Enevar arrived at Whitedge Village by high noon, the sun casting long shadows across the worn cobblestone streets. The village, nestled south of Mundar Kingdom, exuded a quiet charm with its thatched cottages and quaint market square.

In his tattered linen clothes, Enevar cut a stark figure against the rustic backdrop. A hatchet dangled at his waist. Secured in a sheath alongside it, a dagger gleamed, its blade reflecting the sun's rays. His most prized possession, a longsword, was slung across his back, its hilt worn smooth from years of use.

As Enevar strolled through the village, eyes lingered on the stranger with weathered attire. The air hummed with curiosity, yet the villagers continued their daily routines. Enevar's gaze swept over the surroundings, absorbing the familiar simplicity of Whitedge and the warmth of its sunlit atmosphere.

The murmurs of daily life surrounded him, blending with the distant sounds of livestock and the occasional laughter from children playing in the narrow alleys.

The Whitedge villagers, though reserved, acknowledged Enevar with nods and fleeting glances.

It was ironic that everyone regarded Enevar as a stranger in the very place where he drew his first breath and took his initial steps. Whitedge Village, once the cradle of his youth, now saw him through unfamiliar eyes. The passage of time had etched lines on his face, transforming him into a weathered relic of the past.

At the age of 78, Enevar returned to the village that had witnessed his formative years. The whispers of the villagers, labeling him a stranger, were not unwarranted. When he left Whitedge, he was but a youth in his 20s, fueled by dreams and aspirations that extended far beyond the boundaries of the Mundar Kingdom.

Life's journey had taken him on paths unknown, carving experiences into his very being. Rare were the occasions he revisited the village that once cradled his ambitions.

Now, as he walked the familiar streets, he couldn't help but feel the weight of irony in the gazes that met his own. The houses, the faces, the very air – all spoke of familiarity, yet the connection seemed severed by the expanse of time. The once vibrant young man had become a specter of his former self, a phantom from the pages of the village's history.

Enevar mentally engaged himself, coming to purposes as to why he had returned to this place in the beginning.

Whitedge Village lay nestled in proximity to Enevar's homestead, its quaint charm belying the shadows of recent misfortune that lingered over him. The embers of his burned house still smoldered in his memory, a vivid reminder of the mercenaries who had pillaged his home and made off with his hard-earned treasures.

"Hard-earned," He scoffed, realizing he was quite lying to himself.

Enevar, now on the trail of those responsible, couldn't shake the suspicion that Whitedge Village served as a practical stop for the marauders. His calculating mind reasoned that if the mercenaries sought to replenish their supplies or acquire new livestock, this village would be a likely destination. Mules and horses, essential for pulling the wagon laden with their ill-gotten gains, could easily be procured here.

As he walked the familiar path leading to Whitedge, a mix of melancholy and apprehension fueled his steps. He was almost reluctant to go, missing the days when the 'Enderman' in him was yet to emerge. The villagers, unaware of the turmoil within him, continued their daily routines, oblivious to the storm that brewed in the heart of the man who had once been a part of their community.

On his way, Enevar's eyes scanned the market square and the outskirts of the village, searching for any sign of the mercenaries' presence. It was no use. If he were them, he would have already gone and marched fast.

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

Soon, Enevar got tired of walking, and sightseeing.

Enevar sought solace in the nameless inn, or as the locals colloquially called it, the tavern... He never could understand the difference between the two. Like the Whitedge folks, he had always thought of the two as the same— inn and tavern.

The tavern's weathered exterior spoke of years of existence, though it seemed to attract only a handful of patrons. The air inside carried a faint aroma of aged wood and the quiet murmur of subdued conversations.

Taking a seat in a corner, Enevar ordered his lunch – a roasted pheasant, a simple choice that shared the rustic atmosphere of the establishment. The innkeeper, a stout figure with a weather-beaten face, served his meal with a nod, recognizing a weary traveler seeking refuge within the timeworn walls.

The occasional clink of mugs and the low hum of distant conversations blended. It was still too early for people to start drinking ale, but Enevar could not blame them for he was thirsting for a mug himself.

Enevar's gaze wandered across the room, observing the few patrons around him. The ale, cool and bitter, flowed down his throat, momentarily sedating the hidden aggression that simmered within him. The soothing effect of the drink provided a momentary respite as if the ale itself held the power to quiet the storm raging beneath the surface.

The ale had always been his self-defense mechanism against his temper...

Enevar ate. The roasted pheasant, though a simple fare, tasted just right.

Approaching Enevar with a distinct limp, an old man with a peg leg, a figure that reminded Enevar of a long-time acquaintance. Enevar's keen gaze pierced through the years, recognizing the figure almost instantly. It was Sayleh, a fellow dreamer and once his partner in the small-scale escapades of their youth.

"You got fatter," Enevar began.

Sayleh grinned, "You got old, and here I thought you an immortal!"

The lines etched on Sayleh's face mirrored Enevar's own, each wrinkle perhaps had a story to tell. Despite the years that had woven their narratives apart, the threads of shared memories still bound them to the Whitedge Village.

The once mischievous duo, united by youthful exuberance, had taken divergent paths. Enevar, enticed by the allure of adventure and lucrative pay, had embraced the life of a mercenary. Sayleh, on the other hand, had set his sights on the bustling promises of the big city, carving a niche for himself as a merchant.

Sayleh, with a wry grin, hobbled closer to Enevar. "Not yet dead, eh? Var?"

Enevar chuckled with a hint of bitter amusement in his eyes. "I hoped I was, but damn youth today didn't know how to kill; it disappointed me greatly."

Smirking, Sayleh recounted the morning's spectacle. "Mercenaries came here this dawn... related to you? They seemed to have come from your place dragging your... wagon, I think... it was almost funny seeing them struggle with that damn thing..." He frowned, recalling the recent morning when he substituted as the 'innkeeper' for the place, and then he added, "You really never come to the village without that wagon, or so I've heard."

Enevar's gaze lingered on the mention of his stolen wagon. "The wagon, huh? Yeah, anyways, I was hoping they'd kill me..."

Sayleh raised an eyebrow. "You say that, but didn't you tell me you wanna live the last time you came here?"

Enevar sighed, his words heavy with a weary truth. "Yeah, because that was the only way I could die. To live, and exhaust my own life... You see, Sayleh, I am unkillable." But apparently, not immortal as Sayleh would put it.

Sayleh, a mix of concern and frustration in his eyes, shook his head. "Because it was you saying it, I know that it was not bravado... Oh, Var... how long would you let your demons control you?"

Enevar remained silent, his gaze distant.

"You would use any excuse to murder, and it conveniently came to you... So, what's your plan?" Sayleh prodded, peering into Enevar's eyes.

Enevar handed Sayleh a dragon scale, the shimmering iridescence catching the dim light. "I need a horse, and also... proper clothes... Keep the change."

Sayleh, wide-eyed, examined the precious offering. "You mad man, paying me with a wyvern scale... This is worth more than a horse and some clothes!"

"That's a dragon scale," Enevar corrected.

"But real dragons are big! This? This couldn't be a dragon's scale! It is too small for a dragon's scale," Sayleh argued.

"Do you know the saying that dragons have scales even in their hearts?" Enevar asked cryptically. "That wasn't a saying, that was truth. Have a Caster appraise it, and you will know it is a dragon's scale. Grip it tight, and you will still feel its heat. It's dragon magic."

Sayleh shook his head, bewildered. "Oh, the divines beware, you are madder than I thought. Treating a dragon scale of this quality like some gold coin!"

"I need a horse and maybe enchanted gear," Enevar declared, eating his roasted pheasant, in big bites, crushing the bones between his teeth. "And also... I need to finish my lunch." He added with a crunch.