He had been running for a long time in these unknown plains. His dirty, tangled, rain-soaked hair bounced against his sturdy shoulders. His hardened thighs and calves, whipped by the long grass, were beginning to show signs of weakness but he preferred to ignore them. Pain was for the weak or the children!

The runner was now staring at the roofs that loomed behind a grove. The village was a shelter for drying, but there was also meat and beer. He turned slightly toward his new destination.

For several days he had been moving in a random direction, more or less guided by the wind. He had crossed a portion of wilderness, alone and armed with a simple sword borrowed from his uncle Hok-Dan. He had to defend his life against a pack of coyotes, and thanks to his fighting skills, he only got a bite on his calf. Then he had slept in an abandoned camp, wrapped in a torn blanket that smelled like goat.

His journey had led him to follow the river Krouk, for the elders of the Dugal clan often said that it guided warriors to the great human cities. He had not been disappointed on this point, but the height of the walls of Glarg had discouraged him. So he followed the Big River, which he finally crossed in a large "floating cart", near a village whose name he had forgotten. In this village, he was surprised when two people offered him gold coins and a shiny metal bracelet, after they started crying, even though he had not asked for anything and he himself only wanted to know the address of the tavern. Three not too confident militiamen had urged him to leave the village and go west, far away if possible.

Then, the warrior had let himself be guided by his instinct through a vast expanse of grass, then on the slopes of a series of hills worn by the weather. His last bivouac had allowed him to sleep in the cave of a long-dead bear and it was there that he had finished his supplies of dried meat. Now he really had to eat.

As he approached the village, he had a passing thought and remembered his reason for running west. Cousin Wanell was a bit picky when it came to choosing a man. She was still single, but that wasn't going to last because the Dugal clan didn't have many beautiful young women. Perhaps it was because of the unions celebrated through the centuries between the members of a small community of nomads, but like many things, the concept of genetics was far from worrying the people of the Wildlands. Wanell had told the young warrior that he wasn't strong enough to be granted his favor, but that he was still "kind of her type". Not that he was slender, but the standard of muscularity was quite high among the clan. He could have tried to convince her in a brutal way, but the woman had the reputation of being very accurate in the discipline of kicking the manly organs. Her neighbor Yogar, who was sometimes too forward, had taken three weeks to recover and was still walking with difficulty.

So the frustrated Barbarian decided it was time for him to seek adventure. He would soon be strong and brave, and could display the trophies from the carcasses of monsters slain by the sweat of his biceps. He planned to return to try his luck with Wanell with treasures, a fine horned helmet and a legendary sword.

All these thoughts eventually led the warrior to the entrance of the village. The sign with the name of the village could have informed him more precisely, but he couldn't read. Reading was for others, not for warriors.

Two children playing in the puddles scurried away as he approached. A little further on, an old woman sweeping up dead leaves began to tremble and hurried back to her cottage.

He was still on the outskirts of the village when he came face to face with a man carrying a crate of carrots at the corner of a hovel. The man hiccupped in surprise and dropped his vegetables.

- Hey! said the Barbarian. I'm thirsty and hungry!

The peasant felt his legs give way under him and he was soon on his knees. The savage warriors from the plains were invading the village! Quick, he had to save his skin! With trembling hands, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a cloth purse containing a few coins. He handed it to the vindictive traveler, but he ignored him.

- So? insisted the brute. Which way to the tavern?

- He... he... here, that's all I have! Don't hurt me!

- Huh?

- Please! Do you want carrots too?

- The tavern!

- The tata... tavern... It's straight ahead! To the left!

The Barbarian sniffed and finally grabbed the cloth purse. If he was offered stuff, he wasn't going to refuse. He frowned:

- Where's left?

- It's... uh... the side of that arm.

- All right! Bye!

Is it that easy to acquire wealth? The customs of these peasants were very strange. He slipped the coins into his leather purse, where they added to the money he had already collected during his trip to another town whose name he had not been able to know.

Usually, to get gold from the humans, you had to take out your sword, hit people, they would get scared and then you would get the loot. This is what the warriors of the clan used to say.

The houses were getting closer and it smelled less like pig litter, but there was still no tavern. He came to the conclusion that it was probably necessary to read directions to get there, and so it wasn't going to be easy. He came across a couple a little further on, and approached them with a determined step in order to obtain new information. The woman hid behind her husband and shouted, the man looked for a way to escape, but he realized that he had no chance to outrun such a warrior.

- I surrender! Take my gold!

- Huh?

The Barbarian's frustrated face, intensely pondering this curious new custom, was probably mistaken for a grin of hatred. Terrified, the man opened his purse and showed him that it contained coins, then threw it to him. The traveler caught it in mid-air.

- Honey, give your necklace!

- But, Gerard... It's the necklace from...

- Don't argue! Give your necklace, damn it!

The woman unclasped her pearl necklace, crying, and her husband handed it to the hairy brigand, stammering:

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

- Here's an offering in exchange for our lives! So you let us go?

- What?

- You... You want my wife too, right?

She looked terrified and clung to the arm of her husband. The Barbarian hesitated:

- Well... No. Where's the tavern?

The villager hesitated for a few seconds. Was this savage going to ransack the whole village like this? And where were those damn guards? Well, anyway, he had to try to save his skin, and besides, it was quite possible that the militiamen were themselves at the pub, which would allow them to intercept the brute. He gave out the information:

- The tavern! Yes, yes! You go on straight, on the left after the market.

- The left is this arm?

- Yes, that's right!

The man and his wife hurried away along a side street, checking that the warrior wasn't chasing them.

The Barbarian looked down and examined the purse and necklace that now belonged to him. There were many coins in the purse. He found it strange that no animal bones, claws or teeth were used to adorn the jewel. Necklaces were made to show that one had killed beasts, or monsters. His, for example, was adorned with several teeth of a young plains bear, a ferocious animal he had killed with his bare hands when he was younger, with the help of a stone. But what were the beads for? Could one brag about killing oysters?

Then his stomach growled, reminding him of more urgent considerations. Destination: the tavern.

----

Three peasants playing dice, two guards off duty, a tired merchant, a trio of over-aged regulars, a sickly dog, and an overweight couple. Most of these people probably only knew how to use a hoe. Gotran observed them in turn and sipped some of his mulled wine. They did their best not to meet his eyes.

He wasn't satisfied.

The wizard needed to find his crew quickly, as the next lunar window was approaching and it would soon be time to gather the last of the ingredients. He already had eleven of these statuettes, collected over the years with patience. He was so close to his goal... so close to achieving supreme power!

But these country inns were worthless, despite all the good things people said about them. He had wanted to save time and get closer to the dungeon, but it might have been more efficient for him to go back to recruit in Glarg. It was the capital of adventure and commerce, sometimes all it took was a sign in the right place and the morons would line up to beg you to hire them.

Three days earlier, while he was looking at the window of The Fricoleen store, he had most easily recruited a young female magician fresh out of university, who was teamed up with a ferocious ogre. These two heroes seemed very determined, and they had eagerly embarked on the mission he had given them. Without further ado, they set out for Bentvale, a picturesque village on the stagecoach route near Nahel Dungeon. The ogre didn't speak the common language, but he was docile, as if he was under the spell of the young girl.

Yes, it was in Glarg that he should have stayed.

Instead, he was dining among the peasants in a Tulmor's inn. A guy of his standing, after all... it was pathetic. And those damned pig hooves had an aftertaste of manure! It was as if the chef had pulled them out of the mire two hours before.

The wizard could sense the fear he inspired in the other patrons: shifty looks, whispers, feigned ignorance, and nervous tics. Perhaps it was his dark blue robe with runes on it, or his piercing gaze, his strange pendant, his city accent, or the staff of Radzar he had resting against the chair beside him. Simple people distrusted mages and priests, and he was a bit of both.

The double door of the inn opened once more. Gotran relaxed, for his luck had changed. Indeed, a man of tall stature stepped into the common room. He was young but strong, dark and wild, as dirty as he was fierce. His skin was tanned by the sun, dust and wind of the plains. The traveler carried a sword strapped to his back, along with a hunter's pouch and large, soft leather boots that looked like they had trampled on something other than clods of dirt. He looked quite angry, so there was immediate silence in the room.

- Hello! he said without even looking at the other customers.

The owner of the inn, who had been wiping his counter, had frozen in action. He was now staring at the Barbarian with a slight doubt, as the latter approached him in long strides, a spark of violence in his eyes. The stranger spoke:

- Some asshole stole my purse at the market! he growled. But I'm thirsty and hungry! So I can just pay with this!

He put a pearl necklace on the counter, with a sudden gesture, under the eyes of the still petrified tavern keeper.

- Mister will be my guest! said Gotran.

- Huh?

- Come and sit down, you look tired!

- I'm not tired! Being tired is for wimps!

The Barbarian nevertheless walked towards the table where he had just been invited, forgetting behind him the tavern keeper who had stopped breathing.

- Are you gonna pay for my food? grumbled the warrior.

- Yes yes, that's what I said.

- Oh, cool.

Then turning around:

- Roast chicken, bread! And beer!

- Uh... Okay, okay sir!

The owner took a pint from the rack and gestured to his wife, moving his lips and frowning. In the secret code of pub keepers, this meant "goddamn it, hurry up to the kitchen and prepare the customer's meal before he sets the place on fire!"

Gotran waited for the Barbarian to take a seat, to sigh with relief, and to express his first wish:

- I'm hungry.

- It's good, you're going to eat. Let me introduce myself: Gotran Tegal, level twelve mage, Great Ordainer of Wimaf's Bliss, and I.

- I'm a Barbarian, I live in the plains. It's far away. I ran and I'm thirsty too. And I'm hungry!

- Sure, uh... You're going to eat, be patient.

Gotran was himself quite phlegmatic, but his right leg began to tremble without him being able to stop it. The stress was getting to him. In the common room, the other customers were waiting for something crazy to happen, but it was difficult for them to observe the two strangers discreetly. Nobody wanted to have anything to do with them! The guards, no longer on duty, had followed the Barbarian's entrance and still didn't know what attitude to adopt: there was still time to go out and get reinforcements, but on the other hand their wine jug was half full, and it would be a real waste to abandon it like that. With a nod of agreement, they chose to finish the jug.

- I'm a warrior of the Dugal clan! said the Barbarian proudly. I went on an adventure!

Gotran nodded:

- I can see that...

The tavern owner stepped forward, not without some caution, and placed an imposing mug within reach of the warrior, then returned behind his counter, mopping his forehead. The satisfied customer chuckled and took the pint:

- Yeah! Beer!

Amused, the wizard checked that no one was listening to them. Of course, the exact opposite was happening, and all eyes seemed to be on their table. So he leaned over the table and spoke in a low voice:

- My good man, I'm looking for a crew of adventurers. I need to hire mercenaries as soon as possible, to retrieve a valuable item from a dungeon west of here, beyond the Oaks of Lughar and behind the hills. A large reward is expected.

The Barbarian wiped his mouth and sniffed:

- Hm, I don't understand.

- What do you mean, you don't understand?

- You have to talk slower, and I' m hungry.

"It's not going to be so easy after all," thought Gotran. He turned to order new drinks.