I came to the north searching for a hero, the Wyvern King. Any bard worth his lorals wouldn't waste the chance to speak with the people who actually knew the man behind these stories, and I'd finally pinpointed the town he'd hailed from. Locals from other nearby villages confirmed this was the source of the stories, but they'd also laughed when I'd mentioned my goal to write a ballad about the man. Refusing to be dissuaded, I continued, even trudging the last bit on foot since the snow had made the roads too perilous for a cart. Soon enough, I neared my goal.

As I stumbled into the tavern, shaking far too much snow off my hat and shoulders, the patrons looked up, first in annoyance but soon enough in appreciation. It wasn't often an isolated village like this got to enjoy music at the hands of a professional. I knew that, at the very least, I'd drink well tonight.

After a quick word with the barkeep, who'd already sent some of the kitchen boys running to announce my presence to any thirsty patrons with a coin to spare, I set up to play a song or three to liven up the crowd and loosen their tongues. For a venue such as this, I started out with songs about barmaids and farm girls. They were simple tunes, more fun to sing along with than display any degree of skill, but you play to your crowd, and the crowd showed their appreciation in coin and drink.

I got so swept away if the excitement of the night I played longer than I'd intended, and before I realized it, the crowd had thinned. Only a handful remained, a few older men, nursing their drinks by the fire, and the odd drunkard, sitting half in the shadows and half in their own drool.

Pleading a need to respite, I settled in by the fire, hoping the men of this village might be able to give me a tale or two in return for the night's entertainment. One older gentleman blessed with a rather imposing beard signaled for the maid to bring me another drink before he sat back and addressed me, his tone only slightly mocking. "What brings a fancy bard like yourself to our humble little village?"

Deciding I'd never get a better lead in than that, I went right to the heart of my quest. "I've come looking for tales of a local hero, the Wyvern King!"

The man blinked a few times before throwing his head back in laughter, and soon the other somewhat sober patrons did the same. I couldn't help but frown. "I'm sorry, I thought this was the village from which he hailed. Am I mistaken?"

Eventually, the bearded man got himself under control. "Oh, aye, this is the village the 'Wyvern King' hails from. But we call him a different name around here. We just call him 'Thick' on account of that thick skull of his. He should have died a dozen times over, but it must be true what they say about god watching over idiots and the like!"

Well, this wasn't what I expected, but still, I'm not the type to turn down any first-hand story, even if it didn't agree with the tale I wanted to tell, so I decided to push further. "Oh? That doesn't sound like the hero I've heard about before. What was he like?"

One of the other men relaxing by the fire, this one heavyset and balding, laughed again. "A hero? A HERO? Thick is no hero! Why he even managed to burn down the lord's stables! Let me tell you, that turned into a right mess, with him running through the streets, dodging the local guardsmen, shouting things like, 'Do you know who I am? I'm a warrior! You're all nothing! NOTHING!'"

The bearded man joined in. "Oh, aye! I remember that day! I thought for sure he'd swing from the gallows! But come morning, his bright purple hair was nowhere to be seen in the stocks. Some say he broke out in the middle of the night. Others say he bribed the lord with treasures he'd found on one of his 'adventures.' But me? I think he just begged and pleaded till no one had the heart to do anything but let him go free. As crazy as he was, it was impossible not to like the man!"

Well, this was hardly the tale of the hero I was looking for, but the bearded man had said something that finally sounded like the start of a ballad, so I tried to shift the conversation back to the action I was hoping for. "You said 'one of his adventures.' So what kind of adventures did he get up to? How'd he earn the title, 'Wyvern King?"

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

At that, another man chuckled, this one wearing the coat of a town guard, probably relaxing after a day of the job. "Oh, I can answer that one. I was there, you see! We'd been sent to clear up the lair of the last of the wyverns in the area. Not ol' Thick,' mind ya, just us guards, and when we got there, a small party went into the cave to scout it out before we went in en force. Well, there we were, carefully crawling through the caves, when an unholy ruckus broke out ahead of us. At first, I thought we'd been spotted, but soon enough, that purple-haired idiot Thick came running past, carrying a wyvern egg no less! We all ducked and hid because hot on his heels were a half dozen wyverns, roaring and shooting flames, chasing that witless fool! I thought he'd die right then and there, but he just kept running, taunting the beasts. 'I've got your baby! I'm going to rule you all! I'm going to be the wyvern king!' When he got back to the village, the egg was gone. He said he lost it running from the wyverns in the trees, but regardless the story spread, and the name kind of stuck."

Well, that didn't sound brave so much as foolhardy, but there was one last tale that was so heroic not even these three could spoil it completely. So with that last kernel of hope, I tried again. "But what about the time he single-handedly defended the northern pass from an entire army? They say he rode a mighty wyvern into battle and chased the invaders all the way back through the mountains!"

At that, the three men grew silent a moment before the bearded one shook his head. "Well, I suppose you're not entirely wrong there. Ol' Thick did go out and meet them to try and buy time for the village. I suppose that was brave enough, but he died out there, same as all the invaders. But it wasn't wyvern fire that did the job; those beasts are all dead now, remember? It was simple snow and ice. An avalanche buried them all, and that's the end of your 'Wyvern King.' May God rest his soul."

That last one took the wind out of my sails. My epic ballad of the Wyvern King was dead. The rest of the patrons shuffled out as I sat around, wondering if maybe I could salvage this trip by putting together a comedy or perhaps a tragedy. Soon enough, I sat alone by the fire, or at least I was until one last drunkard sat down next to me to warm his hands, setting his bag near my feet.

Looking up, I saw the man was shorter than average and bald, though he was well-muscled and even had a scar on his face that seemed to resemble a bad burn, as though he'd been scorched by some immense heat. Then, noticing my attention, he turned and winked at me, a crazy gleam in his eyes as he spoke. "Now, don't mind them any. You go write your songs and tell your tales, and don't let the small minds of nobodies like them slow you down!"

I raised my eyebrow. "Nobodies?"

The man grinned, and the madness in his eyes deepened as he spoke. "The way I see it, you can always play it safe, doing the smart thing and stay a nobody all your life, or you can go out there, take a risk and make something out of yourself! Nobody ever became somebody by sitting by a fire and telling you to play it safe!"

I blinked a few times as I slowly came out of my depression from moments before. Finally, finally, this was a man I could talk to! This was a man with a story worth hearing! But before I could say anything, the man stood, grabbing the bag he's set down not long ago. As he lifted the bad, I caught the briefest glimpse of a bright purple shock of hair as though it had been mounted on a helmet. The kind that would stand up tall as one rode into battle. He stretched his neck as if loosening up for something. "Oh, and for the record, back when they were still around, not all the wyverns breathed fire. You should ask around about the frost wyverns. That might help your tale a bit."

As he walked to the door, I realized I had to say something before he left. "Who... who are you?"

The man looked back, his grin shouting that he was about to do something truly insane and maybe just a little brave. "Who, me? I'm just a warrior!" With that, he walked out into the snow.

I shot to my feet, and ran to the door, questions tumbling through my mind in a chaotic jumble. But when I reached the door, I was met with a fierce wind. It almost knocked me off my feet, forcing me to cover my eyes lest I be blinded.

As I turned around and viewed the tavern, I couldn't help but think the place seemed smaller without that man's presence, as if the whole place was somehow lesser for his absence. But despite that, I felt an excitement in my soul, every bit as strong as that which first spurned me on my journey. As I sat down to begin scribbling down the ballad of the Wyvern King, I realized my mouth was twisted in a grin that echoed the craziness of the man who'd been here not long ago. For you see, I saw something in that storm that brought every one of those tales I'd heard back to life. For only the briefest of moments, I saw the outline of the wings of a wyvern.