"Because we're lost," the short girl muttered, that snide remark drawing a glare from her rival.
"Um..." in the lull caused by the redheads' latest staring contest the willowy blonde between them spoke up hesitantly, instinctively raising one hand like she was still in temple classes. Of course, that shouldn't come as much of a surprise given how recently it had been that she spent her days in such a fashion. "Wouldn't it be faster to go through the woods?" At those words her trio of companions turned towards her as one, looks of shock and horror blossoming across their faces.
It was the archer who managed to find her voice first, the fear in her tone unmistakable. "Are you mad? Wolfhome is completely overgrown, not to mention crawling with monsters." An involuntary shudder wracked her body at the thought of what might befall any travelers so foolish as to traverse the untamed depths of the nearby woods. "Even I wouldn't want to take more than a dozen steps into that nightmare."
"You forgot about the werewolves," the shorter redhead piped up, a grim smile on her face. "The locals swear there's a pack in there, that they find at least a dozen missing loggers mauled to death each year." There was a devious glint in her eyes as she spoke, but it was clear the thought of those mad, twisted creatures was enough to rattle even her cocky exterior.
"Oh..." by that point the robed blonde's eyes were wide with terror, one hand brought up to shield her mouth. "Sorry..." she murmured, looking as if she might faint. Few beasts indeed were like to inspire as much loathing in an adventurer as the werewolf, there was just something about the prospect of having one's mind and body warped into that of a sworn enemy which gave even the bravest of souls pause. And, well, I doubt it would much surprise any reader to learn that our lovely little priestess was not exactly a paragon of courage.
"It's okay, sweetie," the archer reached out to gently grip her wavering companion's shoulder. "Just... don't go into the forest." Simple advice, perhaps, but wiser words she had seldom spoken. In their wake, a hush fell over the four adventuresses, each one uncomfortably reminded of the risks inherent to their current course.
"Alright, alright, enough with the scary stories," the tall knight finally spoke up, only the slightest stiffness in her voice indicating just how grim had been the dark places to which her own mind had wandered. "We have a decision to make."
The four adventuresses continued their conversation as they leaned in to study their map more closely, but little that was said between them in the next few minutes would be of much interest to a discerning reader. No, at that point the far more interesting conversations taking place inside the Sleepy Sheep were those about the unusual visitors, not between them. Conversations which, almost without exception, revolved around just how the maidens in question might best provide entertainment for their many admirers. One such debate between three of the oldest regulars seated at the tavern's bar had been going in circles for more than an hour. That particular trio of old-timers were mostly harmless, the sort of geezers who insist they have the answer for all the worlds' problems but can't be bothered to solve any themselves. They might leer at some alluring strangers, sure, but they wouldn't have posed much threat even had they acted on their fancies. Talking, though, talking they could manage.
"What'd I say to you, Dev? I said those wenches were more lost than a drunken rabbit, tha's what I said." The first of the old-timers slurred, shaking his head in amusement. No fewer than eight mugs of drink already clouded his mind and clumsied his tongue, but so much booze had done nothing to dampen his enthusiasm. "Ain't no way they'd still be round here if they wasn't."
"Course they're lost, Gab, ain't never been a lass born yet what can read a bleedin map." The second regular proclaimed before raising his mug and taking a slow sip from the same drink he'd been nursing for the last hour. For him, the current round was his sixth of the evening, and while he had been a heavyweight in his day the old man's tolerance had long since waned. It should thus surprise few readers that he was even more inebriated than his comrade, his words even harder to parse.
"Ha! That's rich coming from you," the third man rumbled, his voice gruff and low. He was a little younger than the others, a lame leg having ended his labours prematurely some years before. He also drank a little less and held his mead a little better. "Ya can't even write your own name, you old git." That particular retort was one which could have been fairly aimed at any of the trio, and nine out of any ten of their fellow patrons besides. While all six of our heroines had at least a rudimentary grasp of the written word, few indeed of the local hayseeds had ever attained such knowledge.
"An jus what's writing got ta do with readin' a map, eh Mitt?" the second snorted. "A map's just a picture, ain't it? Dumb broads can't even manage that!"
"It's a picture with words, Dev," the third sighed, shaking his head. "How are you supposed to tell what's what without reading the names?"
"Ack, what's it matter if'n a wench can read a map, boys? That's ain't what wenches are for, now innit?" the first cut back in, pounding his fist authoritatively on one meaty thigh. The thigh of a younger worker seated next to him, to be precise, one who glared momentarily at the old drunk before deciding he wasn't worth a beating and shifting his stool a little farther away. After all, it wasn't like the old fool had learned his lesson the last time, now was it? Some people just couldn't be taught, no matter how hard you hit them.
"Aye, that's the truth, surely it tis," the second letch agreed, taking a long swig of his drink before letting out a staggering belch so loud the subjects of their conversation may well have heard it. They didn't, but only because someone closer by had drowned it out with his own. Needless to say, our well-mannered adventuresses (which is to say all but the shorter of the redheads) would never stoop so low as to put on such a display and were growing quite weary of the men around them (and the shorter of the redheads) doing so. "Oi, lookit!" the same regular suddenly exclaimed, elbowing the third whose attention had momentarily wandered. "Them redheads are goin at it again! Think they finally gonna fight?"
"Ha, I wish," his friend muttered, the marginally younger man's eyes drinking in the sight of the young women in question. True enough the warrior and her rival were arguing again, each leaned across their table to get into the other's face. Whether or not they realized just how enticingly such a posture left their respective rumps jutting outwards is a question best left to each reader's own imagination. "Maybe they'll snog instead. That'd be a sight."
"As if," the first drunk snorted. "Them reds hate each other. Not like you, eh Dev?" he nudged his friend, a knowing grin on his bearded face. "Ye've got it bad for the biggun, dontcha?"
"Course I do," the old man snorted, puffing up with something almost akin to pride. "Just look at er. Tall as a man an arms like a logger. Wench like that'll surely have a rump to die for buried neath all that metal. And she sure don't look flat up front neither."
"No, she sure don't," the first agreed, his head nodding sagely as if some great wisdom had just been imparted. Of course, by the standards of the Sleepy Sheep, such an assertion actually did approach a reasonable approximation of cunning.
"I'm telling ye," the other drunk rambled on, not even realizing his friend had spoken, "that big one's the girl for me. Lass with a body like that'd give her man some right strong brats, you jus know it. She's damn lucky I'm too drunk to have a go at er."
"Ha!" the man's younger companion nearly spewed his drink over the tavern floor, tears in his eyes as he choked the brew down. "That girlie'd eat you alive, Dev," he laughed as soon as his throat had cleared. "She'd have you on the floor squealing for your old wifey before you even touched her." One could hardly fault the cripple for his amusement, were this tale destined to offer our heroines less tragedy and more comedy such a scene might well have proven a perfect appetizer. Alas, their foes would prove more capable than an inebriated, elderly drunkard and Mitt would not get to witness his boastful friend being beaten down in such a delightful display.
"Shaddup," the drunk in question snarled instead, once more puffing up his withered chest. "I could take er, easy. Then I'd teach er a wench's meant for ridin, not fightin."
"In yer dreams, you old fool," the first drunk chuckled, throwing back the last of his drink and banging on the counter for another. "Now that little un, she'd be reeaaal fun..."
"Aye, that's a damn fine pair of milkers she's got," the third letch agreed, letting out a low whistle as he watched the girl in question laugh in the face of her taller counterpart.
"Ain't they just," his friend muttered. "What I would'n give to smash between them pillows and blow all o'er her face. And just lookit those clothes," he gestured wildly in the young women's general direction. "I betcha tha's a girl who'd love e'ry second of it."
"She just might, but I say you're both idiots," the younger, more sober regular declared. For emphasis he rapped his knuckles on the bald head of his nearer friend. It was a wonder, truly, that no resounding boom like that of a great drum rang out, given how empty each of the trio's heads got once they took to their booze. "That scrawny one'd be the best, no doubt about it. You see the staff she's leaning on? I'd bet my last copper that fancy knob up top is the mark of Maelure."
In a more well-informed locale, identifying an even passably pretty girl as a sworn servant to the goddess of the moon would have prompted a sudden flurry of attention her way. The Sleepy Sheep Tavern, however, lay no fewer than thirty seven miles from the nearest shrine dedicated to that particular deity, a distance greater by far than many of its patrons had ever traveled away from the place of their birth. As such, the ways of her acolytes were a mystery to most, so neither of Mitt's drinking buddies so much as batted an eye at the revelation. "Yeah? What of it? Who wants 'is wench flat as a board?" the first asked, one hand waving dismissively. "I ain't ploughin no girl what looks like a little kid."
"So," the younger man drawled undeterred. "My cousin had one of his brats run off to join her temple a few years back. He tells me that old prude insists on all her priestesses staying cherry." At that news, the other drunks at last grunted in appreciation and turned their eyes on the willowy blonde.
"Is that so?" the second mused. "Well, gimme a night to break er in and she won't be so pure come morn." A moment later he snorted, adding "Maybe then she'll grow some damn knockers."
It was in the wake of that particular jest that the trio's circuitous debate was at long last interrupted by the Sheep's magnanimous owner and barkeep, himself a rather harried man whose own shaggy mane was just starting to fade to a dignified gray, as he meandered over with a pitcher in his hand. At the sight of the three regulars still leering at the pack of adventuresses same as they had been for an hour at least, he just shook his head and began to refill the first drunk's empty mug. "You louts still on about those girls?" he chuckled, tapping his most reliable customer on the shoulder once his mug was full again. "How much more can the three of you have to say?"
"Ack, you know us, Thad," the freshly fueled drunkard grinned after taking a long pull from his mug. That comment could hardly have been more true. For years the trio had spent their every evening in the Sheep, appearing some time late in the afternoon with all the inevitable regularity of the sun rising in the East. Such regular patronage had given the barman more chances than he could count to familiarize himself with their various predilections on everything from mead and music to mates. "Ain't nothing in this here world like a fine piece a tail to keep a man happy. Say," the old man reluctantly tore his eyes off the beauties in question to turn and glance back at his host. "Which of em d'ya fancy, eh keep?"
The veteran tavernmaster just grinned at the same question he had faced the last two times he dropped off fresh rounds. His tenure running the Sleepy Sheep had long since taught him how best to straddle the fine line between humouring the sort of characters that regularly propped up his bar and encouraging them. That was not to say the unexpected appearance of such delectable morsels as our would-be heroines had failed to stir any fire in his loins for it most certainly had, simply that unlike so many of his customers he was wise enough to keep his lusts to himself. So instead of singling out the maiden who had indeed caught his eye, he chose to fend off the query with a jest and a smile, same as always. "Easy, I'll take whichever one keeps buying their beer. Those girls have been drinking like fish."
"Five pieces say keep fancies the elfy one," the middle geezer floated, his friends knowing full well he'd never pay up even if they took the bet. It was no secret that Dev hadn't made good on a wager since the days when his hair was still black. "We all seen the scrawny girls workin round here, and what man don't get hard lookin at them pointy little ears."
"She certainly is easy on the eyes, that one," the bartender admitted with a quiet chuckle, allowing himself to steal a quick glance across his tavern at the archer in question. "But I've got my own pretty lady back home, gents."
"Aye, you're a lucky one, Thad," the third drunk nodded. It was true, running a thriving establishment like the Sleepy Sheep had made their host one of the wealthiest men around. Wealthy enough to make courting his pick of the local maidens an easy task. Naturally, that had been a task the barkeep had taken to with relish, sampling a few local girls before settling down with a fetching blonde a decade his junior who was even then off nursing their youngest somewhere while she waited to preform her wifely duties upon his return home at the end of the evening. Little did she know she was about to be on the receiving end of the most enthusiastic session of lovemaking the couple had shared since their wedding night.
"Oh, lookit boys," the second drunk's voice suddenly called out, "them other two are back." Sure enough two more young women were approaching the table, the pair weaving their way through the crowded tavern clutching a few mugs each. The one leading their way was tall and graceful, a blue-eyed blonde with a face fit to melt the coldest of hearts. She wore simple but elegant traveling garb and an ornately decorated lute was visible strapped across her back. The tavern's myriad host of drunken revelers had no way to know, at least not yet, but any base desires they might feel towards the blonde's elegant form were as dust to stone compared to what they would feel should they ever be lucky enough to hear her low, smoky voice break out in song. All the same, it was her alluring charms that were destined to inspire a night of unrivaled passions in her host's marital bed, to say nothing of his next child.
It was the other girl to whom the drunks' attention was drawn first, though. She was the shortest of the six travelers, her youthful figure possessing all the lithe athleticism of a dancer or an acrobat. Her dark hair was cut short and choppy, allowed to bounce wildly around a face that the three regulars looking on had yet to see unadorned with a playful smirk. That mischievous expression might have been her default for many a year, but it is with a heavy heart I fear the coming days would all but put it to rest. For the moment, though, she remained carefree, a temptress inspiring the lusts of many a man who saw her. Helping to draw so many eyes was the fact she wore the least of any member of her company, just a simple outfit of tight leather which left bare her midriff, her arms, and her knees above a pair of sturdy old boots.
The third, slightly younger regular blew out his breath wistfully as he nodded towards the smaller girl. "Now that scruffy one, she's the one for me." His lips twisted upwards on one side at the thought of getting his hands on the young adventuress. "I love the little tomboys like that. They all think they're so tough and clever, but you strip 'em down, plug up their tight little asses..." he let out a long whistle as he grinned "Then they'll squirm and squeal like the best whores."
"If ya say so," the first drunk drawled, eyes rolling at the reminder of his friend's tastes. Dev never had understood any man who was drawn to a girl without enough cleavage to fit a cock in. "I'll stick to wenches what actually looks like one. Like that blondie," he gestured towards the girl in question. "It'd be real fun makin 'er sing fer me."
Behind the freshly distracted trio the tavernmaster just shook his head hearing their conversation return to where it had been mired the last time he stopped by. As he turned to move on towards another group of patrons in need of refills he snorted, eternally amused by the thought of any of the three old leches actually managing to bed a girl as fine as even the least of those six young women.
Returning to the sextet of adventuresses who had caused such a stir in The Sleepy Sheep, the arrival of the last two members with the company's final round of drinks for the evening was greeted quite appreciatively indeed by their waiting comrades. The tall leader accepted her drink without a word, but her scowl lessened noticeably as she accepted a mug from the minstrel, closed her eyes, and took a long drink. And considering the mood her latest extended argument with the most stubborn rival she'd ever butted heads with had left her in, such a response might as well have been a declaration of love. To her side the archer also received a mug from the blonde newcomer, though hers was promptly set aside as she continued to pore over their map.