The iron-studded door creaked open just enough for Drizella to slip through, the tavern's stale air hitting her face like a physical wall. She pressed her back against rough stone, letting her eyes adjust to the underground gloom while counting heartbeats. One exit behind us. Two narrow windows, barred. Side door near the bar - probably leads to storage.
Elara's shoulder brushed against hers as they edged deeper into the room. The forbidden Guild tavern reeked of spilled ale and pipe smoke, the latter hanging in thick ribbons beneath the low ceiling. Drizella's fingers found the obsidian dagger concealed in her sleeve, its cool surface steadying her racing pulse.
"Fresh meat," someone growled from a shadowed corner. Laughter rippled through the room - too sharp, too eager. Drizella counted seventeen Guild members scattered across the worn wooden tables. Most wore the telltale ink-stained fingers of textile workers, but the calluses on their hands spoke of weapons, not weaving shuttles. A burly man by the hearth cracked his knuckles, the sound carrying clear across the room.
They're positioned to cut off every escape route. Drizella caught Elara's eye and gave an imperceptible nod toward the support beam near the bar. Better to have something solid at their backs. They wound their way between the tables, Drizella noting how conversations died as they passed, replaced by hostile whispers.
The floorboards creaked beneath their feet, sticky with decades of spilled drink. A scarred woman wearing a master weaver's brass pins openly tracked their movement, her hand resting too casually near her belt knife. The air crackled with tension thick enough to slice.
"Your kind isn't welcome here," the bartender spat, his massive forearms braced against the counter. The pewter tankard he'd been polishing now pointed at them like a weapon.
Drizella lifted her chin, letting ice coat her words. "Then it's fortunate we haven't come for hospitality." She kept her voice low, but pitched to carry. "We're here for Guildmaster Thorin."
The name dropped like a stone into still water. Ripples of reaction spread across the room - shifted postures, narrowed eyes, hands drifting toward weapons. The scarred weaver rose halfway from her seat, but a sharp gesture from the bartender made her sink back down.
"Boss don't take visitors," he growled. "Especially not pretty little nobles playing at business." His meaty fingers drummed against the counter. "Last warning. Leave now, while you still can."
They won't kill us outright - too messy, too much attention. But they'll hurt us badly enough to send a message. Drizella could feel the collective hostility pressing against her skin like a physical weight. She forced her breathing to remain steady, though her heart hammered against her ribs.
"Tell him," she said, each word precise as cut crystal, "that I have something from the Narrative Weavers that will interest him greatly." The lie rolled smoothly off her tongue, but she saw Elara's slight tension at the dangerous gambit.
The silence stretched taut as a wire. Then the bartender's eyes widened a fraction - recognition, or fear? He jerked his head toward a dark hallway behind the bar. "Wait there. Don't move."
As he disappeared through a hidden door, Drizella pressed her spine against the solid wooden beam, positioning herself to watch both the main room and the hallway. Elara mirrored her stance on the opposite side. The Guild members had resumed their conversations, but Drizella didn't miss how their eyes kept darting in her direction.
We have perhaps two minutes before they return, she calculated. And then either we'll have Thorin's attention, or we'll be fighting our way out of here. Her fingers traced the outline of the revolutionary fabric sample tucked against her ribs, their one desperate bargaining chip. All they needed was one chance to play it.
The stench of stale ale and unwashed bodies hit Drizella's nose as she strode toward Guildmaster Thorin's table, her boots clicking against worn floorboards that creaked beneath layers of sawdust. Thorin's massive frame dominated the corner booth, his scarred hands wrapped around a pewter tankard that looked child-sized against his bear-like grip.
"You have precisely ten seconds to remove yourself from my establishment," Thorin growled, not bothering to look up from his drink. The tavern's usual cacophony died to a dangerous whisper.
Drizella planted her palms on his table, leaning forward. The wood was sticky beneath her fingers, years of spilled drinks creating a tacky film that made her skin crawl. "I have a business proposition that will double your profits within a month."
Thorin's laugh rumbled like distant thunder. He finally raised his head, revealing a face that looked like it had been carved from granite with a dull chisel. "Boys?"
Two bruisers materialized from the shadows, their calloused hands reaching for Drizella's arms. The closer one reeked of tobacco and cheap cologne, his breath hot against her neck as he grabbed her shoulder.
In one fluid motion, Drizella twisted free, simultaneously drawing her obsidian dagger and unfurling the revolutionary fabric across Thorin's table. The material rippled like liquid midnight, its threads catching the tavern's dim light in impossible ways. Let's see how quickly greed overwrites pride.
"Cut it," she challenged, pressing the dagger's handle into Thorin's palm. The blade's edge gleamed with lethal promise. "Try to destroy this sample, and I'll walk away. Succeed, and I'll never darken your door again. Fail..." She allowed herself a predatory smile. "And you'll listen to every word I have to say about exclusive manufacturing rights."
Thorin's fingers tightened around the dagger's grip. His eyes narrowed, studying the fabric with the intensity of a master assessing a forgery. "Hold her," he barked to his men.
The bruisers seized Drizella's arms again, their grip bruising this time. She didn't resist, keeping her gaze locked on Thorin as he raised the blade. Come on, you brute. Take the bait.
The dagger slashed down in a vicious arc. The fabric didn't tear. Didn't even mark. Thorin's expression darkened. He struck again, harder, the blade skittering off the material like water from hot iron. Three more attempts, each more forceful than the last, produced the same result.
"Impossible," he muttered, running thick fingers across the unmarred surface. "What manner of witchcraft-"
"Not witchcraft," Drizella interrupted, shrugging off his men's loosened grip. "Engineering. Innovation. The future of textile manufacturing, available exclusively through partnership with my venture." She straightened her sleeves, smoothing out the wrinkles their rough handling had caused. "Unless you'd prefer to explain to your Guild members why you passed on the most revolutionary advancement in weaving since the invention of the loom itself?"
Thorin's jaw worked back and forth, the muscles in his neck corded with tension. The tavern held its collective breath, waiting for his verdict. Finally, he gestured sharply, and his men stepped back.
"Talk," he growled, sliding the dagger across the table. "But make it quick. My patience, unlike your fabric, has very definite limits."
Drizella retrieved her knife, tucking it away with deliberate slowness. First blood drawn. Now to go for the kill. She settled into the seat across from him, arranging her skirts with calculated precision. "Let's discuss numbers, shall we?"