The smell of fish was familiar to Fredrick. Whether it was the subtle stench of salmon, the putrid perfume of perch, or the rotten reek of roach, he had at one time or another drenched himself in the odor of practically every fish in the sea. Their bloody guts, their oils, their slimy mucus, and even less savory fluids had sunk into his skin over a period of more than a decade during his childhood and adolescence, and now, at thirty, he feared that the stink would somehow never wash off. Thus it was that as Fredrick walked down Aborlineâ€™s main street he wrinkled his nose disdainfully and then, trying to be subtle, he leaned over and sniffed at his own armpit to make sure the smell wasnâ€™t coming from him.<br/><br/>â€œDamnable fish,â€ he muttered. He made a mental note not to spend any longer than necessary in the customs house, which fronted the market square. He was in Aborline on business, which was generally his excuse for being anywhere at all, even if business was the last thing on his mind. As it was, Fredrick had been to Aborline so many times that his feet already knew where to go, freeing up his mind to think about other things. One of those things was his family.  The last time he had spoken to them in person was at Blackrock in Tyrinia, where his son Jared was attempting unsuccessfully to oversee shipments of granite to Windark in trade for Actian lumber. Though it was dwarven stone, not many dwarves enjoyed leaving their homeland to trade if they could help it, which is where the Hamel Shipping Company stepped in. Fredrick had given Jared the task of overseeing customer relations with the dwarves, hoping perhaps that by some obscure cultural osmosis, Jared would learn the habits of patience, shrewdness, and hard work. Unfortunately, Jared was of the opinion that the dwarves had more to learn from him than he had from them.<br/><br/>â€œBarbarians, Father,â€ he had remarked as Fredrick was giving him a tour of the mines, completely within earshot of every dwarven miner in the vicinity. â€œTheyâ€™re nothing but grumpy little barbarians.â€ Fredrick had smiled apologetically at the nearest group of dwarves, who were now decidedly grumpy, and then smacked his son in the back of the head. â€œOw! Whatâ€™d you do that for?â€ Jared whined.<br/><br/>â€œMind your manners!â€ Fredrick hissed. â€œIâ€™m giving you a chance, here. Donâ€™t mess it up! Iâ€™ve already worn the boardâ€™s patience thin making excuses for you, so if you disappoint me again Iâ€™ll cut you off!â€ Jared laughed at this, much too loudly.<br/><br/>â€œOh, Father. Youâ€™re so serious all the time; I think perhaps youâ€™ve spent too much time here in Tyrinia. You know I donâ€™t need this job, or want it. Itâ€™s boring. Iâ€™d rather go fight the dragons,â€ he said wistfully, imagining himself with shield and spear in hand, standing atop a pile of twenty dead wyrms while beautiful wenches looked on in awe.<br/><br/>Jaredâ€™s daydream was interrupted by a violent forward jerk of his head, occasioned by his fatherâ€™s hand to the back of his skull. â€œYouâ€™re too fat and lazy to be a soldier, you sorry whelp! You and your brother, both! I swear your mother must have gotten too friendly with a walrus once, for me to have such a worthless blob of whiskered flesh for a son!â€<br/><br/>Though Fredrick regretted his harsh words now, he knew that there was a grain of truth to them. Jared would most likely pay someone else to do his job out of his inheritance, and then leave without permission to visit the whorehouses of Silvermoor, or some such. It was just as well. He shuddered to think what might happen to his lucrative stone-shipping contract if Jared stayed long enough to make a disparaging remark about a customerâ€™s beard.<br/><br/>Frederick was jolted out of his depressing reverie by a voice nearby.<br/><br/>"<span style="font-weight: bold">Really?! BC....really?! You stop, to let that elven MUTT cross the road before us! I spilled the last of my weed because of it! I mean honestly you should have trampled her ass not like anyone would have cared!â€ she snapped loudly as she went on to rant in dwarven. Loosely translated into, â€œFucking waste of space and air, the elves were! Isn't there a tree or something she should be hugging or kissing?! And since when were they tainting the human pool with their blood?â€</span><br/><br/>He turned to see where it was coming from, and noticed what appeared to be a woman riding a giant black ox and cursing loudly at an elf that stood in her path. Half of her angry diatribe was in gutter dwarvish, which Fredrick was familiar enough with to know that she was not shouting pleasantries about the weather. The elf herself looked nonplussed, having merely been at the wrong place at the wrong time. Normally, quarrels between strangers barely registered in Fredrick's attention, but something about a woman who rode a giant beast of burden and could curse in two languages stirred strange feelings in his breast. He thought of his wife, Esmerelda, once a pretty fisherman's daughter, but now so domesticated as to refuse to ride anywhere but in a palanquin. It's true that he loved her, but his wealth had changed her so; or perhaps, he thought darkly, she was just waiting to show her true colors.<br/><br/>In any case, it was common enough for reputable men like himself to step in as a mediator in street quarrels to save the guards the trouble, and, ever conscious of his image and reputation, Fredrick did just that.<br/><br/>"Excuse me, my lady," he said, approaching the angry bull-rider. "But I'm sure this woman didn't mean to step in your way." He smiled genially at her and bowed to both her and the elf. "Perhaps we can all forget anything that was said in anger and travel together to an inn...you both look as if you're at the end of a long journey, and I know the innkeeper around these parts." Fredrick hoped he was making a good impression, and didn't smell like fish.