Around this point, the other retainer returned hauling another huge pitcher, mead sloshing about within. Without being asked, he refilled both of their tankards before setting the pitcher down.

“The Ramdalls do not deserve their post. Honorless curs, the lot of them. Merchants that think honor can be bought, especially their scheming hag of an elder. The Aase… They got desperate, I think.”

Zel glanced to the retainer again in hopes of elaboration.

Life-saver that he was, he did elaborate: “The Aase clan nearly fell to tertiary last cycle, and their strongest member died in a bad hunt thirty-six years ago. Gjermund, their elder, has severe range-of-motion issues due to his cultivation method, so he cannot compete effectively in over two-thirds of possible wargames despite his otherwise supreme capabilities. It is believed that they provided support to the conspiracy between the Ramdalls, Eisens, and Buhaugs in order to secure their own position.”

“Fucking politics… The battlefield of choice for those too weak to achieve honorable victory and those too cowardly to face defeat with honor,” the man-bear groaned.

“Now, the second part of Jorfr’s favor - access to our primary spring. I can vouch for you, and I can permit you to use one of our clan’s private baths, but only for a limited time. Anything more than perhaps a week will rouse too much suspicion. I could perhaps stretch it to two weeks if we make a show of you paying for the service, I will have most of the payment returned to you in private of course. Some of it will need to find its way into the clan’s coffers to avert suspicion, I am sure you understand.”

“I do not intend to insult you or make it seem like I think you are lying, but… I need assurance of some sort. Jorfr never mentioned you by name and explicitly asked me to not stray far from the Hulson longhouse - for all I know, this could be some elaborate scheme to undermine whatever plans he might have in mind. So, as a gesture of good faith…”

She pulled out her Tablet and retrieved the Black Contract, rolling it out on the table. Three of its seven slots were occupied by glowing runes, while one more was filled by crossed-out ones.

“...Surely, sealing your words with a Black Contract will be no issue, yes?”

Kyriak froze, looking at her with contemplation evident behind his eyes. The atmosphere in the room completely changed - she could feel the self-assured feeling of control over the situation evaporate from her host. For a moment she thought she may have called a major bluff, that things could erupt into violence, only for Kyriak to give a tentative nod and gesture for his right-hand retainer. The man leaned over his shoulder, muttering an incantation under his breath. His eyes took on a lilac glow as he stared at the contract for a moment. With a blink, the glow vanished and he nodded to Kyriak.

A grin worked its way onto the man-bear’s face.

“I should not have expected you to blindly trust my word. I have become too accustomed to my clout. Yes, of course I will seal my promises in the old magic - it would be a black mark against me as a man if I refused.”

And so, Kyriak’s promise of aid was sealed, as was the plan to stage an exaggerated payment if it came down to it. The exact sum was defined as a significant portion of the jewelry Zelsys still had from the Willowdale Locust Queen’s hoard, with roughly one-fifth of the actual payment being left to the Bjorn clan.

With the Black Contract in effect, Zelsys stored it away and rose from her seat, bidding the clan elder goodbye: “Unless you’ve any further business with me, I think we’re done here.”

Kyriak shook his head, raising a hand: “Ancestors be with ye.”

The moment she was gone from the backroom, Kyriak let out a sigh and sank into his chair, kicking back a full tankard. He refilled it, then emptied it again, emitting a thunderous burp. Throughout their entire conversation he had felt Zelsys constantly scanning the room and thinking about how she might kill the three of them if it ever came to violence. He had been waiting for her to stop, but that moment had never come. Even as he watched her walk out that door, Kyriak Bjorn felt a killing intent in that woman’s every movement.

Such a vigilance wasn’t unheard of when it came to wargames or actual conflict, but this was a place of safety. Kyriak wondered whether her image of Borea was that distorted, or if she was naturally that cautious.

For all his might, for all the wargames and actual lethal combat he’d engaged in, Kyriak was still, at the end of the day, the inhabitant of a largely peaceful city. Combat and the rest of civilized life were two different worlds in his mind.

Kyriak thought aloud, looking to his right-hand retainer: “...Grunjolf, do you think we gave our guest a reason to be as wary as she was?”

“The bulkhead doors, the soundproofing, and the blood mead likely did not help alleviate any of her suspicions,” Grunjolf answered flatly.

Kyriak sighed again and poured himself some more mead.

Zel spent a short while longer in the Wolfblade inn, partly out of sheer ravenous hunger and partly out of curiosity. The gobsmacking size of their portions and downright lavish fullness of everything they served didn’t leave her appetite wanting, and the prices certainly didn’t fall short of her expectations either. It was fortunate that her muddled Huén carried a purchasing power orders of magnitude above Gelt in this establishment. In fact, Zel was almost certain that she wouldn't get much use out of Gelt in denominations any smaller than Sovereigns, and even then only for their material value.

The cuts of meat were familiar, but orders of magnitude larger than normal, as was everything, really. A single gigantic leaf chopped up into fine pieces made up the vegetable aspect of a particular course.