Finding buyers for the furs and other loot was easier than expected in the marketplace, and Moktark thought he got a good price for them as he hefted his freshly refilled coinpouch. With the money, they purchased some clothes which were supposedly more suitable for the desert, restocked on provisions, and ended up having enough left over to maybe grease a few palms and buy a few drinks. In addition they purchased a small container of a vibrant red dye, which cost a pretty penny.

  Meeting back up at Semthak’s that evening, they found the old shaman had gathered supplies of his own. He wore loose robes, and carried a backpack and a long quarterstaff.

  “You look ridiculous in that.” Moktark scoffed, seeing the robes.

  “Better to look ridiculous than to turn brown in the desert heat. You’re going to wish you had these robes, but you won’t be getting mine.” Semthak replied.

  “We got some as well.” Koruk said, giving Moktark the eye. “We’re ready. What’s the plan?”

  “Go to the tavern, get a few drinks, ask around...” Semthak said.

  “I know which one of those you’ll be tackling.” Moktark said, smiling and folding his arms.

  Semthak raised his hands defensively.

  “Hey, I just thought maybe the red men would be more likely to agree to this ridiculous scheme if they were drunk is all. Let’s get him ready.”

  Semthak and Koruk dressed Oben up in the impid clothing, which fit his frame almost perfectly, and mixed the red dye with crushed charcoal to produce a deep crimson hue which they helped him smear all over his face and hands. Semthak drew a few swirling lines on Oben’s face in black. He stood back and appraised the result.

  “Won’t do much good if he takes his clothes off, but… this might actually work.” He said softly.

  The tavern was as lively as ever, and as they quickly identified several tables with likely-looking groups of imps who had the weary look of travellers. Oben approached them, flanked by the orcs, and made his case.

  It was to be more difficult than they had planned. The first three groups they approached simply looked at them in total confusion, made it known that they couldn’t speak a word of orcish. With one table they got as far as buying them a round of drinks, but as soon as they broached the idea of going into the desert, the imps passed the drinks back and refused to say another word.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  By the fifth table, they had gone around to nearly every group in the room. Before Oben was even able to speak a word, the imps shook their heads at him, the universal sign for “no”. A few suspicious glances started to be cast their way, and sensing the change in atmosphere they chugged the last of their drinks and made to leave. Stepping out into the night air of Brittle Teeth again felt relieving.

  “I had hoped that the ones at the tavern would be more… openminded.” Semthak said, sighing. “I guess not. I think this might be a waste of time.”

  “I am sorry.” Oben said. “I try my best.”

  “We should kidnap one of them, and steal one of their sand boats or whatever they are.” Moktark said, looking around him.

  “I’m sure there’s other places we can try first.” Koruk said.

  “That tavern is frequented by outlanders. Those are probably the most friendly, xenophilic imps you’ll meet in this place.” Semthak snorted.

  Most of the countless market stalls that lined the street were closed for the night, or were in the process of doing so. A few still remained open though, their barkers calling out into an increasingly deserted street. Oben felt the hairs on the back of his neck perk up a bit, and out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw something move, but when he turned to look he just saw a pair of imps loading pottery into a camel cart.

  “Let’s ask these merchants. Most of them are imps.” Koruk suggested, moving off to do so before anyone could say anything elsewise.

  A gust of wind blew one of the decorative ribbons ornamenting Oben’s clothes into his face, and the human adjusted his robes and tucked it aside. When he glanced again, the pair of imps were gone.

  As Koruk was talking to his second merchant, who seemed to only speak broken orcish, Oben caught a flash of movement. He shouted in alarm, and Moktark’s thick hand wrapped itself around the head of a figure still in the process of reaching out to clutch at his coinpurse. Moktark didn’t even turn around, but simply flung the figure aside where he landed like a bundle of laundry. The orc snorted derisively.

  “You strong. Strong orc!” The merchant said excitedly, pointing at Moktark. “That one, he trouble!”

  The merchant seemed to reappraise the group.

  “Maybe have work. You bodyguard? Guard shop?” He suggested, his violet eyes twinkling.

  “Ah, no, we’re looking for caravan work. Work on sand ship.” Koruk explained, talking with his hands and trying to gesticulate what a boat might look like despite seldom having seen them before. The merchant looked a little less keen but still remained helpful.

  “Who he. Imp. Come close! Come!” He said, gesturing for Oben to approach.

  His eyes seemed to bore into Oben’s for a long while, and the merchant cocked his head to the side as if appraising his value.

  “Maybe work, for friend of the desert. I show you maybe.”

  “We would be very grateful!” Koruk said.

  “Mmmm, my head, it not so good though, no? What is word, hard to… remember, remember where go.”

  Semthak rolled his eyes, and tossed the merchant a square coin.

  “Ah yes, now I see it, in eye of head.” The merchant said, tapping his forehead dramatically. He called out, and a young imp appeared, a bundle of surprisingly drab robes barely reaching his master’s belly. The merchant barked a few orders at him or her in their tongue, presumably telling him to watch the stall, and then motioned for the party of adventurers to follow him.

  It was impossible to tell for sure through his facewrap, but he looked to be smiling.