Chapter 174 - 173: Trout Town

Chapter 174: Chapter 173: Trout Town

Trout Town sat beside a gentle bend in the Twilight River, bordering the vast Blackwater Swamp behind it.

As the only sizable settlement connecting the river channel to the edge of the swamp, Trout Town, though smaller than Rose Town, was every bit as busy, if not more so.

To cope with the year-round dampness and seasonal floods, most of the town’s buildings were constructed on wooden stilts.

Of course, merchants with deep pockets or adventurers intending to put down roots would spend the money for solid stone foundations.

Most houses were built with white oak shipped from the vicinity of Forest Port City. The wood was soaked and fumigated with a special oil, allowing it to effectively resist the rot and warping caused by the damp environment.

Due to its location on the edge of the swamp, the ground was soft, and the town’s roads were hopelessly muddy. Even when paved with gravel and wooden planks, it was impossible to completely escape the clinging muck.

Pedestrians’ boots were invariably caked in a thick layer of mud, making a SQUELCH SQUELCH sound with every step.

But this didn’t affect their hurried pace, as it was currently the busiest season for the local fishermen.

Fishing was the lifeblood of Trout Town.

On the docks, flat-bottomed cargo boats from up and down the river were busily loading and unloading goods.

Silver Scale trout, a specialty of the Twilight River, shimmered in their buckets. All kinds of aquatic products were piled high, and scattered beside them were rare herbs and Demon Materials brought back from adventures deep within the swamp.

Of course, the main attraction was the migratory red salmon that could only be caught this season. Their plump bodies were the most anticipated gift of this time of year.

This should have been the liveliest time of the year. The joy of the harvest was enough to attract travelers and adventurers from afar, filling every tavern with clamor—if it weren’t for those damn Frogmen causing endless trouble.

Unlike in Rose Town, which bordered the Gray Mist Forest, the adventurers in Trout Town always carried a dampness about them.

Their leather armor was stained with dried swamp mud, a faint fishy smell from the river clung to their weapons, and their conversations inevitably revolved around undercurrents, water monsters, and treasures hidden deep in the swamp.

After every adventure, the tavern in the center of town—the one with a sign depicting a pufferfish with a puffed-up belly—was undoubtedly their favorite haunt.

It was said that every type of catch from the docks could be found here, prepared in the most authentic ways. The signature dish, a white-sauce pufferfish stew, was nicknamed by the adventurers: they joked that the memory of its taste was enough to make a man take one last gasp before sinking completely into the swamp.

This witty remark, popular among the local adventurers, was what prompted the tavern, originally called "The Trout and Ale," to change to its current name—the Gasp River Pufferfish.

Besides the usual tavern smells of ale, sweat, and tobacco, a rich aroma of fried fish mingled with the peculiar scent of waterproofing grease, creating the place’s unique signature.

As a place the locals self-deprecatingly called "the sticks," its fashions were indeed different from other places.

The waitresses usually wore short outfits fashioned from durable oilcloth and waterproof leather. Their tight skirts had shockingly high slits up the side, which not only made it easier for them to walk on the muddy ground but also offered fleeting glimpses of their strong, powerful thighs with every step.

Newcomers couldn’t help but find their eyes glued to the undulating line of the waitresses’ full backsides as they walked.

Of course, if you couldn’t hold back and sidled up to one to test the waters, "Hey there, wildcat. Is that outfit designed to take every last Silver Scale I just earned? Because if it is..."

To this, you’d most likely get an eye-roll and a faceful of scorn: "Keep your damn eyes in your head, rookie! I dress like this so it’s easier to kick drunkards out the door, not to cater to your pathetic fantasies. And swallow your drool before you dirty the floor I just finished mopping!"

That said, there were always exceptions.

If you were easy on the eyes and showed you were generous enough, she might, while serving your drink, lean in as if by accident, her warm breath brushing against your ear:

"Hey. Give me a room number and get your reserves ready for me—the ones in your money bag... and the ones down there."

The tavern owner, Old Nick, a sturdy old man with graying hair but still well-defined muscles on his arms, stood behind the counter, wiping a glass with a cloth of indeterminate color.

It was mid-afternoon, not yet the tavern’s busiest time.

At a table near the bar, the local guide, Hom, was playing a card game called Swamp Turtle with two of his buddies.

Hom was a short, stout man wearing a well-worn suit of leather armor. A hat with a few faded feathers tucked into it rested by his hand.

He irritably slammed three cards down on the table. "Dammit, another pair of worthless loaches! I lose!"

While reluctantly pushing a few copper nails from the small pile of money in front of him, he spat on the floor. "Speaking of which, those old foxes at the merchant guild finally coughed up the big bucks. 150 Golden Shields! Tsk, tsk. Too bad those Frogmen travel in packs, or I’d go kill a couple for some cash myself."

His card-playing opponent across the table, a tall, thin man named Huck, skillfully swept the won copper nails toward himself and chimed in, "You’re telling me. The Giant Lizard Squad went in with five men last week, and only two came back, both covered in nasty sores. Word is they were ambushed. Those things are faster than fish in the muddy water!"

The third man drew a card and grunted without looking up. "If you ask me, this bounty shouldn’t have been posted just here in the first place. Is there any decent crew in Trout Town that hasn’t given it a shot? And what happened? They either came back with their tails between their legs or didn’t come back at all."

Hom picked up his new hand, glanced at it, and frowned. "Is it any surprise they didn’t come back? I have a feeling this uprising is connected to that big tribe in the center of the swamp. If they don’t bring in some real experts, with just the fish-catching losers in this town..."

"Hom, there you go running your mouth again," Huck interrupted, flicking a card onto the table. "If it had anything to do with that big tribe, the Frogmen would’ve torn this whole town apart by now. And you don’t actually think every outsider who shows up is some dragon-slaying hero, do you? I heard that squad of adventurers from Shiya Town carried a teammate back the same day they entered the swamp. He’s still groaning in his bed at the inn."

Hom tossed out a bad card, disbelief written all over his face. "No way. Those adventurers looked..."

"Ahem!"

Old Nick’s soft cough from behind the counter wasn’t loud, but it effectively cut off the conversation.

"If you don’t want me to stuff this glass-wiping rag in your mouths, find something else to talk about."

"Ale sales this month are down thirty percent from last year. If this mess doesn’t get sorted out, the trade caravans and adventurers might just bypass us come spring. And when that happens, you guides will be drinking stinking swamp water right alongside me!"