In the dimly lit tavern, the air was thick with the musk of sweat and the low hum of hushed conversations. Patrons huddled around rough-hewn wooden tables, sharing tales of daring escapades, hidden treasures, and arcane mysteries. In the midst of this, a mysterious hooded figure entered, his presence shrouded in an aura of mystery.
The tavern's atmosphere changed as this enigmatic stranger made his entrance. With each deliberate step, the patrons felt an uncanny chill ripple through the room. The hooded man appeared to be in his mid-thirties, his attire a patchwork of various fabrics and hues. His boots were caked in mud, as if he'd just arrived from some distant, foreboding wilderness.
He dropped a pouch of coin onto the worn looking table with a thud that resounded like a distant clap of thunder, causing the tavernkeep to cease his ongoing conversation and rush over to the latest patron.
"What're you havin'?" the tavernkeep inquired, a hint of curiosity in his eyes as he picked up a nearby mug and began cleaning it, his gaze keenly fixed on the mysterious newcomer.
The hooded man slowly raised his head, revealing a mask that concealed his features until he slid it down, unveiling a face that bore the signs of weariness and battle-hardened experience. His eyes, though tired, held an intensity that spoke of many stories untold.
"Roasted dragon, baked potatoes, a room, and what's your local rum?" the man ordered, his voice low and raspy.
"It would be the Rotten Knight from the Plerkin's distillery," the tavernkeep replied as he placed the mug down and proceeded to fill it from a nearby cask.
"Squeeze some lime, thanks." The hooded man let out a weary sigh as he reclined in his seat, finally able to release the tension that had gripped him on his journey.
"Must've been a hell of a trip from the looks of it," the tavernkeep remarked, his eyes scanning the patches on the traveler's cloak.
"More like two hells," The hooded man said as he grabbed the mug and, without hesitation, chugged down the contents, “Had to deal with a fucking Torospine.”
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
The bitter, fiery taste of the rum filled his senses, momentarily masking the memories of the perilous Torospine he had faced. The tavern's patrons exchanged intrigued glances, the presence of a man who had battled such a formidable creature raised many eyebrows.
"How'd you manage to kill a Torospine?" the tavernkeep stammered, his voice laced with disbelief. He had imagined the creature as an indomitable force of nature, an unrelenting nightmare with scales like obsidian and fangs that could pierce steel.
The hooded man, whose name was Rez Valdur, took another bite of his roasted dragon, savoring the charred flavor before responding. "Luck, mostly," he said with a wry smile. "Stupid son of a bitch thought one of my bombs was some kind of snack. Almost lost an arm in the process."
As he spoke, Rez tried not to relive the adrenaline-pumping encounter. The Torospine had been a monstrous and unrelenting adversary, a creature driven by primal instincts, but it had made a fateful mistake, mistaking Rez's explosive device for an easy meal.
The tavern patrons leaned in closer, their ears perked and their imaginations running wild. They wanted to hear more about the battle that had taken place, to glean wisdom or simply to enjoy the thrill of hearing about a brave warrior's harrowing escapades.
Rez, however, was modest in his storytelling. He knew that luck had played a significant role in his victory, and he underestimated the fearsome reputation of the Torospine. His research into the creature was cut short because he did not have enough coin to cover the Lucid Arcanium's fees, so he did not have much information to go on. The creature was able to shake off five bullets, twelve stab wounds, a broken bottle, and about thirteen desperate punches when it managed to latch onto Rez's calf.
He left that part of the story out.
After a long three days of travel, he just wanted to sleep on a mattress. He finished his meal and made his way to the second floor of the tavern to get to his room. He took off his equipment and placed them neatly on the seat next to his bed. Inside his backpack was a portable alchemy kit, which stored vials, bottles, reagents, and herbs as well as a formula book that he used for his research. He didn’t bother going through them; all he wanted to do was lay down and sleep his aches away.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, savoring the feeling of being in a safe place. He could hear the sounds of the tavern below him, but they were muffled and distant. He felt himself starting to relax, and soon he was drifting off to sleep.
He dreamed of a field of flowers. The sun was shining, and the birds were singing. He was walking through the field, and he felt a little bit of peace.