After asking a passerby, Lucan followed the stranger's directions down a smaller path branching off the main road. The sounds of the town, hammering, gossip, distant hooves, faded the further he went, until the bustle was replaced by the hush of wind threading through trees.
Nestled beside a grove of oaks and shaded by creeping vines stood a squat stone building, long and low, with polished windows and steam curling from its tiled roof. A carved wooden sign above the heavy door read,
THE STEAMED STAG – BATHHOUSE & RESTORATION SERVICES
Lucan exhaled slowly. His shoulders ached. His legs were lead. And his armor had long since dried stiff with blood.
He pushed the door open.
Warmth washed over him immediately, moist air fragrant with lavender, herbs, and the faint metallic tang of mineral springs. Inside, the stone floor gleamed beneath soft light cast by lanterns hanging in alcoves. Gentle string music floated on the air, paired with the low murmur of contented voices and the occasional splash of water.
Steam danced lazily in the high rafters above. Pools of heated water, carved into the floor, lay like mirror still oases where townsfolk lounged. Robed attendants moved gracefully among the guests, carrying towels, herbal teas, or trays of folded clothing.
Lucan stepped in, drawing eyes.
He was tall, bloodstained, and still half armored. His presence was a hammer strike in a room full of feathers.
An attendant, a young woman with chestnut hair tied into a long braid and sleeves rolled up, approached, her practiced smile faltering when she got a good look at him.
"Good heavens," she gasped softly. "Are… are you injured?"
Lucan glanced down at himself. His armor was crusted in dried blood, soot, and forest grime. One of the leather straps across his chest was half scorched. A nick above his temple had dried black.
"…Honestly? Not sure," he muttered. "I might need help getting the armor off. Need a bath. And someone to clean the gear."
She blinked, recovering quickly, slipping into the calm demeanor of someone trained to tend to nobility, mercenaries, and travelers alike.
"Of course. We provide full cleaning and restoration services for weapons and armor. You'll find private dressing stalls at the back—we'll assist with removal. There's a hot spring bath just beyond the arch. I'll fetch oils, salves, and fresh linens."
"Appreciate it," he said, voice low.
She motioned for him to follow. A few patrons stared but quickly returned to their conversations. Lucan didn't blame them. He looked like hell, and hell had walked through the door.
Behind a thick linen curtain, two older attendants began unbuckling his armor with the practiced ease of those who'd seen every kind of ruin a body could endure. Greaves first. Then pauldrons. His chestplate came off with a creak. The gambeson underneath peeled away like old bark, revealing skin beneath.
His torso was marked with bruises, new ones from today, and old ones layered beneath. A nasty welt stretched across his right ribs. A healing bite mark from two weeks ago, maybe a wolf, marred his shoulder.
But beneath all of it, he was built like a long distance bladefighter. Tall, lean, and coiled with wiry muscle.
The women didn't comment. They worked quietly, reverently. When they were done, they handed him a folded towel. Lucan wrapped it around his waist and stepped barefoot into the steam chamber beyond.
The bath was carved from dark smoothed stone, shallow stairs descending into mineral rich water that glowed faintly from the lanterns overhead. The warmth hit him like a spell.
He sank in slowly, letting out a long, near silent exhale as the heat enveloped his battered body. Every cut, every bruise, throbbed but also began to loosen, as if the water coaxed the tension out of him.
Across from the pool hung a polished bronze mirror.
He turned his head. Caught his reflection.
He almost didn't recognize himself.
Broad shoulders, lean muscle, his build forged more from scarcity and violence than training. His height gave him reach, his frame gave him speed. But he looked exhausted. Scars crisscrossed his torso, pale lines over tan skin that shimmered faintly in the steam. His jawline was still sharp, stubbled and angular, and beneath the dark circles and road, weariness, he was still unmistakably handsome.
But it was his eyes that always gave him away, faint violet, he guessed he got them from his father.
Half elf. Half frost touched.
His ears bore the sharp point of elven heritage, elegant but not exaggerated. And beneath his skin, especially in the reflection, when the light struck just right, there was a shimmer, a barely, there undertone of bluish luminescence, like frost caught beneath glass. A racial trait from his Mother, all frost touched had skin like his.
Not human. Not entirely.
Too elven for men. Too mortal for the timeless. And too cold inside for either.
He scoffed at his own reflection.
Still. The water helped. Here, there were no brigands. No sobbing boys. No fathers breaking in half at the sight of a corpse.
Just warmth. Silence. The whisper of lavender on the air.
A gentle knock stirred him from his stillness. The chestnut haired attendant peeked in, eyes downcast out of respect.
"Sir? Forgive the interruption."
He nodded lazily. "It's fine. What's the word?"
She stepped closer, clutching a folded robe and a satchel.
"Your armor, sir… It's… well, I'll be honest." She looked nervous, but kept speaking. "It's practically scrap. The cuirass is cracked through the rib seam. Straps melted. Buckles torn. And there's blood in the stitching we can't remove without unraveling it."
Lucan stared at her for a beat. Then he let out a sharp breath that was almost a laugh.
"Figures."
"We can restore the weapons, though," she added quickly. "And the boots. But the armor… it wouldn't keep out a broomstick right now."
"Good thing I'm not fighting broomsticks," he muttered.
She smiled nervously, then offered the robe.
"I suggest taking the scraped armor to the armor smith and blacksmith, they can make new armor and weapons out of it."
Lucan took the robe and draped it over the edge of the bath.
"I see, thank you." He says while taking out two silver coins from his pocket and handing it to the women.
"Ah many thanks Ser!"
She lingered a second longer, eyes darting up to his face, and those violet eyes.
"If you don't mind me asking…" she said softly, almost hesitantly. "Your eyes. They're… different."
Lucan met her gaze with a tired smirk.
"Yeah. Everything about me is."
She opened her mouth to say something else, then seemed to think better of it.
"We'll prepare your things. Take as much time as you need."
When she left, Lucan sank lower into the water, until only his nose and eyes remained above the surface.
----------------------------------------
The door shut, and out stepped Lucan wearing his under tunic, a loose, off white shirt typical of the riverland mercenaries, and black, well fitted trousers. His boots, newly cleaned and glistening faintly in the daylight, struck the cobblestone road with solid confidence. Slung across his back was his large, weather worn greatsword, now sheathed and secured once more, and in his hand, he carried a heavy sack containing the scraps of his once trusty armor.
"Cleaning, done. Now, time for food!" Lucan muttered, patting his stomach with a sigh of satisfaction.
He walked the winding main street of Dunmire, drawing the usual stares of the townsfolk. It was something he had grown used to. He did, after all, look rather unusual, tall, broad shouldered, and clearly not from around here.
As he wandered past merchant stalls and gossiping locals, Lucan took note of the incredible diversity among the town's inhabitants. The Riverlands were largely human, elven, and dwarven in population, but Dunmire was different. It was sort of Exotic.
He approached the town's tavern, a sturdy looking structure of dark timber and warm firelight spilling from within. Outside, clustered beneath the overhang, stood a group of eleven men talking amongst themselves, many of whom gave Lucan quick, cautious glances.
Near the tavern doors, two figures sat in the shade, a male and female Drow.
Drow were rare above ground, known for their reclusive lives in the Underdark, a vast subterranean realm beneath the continent. The Underdark was a terrifying labyrinth of tunnels, bioluminescent fungi forests, and forgotten cities carved into endless stone. Its entrances were scattered throughout the Godspine Mountains, and few who descended returned unchanged. It was said the Underdark devoured hope and twisted the souls of those who lived there. Drow, its native Elves, had been forged by that world, cruel, cunning, and feared by most surface dwellers.
The female Drow had that haunting beauty their kind were known for, dark purple skin, long white hair tied loosely behind one pointed ear, and a thin, elegant frame. Chains hung loosely around her wrists and neck, the metal scuffed and aged. Her red eyes, sharp and reflective like rubies, tracked Lucan's approach with quiet curiosity.
The male Drow, in contrast, was scruffier, clothed in patched leathers and tattered cloth, a rogue by appearance and scent. His red eyes were restless, shifty, eyes Lucan recognized. Cutthroat eyes. Thieving eyes. He'd worn them himself, growing up in the alley gutters of the Riverlands.
Lucan came to a stop before them, eyes flicking between the pair.
"Why are you two just sitting out here? Don't you want to go in?"
The female lifted her head and gave a small, amused smile.
"They don't allow our kind inside. The owner's a dwarf, says we're bad omens," she said with an accent that hinted at distant cities and deep caverns.
The male scoffed, scratching his jaw. "It's not worth the fight. I've been kicked out of better taverns. We're just resting our feet. Don't want trouble."
Lucan tilted his head. "You from the Underdark?"
The woman nodded once. "Born beneath the Blackroot Vaults. Escaped a decade ago."
Lucan turned to the male. "And you?"
The Drow thief chuckled. "Me? Naw. Born on the surface. Riverlands. Been stealing since I could crawl. Just lookin' for a place to belong, really. Dunmire's… chaotic, but it's open."
Lucan looked between them, then to the tavern door.
"You know," he muttered, "everybody deserves a drink. Even the damned."
The female blinked, red eyes flickering with curiosity. "You going to fight the dwarf for us?"
Lucan smirked. "Not unless he gives me a reason."
He turned and shouldered open the tavern door, the warmth and clamor of drinkers and musicians spilling into the street. As he vanished inside, the two Drow watched in silence.
"He's different," the male said, almost in awe.
The female nodded slowly. "Or mad. Either way… I think things are about to get interesting."
And she wasn't wrong.