The heavy oak front door of the Crossed Swords Inn swung open with a boisterous cry of "Evening, Prim!" as Brunhilde Beryl ducked into the foyer. The door's filigree silver chimes swung wildly, and clanged discordantly before her hand shot out and abruptly cut short their pestering. They let out a tiny peal of protest as she loosed her grip.
A casual observer might have noted the stocky, muscle-bound, well fed woman with the rosy face, raven's feet and brown hair gathered in a businesslike topknot. They might have remarked at her abrupt physicality, too. But most would have missed her momentary anxious cringe when the bells rang out.
"You're not a fan of the chimes, Brunhilde?" said the woman at the desk. "Not to worry, we'll change them." She was busily scribbling in a ledger.
"Alright, I admit it. They drive me nuts. Weirdly grating for something so fine looking, and frankly, I've always preferred to announce myself. Don't worry about it though. I know much work you put into arranging the place, and I'd hate to impose. Honestly I feel better just sayin' it."
Madame Primrose Xaviere Greenleaf, the owner of the Crossed Swords Inn, closed the book, and met her gaze with bright eyes and the usual knowing smile. "First of all, it's wonderful to see you again, my dear. And second, impose my little brown butt! As women in business, you and I are made to worry about imposing all the time; in my house, I want you to impose. In fact I insist on it. You're one of my most valued clients. And far more pleasant than anyone else on that short list. Alright?"
Prim was tiny compared to Brunhilde. But she exuded calm authority from her ageless golden skin that her smallness belied, like a humble mushroom sitting atop a vast mycelium, connecting far-away places and times to this little mining town and this 'house of ill repute'. The mayor's words, that last bit. Not anyone else's in Emeryville.
The Madame waited patiently while Brun took a deep breath, sighed wearily, and drank in the room's sakura fragrance. This was a mandatory first step in doing business. One that undeniably improved the whole experience.
"So. Welcome, Brun. How's the shop?" The ledger was now away, and Prim had both elbows out on the podium, cradling her chin in her black-clawed fingers. Luxuriant dark brown ringlets spilled onto the polished marble surface.
"Great, as usual," said Brunhilde, absently fingering the pink stucco wall. "Gods how it does keep me busy, though. The army needs spears; the men of Freetown need horseshoes and fortifications; and our own mayor continues his obsession with wrought ironwork. I swear he must have some sort of smuggling business on the side, to afford this."
Prim chuckled. "It's the Vale, darling, everybody has a shady side business. Except for me of course! I am proud to have a shady up-front business."
"The town's lucky to have you, and your fine establishment. And with me and two apprentices being constantly busy with orders, I can't think of a better place to spend my windfall. If only I had time to visit more often."
"You're too kind. Now, what can we do today to lighten your load and bring you some joy?"
The mighty woman scratched her head. "Well... I could use someone handsome to work the knots out of my back, like always, and then a nice stiff dick. Doesn't have to be huge. But, uh, I'd like someone who can support my weight." She blushed a little at this, a slight but noticeable skew from her normal pink complexion. "Makes m' feel good." Her folks were said to bear traces of orc ancestry, evidenced in their stature. It made her an exceptional blacksmith. But it was also, sometimes, a point of personal and physical awkwardness, in a town built for men and elves.
"Got it," said Prim. "A sturdy lad, good with his hands. Tell me Brun, have you ever been with an infernal?"
Brunhilde blushed harder. "Ah, you know me, Prim. I'm pretty provincial. Not that I'm opposed, of course! Is, uh... is it true what they say about tiefling men?"
"That they have barbs on their dicks they have to file off regularly? Ha, no. But some of them have a nasty little spine right behind the balls, so watch out for that if you wish to finger one--"
At this, Brunhilde snorted and giggled.
"--What, it's possible! But, they're eager, agile, and practically indestructible. And I happen to have one working for me. Tobin is a sellsword, so you being an armorer, I figure you two'll have things to talk about. Very fine gentleman, very good with his hands. And you could drop a dragon on him. Really."
***
"You were expecting taller, eh?" said the impish man with a wink. He had tough, mottled lilac and blue skin, and a beautiful androgynous face, with small ivory horns at the temples. He was also quite short, a little shorter even than the Madame.
"Not really, I've met a few tieflings--or do you prefer to be called infernals? Sorry."
"It's fine, either is fine."
"Mostly I've just never met one so bloody cute, if I may say so. Doesn't hurt that I could lift you off the ground quite easily. Oh, where are my manners. I'm Brunhilde Beryl." She offered a hand, and he shook and kissed it eagerly.
"Tobin Hammertoss. And I believe you," he replied, licking his lips. "I could also lift you, you know. They build us dense like that. But it's pretty clear you would win in a brawl, and I find that very attractive."
She grinned despite herself. "Care to share a pint, mercenary?"
"Hells yes."
Soon they were situated by the fire, she in a great armchair with her boots up on the ledge of the fireplace, he standing behind, applying his dexterous fingers to the wood-like flesh of her neck and shoulders. Every so often, Brun would pass him the tankard of ale, and he would pause in his labors to enjoy a swig. The Madame was thoughtful enough to have a ready supply of fortified Emery Vale ale for sturdier patrons--this stuff would put an elf under the table, but it was only just enough to make demons and larger humans feel something.
"An infernal sellsword working for the Madame... there's got to be an interesting story there. Were you involved in the recent intrigue with the cultists? If so, we are all in your debt."
"There is a story there. But unfortunately, it's not mine to tell. Suffice it to say, the mission she helped us complete bordered on suicidal. And since the quest yielded no treasure, and just about burned through our coffers, we offered to assist her for a while as repayment. We've all sort of had our fill of adventuring for a while. But what about you? What brings a beautiful woman like you to a place like this?"
"This might surprise you, Tobin, but human men seem intimidated that I'm a head taller and could lift them with one hand"--at this, she raised one arm out to her side, where he took it and began to massage it vigorously. "Thank you, that is lovely. But it's more than that. I'm also busy all the time, and not the most sociable of women. I'm most comfortable when talking shop." Raising the other arm for him, she reached down to her boot with the free hand, and drew a concealed dagger, setting it nonchalantly on the stone ledge.
"Your work? May I?"
"Of course."
Tobin stopped, bent over and picked up the dagger. "Solid Vale-steel! That's worth a pretty penny." With the practiced air of an assassin he turned the blade over, spun it on his palm, and launched into a brief knife fighting drill, tail coiled around his waist. The magnetite-tinged blade practically sang through the air in his capable hands.
Brunhilde, who had lifted partially out of her seat to turn and watch the spectacle, beamed and clapped. "You must get a lot of women with moves like that."
