A wave of cheering and music hit him as soon as he entered the hall.

A flame was burning in the large rectangular fireplace in the center of the hall, on its left and right were tables and chairs, and beyond the fireplace was the Chair or rather the throne of the Chief.

The lute was playing, and the flute accompanied it as they were made for each other, with the slight thumping of drums in the background.

It seemed the Chief had hired bards for the night.

The tempo was picking up.

The men sitting on the tables were busy enjoying themselves, some were busy raising their mugs to each other, some were discussing their day, some were having arm wrestling competitions, some were playing the board game Reversi, and some were busy insulting each other’s wives under the influence of alcohol.

A somewhat chubby looking man was standing right next to the throne with a wine glass in his hands, he seemed to be narrating some sort of tale, accompanied by hiccups and pauses.

It was a miracle how people were still paying attention to his story among all this ruckus.

“..And there I was all alone.. in the barricaded city of Galway, the Raevynd sentries had us all surrounded, only a bridge remained between us and them”, he took a sip, emptying the glass in the process. “Bring me another one, ...so where was I? Yeah.. the battle of Galway. So there we were, me and my elder brother, May his soul rest in peace”.

“But Master, your elder brother’s still alive!” cried a man in the audience.

“Right! That he is! Well... bless his soul either ways”, he half-heartedly replied. “So where the fuck I was again? Ah yes, we were surrounded.. reinforcements were nowhere in sight, since it was a surprise attack, the battle was already over, but one cowardly Raevynd unit returned. There were only women, children and the elderly in the city, and their only the only line of defense were me and my brother”.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

He was the most terrible storyteller Azlan had ever seen, still the same as ever.

“We were done for, that day I could see me self my own death”, he gazed at the ground reminiscing. “And then comes this one guy, holding a damn big Claymore on his shoulder, he tells us to stand back and guard the gate. He himself goes to the bridge all by his lonesome. And He engages the twenty-five men unit all by himself”.

The man turned towards his audience.

“Whaddya think he was trying to do?” he asked.

“It was just some kind of diversionary tactic right?”

“Or maybe he was buying time by stalling the enemy and waiting for reinforcements”

“Maybe the guy was crazy and sacrificing himself”

Various people gave their opinions.

“Oh he was batshit crazy alright, but no. He wasn’t using himself for diversion, stalling nor was he sacrificing himself. He fought all twenty-five of them, in the end his arm was broken, his leg was fractured due to a crossbow bolt, and he had an arrow sticking out of his back. But the madman managed to kill nineteen soldiers, he defended the small city all by himself, striking fear in the heart of his enemies!”

“What ‘appened to the rest of the soldiers?” asked one man.

“They deserted”, the chubby man replied, grabbing the whole bottle of wine.

“Who was this man?” one voice came from the audience.

“It was a fuckin’ story you lout! There’s no way one man can kill nineteen people all by himself”, another voice came from the audience, followed by a burst of laughter.

“Oh no, the man is very real, very much so. You wanna know the name?” the man near the throne asked as his gaze fell onto the entrance. “...That won’t be necessary after all”.

His awaited guest was standing near the entrance, leaning his back on the wall, arms crossed.

“There he is, the man himself, and tonight’s esteemed guest...” he paused dramatically, prompting the audience to follow his line of sight towards the entrance.

“Gentlemen, I present to you... Azlan Beowulf”.

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