaos when the need arises? Tell me, Shmautz — what kind of adventure are you looking for?"

"The dark of the night," Branric repeated, his tone low and calm. "Well then — looks like your stars are already shifting."

He reached into the deep pocket of his well-worn apron, fingers briefly brushing through what sounded like coin, keys, and something that jingled suspiciously. From within, he pulled a folded square of parchment, the paper creased and lightly smudged as if passed through several careful hands.

"A contact from the Watch came by earlier," Branric said, his voice turning cool and deliberate — businesslike, now. "They’re not in a position to get directly involved — messy politics and all — but they told me to find someone who could…"

He slid the parchment across the bar to Shmautz with two fingers, letting it stop just before him. On it, written in a neat, sharp script:

We suspect a clandestine auction of powerful magic items is about to take place under the cover of darkness. The Watch wants brave souls to find it, observe, and, if necessary, intervene — without causing a scene.

Branric tapped the note once, his thick finger making a muted thunk against the wood.

"Meet their man in the alley beside the Tiny Tavern at dusk. Come alone or with someone you trust. Look for a figure in a hooded grey cloak."

His eyes fixed on Shmautz’s, and his voice dropped to a hush, almost a whisper:

"Say only: ‘The night market waits for no king.’"

Then he leaned back again, the smirk returning like a habit. "Discreet eyes. Quiet steps. This is a job that doesn’t want applause — just results. So, Shmautz — you ready to walk into shadows that even the Watch won’t tread?"