“He looks like a soldier.”

“He’s a defector.”

“And what of it? He took care of the beast when no one else would.”

Dramos shifted uncomfortably in his seat at the back of the inn’s small tavern. Despite its deteriorating wooden ceiling beams, tables, chairs and walls, it served as a cozy retreat from the hustle of everyday farm-life. A fire was roaring in a hearth to the side of the bar that cast a warm inviting glow into the space. A large kettle half-full of vegetable stew bubbled away on it. The innkeeper had acquired herbs somehow and the aroma wafting over from the stew made his mouth water.

When was the last time he’d had a hot meal?

The town’s Mayor had insisted he be granted the best room in the inn, along with a hot basin of water and a warm meal. The best room in the inn happened to be the only available room as the building only had two, and the other was occupied by the innkeeper herself. Nonetheless, Dramos appreciated having a warm bed and the opportunity to bathe himself. He couldn’t remember the last time he did.

After washing up and putting on a spare set of simple, brown linen pants and shirt, he went downstairs to fill his empty stomach.

Three men sat at a table near the front of the bar and were the ones engaged in a quiet conversation. Being that they were the only other people in the establishment, aside from the innkeeper, Dramos could hear every word.

“Trelladain’s armies are a little busy at the moment,” said the oldest man of the group, a lanky farmer with a big, bright white moustache.

A larger, middle-aged man with a horseshoe hairline scoffed, “And you’re telling me he couldn’t spare one guard for us?”

“How do we know he isn’t with the Saviour?” the third man said. He didn’t appear to be much older than Dramos.

The old man shook his head, “He wouldn’t bother with a little farm town like ours”.

“Tell that to the people of Mystic Hills,” said the middle-aged man.

The group sombred and each of them took a long drink of ale from their mugs.

Mystic Hills was a small town in the north of Trelladain, near the border of Ayradora. Rumour had it the Saviour had marched his army through, killed any who didn’t join him, razed the town, and burned their fields.

“Saviour bless us,” the youngest sneered.

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Saviour bless us indeed. The turn of phrase that once held reverence was still being used even now. It had become popular during his initial reign, when he was still claiming to be a protector of all people. He amassed a mighty army of warriors, sailors and spellcasters intent on saving Aesor from beastly Corruption. Everyone had lapped it up, until it was too late and he turned his sword against them. King Robert Trelladain currently spearheads the resistance. And it was from Trelladain’s guard that Dramos had defected.

“Here you go love,” the innkeeper had approached Dramos and placed a chipped bowl full of the delicious smelling stew in front of him.

“Thank you,” he said quietly and picked up his spoon, eager to dig in. He paused when he noticed the innkeeper lingering beside the table.

She was a couple decades older than him, with relatively plain features, and long black hair tied up in a tight bun at the top of her head. A stained apron was tied around her full waste. She eyed Dramos suspiciously.

“Did you really slay that creature?”

“I did,” he said slowly. “Was there something you needed?”

She studied him for a moment.

“Marshall said you returned the reward,” she said, ignoring his question. Dramos noticed the three men had stopped talking.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Dramos took a quick look around the space before addressing her again, “It seems you people need it more.”

She continued to glare at him and when Dramos didn’t comment further she eventually returned to the bar.

He went back to his stew and the men resumed their conversation. This time it was too low for Dramos to make out clearly. Ignoring them he took a bite and was surprised by how much flavour she had managed to put into it. It was delicious. Or maybe it wasn’t, and his standards were just too low. In any case, he made quick work of it.

As his spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl, dragging out the last drops of broth the innkeeper returned carrying a large pitcher and mug. She set them down in front of him. Dramos lifted his brows. He hadn’t asked for anything to drink.

“I’m alright, but thank you,” he said.

“It’s on the house and I insist,” she grabbed his bowl and headed back towards the hearth.

The pitcher was full of a rich, hoppy smelling ale. It had been a while since he last indulged. It wasn’t that he was opposed to it, he just couldn’t afford to be hindered, given his line of work.

She returned a moment later with another full bowl of stew and a hunk of bread, before heading over to the three men to ask if they needed another round. When they nodded, she returned behind the bar.

“Here,” Dramos said, suddenly standing and grabbing the pitcher.

The four people in the tavern stopped to watch as he crossed the room and placed the pitcher on the table in front of the men.

“I’d hate to waste this,” he said to their surprised faces.

None of them said a word, and Dramos returned to his table.

When their conversations resumed, Dramos could hear there was a lightness to their whispering this time. He caught the innkeeper’s eyes then and she offered him a small smile that was surprisingly pleasant.

He finished the second bowl quickly, then stood and dropped two small coins on the table before heading upstairs to his room.