Streissen was used to all manner of travelers, especially the kind that told bizarre stories. The taproom of the Rising Gale was choked with patrons, many of which were gathered around a comically small wooden table. There sat a slight, wiry figure, with teary eyes and a reddened nose, four empty wine bottles in front of him, while a fifth spread its contents haphazardly into a swaying goblet.
“So…as I was sayin’...” slurred the drunken weasel, spilling much of his carefully poured libation, “that’s how we did it. Saved the town, the girl, killed the Daemon we did…”
Some groans and some protestations were audible. Henno Schimmel, once Roadwarden, now compatriot, Witch Hunter assistant, chronicler and enjoyer of cheap wines and cheaper women, was used to disbelief. He allowed himself a chuckle before once more grasping the goblet with some effort. He was quite befuddled when he found that the goblet suddenly lay on the floor, his lap soaked in the fermented grape-juice. Above him towered someone with the broad, misshapen shoulders of a porter, who looked just about ready to skin the Wissenlander right where he sat.
“Oh you best not be doin’ what I think ye’s done…” Schimmel began, forcing himself to attempt the risky manoeuvre of standing up. The porter’s large, meaty paws on his shoulders were as heavy as lead, convincing him of the folly of such an action.
“I fink yer’ a lyin’, thievin’ brigand, Sheepshagger. I never ‘eard ‘bout dis “Bolstedt” yer talkin’ about, and I’m just about done listenin’ to yer drivel!”
Something about this whole situation seemed inherently strange to Schimmel, the kind of feeling one has when one is about to wake up with a screaming headache and curse one’s tied tongue, but the cloying wine had somewhat obscured his judgement.
“I tell you it’s true big lug…you better…” this he enforced with a loud belch, “you better believe it!”
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The room erupted into violent uproar as the porter made to introduce the drunkard’s head to the heavy oak of the stained table, to the protestations of a pained Schimmel.
The commotion occupied people’s minds, the banging of a bleary head covering the slamming of the door, as a finely garbed man of weathered, yet aristocratic bearing entered the Rising Gale.
Hawkish eyes, pierced the porter’s broad back from the shade of a cocked hat, gloved hands tightened around the grip of a rapier as the intruder descended the short flight of stairs, into the taproom proper.
“Unhand my aide, man.” The speaker’s diction was measured and entirely out of place in the scummy inn, and maybe that was just what made the broad-faced worker actually hesitate before turning about, with a raised wine bottle in hand, ready to share a piece of his mind with the stranger.
He never made it. Before he could bring his crude cudgel down, a length of silvery steel gleamed in the gloom, its pointed tip resting at his throat.
“Get out, and I may just forget what happened here.” The stranger’s eyes were sharp, eerily cold, wearied by unmentionable sights.
Adebar von Bolstedt, scion of a long line of Reikland nobles, now witch hunter by choice and the hand of fate, stepped into the light, forcing the worker back with his blade. The candlelight cast a grim aspect over the raptor-features of the intruder, accentuating an unsightly mess of burn-scars around the nobleman’s left eye.
The porter complied. His leaving took with it a spell of anticipating quiet that had fallen over the Rising Gale.
“Was I not clear when I forbade you tell these outrageous stories, Schimmel?”
The roadwarden smiled coyly. “Y’know’s I can’t help myself, Herr, just boggles the mind what we’ve seen so far, oh yes it does.” The drunkard gestured toward his last remaining bottle, though Adebar couldn’t be sure what the flailing motion was supposed to convey.
“Should be proud of all you've done yer Highness!”
Schimmel smiled when he saw his master turn away. Herr von Bolstedt was entirely too humble.