The saloon was nearly empty. The miners wouldn’t be here for an hour, the ranchers a little after that. Gertrude stood at the bar, refusing to sit without her drink, which the Orcish publican had made it mighty clear would be a long time coming. She didn’t believe him, but a dozen pointed raps of her long blue fingernails across the tabletop didn’t get her the consideration she was used to receiving in Tennemere.

“Whiskey. Not choosey.” The human walked up to the bar with the poise of a man who would order plenty, though not of one who could afford it. The Orc nodded and grabbed a brown bottle from underneath the counter. “And one for the lady, if that’s what she’s having.”

She nodded. “I believe I will. Been that sort of day.” Gert turned to her new friend as she sat,  her drowned fury melting into fresh politeness. “Thank you, sir.”

The Orc sighed and put the first bottle away, and pulled another with a dusty black label off a high shelf. He poured two tumblers and let out something between a hiss and a snort before wiping a sparkling clean glass on the other side of the bar.

“Are we celebrating something?” Gertrude raised her glass.

“Peace n’ quiet, without the loneliness. Rare a man get to drink and talk to somen’ new ‘round here.” He rubbed forehead sweat back into his hair through worn fingers. A man of labour.

“Are you a lonely man, Mister…?”

“Vimm. Jess Vimm.” He grabbed his glass, only now taking his eyes off her long enough to notice he did indeed have a drink. “And no, not lonely.” He had a dimpled smile that made that statement feel true, and stained teeth that made it feel like a lie. Some young girl, somewhere could madly love that yellow smile. But not a woman of twelve score like Gertrude.

“To fresh company, then, Mr. Vimm.”

“And stale whiskey.” Their glasses kissed. As Vimm raised his arm, Gertrude saw the glint of cobalt steel at his hip.

“What brings an Elf to Warlock County, I gotta ask?”

“It’s not so strange, surely! I saw two at the train station alone!” She tried to act surprised.

Vimm sipped his whiskey. He smiled at the quality. Apparently, the bartender didn't want to hear an Elf complain. “One of ‘em surely, had white hair, short, little ugly moustache? Had a girl with him too?”

She did remember him. Of course she did.. But that was a century ago.

“Oh yes, are they local?”

“Clarence, the undertaker. Been here longer than half the trees. Guess his daughter came into town after all. Most of us here in Warlock ain’t never seen an Elf outside of Jeb, ‘cept in the papers. Promise you darlin’, you will be the talk of the town. “ She sipped her whiskey. Terrible.

“And what will people say, Mr. Vimm?”

“Lots o’ things. Some might say there’s too many novels making the beyond the Pass out as a magical wonderland and Clarence’ll bury one of his own kind within a year.”

Despite his words, this sounded more like a threat than a warning.

“Some might say the Crowns are coming to make a play on the next section of rail line through the pass, no matter what the people here want.” He leaned one arm on the bar, and smiled forward to meet her eye. His other arm went into his coat.