[WP] You're a successful inn owner who houses mercenaries and helps them find work. Rumor is you were once a very talented adventurer before you settled down, but no one can figure out how exactly you made your fortune. Until one day a legendary warrior pays you a visit...
...
The Tavern sat of wood, brick and mortar, as it always did beside the town's center. Across the way of cobbled stone streets, the more pristine Guild Hall stood proudly above, casting shadows in such direction with fresh layers of paint coating the firm stone and masonry in bright colors that might catch anyone's eye. Truly, it was building of likeness that seemed to have no place among the muddy alleys of filth and rubbish around its foundation, but the quiet Tavern of 'Oar and Swindler possessed no such qualms.
From the window's view, a large man polished the glasses with a wet rag, calmly dolling out the duties before evening came. As almost all business in the town, the Tavern held its place by the crumbs of larger offerings broken: slivers of copper and bronze coming together in place of the immediacy from more weighted coin. There had been a very successful hunt late the night before, and the Adventurer's Guild had passed more than several gold-pieces among those involved.
If the man was keen to remember anything of Adventuring, he knew a portion of those might come his way; be it renting the rooms, the stables, or the drink.
Distantly, a church tower rang out the sorrowful tune of setting, and he knew many of the faithful would soon be wandering towards for their nightly prayers. A modest number of the population was devote here, but no means of comparison could let the northern frontier town stand beside the greater cities of Doterra.
This was a place for those seeking a different sort of life than the bustle of packed streets and watching lords. What happened in the wild territories was more crude, more violent, more ruthless: But also more free. For those not inclined to the Faith, there was acceptance still found along the Northern west of the territories not respected elsewhere; a quiet overlooking Bruce greatly appreciated.
A creaking of wood brought his attention back above the bar, as thick doors settled shut. A stool soon groaned, followed by a solitary hand lifted over that polished finish, scuffs and dents roughly sanded out of the splinters they'd approached on several occasions.
"Regular again, Congrad?" The Tavern Keeper reached beneath the bar, lifting a yet unopened bottle of dwarven crest sealed to the wax on its cork. "Or are you finally going to try something new?"
"You already know the answer, Bruce." A stern smile flashed white teeth, pale glow even in the glow of mana orbs above their heads. Several flickered as the cork was drawn, a glass found itself poured quietly. It wasn't until the man had taken the piece in hand and tipped it back empty, that he spoke once more. "I think I'd like the bottle too."
The Tavern Keeper obliged in silence, heavy hand pushing it along the smooth surface of the bar. "That bad then... With all the recent success, I'd think you might be a happier man." He watched as the glass found itself filled once more, much higher this time. "Gold flows from the Royal purse aplenty towards you."
"The men in my family have never been much for happiness." The glass tipped back, landing empty upon the bar yet again. "Only results." The stern smile faltered, slipping into a harder thing, intangible of whatever emotion sat behind it. "I'd imagine that you... You of all people would know such things."
"Aye." Bruce replied, ragged cloth once again cleaning the glasses of finer ware behind the counter. "That I do."
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A silence fell across the bar. It was still too earlier for many to come for their normal perches at the mended tables and rickety chairs, but the sun would be falling below the horizon of the wall soon enough; as it always did. Stretching on long enough, the man at the bar raised his voice to speak at last.
"He spoke of you highly, you know. My father didn't do that for many."
"Did he now?" Another glass was set upon the lower shelves with a dull sheen, replaced by the next in line. "I never knew."
"Strange how little we know some of those closest to us, isn't it?"
"Aye..." The rag found itself replaced by another still smelling softly of soaps, not yet truly dirtied by stains or staled brew.
"My Father said you were the most fearsome man to ever pick up a sword, but all that paled to what you had with the bow." The dwarven liquor sloshed quietly as the bottle tipped back, empty glass now forgotten in front of him. "He told me you drew with an air of Faith about you, like the gods themselves flew instead of shafts."
The scrap of fabric stopped mid-polish, scarred hands slowly setting it down with care upon the bar, bearded face considering the words. "I'd say you've heard some interesting' things, Congrad. Interesting enough to make a man wonder if it was really your father who' said them."
"They are interesting, aren't they?" Leaning back, the stool creaked quietly under strain, bottle left now a quarter empty. "The ledgers are kept back a deep ways, since his passing I rummage through them from time to time. I like to see what I can see, learn from his mistakes."
"Ledgers?"
"Yes, of course."
"Ledgers be damned: Cut to the marrow of it all." Bruce growled the words, large arms resting tensely against the bar. "What is it you're wanting this day, Jarl Congrad? With magics like yours, asking at all seems foolishness."
The man across the polished surface smiled, mask of pleasant features already reassembled from whatever lapse had passed it by. A leather gloved hand of ordinate gilding, flourish of a master's touch, reached to pour the glass- pushing it forward slowly in the Tavern Keeper's direction.
"I don't wish for it." Bruce spoke quietly. "Not now."
"You might."
The Tavern Keeper stared at the smaller man, eyes watching for the pale illusive glow that shuddered along the spheres over their heads, ripples of energy like waves on the surface of a pond.
"It's a simple question to me Bruce of the Iron fang, but to you... It might not be."
"Out with it Jarl. I am not your lackey or your slave. To your father I paid my due, but I have no debts to the likes of you." His tone was harsh, muscles and tendons bulging as they gripped the wood, anger sparking in his eyes. "Speak and be done."
The glass remained where it sat, reflection in the liquid staring back up at the beams of wood and roof over their heads. Accepting, the smaller man nodded- as if expecting and content with the result of the Keeper's outburst.
"The Elf with that new Mage of mine. You recognized who she was the moment your eyes passed them by, didn't you?" Jarl's smile was like a sculpture of ice as he watched the Tavern Keeper's anger slip towards unease. Delicately, his voice slid along the words. "You recognized her that first night they arrived. I saw that expression- so alien to the likes of you..."
The whisper of mana flickered as the glass before them pushed forward, untouched. "I saw Fear, Bruce." Jarl smiled, glowing wisps of magic settling from his breath.
The Tavern Keeper stared back, stone faced as a man watching death itself, all manner of duties, rags and polishing now forgotten in their entirety as the smaller man continued.
"The Great Warrior of the Iron fang to be showing fear: I wondered at that a great deal. Wondered if perhaps my own eyes did deceive me that night, for it was the Mage that truly caught my interest. Maybe it had been the Mage, and not the Elf- but as I dug deeply for an answer, I read the ledgers. I perused the tiny snippets of history and shorthand notes, piecing together a quiet little puzzle... The scribes do answer to my call, you know."
The glass pushed to the edge, forcing itself into Bruce's waiting hand, clutched between heavy fingers of callus and grit.
"Now that particular Mage's debts are quickly slipping off to coppers and dust, and I sense the pair might soon try and leave our presence for more peaceful pastures." The smile wavered, ever so slightly. "But see, I still have questions unanswered: Questions with very import decisions weighing on their answers."
Slowly, the glass rose to the Tavern Keeper's lips. This time, not of magic, but of his own free will as he watched the man across from him stare deeply; painfully.
It came at last.
"Tell me Bruce, what was it like to come from the Western Lands?"