At about mid morning they headed out. Sarin wasn’t used to walking long distances. They took frequent breaks which made it take twice as long to get anywhere. Despite no one sparing them a second glance, both were highly self conscious and walked several paces apart.

The first listing turned out to be the back room of a brothel. The owner, a large woman wearing too much lipstick, marched them around to the back of the building without so much as a pause and began rattling off terms with business-like efficiency. The space was surprisingly clean and well lit. The level of noise from the surrounding rooms was tolerable. Initially there were no major issues until the owner had a good look at them.

“You two are married, correct?” She rolled the r sound in correctly as if it were its own syllable.

Sarin clicked her tongue. “I fail to see how that is any of your-”

“-Yes, of course.” Yinric lied swiftly.

Her suspicious and judgmental eyes inspected them. They stood an awkward distance apart. “I don’t see rings on either of you. This isn’t a charity home, I don’t need a pair of eloping teenagers to ruin the reputation of my business.”

“Eloping teenagers have a worse reputation than syphilis?” Sarin asked with insincere innocence. The woman's face ignited with rage.

“That outbreak did not start here and it was well contained!” She attempted to collect herself by smoothing back her hair.

“In that case eloping teenagers might be an improvement. It could serve a dual purpose as great publicity for contraceptives. We can start spreading the rumor post haste!” Yinric said.

“If we’re going to gain a reputation can it at least be romantic?” Sarin asked drearily.

“Rest assured, I will have a saucy ballad ready by nightfall.”

“Get out!” The owner promptly shoved them through the door and slammed it shut behind them. Passersby on the street glanced in their direction, but kept it moving. Sarin let out a loud exasperated sigh. Yinric crossed the listing off of his list.

“How did you know about the syphilis,” he asked.

“It was the worst lover's complaint that came to mind.” Sarin stomped out onto the road towards the next location. “Seriously though Yinric, a brothel?” His name felt strange in her mouth.

“Don’t act like I knew what it was before we got here!” He jogged to catch up with her. “People typically pay me and I end up under their skirt, not the other way around.”

“Is that what people pay you for? And here I thought it had something to do with the lute.”

“Very funny.”

The second listing was attached to the cellar of a rodent infested butchery. The owner was a tall greasy man with a severe underbite. Neither Yinric or Sarin were terribly fond of the delicately layered aromas of blood and rat piss. A nest of pest drakes could be heard scurrying inside the walls.

Several terrible options later.

The second to last place was listed as a quiet attic above an antique store. It was in a decent part of town on the edge of an entertainment district. Yin knew a few of the performers in the area. He could negotiate himself into their performance schedule. The only downside was that the proposed rent was suspiciously reasonable. Cheap even.

 Sarin panted as they came to a stop outside the front of the shop. It was getting late in the day. If they didn’t settle on a place soon that would mean spending a night at an inn, thus having less money to use towards renting more sustainable accommodations. Yinric fidgeted with his coin purse.

The antique shop was a wide building with reasonably barred windows. Various nicknacks and small magical items could be seen on the shelves inside illuminated by soft orange glass lamps. A modest sign above the door read “Amber Antiques”. 

The building wasn’t particularly strange in any way. It was ordinary. The lamps contrasted nicely with the other shops that lined the street. The roof didn’t appear to be caving in. Guards weren’t hanging around in excess. Yinric checked the listed address again. No, This was the right place.

“Sarin, I need you to have your guard up while we’re in here. Somethings up with this place.” He said, checking the list over a third time. Sarin was preoccupied with eyeing the bakery across the street. The smells of sweet breads and butter cookies danced in the air. Yinric’s stomach had twisted into such a knot that he’d forgotten to stop for food. He made a mental note for that to be next on the agenda. “Sarin?”

“Huh?” She was practically drooling.

“Try to stay alert. We’ll see about food after this.”

She groaned and took her place behind him. “Is this another distinguished business?”

“I’m not sure.” 

The bell above the door jingled as they entered. Rich, if worn, dark wood floors were concealed in a patchwork of rugs protectively layered over the high traffic pathways that cut through the winding corridors of shelves and cases. Soft cream filigree wallpaper popped out along the perimeters of the rooms, hinting at where the actual walls were. Black iron bars appropriately secured the insides of the yellowed window panes. Their glass shimmered suspiciously with faint arcane webbing. Genuine webbing clung to the various chandeliers which hung from the beamed ceiling. Old parchment and incense dust stiffened the air.

Various gadgets whirred and whizzed. A faint trail of incense hung in the air. 

A few of the paintings watched Yinric and Sarin as they made their way to the counter. Probably an enchanted security network. One in particular, a manic masquerading bandit, made Sarin shutter. No one appeared to be working the front counter. The doorway behind it was curtained off.

Miscellaneous clocks from every corner of the shop chimed in sync to sound off the seventh evening hour. A wooden bird popped out of a clock face. Sarin frantically quickened her step to loop her arm through Yinric’s elbow. He placed his hand over hers. The floorboards in front of the counter creaked underfoot.

“Just a minute!” A voice called out from somewhere below. A mechanical squeak echoed out from the doorway. It was persistent and grew closer with each passing second. Sarin squeezed Yin’s arm and ducked behind him. The curtain parted.

“Looking for anything specific,” the gruff voice asked. At first Yinric was looking too high. The man rolled out from behind the curtain, one side of his wheelchair squeaking with each turn. He was middle aged if not older. His hair was mostly covered by a battered newsboy hat; what was visible had gone gray around the edges.

“I’m sorry, I think we have the wrong place. Do you have an ad about a room?”

“I most certainly do! It's upstairs.” He patted his knee, which was concealed under a knitted blanket. “I don’t get much use out of it these days,” he barked a laugh. He rolled out from behind the counter and headed on a path the wound into the back of the shop. “Is it the two of you looking for a place?”

“Y-yes.” Yinric followed with Sarin in tow.

“Really now? A bit young to be setting out on your own, especially for one of the Elven,” he glanced back, catching Yinric’s briefly honest expression: exhausted, scared, and ashamed. Yin buried those feelings as soon as they were given room to surface. The man dropped the subject.

“My name is Damron Japrinskeild. The upstairs used to be my wife’s painting studio. She passed away a few years ago. I finally got someone to help clear it out about, oh what was it, about a month ago if memory serves.” His squeaky wheel would stick every few rotations and he’d have to wrestle with it to get it turning again. “Figured I should get some use out of the space, but no one’s closed in on it as of yet.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your wife,” Sarin said.

“Ah.” He grunted in the way older men tend to. “Thank you for sayin’ so.” A thin wooden staircase was nearly swallowed up between two tome loaded bookshelves. At the top of them was a regular looking door. 

“Now, I can’t follow you up there but everything should be in working order. There's a wood burning stove and a bed. Probably a good layer of dust as well,” he barked another laugh. “If everything is to your liking we can discuss terms and payment.” He pulled out a key from one of the bags hanging on the arm rests of his chair. “Before I hand you this key I do need to know your names.”

“Of course, I’m Yinric Olovyre. This is my, my uh, my wife Sarin.” Sarin squinted at him. He wasn’t used to saying it, and Damron’s personableness made it difficult to lie without effort.

Damron smiled as Yinric stuttered. He, thankfully, did not comment. “It’s nice to meet you Yinric and Sarin.” He shook Yinric’s hand and nodded to Sarin. She nodded back. “If you have any questions about the room, the shop, or myself don’t hesitate to ask.”

“One question before we head up, Damron, is there any particular reason no one is occupying the space already?” Yinric asked tentatively. “It’s just, this is such a nice part of town and all.”

“Ghosts?” Sarin blurted before quickly covering her mouth. Damron chuckled warmly.

“No, nothing like that.” He scratched the back of his head. “‘Suppose it wouldn’t hurt to have you know now instead of after you give the place a once over. It’s not a secret around here anyhow.” He lifted his cap. Small horns poked out from the top of his forehead. 

Sarin gasped. Her nails dug into Yin’s arm. Yinric bit his tongue and nodded solemnly, conflicted as to whether he should be glad that racism left this room available or not. Thank the gods for racism, wasn’t a phrase he was comfortable thinking.

“Understood. We’ll take a few minutes to discuss it and meet you back here.” He reached out for the key. Damron held onto it for a second longer, judging Yinric’s intentions. Yinric swallowed his nerves and forced a smile through the pain in his arm. Damron released the key.

“Take your time.” He cranked one wheel to turn himself around. “I’ll dig up the paperwork and a pot of tea.” Yinric and Sarin climbed the steps, unlocked the door and stepped inside.

It was a decently sized studio. A wood stove cut into the center of the floor to provide even heating in winter. A bed pressed up against the far wall. The room was otherwise bare apart from a folded privacy curtain and a fine layer of dust.

“I don’t know if I’m comfortable with this,” Sarin admitted in a hushed tone.

“Because the owner’s a tiefling?” Yinric shut the door.

“Not only that, this place is creepy. The paintings follow you with their eyes.” They each set out to lap the room in opposite directions around the stove with measured steps. “Though, the horns certainly don’t help.”

“This is the best option we have.” Yinric inspected the low beams supporting the roof. There weren’t any signs of leakage, but there were plenty of cobwebs. “Our next option is in Old Korvosa.” He set his lute case on the bed. A puff of dust flew into the air.

“How bad can Old Korvosa be?” She asked like it was an overhyped carnival attraction.

Yinric squinted at her while trying not to sneeze. “You’d rather live in a slum than pay rent to a tiefling?”

“...Sounds pretty bad when you phrase it like that.” 

Yinric sneezed. 

“Bless."

He sneezed again. 

“Oh gods what is that?” Sarin pointed above the window. In the fading evening light it almost looked as if the building had grown a face out of the wall.

An old wooden mask hung above the window. Yin stood on his toes to pull it from the nail. Sarin slapped his arm as if he’d caught a venomous serpent. 

The mask was intricately carved, though it was only given a single eye hole. The shape loosely resembled a bird. He held the mask up to his face, causing Sarin to yelp.

“Nonono-“ she tried to take it from him. He laughed and took a step back to evade. “Yinric, put it down! We don't know what it does!” 

“It’s an old festival mask, I’m sure,” he giggled, fastening the leather strap.

“You’re sure, are you? This is an antique shop! What if it takes your other eye out?”

“Then I’d be glad that I only need one to see you with,” he said in a candy coated bardic tone. Sarin gave him the frustrated little huff that he’d been prodding for. She had made the sound many times today and he never got tired of hearing it. 

“I’m enchanted by your velvet tongue, now put it back-” in a hop for the mask she used his chest for support, sending him back. His foot caught on the lip of an uneven board. There was nothing to grab hold of.

He flopped onto the bed next to his lute case. A fog of dust rose up around him like an enveloping spector. The wind was pressed out of him. Sarin’s elbow had landed under his ribs. Coils of dark hair cascaded onto his face.

She had landed with her head on his chest and her hips between his legs. Her face resembled a ripening tomato as she looked up at him.

“Enchanted by my velvet tongue-in-ind-deed-” he sneezed.