Chapter 30: Attacking His Mouth

Arwyn stepped into the tavern's tiny kitchen, a chaotic jumble of dented pots, cracked jars, and a faint whiff of stale ale. Flavin trailed him, arms crossed, his expression a mix of curiosity and mild irritation. 

Arwyn's hand hovered over a dusty bottle of vinegar on the shelf, but he froze mid-reach, a slow grin creeping across his face. "Hold up," he said, half to himself, "why am I digging through this mess when I can just sketch it?"

Flavin's brow arched, sharp and skeptical. "Sketch it? What, you're gonna draw yourself a drink now?"

"Exactly." Arwyn patted his jacket, fishing out his battered sketchbook and a stubby pencil worn down to a nub. His Passion Energy flickered faintly in his chest. It wasn't a roaring fire, not yet, but a steady ember after days of exhaustion. It was enough for something small. A soda wasn't a blade or a lockpick; it was simple, trivial even. He could pull this off.

"You're serious," Flavin said, leaning against the counter, his voice dry as old leather. "Thought your tricks were for emergencies."

"Emergencies and convenience," Arwyn shot back, flipping the sketchbook open to a blank page. "Watch and learn." He started sketching: a quick, rough outline of a bottle—tall, narrow, with a vague label scratched in as "SODA." 

A few jagged lines for bubbles, a messy swirl at the top for fizz spraying out. It wasn't art; it was barely legible. But it didn't need to be.

Flavin craned his neck to peek, snorting. "Looks like something a drunk scrawled on a wall. That's your masterpiece?"

"Function over form," Arwyn muttered, shading in the bottle's curve with quick, careless strokes. "Doesn't need to win a prize. It just needs to bubble." His fingers tightened around the pencil as he focused, coaxing that faint hum of energy through his veins. 

It prickled, unsteadily, like a muscle waking up after too long asleep. He slapped his palm onto the page, and the air twitched with a brief shimmer, a soft pop and— 

There it was.

A glass bottle materialized on the counter, cold to the touch, its surface beaded with condensation. The liquid inside churned with lazy bubbles, murky and brownish, the label a smudged blur. 

Arwyn picked it up, turning it in his hand. "Not bad," he said, popping the cork. A sharp hiss escaped, carrying a scent that was sweet but off, like overripe fruit mixed with a whiff of something metallic.

He took a cautious sip and winced. Too sugary, with a bite that stung his throat like tiny needles. "Okay," he admitted, wiping his mouth, "it's rough. Energy's still low. But it's soda. Mostly."

Flavin stared at the bottle, then at Arwyn, his skepticism warring with a flicker of amusement. "Mostly? Tastes like you drew it wrong."

"Still beats your whiskey," Arwyn said, smirking. He corked the bottle and tucked it under his arm, the glass clinking against his jacket. "Emman won't know the difference. Old grump's probably never had anything fancier than ditch water."

Flavin shook his head, pushing off the counter. "You're a lunatic, you know that? You could've done that five minutes ago and spared me the headache."

"Where's the fun in that?" Arwyn replied, heading for the door. "Besides, now I've got a story to sell him. Time to charm the bastard."

"Good luck," Flavin called after him, voice dripping with doubt. "You'll need it."

Arwyn just grinned wider, the bottle's faint fizz hissing like a promise. Time to meet the grump.

—

Emman's place was a narrow, leaning building wedged against the tavern, its shutters crooked and its door chipped with age. 

"Still think this is a fool's errand?" Arwyn asked, glancing over his shoulder.

Flavin snorted. "Think? I know. Emman'd sooner wrestle a bear than let you near his precious roof."

"We'll see." Arwyn adjusted the bottle, its faint hiss a reminder of the makeshift fizz inside. Vinegar, baking soda, a bit of mashed apple, and honey. Not exactly a tavern keeper's dream, but it was strange enough to catch attention. Well, he hoped.

They reached the door, a scarred slab of wood that looked like it had taken a few kicks in its day. Arwyn rapped his knuckles against it, the sound dull and tired. Silence stretched, broken only by the creak of Flavin shifting his weight. Then, a shuffle from inside, a muttered curse, and the door swung open.

Emman stood there, a wiry scarecrow of a man with gray hair sticking out in every direction. His eyes, small and sharp, sized them up like they were peddlers selling spoiled fish. "What?" he growled, voice rough as a rusted hinge. "And who… are you?"

"Arwyn. Nice to meet you–"

Bang!

The door slammed shut, locked. All Flavin could do was just laugh. "Told you he's a grumpy bastard."

Arwyn sighed deeply. He tried knocking again, but to no avail. "Are you kidding me?" He knocked once more. Louder, more desperate for an answer. It'd been minutes as they stood there, knocking on Emman's door.

Then finally, that grumpy bastard opened the door once again. "What now!? You've been knocking at my door for minutes now!"

This was his chance to convince him. Arwyn flashed a grin, holding up the bottle. "Brought you something special, Emman. Soda. Ever heard of it?"

Emman's scowl deepened, which Arwyn hadn't thought possible. "Soda? Sounds like a disease. What's it do?"

"It's a drink," Arwyn said, leaning in just a bit. "Bubbly, sweet, a little wild. Comes from way out past the fog. Thought a man of your refined tastes might appreciate it."

Emman squinted at the bottle, then at Arwyn. "Refined tastes? You think I'm some fancy lord sipping wine in a tower? I drink ale, boy. Good, honest ale."

"Sure, ale's fine," Arwyn replied, unfazed. "But this? This is different. Attacks your mouth with every sip. Go on, try it."

Emman snatched the bottle, his bony fingers wrapping around it like he meant to strangle it. He popped the cork, and a faint hiss escaped, the sound barely audible over his skeptical grunt. He sniffed it first, nose wrinkling. "Smells like… vinegar."

"That's the charm," Arwyn said, crossing his arms. "Exotic, right?"

Emman took a sip, a cautious one, and his face twisted into a grimace that could've curdled milk. He coughed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and glared at Arwyn. "Ugh… Tastes like it too. Are you trying to poison me?"

Flavin chuckled, a low rumble from behind. "I told you, kid. He's not biting."

Arwyn ignored him, keeping his eyes on Emman. "Poison? Nah. That's the fizz. It's supposed to tingle. Give it another go, let it settle."

Emman's glare didn't waver, but he took a second sip, slower this time. The grimace softened, just a hair, and he swished the liquid around his mouth like he was testing it for traps. "Huh. It does kind of… bite back. Weird."

"See?" Arwyn pounced on the opening. "One of a kind. Now, since I've broadened your horizons, how about a small favor? I need your roof for an hour tomorrow. Quiet spot, great view."

Emman's eyes narrowed to slits. "My roof? What for?"

"Just need to see the square," Arwyn said, keeping it vague. "Won't make a peep. You'll hardly know I'm there."

Emman set the bottle down on a wobbly table inside, folding his arms. "Hardly know you're there? You're standing here with that grin, and you smell like trouble. What's in the square?"

Arwyn shrugged, casual as he could manage. "Oh, you know. People. Noise. The usual."

"The usual don't need my roof," Emman snapped. "You're up to something, and I ain't having it. Last thing I need is guards pounding my door 'cause you stirred up a mess."

Flavin leaned against the wall, smirking wider. "He's got you there, Arwyn. You do have a knack for messes."

"Thanks for the support," Arwyn muttered, shooting him a look. He turned back to Emman, dialing up the charm. "Look, no guards, no mess. I just need a perch. One hour at noon, then I'm gone. I'll even throw in more soda."

Emman barked a laugh, short and harsh. "More of this… swill? Did you really think I'm that easy? I'd rather drink rainwater from the gutter."

"It's not swill," Arwyn said, feigning offense. "It's an experience. And I can tweak it. Add more honey, less vinegar. Whatever you want."

Emman picked up the bottle again, eyeing it like it might sprout legs and run off. "Experience, huh? Tastes like a dare I'd lose." He took another sip, though, and this time he didn't cough. "Still don't see why I should let you up there. You're slippery, boy. I don't trust slippery."

Arwyn spread his hands, all innocence. "Slippery? Me? I'm an open book. Just a guy with a drink and a simple request."

"Simple, my ass," Emman grumbled. "You've got the word 'schemer' written all over you. What's really going on in the square?"

Arwyn hesitated, then leaned in, lowering his voice. "Alright, fine. There's a bit of a show. I need to watch it. That's all."

"A show?" Emman's brows shot up. "What kind? Jugglers? Thieves? Something I'd regret?"

"Could be any of those," Arwyn said with a wink. "But I'll keep it off your doorstep. Promise."

Emman snorted again, louder this time. "Your promises are as good as this fizz. Damn gone in a puff. Give me one good reason I don't toss you out right now."

Flavin pushed off the wall, stepping closer. "How about this, Emman? He's a pain, sure, but he's not lying about keeping it quiet. I'll vouch for him. One hour at noon, no trouble, or I'll drag him off your roof myself."

Emman's gaze flicked to Flavin, suspicion etched deep. "You? Vouching? Since when are you his keeper?"

"Since I got bored," Flavin said, deadpan. "Let him have his hour. Worst case, you get a story out of it. Tell it to your other drink connoisseur friends and let them have a taste of that soda."

Emman rubbed his jaw, muttering under his breath. He took another sip of the soda, swishing it around like he was interrogating it. "Story, huh? Might be worth it just to see this fool trip over himself." He pointed a gnarled finger at Arwyn. "One hour. No noise, no guards, no nonsense. And you owe me something better than this… mouth-attacker."

Arwyn's grin widened, real this time. "Deal. I'll whip up something spectacular. You won't regret it."

"I already regret it," Emman growled, but he stepped aside, jerking his head toward the stairs. "Roof's that way. Don't test me, boy."

Arwyn clapped Flavin on the shoulder as they headed back out. "See? Told you I'd win him over."

"Barely," Flavin said, shaking his head. "You're lucky he didn't chuck that bottle at you."

But Arwyn was already plotting. He had the roof, but here came the hard part.