Tamira stared at the rotting ceiling of her hut. The smell of damp, stale bread, and her own powerlessness was so thick she could almost taste it. Her thoughts circled like flies in a jar, the laughter of the villagers, the pity in Borin's eyes, the emptiness of her purse, which was never full, and the broken lute lying in the corner like a dead bird.
Agata had brought her bread and cheese in the morning, placed them on the table without a word, and left, slamming the door. That sound, just like in the tavern, was like a blow. She was nobody. An insignificant, laughable half-elf without a copper to her name and without a future. Even her own mother treated her like a troublesome monthly expense, and her father preferred she didn't exist.
The rage that had smoldered beneath the layer of shame for days suddenly erupted. She couldn't go on like this. She wouldn't let them. She wouldn't let herself. She stood up so violently that the stool overturned. She bent down, grabbed the lute. Two strings hung limply. For a moment, she felt like smashing it against the wall, burning it, getting rid of this symbol of her failure. But instead, her stubborn, human heart beat stronger. She wouldn't give up. If Larnwick Stream didn't want her art, she would find a place that appreciated it. And if the whole world didn't want her, then the world was definitely wrong, not her.
Determined, she reached under the straw mattress and pulled out her purse. She dumped its contents onto the table. A few coppers and a small, worthless pebble she had taken for a gemstone in childhood. That was her entire fortune. It wasn't even enough for new strings, let alone for travel.
She had to find a job. Any job. Just to escape this place. She knew Borin wouldn't take her back, even for washing dishes. Her presence was too compromising for his business. That left the notices on the post in the market square. Usually, they posted wanted posters, notices about selling cows, or requests for help with the harvest. Why they posted them was a mystery, the number of villagers who could read could be counted on one hand. But sometimes someone read a notice and passed the information along.
She pulled her hood over her head, hiding her characteristic, though not perfectly pointed, ears, and went out into the street. Avoiding gazes, she headed straight for the village center. On the worn post, next to a notice about a missing cat, hung one fresh piece of paper. The handwriting was clumsy, but the content made Tamira feel something clench in her stomach.
"Volunteers wanted for the elimination of a haunting in the Dead House in the town of Landon's Nook near Ghauruth. Payment: five silvers for successful cleansing of the area. Discretion and resilience to unpleasant sights required. Apply to the Senior Mortician, Villem, in Landon's Nook."
Five silvers. It was a sum Tamira could only dream of. It would be enough for a new lute, strings, clothes, food, and a roof over her head for many months. But a 'haunting'? A 'Dead House'? It sounded like something beyond even her wildest, most inept artistic attempts. This was a job for paid ghost slayers, for people with nerves of steel and hardened hearts. Not for a half-elf who could trip over her own feet.
Yet it wasn't the sum that caught her attention and tightened her throat. It was the location. Landon's Nook. A city. A real, big city, a week's travel east of this backwater Stream. A place with taverns, street musicians, an audience. A real audience. And a city just a stone's throw from Ghauruth, one of the imperial capital cities. This was her only chance to escape, to reach a place where no one knew her shame, where she could try to start over.
The thought of the Dead House and the 'haunting' gripped her stomach with icy fingers. She wasn't a warrior. Her biggest battle was fighting with a stubborn lute peg. But what else could she do? Stay here, where children mocked her walk and adults looked at her with pity? Wait for Agata to bring another stale loaf and look at her like a troublesome piece of furniture?
Well, if her art couldn't move human hearts, perhaps at least her clumsiness could deal with some undead? It had a kind of grim, desperate logic.
She tore the notice from the post, clumsily crumpling it in her hand. Her fingers, which were so poor with chords, now trembled with adrenaline. It wasn't beautiful, it wasn't artistic, but it was something. A goal. A direction. Landon's Nook. Quick money, new strings, and a fast music career.
First, however, she had to get those silvers. And that meant she had to somehow get to the Nook and face whatever was haunting the mortuary there. Alone? That would be pure suicidal stupidity. Even she knew that.
She also knew that in all of Larnwick Stream, there was no one who would want to go with her. No one trusted her enough to lend her a horse, let alone risk their life fighting ghosts. Her stubborn mind, inherited from the human father she didn't want to remember, started working. The notice said 'volunteers' Plural. It assumed a team would apply.