Tales from The Fishwife

The morning of Handar slowly dawned on Stilt street. As expected for Lofmanad, the lazy south wind breezed a muggy haze up off the Dusking Fens. Soon, it blanketed Fenmoss-town with the kind of warm, pine-scented languor that makes one want to cast aside blankets but stay in bed for a while longer. Halsta Sharp-Leaf slid groggily down the stairs only large enough to accommodate one of her size and sidled up to her stool behind the bar of The Fishwife alehouse. Lazily, she motioned for Gurik, her sole employee these days, to pick himself up off the floor and hang a broom above the door to signal that kegs were tapped and mugs available. Scarcely were the first customers in the door when a young Hook slammed through the door on his flight down from the guildhall on Tinner Hill. “Have you heard the news? There’s a whole ruined temple under that mountain East of town! Y’know where that flood of the Oakwash last Valdar made that rockslide? At least, I heard it was a temple. It looks like something the Selvorii might have made, if you can believe that. Can you? I'm minded to gather up a group of us Hooks right now and head over there. If we leave now, we can be there before sundown tomorrow!..”

“Cuerthalas Utimnos, o bold Lingothiir, you were of noble kin. When you graced our town with your countenance, we all did know your name. From mornings in Saltmarket to evenings at the ‘Stick, so many hanging on your word from dusk ‘till dawning light. Why then did you go to the south, and what was it you sought? Did you find in Ghirimar that which your soul so missed? Was it worth the cost you paid in forfeiting your life? Do the bearers tell true the news that you were crushed by stone? Why would one such as yourself go robbing ancient tombs? A drink to your name is a drink all the same, and I'd take it were you here or not. For when I heard you'd not returned, I spared ye not much thought. Truth be told, you always were a bit of an arseling…” -Overheard verses noodled by a local troubadour one evening at The Fishwife

“Your words are silver, you say? Well I say not. Now, lay cold gold upon the wood or else set down your ale-pot. I've no time to be lending credit now. ‘Tis a market day, and I've barrels to buy to keep sots like you in that state. Oh, you're with the Hooks, you say? Pray tell, then, where is your badge of rank, and why have I not seen you in this establishment before?..” -Halsta Sharp-Leaf, proprietress of The Fishwife, founder of The Hooks

As evening settles over the town, a bustling throng fights their way through clouds of summer’s gnats and midges. All those more in need of drink than food strain their way down Stilt street to the door beneath the sign of a pickerel in a wedding gown. “Come in, come one and all,” cries Halsta at this jovial hour. “Today we're no mere alehouse,” she hawks with bunghammer in hand. “You'll not want to miss this one, leeches and lasses. Tonight, if you've silver at hand, you can drink Ghirimese Gold!” It is no wonder that Halsta was able to lead adventuring sorts into danger in her younger days, with a commanding voice so joyfully unbefitting one of her stature. Her rousing speech tonight easily stirred the crowd to a similar fervor. Though the cask was grand, and the cups none-too-large, indeed the wine was gone not long after her call to adventure. Halsta’s coffers, on the other hand, had swelled as from a treasure hoard in those olden days. The day's work was done, and soon only a few Hooks would remain to relish a night between outings.

The air is cool as the last golden rays dim on a day in late Bósmanad. Soon, the sky will darken and The Hunters will rise. The fields resound with far-off howls, and a gaggle of newly-minted Hooks bluster through the door. They loudly chatter between proud glances at the shiny copper fishhooks pinning their cloaks. “I told you lot, on my way back from escorting that caravan I saw a peryton and me arrow was this close to slaying the beast so I could bring its head back to Vericha and ‘er guards. Or else if it weren't a peryton it were a jackalope!” “I tell you now, it weren't no jackalope, and you are a jackanapes,” chimes in another. “What about you, Gale? What did you do?” The as-of-yet quietest one turns, apparently wrenched free from being lost in thought. “Oh, well, y’see, Rowan and I slew some foul beast of the below, yeah. We knocked it from the sky and sent it back to where demons dwell, out there in the farm field at Fescue. Bóthgifa Hundiman weren't actually kidnapped right before ‘er wedding, she was just covering for-” The one whose name must be Rowan cuts her off mid-sentence with a look that could dry out an apple and pierce mail. A moment later, she too opines, “All things Hooks are s’posed to do. ‘Tis a bit crazy what happens to people under a full moon. Whatever that creature was and whoever set it free from its tomb, I care not, now that it's gone…” For a tense moment, the group of new Hooks all fall into a thoughtful silence. Soon though, all memories of their own first tastes of what horrors lurk in the dark are wiped away as Halsta calls out from behind the bar. “Welcome aboard the skiff, ye hot-blooded fisherfolk. Drinks are on the house tonight, and on ye lot tomorrow!”

Beyond The Fishwife alehouse, Stilt Street climbs gently up Tinner Hill. There lies the guildhall of The Hooks. One of the newer institutions in Fenmoss-town, this industrious company of fishermen were founded by the Fishwife’s own Halsta Sharp-Leaf some three decades ago shortly after the end of the Land Bleeding. Begun as a way to give back to her newly-adopted home, The Hooks initially were indeed a guild of fishermen. Not long would it be, however, until members began to inquire as to Halsta’s old ways, how she got some of those scars, and how she came upon the money with which she bought The Fishwife. In the time since then, The Hooks have taken on a role as the primary source of those “adventurers for hire” you hear about, with a particular focus on monster hunting. People travel from near and far to solicit the services of The Hooks, or even make their own attempts to join. As in any trade guild, the process of becoming a Hook begins with an apprenticeship and training in any necessary skills. In most cases, this involves then becoming a junior member, affectionately referred to as a Tinner. “Your badge is of tin when first you begin. Turn it to bronze once you're good and hooked in,” is a saying oft-repeated in The Fishwife. The life of a Hook is not without its perks, such as cheaper drinks even when Halsta gets the good stuff, but it is not for the faint of heart. Many a time does a Hook go out into this world to never return, or only to go “up Tinner Hill” in a box or bag. Behind the guildhall at the top of the hill, there stands Tinner’s Oak. Ancient boughs of a tree well into its ninth century have in recent times come to glitter with the bronze and tin fishhook badges of such brave or unfortunate Hooks as laid down their lives in the pursuit of adventure.

“I ‘eard a rumor from up north the Baron of Thrivindale needs someone t’ hunt down an old sword,” exclaimed a young Hook scarcely promoted from a Tinner. Hurriedly draining a last mug, she slammed a few half-bars on the counter while turning on her heels. “Th’ herald said someth’n about it's killin’ him with its magic and ‘e can only be cured if it gets found, but they say a dragon ‘as it, or a bear or mant’icore. ‘E weren't real clear on that last part. Anyway, I'm going if you lot wants’ta join me.” With a glimmer in her eye and a belly full of fire, she rapidly departed. Several others’ drinks were gulped and sword belts swiped up to hurry alongside. Once the slapping door ceased its clapping, a hushed air returned to the main room of the Fishwife alehouse, and the muggy sluggishness of summer morning life resumed. Everything as it was once again.