In the old quarter of Anteronia, some shops thrive on something other than the increased foot traffic of the main thoroughfares but instead cater to more discerning and discrete customers, whether this is because the owners pride themselves in the quality and exclusiveness of their work or if they want to keep their heads down and avoid the scrutinizing gaze of others, that is for each person to decide on their own. No matter what, one can find something they’re looking for if one’s willing to search with increased scrutiny and fewer scruples. 
—Guide to Anteronia


——


The old cobbler’s business on the corner in the Old Quarter shares many things with the pub next to it. One of those things is the old fiery-haired gnome who makes the place his place of business, catering to those weary travelers to soothe their broken spirits so they may forget their troubles and mend their broken boots so they may go and break their spirits all over again.
“Adventurin’ is a dangerous cycle, boys and gals,” the barkeep, Ole’ Shorty, always says. He’s the kind of businessman one often finds working on his own in the back, with a sour frown on his face whenever anyone wants to spill their sorrows to the bartender instead of drown them in his beer.
“Hey, Shorty,” a rather drunk old timer says to the cobbler, who had been content cleaning a mug instead of listening. “Whatever happened to that new girl of yours, and what’s her name…?”
“Shirley?” the gnome grunts. “I dunno where she’s run off ta, surely. Can’t keep people on board, even if I want ‘em.”
“It’s a curious thing, ” says the first drunk. “World’s changin’ fast with all the supernatural and the paranormal and whatsis and whosits showin’ up. Can’t keep it all straight no more. Glad Ole’ Shorty’s place is still just the same as ever. Shorty’ll never change!” He raises his mug, which brings a cheer from a few other crowd members.
The door opens, and a small figure, even shorter than Shorty, steps through the door. Her form is hardly hidden behind the tiny pleated skirt and the frilly sleeveless top. A cloche rests upon her head, pushing her big pointed ears down to the point of brushing against her rusty brown shoulders. When she smiles, it is with teeth as white as milk and with sharp as knives.
Shorty pays her no mind as she skips along the floor and hops onto a stool sized for the smaller folk. Shorty steps off the raised platform behind the bar and stands on the floor to speak to her. “What can I get ya, lass?”
“Lookin’ for somethin’ special that only the drunken cobbler can provide.”
Shorty pauses, placing his hands on the bar and leaning in, a growl in his voice. “Listen, lassie, I don’t know what kind of game yer playin’, but it’s been long since anyone’s called me that.”
She giggles, closes her eyes, and swings back and forth in her seat. Her boss said: “If you don’t wanna drink, you can help me with my heels.”
Shorty slaps the bar. I’ll be in the back if anyone needs me. Missie, you better not be playing me. Enter through the shop. I’ll unlock it for ya.”
The scant few moments that Shorty had to himself as he walked to his other establishment, past a display of already cobbled shoes and to the front of the building where the mysterious gal stands, bouncing on her toes, gives Shorty little time to figure out who she was and what she wants. But he lets her in when he opens the door, closing it behind him with haste and locking it.
“You aren’t the typical client I take, lass.”
She steps inside, her heels clicking on the floor. She picks up an old boot with intricate patterns stamped into it, turning it around in her hands. “Oh, I know.”
“Well, state  your business or be on your way.”
She places the boot down and flashes that smile at him again. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Robin, and I’m your new insurance agent.”
“Tis a shakedown, then?” Shorty says.
“Not quite,” she says, placing the boot back in place. “I’ve come to update you on our newest arrangement and to make sure you understand how things will work from now on. Buuuut,” she says, dragging that last bit out, “I’ve heard a few things about you I wanted to find out for myself.”
Shorty snorts. “Listen, lass, I’ve lived long enough to know that a hobgoblin like yourself isn’t going to be the kind to do anything overtly malicious or involve herself in organized crime. This has got to be some sort of trick of yers.”
Robin’s ears wiggle, and she shrugs. “Oh, Mistah Shorty,” she sings. I’m well-informed enough to know that a leprechaun doesn’t want too many people knowing what he actually is.”
Shorty narrows his gaze and snarls. “What do you want, girl?”
“Just some information,” she says, drawing her finger over one of the displays and examining the dust. She then licks it off of her digit and shutters. “About the war.”