It was the night time, and the black darkness had covered the whole village.

The trees shafts, bony and bare, jangled with a harsh gust of wind, and, like a lonely lantern in the cloudless night, the moon cast spooky, tapering shadows that spanned the cobblestone avenues.

The houses squatted ghostly looking with their rows of roofs and empty windows that stared on to an outside world and remained cold.

The silence of the town was eerily cut by the occasional raging of wolves, and the skilled blacksmith tapping his last nails with the hammer.

the inn on the village square was the only source of comfort and warmth, even if its rickety wooden door still creaked whenever somebody opened it. 

There was the thick smell of ale, roasting meat, and the disgusting stench of sweat and desperation that hugged everybody's noses in the inn.

However, with a loud screech the door opened, and a cloaked figure of a man appeared in the badly lit tavern.

Black garment shrouded him completely, as he walked forward.

customers collectively froze, their irises widening with surprise and fear.

In the hushed murmurings of the tavern, a single phrase echoed again and again: "Look at the great length of his sword."

Other's jest barely above a whisper, "Why does his face has such scars?".

As the stranger slowly moved toward the barkeeper, the talk in the room came to a halt.

 he was greeted by the bartender who was a grumpy old man with a thick beard. His hawk eyes observed him suspiciously.

"What will it be?"

Said the stranger in an unpleasant voice: "'Beer'."

The barkeep hesitated and said, "We don't have beer, sir. ale only."

The stranger's face was distorted into a hideous smile. "That will suffice," he muttered, putting a weathered leather pouch on the counter.

The barman gently tipped the mug into a dark, frothy ale, the liquid cascading into the mug until it nearly reached the top.

The stranger, who was not old in years, appeared otherwise. It was like he was the one carrying all of Nirvira on his broad shoulders. There were scars on his skin, telling tales that remain untold.

Where one eye should have been there was only a hollow socket—a terrifying memory of fights that had occurred. 

The stranger lingered by the counter, with his eye never leaving the keeper.

 He was the only one standing while the rest of the guests were seated at the nearby table.

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"I am looking for a room for tonight."

"We don't have any left," the innkeeper grunted, eyeing a group near the windows. "Try somewhere else."

The stranger grumbled, "No, I prefer this place."

"Didn't I make it clear? There's no one of that sort here," the innkeeper finally noticed, his gaze landing on the distinct mark etched into the stranger's skin.

Could he be a Larian, perhaps?

"I'll pay."

The outsider's voice was barely above a whisper, uncertain.

The tense atmosphere in the tavern shifted as all eyes turned to the fat man, who had been gazing at the newcomer since his arrival.

His group had an unspoken understanding that things were about to get nasty.

He stood up with three of his friends and walked over to the counter. "Didn't you hear Larian? There's no place for trash like you here with us."

The heavyset man spoke with spittle flying from his mouth, while the other man with him chimed in as well.

"Salt Lake is a decent town, eh? Not for the likes of you."

Disregarding the others, the Larian seized his tankard and made a beeline for the group's table.

He plopped down and start drinking his ale, paying no mind to the surrounding others.

"Fortunately, our king has taken action against the northern people, those filthy Larians. The air is becoming cleaner for us, you hear me, you rat."

The stranger was stone-faced and unflinching.

His hand wrapped around the handle of the tankard, his fingers tightening with each word the heavyset man spewed.

Then the man with the large mustache interjected, remarking, "He can't hear you calling. His ears are filled with cow dung."

This caused the other men to burst into laughter.

The fat man then interrupted, saying, "You know what? Why don't you leave now, and we'll be generous enough to let you walk away with two legs?" as he approached the stranger with his friends.

"I'll finish my drink, then I'm out of here," the stranger responded, his voice still hushed.

"No way you're staying here for another second." the overweight man snatched the tankard from his hand and chucked it out of the tavern.

"If you're lucky, you might lick it off the ground before it absorbs all the filth."

He then brandished his sword at the stranger. "You got a problem with that?"

The stranger slowly raised his gaze to meet the fat man's, his expression inscrutable. He didn't move, nor did he reach for the sword at his side.

Instead, he simply said, "Do you have kids?"

The fat man furrowed his brow, taken aback by the question. "What does that have to do with anything?"

The stranger's voice remained low and steady. "Just answer the question."

"Yeah, I do," the fat man replied, still brandishing his sword. "Why?"

The stranger's gaze never wavered. "If you want to live long enough to see them again, I suggest you put down that sword and leave me be."

The tension in the tavern was palpable as the other patrons held their breaths, waiting for the fat man's response.

The heavy man sneered and tightened his grip on his sword's hilt. He then grabbed the Larian by the shoulder, digging his nails into the black cloak.

Suddenly, the Larian twisted his arm swiftly, breaking free from the heavier man's grasp.

He grabbed the fat man's wrist with one hand and hurled him onto the counter with a force that belied his thin frame. The counter suffered under the weight of the fat man, who lay dazed and winded.

The other men stared in shock, their faces pale. The stranger didn't move from his spot. He simply looked at them.

One man, taking a step backward, muttered something about getting the guards. The stranger cocked his head to the side.

"Go ahead," he said. "Ask them to come here."

The man's eyes widened in fear, and he whiffed his head.

No one moved.

The stranger sighed and shrugged his shoulders as if releasing tension.

Without another word, he walked past the stunned group of men and out of the tavern, leaving behind an almost deafening silence.

Outside, he made his way to the cornfield and took out a cigarette, gazing up at the sky as he lit it.

The stranger inhaled deeply, letting the tobacco calm his nerves. He took one last drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out under his shoe and proceeding through the field.

"I smell something metallic, almost like blood... but there's also a hint of wine."