The Human

Every reputable road between city and city had to boast of at least one good inn.

The road between Schiltigheim and Lyndeira was more than reputable, and so it boasted of not just one, but five good inns. At least according to those who travelled often. Most who did named it the Seasonal Road, for one could start the road in the end of summer and finish it at the beginning of spring.

Yes, it was that long.

Schiltigheim stood as the northernmost of any of the Feidsten Deity’s holdings, and as a result was almost always buried under snow, with a few choice months where the grass was given time to shine. And Lyndeira… well, everyone knew that city. The Pure City, the White City. The City of Spires.

The capital of the Deity, sitting dead center in the middle.

And as for the five good inns, The Merrymaker was one of them. It wasn’t particularly outstanding, and in fact it was rather lackluster when compared to the other four at the top. But what it did have was the good fortune of being out in the middle of nowhere, which was bad when they needed something, but very good for business, for everyone passing by was forced to stay a night.

The inn itself was a quiet thing. The nearer one got to the capital the more popular the inns grew, after all, but despite being out-in-nowhere, the inn was well known. In fact, The Merrymaker itself had become a marker for distance – travellers on this road would ask “How far have you come?” and “Just passed The Merrymaker.” was an accepted response.

And that was the inn.

The innkeeper was a balding man who, much like most folk who had to weather winter after winter, was a jovial man when with his drink, and a bit dour without. He had a wife who passed a while ago, and a son who dreamt too big. Sometimes he found himself aching in his left knee, even if he had yet to reach sixty, but all in all, his was no difficult life to lead, not with the company so diverse and the money flowing so well.

Then that day came.

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It was a week before that day.

He was mixing up his coppers on the counter, idling away the morning as he watched the early risers make their way down to the first floor, where all the inns hosted the usual fare. Chatter, drink, even an arrogant arm-wrestler if the company called for it. And as they filtered down, he noticed there were fewer in today's company than usual, but that was to be expected.

Winter was approaching.

Someone approached the counter. Half his face was hooded by his cloak, but the innkeeper saw enough to discern man from woman – a strong jaw, lips upturned to a smile, and neat stubble.

“May I have a pitcher of ale, good sir?”

The innkeeper grunted and waved for his son. Even without turning around, he knew the lad was rolling his eyes, but the patter of his feet was enough to keep the innkeeper seated. His son returned with a pitcher of ale, which the man exchanged for two coppers.

“Thank you, young sir. I saw you outside yesterday, swinging that wooden stick. Thinking about following the path of the sword, hmm? You’re a bold thing, I’ll tell you that.”

“Yes, sir! I’m hoping to make it one day as a knight! Schiltigheim only accepts the best ones, they say!”

The innkeeper waved a hand, “Ignore the boy. Don’t encourage him.”

“But Father-”

Gods, this boy. He had to turn around now? It wasn’t even two hours after waking up.

“Shut up and listen, lad. All you young’uns want to go out and do your fighting, your sword-dancing or whatever the folks high up call it nowadays. You know what’s going to happen? Do you? Tell me, boy.”

The son wilted under his glare, “I’ll… be the best knight in Schiltigheim?”

“No. That won’t happen. You know what’ll happen? You’ll walk out of the gates for the first time with your fancy armour and your fancy sword, and someone who actually knows mana and has spent a lifetime killing boys like you… they’ll kill you, and I’ll have broken my promise to your mother, then.”

The son did not respond to that. The innkeeper nodded at his silence, and turned back to the man who had ordered the drink. The man held his tankard to his chest, observing without saying anything.

“So, what's got you on this road, huh? Most people don’t really come up at this time of year. Snowstorms can bury you five feet under if you're unfortunate enough.”

“Heard a tale someplace, good sir. But tales are just words, as you know. So I came to see the real thing.”

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The innkeeper snorted, “What tales? That the ice here can freeze your balls off? Cause that’s no tale, that’s a fact.”

“Shall I take your fact with living proof, sir?”

The innkeeper paused, then barked a laugh. “Got me there.”

“You were walking into it, good sir.”

“Ah, well,” he found himself smiling, “… no match for the young’uns nowadays. Half too quick, these lot. This little lad here’s living proof of that, so you can take that fact.”

“I find myself cornered by facts and proof, good sir. The odds must be against me.”

The innkeeper laughed again, leaning onto the counter, “I don’t tell customers this often, but you’re the odd one here. I like you, though. You’re a polite one.”

“I like to think of myself not as odd, but… how about ‘exhilarating’, good sir? Like the feeling you get when gambling?”

The innkeeper considered pouring a drink, even if it was morning. This was good banter.

“Ooh, fancy words. Ex-hi-li-ray-tin’. You must be from down south.”

The son popped up from behind them, “Really, sir? Are you from Lyndeira?”

“Course he is, with that fancy lad-speak.”

The man decided to take a seat, “I am from down south, yes. But many places, not just Lyndeira, teach us to speak fancy, and to speak like a lad, good sirs.”

The innkeeper was about to sit down too, but the conversation was interrupted by a portly man.

He was dressed suitable for the weather, but even the conservatism of his outfit could not conserve his belly, one that fought at the belt to be free. At least three chins were wobbling on his face at any given time. When he took his seat, the innkeeper fancied that an avalanche might have been triggered nearby.

“Oi, innkeep. Pitcher, ale.”

His son hurried to fetch a glass. While he was gone, the portly man took in the company along the bar.

“So, how are things, lads? Cold night, innit?”

The man hummed, “It was cold.”

The innkeeper grunted, finding his good mood dampened. Another one of these brutish, loud customers that either brawled and cost him money, or ate too much and also cost him money. These folk were a net loss.

His son returned with a pitcher.

“Here you are, sir.”

“Ah, good. Have a coin, laddie.”

The portly man tipped his son a copper.

And then, unprompted, the portly man began to ramble about the comings and goings on the road to Schiltigheim to his audience of three. Mundane, simple things. There was a snowstorm that had buried a caravan a little to the north. Travellers had started talking funny again about snow giants and icy wraiths.

His inn didn’t have a bard, so the blabber was decent background music.

The hooded man sat, silent. His son interjected here and there with a gasp or a round of applause, and it was all at the sensible moments, so the innkeeper didn't stop him.

“-and then, the pricks down in the Horse’s Mane told me it was a frost wizard! An actual frost wizard! Rubbish, absolute rubbish. The things these folk come up with to get some attention is just poor-”

It was only after a couple of minutes that the portly man realized he was preaching to an empty Convent.

“Hey! Are you fools even listening to me?”

The innkeeper blinked, “Whu? Sorry. It was a long night, man.”

His son also gave the same excuse.

But the hooded man, whom the innkeeper was sure had also been nodding off, recanted every single talking point the portly man had waffled through. It was an impressive thing, to remember so much from so little. And he did remember it all, every little detail, about the frost wizards, the tall tales, then even the avalanche trap-setters the innkeeper couldn’t recall even if it could save his life.

The portly man was so surprised he took it the wrong way, “Are you mocking me, you little shit?”

“I do not believe so, good sir. You asked a question, and I answered it.”

It was probably a good time to mention the portly man was already very drunk.

He purpled, “You’re mocking me. With your fancy speak and fancy accent. Why, I’ll beat the bollocks out of you, you prick!”

He raised a fist and swung it fast, but the ale that had settled in his belly had him tumbling to the floor. The hooded man didn’t even rise from his seat.

The innkeeper was already in motion.

While the portly man flopped about on the ground like a wet fish, he had grabbed his walking stick and emerged from behind the counter. Where hand met wood on the stick sat a mana stone.

Restriction.

He tapped the portly man on the head once, then twice when the mana fizzled on the first go. On the third go, it followed the image in his mind.

Rope. Thick, able to bind a walrus from moving.

The mana-constructs formed by the stone fastened the portly man’s arms behind his back, then his legs together, and he ended up only able to twitch on the floor. The rope was a dull blue and frayed at the edges, but it held. It was good craftsmanship - the walking stick - from Lyndeira, and he had bought it when he was young.

He tapped the stone, seeing the blue on it a little faded, “Might have to get a new one soon.”

His son had been hiding behind the counter, and only now peeked up. Heh, how knightly.

He asked, “Is the battle over?”

“Course it is, idiot. And don’t call it a battle. I’ve been in battles before. This is just warm-up.”

The hooded man raised an eyebrow, “Will he be… left there, like that?”

“Let the alcohol work its way through. Most people find themselves very apologetic when sober, and tied up for a while.”

“Mm.”

“Sorry about not stopping him before he started swinging, lad. Instincts aren’t what they used to be.”

“Ah, no worries, good sir. He had short arms, and his belly reduced his range of motion. The clothes he wore were too tight for a proper swing. Also, he was drunk, and had little sleep. The punch would never have hit me.”

The innkeeper raised an eyebrow.

His son gaped up at him, “You are… really cool! Are you a knight?”

Those lips quirked up, “No.”

“What are you, then?”

“Idiot, don’t be rude. This is a well-paying, polite customer. Do you know how many we get? None, so-”

“It is fine, good sir. The young sir has asked his question already. And he will get his answer, but not today.”

The innkeeper frowned, “What does that mean?”

He did not reply. The innkeeper noticed that his pitcher of ale was untouched.

It was after some more silence that the hooded man stood. “I shall prepare to leave, in any case, good sirs. I am to be at Schiltigheim soon, and I wish not to be late.”

The innkeeper stood, “I’ll help clear out your room.”

“No, no. No worries, good sir. I have already cleared most of it out.”

“Oh,” he sat back down, “well, anything else? One night’s five coppers, as you know.”

“Nothing, good sir. This establishment has met my standards, and I will be on my way with no fuss.”

Then, the innkeeper remembered something. “Before you go… you said you were here for a tale, weren’t you?”

“I did, good sir.”

“So… what was the tale, if you don’t mind indulging an old man?”

Those lips curved further up, from a quiet smile to a loud grin. For some reason, he felt a person’s eyes on him, even though the hood covered those of the hooded man, and no one else was looking his way.

“You’ve heard it, good sir. And if you haven’t yet, you will soon.”

And the man left.

He would return a week later.