Ilian held up to Faine's demands. At the first sight of a run-down pub on the outskirts of Olhathas, he jumped off the wagon and thanked the merchant for providing them a ride.

Olhathas was a city that Faine had visited many times before and was never fond of. The streets were mud; the buildings put together with wattle and daub were horribly crafted and almost always teetering. The doors hung off their hinges; the windows were broken or missing entirely. Faine passed by so many crates of abandoned and trashed goods that she lost count of the many smashed in and those that were still intact.

This city wasn't for the rich or the poor. Olhathas was full of workers—blacksmiths, armorers, smelters, joiners, fletchers. Anything under the sun that required the specialty of a man or woman to create it with their bare hands. That was Olhathas's forte, providing goods and services to the rest of Pinedon. The salt mines to the east, before a stretch of mountains, was the birth point of supply for many of the different craftsmen throughout the city.

Skilled with their hands, they were. But everything else, the city's condition, their private residences, and shops, the stores and restaurants and taverns that fed and clothed them—complete shit. Olhathas residents had long ago stopped caring about the conditions of their streets and homes, and the high elf father could not persuade them to make any changes, nor did he wish to exhaust extra effort into helping them find their way once more.

As many citizens of Pinedon had said, some things were better left untouched.

Walking into the pub, Faine discovered that the one Ilian had picked was of the same quality as the rest of the city. Tracked in from past merchants or farmers or miners, straw covered the floor and painted over the wooden floorboards with a musty yellow splatter. The tables were sticky with ale and syrup; the chairs were missing the rods in their backs or uneven on one leg shorter than the other.

The bar on the left wall of the pub was lined with barstools, each one full with one burly man after the other. The barkeep, a sinwolf, turned to the back wall and picked out a whiskey bottle from the dusted array on the wooden shelves. He filled the drink of minotaur. The beast turned, nearly knocking a male fladline in the head with his broad, sharp horns.

Faine made a quick mental note to keep away from them. Olhathas men often found the necessity to fight just from a simple stare. No one was kind to mortals in Pinedon, but Olhathas residents were the worst. Chances were, they already smelled Ilian's mortality and weakness as he entered and pulled out a chair, one closest to the bar. That way, they could listen to conversation without having to strain too hard to hear.

As Faine sat down, she whispered, "Now we can't talk about anything of importance."

"That's why we will listen instead. Order some food and ale. We're here to eat, are we not?" Ilian's brow rose in silent question.

Underneath the glow of fire from torches and braziers, Ilian's features darkened, but the blue of his eyes was still as bright as it was underneath the warm sun. There were no women in the tavern except for the waitress and any courtesans on the second floor, but they weren't planning on providing any information and Ilian seducing them with his handsome grin wouldn't play into their plan very well.

Faine scanned the bar once more and came across grey, cracked horns belonging not to a minotaur, but a feliram. Their kind was always first to choose one another and the man sitting at the bar was fairly handsome. Unlike the normal ruckus mixing its way into the current conversation at the bar, he was minding his own business and sitting quietly. The sips of his ale were slow and the tankard in his hand was nearly empty. Not long before he left, then.

"Order me a tankard of ale and a beef pie. I have seducing to do," Faine said.

She stood, straightening out her leather jacket, and sauntered over to the bar. She ignored Ilian hissing her name in warning, demanding she come back, but Faine wouldn't turn back and slid in between the golden-skinned feliram and the gadigator sitting at his right. Being the confident, flirtatious feliram she was aiming for, Faine propped her elbow onto the counter and rested her temple on her closed hand.

Eyes as green as pine trees slowly looked to her and the tankard he lifted to his lips slowly lowered. "I'm not in the mood for a whore tonight," he rasped.

"You're in luck, then," Faine responded quickly and easily. All her focus went to him, but her nose became distracted on the fact that the gadigator behind her smelled like blood and raw meat. Whatever he had done before coming here wasn't anything to share amongst the group. "I'm not a whore, I'm a simple woman who spotted you from across the room."

"Fine, I'm not in the mood for a simple woman tonight."

She sucked on a tooth. There were limits when it came to gathering what was necessary, and it didn't stop beyond a simple 'no' from a man that was clearly uninterested and didn't want to advance for the simple band on his ring finger kept him from doing anything beyond speaking to her at a low level.

Ilian was still sitting at the table, ordering their food from a waitress. He spoke in low tones to the mortal woman and flashed her a sweet, trusting grin. It wasn't just Faine that had an idea in mind, Ilian was attempting to do everything in his power to gather something, possibly more than what Faine would achieve with this married feliram.

It was a bold move to reach over and twist that band on his finger. He stiffened but didn't curl away like a faithful man would've. "Surely your wife wouldn't like if I did this," she said softly. Eye contact was important, so she forced her eyes back to his. "On second thought, I don't believe she'd care for me satisfying you in a way she never could, either."

His eyes burned with a new flame. For the first time since she came over, the corner of his mouth tugged up in amusement and the scar running down the side of his face and through his mouth stretched. The more she looked at him, the more Faine realized that he was handsome in a way that reminded her of Kaspar. They had the same short hair, only this feliram possessed a sandy shade of blond instead of the crisp white of Faine's lover back at Rising Eternity.

Slowly, Faine was breaking down his walls. At least she thought that to be the case until his eyes darted over to Ilian sitting at the table behind her. "Aren't you with that mortal over there?" he asked.

To hardly bother with a glance over her shoulder was a way of showing she couldn't care less about anything other than what was before her. "He is my apprentice." To make him twitch further, she ran her hand down his arm, over the harsh cloth of his white sleeve. "Nothing more."

"It's not oftenmortals are treated to meals, let alone allowed to sit in a pub without consequence." Like the snap of two fingers together, his stare hardened just as fast. It wasn't filled with the desire to have her, or what it'd be like to disappear into a room together. Instead, he fully focused on making Ilian's life hell for showing his face in a place he didn't belong.

Pubs didn't hang up signs that went against mortals and didn't block them from entering any building that provided a service. If a mortal went in on his own accord, they were responsible for what happened after.

"Normally I would agree with you." Faine fiddled with the leather strings of his vambrace. "But he's currently missing with his wife. She went missing, along with many other mortals, and he's terrified at his inability to find her. I'm doing what I can to make him feel better."

"How kind of you." His breath was a whisper of bitter ale and smoke.

"Mortals deserve to die," the gadigator grumbled behind her. When he spoke, the smell of raw death became more prominent and Faine had to blink back tears from the burning in her throat. When was the last time he took a bath?

Realizing she was getting nowhere with the feliram at the counter, she turned on her heel and faced the harsh scales and tentacles of the gadigator. He was larger than the feliram and stared at her with the same uncertainty, but didn't balk when she flashed a close-lipped smile.

"Am I to assume you had something to do with his wife's disappearance? If you hate them so—"

The gadigator hissed to cut her off. "I may hate the mortals in this city, but they only die if they get in my way. I don't involve myself in the business of trafficking; too risky and too worthless. Buyers study mortals the way one would a fine horse and wagon." He lifted the tankard of ale to his lips, rusted around the rim and cracked at the top, and took a drink. Faine wondered if he realized that a stream dribbled down from his lips; until his long, snake-like tongue appeared and wiped away the glob dripping onto the tentacles hanging off his chin. She shivered.

"Trafficking, you say?" Faine asked. She still had her hand on the feliram's vambrace and the significance of that simple touch didn't show itself until a warm hand pressed against her stomach and gently pushed her back. It was that feliram claiming what was his from the slimy gadigator in the other barstool. He had made up his mind about whether he wished to remain faithful to his wife. When his arm wrapped around her waist, her back pressed against his chest, Faine couldn't say it surprised her. "Why would anyone wish to traffic mortals for anything other than being slaves and servants? They're not good for much else; it's a wasted effort."

The gadigator shrugged, completely unfazed by the possessive hand pressed against her stomach. "You're speaking to the wrong beast. I have no use for the weaklings." His tankard of ale was empty, so he slammed it down on the counter, tossed a copper coin towards the barkeep, and departed his wooden stool without another word.

Wrong beast. Wrong beast. Faine played the words over and over in her head. Already, she'd gathered more information than she expected to and just in time for the meat pies and ale to get to the table. Ilian was already digging in and leaving her out to dry, just as the feliram to her back pressed gentle kisses to her neck.

He was warm and tempting, but Faine had an important matter to deal with. His golden hands found her hips and turned her to face him once more. "Tell you what," she whispered against his lips. "I'll take my apprentice back to the shop and return for you."

A promise found itself in a simple, slow kiss. He tasted of that bitter ale, similar to Kaspar after they'd finished drinking the day's terrors away. "To hell with your apprentice," he growled, and tightened his hands on her hips.

With a pout, Faine pressed her hand against his chest and, like she'd done with the vambrace before, fiddled with the loose strings of his shirt that revealed a small slit of his bare chest. Tempting was an understatement. "If I knew more about this trafficking, then I might agree. But mortals can't work until their minds are clear; you know that."

His snarl ruptured through her. It was possible he'd skip what plan she was hoping he'd fall into and go straight for killing Ilian. The only thing keeping Faine from panicking was that she knew Ilian was more prepared for a fight than anyone else in this pub.

"Trafficking is notorious amongst blacksmiths. The Brass Boulder might have information for you." His callused hand slid up to hold the side of her face. "But you can save that for tomorrow." When he kissed her, this time with a feverish desire, Faine's body turned molten hot. She had to remind herself that while a feliram was tempting, there were other matters at hand.

Breaking off the kiss nearly broke her heart. "I promise I'll be back in a matter of minutes. My shop is merely two blocks over and I'll return for you." She patted her hand against his chest.

Although he frowned, he leaned back and finally released her from such a tight grip. "I'll be waiting." His eyes were heavy, and it was clear he'd forgotten about his wife from the first smile Faine gave him.

Still reeling, her mind in a fog, Faine went back to the table where Ilian was sitting. He was already halfway done with his pie and hers was untouched so she tossed five copper coins onto the table and said, loud enough for the feliram to hear, "Come on, we're going back to the shop. I received information about your wife, we'll find her tomorrow."

Ilian, in the middle of chewing, stared at her blankly. Then his mind clicked. As if acting desperately to find his wife, he stood quickly and gathered his pie, as well as Faine's. That was a mercy. Her stomach was twisting itself into knots and was difficult to quell when around others. A growling stomach wasn't exactly a turn-on.

"Is she still alive?" Ilian asked as they made their way to the door. The feliram watched them the entire way. "Is my wife in the city?"

Faine acted like the supportive boss by placing her hand on his arm and the other against his back. "We'll see. It's possible, but we'll wait until tomorrow to find that out."

The door closed behind them and that hand on his arm went to his wrist to drag him away from the building and towards an inn that Faine knew was two streets over. She'd stayed there plenty of times with Kaspar, knew the price and the discreet nature of the innkeeper, and was willing to sacrifice being close to the pub that held the waiting feliram.

If he was like many others in Pinedon, he'd go on a rampage to find her and tear apart the city. No man that Faine seduced had ever found her, though they'd come close—within feet.

To avoid going through it once more, Faine led Ilian to the inn and checked the street one last time before entering. No one was following them, not that she could see, and within the first hour of arriving, they'd already had enough information for three days of investigating.