Beneath the timeworn floors of Sayleh's co-owned quaint tavern, a hidden world unfolded in the dimly lit expanse of the basement. A narrow staircase, concealed behind a heavy oak door, led down to a space that bore no resemblance to the lively atmosphere above.

The air in the basement hung heavy with the scent of aged wood and a subtle hint of dampness. Dim lanterns scattered across the room barely illuminated the vast storage space. Wooden crates, neatly stacked against the stone walls, held an eclectic array of goods – from barrels of ale to bolts of fine cloth. The atmosphere was a tapestry of scents, a mingling of the earthy notes of stored provisions and the mustiness of a space rarely exposed to daylight.

Sayleh, the 'co-owner' of the tavern as he insisted, had transformed this seemingly mundane cellar into a strategic warehouse for his caravan. Barrels of spices, sacks of grains, and chests of exotic wares were meticulously organized, creating a labyrinth of potential profit beneath the very floor where patrons enjoyed their ale.

The basement served a dual purpose – a clandestine repository for Sayleh's caravan ventures and a buffer for the uncertainties of the merchant trade. The tavern itself, bustling with the clink of mugs and the laughter of patrons, acted as the perfect front. It was a place where rumors were shared, deals were made, and unsuspecting visitors remained blissfully unaware of the hidden commerce transpiring beneath their feet.

The tavern's frontage was essential for Sayleh's operation, not merely for appearances but as a passive side income. It provided a cover that shielded his true business dealings from prying eyes. As patrons reveled in the merriment above, beneath the surface, the basement concealed treasures and riches, a byproduct of the astute maneuvering of a merchant who understood the value of discretion... and perhaps slightly motivated by hate for taxes.

"Unfortunately, I wouldn't be able to sell you any horses. Those mercenaries all bought them... Though I believe I can make up with gear," Sayleh explained, his brows furrowed in sympathy.

Enevar sighed, a resigned acceptance in his gaze. "No horses? I guess I have to walk...

Sayleh, ever resourceful, reached behind a stack of crates and produced a sturdy pack. "Here, an Adventurer's Kit. I see that you have an unsightly pouch, let me guess... for your dragonheart scales, and potions?"

Enevar's acknowledged Sayleh's keen observation with a grunt. He hummed softly in agreement, a subtle confirmation of the contents of his weathered pouch.

As Sayleh handed over the kit, he added, "This should help on your journey, Var. Walking might be a slower pace, but at least you won't be defenseless from thieving hands. Keep those scales safe, and may the road be kind to you."

"You are saying it as if you were ready to get rid of me, not so fast," Enevar took the kit and inspected it.

"Can't help it," Sayleh shook his shoulders, "You are a plague, Var."

At the heart of the kit was a sizable belt pack, its sturdy construction providing ample space for Enevar to stow his diminutive belongings. The worn leather, weathered by countless journeys, spoke of the reliability that such a companion offered to those traversing the varied terrains of Mundar Kingdom.

Nestled within the pack was a leather pouch, thoughtfully filled with fresh water. A crucial provision for a traveler whose path might lead him far from known wells or streams. The pouch, tightly secured to prevent leakage, reflected the foresight ingrained in the kit's design.

Alongside the water pouch, a compass found its place, a small yet invaluable instrument for navigation. The needle, ever pointing north, would serve as a reliable guide through the twists and turns of the kingdom's diverse landscapes. Its presence hinted at the recognition that even the most seasoned wanderers occasionally needed a reliable sense of direction.

Completing the ensemble was a map of the Mundar Kingdom, its parchment unfolding to reveal the intricate details of the realm. The trails, villages, and landmarks were painstakingly marked, offering a visual guide to those who sought to navigate the expansive territory beyond Whitedge.

As Enevar secured the Adventurer's Kit around his waist, the weight of its contents became a reassuring presence.

Enevar, impressed by the convenience of the Adventurer's Kit, couldn't help but compliment its practicality. "Convenient," he acknowledged, a subtle nod of approval accompanying his words. "Throw in a whetstone, a shoulder holster for my longsword, and a latch for my hatchet."

Sayleh, ever accommodating, replied with a simple, "Sure do," and proceeded to rummage through the storage behind him, retrieving the requested items with the familiarity of one who knew his inventory well.

With the additional gear in hand, Enevar continued to inquire about the next provisions. "What's next?" he asked, eager to complete his preparations.

Sayleh, reaching for a bundle of folded clothes, began to explain. "Here, clothes. I sponsored a group of adventurers, and it looked like I hit the jackpot... People tend to misunderstand adventurers, thinking of them as guildless wayward wanderers, but..."

Enevar, interrupting with a knowing tone, remarked, "Enough, I know how proud you are of your adventurers."

"Ok... Proceeding forward, this is the Pristine Robes of Faith, said to be worn by the long-gone Cult of Purity. Worth the weight of your dragonheart scale!" Sayleh presented a set of immaculate white robes, a touch of excitement evident in his voice.

Enevar, however, frowned, visibly annoyed, and muttered his complaints under his breath.

"What's the problem?" Sayleh inquired, noticing Enevar's discontent.

"It is white," Enevar pointed out as if the color itself posed an issue.

Sayleh chuckled, attempting to convince him otherwise. "That's the selling point. No one will cry and scream bloody murder anymore at you after seeing how white and pristine your robes were."

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Enevar, seemingly unconvinced, sighed. "I don't see the point."

Sayleh, with a triumphant grin, revealed a hidden feature. "Ah~! I forgot to mention, that this robe has a purification spell embedded in it. With a thought, you would be able to purify yourself! There's no longer any need to fear poison, not being able to bathe yourself, and not to mention getting it bloodied."

Enevar, intrigued by the newfound utility, relented. "I am sold. Give it."

"Just a reminder, though," Sayleh added, "purification can only be used once a day. It resets its use every dawn."

Enevar nodded in acknowledgment. "Noted."

The Pristine Robes of Faith, a garment whispered to have once adorned the followers of the long-gone Cult of Purity, lay before Enevar like a canvas of untarnished purity. The robes, as Sayleh had described, were a brilliant shade of white, almost otherworldly in their immaculateness. Their surface, smooth and unblemished, bore no adornments or intricate patterns, making them almost featureless. It was a simplicity that held a peculiar allure.

Enevar, accustomed to the ruggedness of his dark tattered linen clothes, regarded the pristine robes with a mix of annoyance and skepticism. As he unfolded the garment, its fabric felt cool against his fingertips.

"It definitely had white magic in it," He remarked, recalling his experience.

Draping the white robes over his form, Enevar found a surprising comfort in their unassuming elegance. The robes cascaded down, enveloping him in a cloak of purity that contrasted sharply with the worn edges of his usual attire. The contrast between the dark linen and the pristine white created a striking visual dynamic, emphasizing the simplicity of the robes while allowing them to stand out in their own right.

Enevar secured the robes around his frame, adjusting the fit until it sat comfortably over his familiar layers. The featureless white expanse seemed to absorb and reflect the ambient light, giving the impression of a muted radiance that encapsulated the wearer.

"You look almost holy..." Sayleh commented.

As Enevar stood adorned in the Pristine Robes of Faith, he noted with satisfaction that the garment, despite its magical properties, maintained an unobtrusive appearance. Its simplicity ensured that it wouldn't draw undue attention, except for the brilliance of its whiteness. With Enevar's perpetual scowl, the robe wouldn't even look any special.

"Hmmm..." Sayleh joked, "I think it was the other way around... you make the robe look unholy, Var..."

"Do you want me to stuff these robes in your throat, and cast purification in your blood?" Enevar tyrannically warned though he was actually just joking in turn.

"..." The poor merchant silently shivered.

Sayleh, eyeing Enevar thoughtfully, offered another option. "Would you want some armor instead? What kind? I know how much you like plate; I have a full plate made of true dwarven-steel here."

Enevar, considering the proposition, shook his head. "Too heavy."

"Seriously?" Sayleh questioned, surprised by the rejection. "True dwarven steel is your favorite!"

"I am old. I think I won't be wearing much armor now," Enevar explained with a tinge of resignation in his voice.

Sayleh, persistent, pointed out the quality of the dwarven steel. "It is dwarven steel, though."

"No," Enevar insisted.

"Yeah. In your prime, you had almost superhuman strength. Now that you are old, shouldn't you be more human now?" Sayleh countered, attempting to sway Enevar's decision.

Again, Enevar maintained his stance. "No."

Undeterred, Sayleh produced another artifact from his trove. "Here. Another artifact. Gloves of Greater Strength. Powerful enchantment. This should bring you closer to your strength in your prime. So, still don't want the armor?"

Enevar accepted the offered gloves, examining them with a careful eye. "No. My vigor and endurance will still be the same. I might be able to take the burden of wearing such armor, but not for long."

Sayleh, resigned to Enevar's choice, shrugged. "Well, suit yourself!"

As Enevar, adorned in the Pristine Robes of Faith and equipped with the Adventurer's Kit, walked away from the familiar streets of Whitedge Village, Sayleh stood in the entrance of his establishment, watching the departure with a mix of emotions. The quiet intensity of his gaze followed Enevar's silhouette until it blended with the distant horizon.

A youthful figure approached Sayleh, drawing his attention away from the receding form of his old acquaintance. Weston, Sayleh's trusted bodyguard and an accomplished swordsman in his own right, joined him at the entrance.

"He's an odd one, that Enevar," Weston remarked, his gaze following the same path as Sayleh's.

Sayleh, a hint of nostalgia in his voice, responded, "Odd, but reliable. We've seen much together. He's on a path that only he comprehends."

Weston nodded, understanding the unspoken complexities that often accompanied those who walked the less-traveled roads. "He's got a certain air about him. Like he's carrying a burden older than his years."

"Indeed," Sayleh agreed, his eyes lingering on the now-vanished figure of Enevar. "But burdens, my friend, are what shape a man. He carries them with a strength that defies his age."

Weston, looking at Sayleh with a quizzical expression, inquired, "Friends? Like best of friends?"

Sayleh sighed, his gaze fixed on the diminishing figure of Enevar on the horizon. "I don't know about him... my friend there, Var, he was quite unreadable, you see..."

"So friends, huh?" Weston mused. "So why didn't you tell him you have a horse coming? Your caravan will arrive two days from now with lots of horses, won't they? Having him walk to the nearest village would take the poor old man two weeks! And I think the mercenaries that came this recent sunrise also went by that village and bought all of their horses!"

Sayleh fell silent, contemplating the consequences of his unspoken choice.

"Boss?" Weston pressed for an answer.

"We will be changing routes. Let's try our best to avoid him..." Sayleh finally admitted, a sense of reluctance in his voice.

"Why? Your friends, right? It is not like he would kill you... and he's just an old man," Weston questioned, puzzled by the decision.

Sayleh's eyes narrowed, a shadow crossing his expression. "He would kill for pettier reasons, Weston..."

"But it was just a prank, right? A joke? You not telling him about the horse... er... horses?" Weston probed further.

Sayleh, a glint of mischief in his eyes, corrected with a hint of bitterness, "Prank? Joke? That was revenge! Bastard didn't attend my wedding!"

Weston, suppressing a chuckle, pointed out, "But wasn't that like two decades ago?"

"Shaddup!" Sayleh retorted, a mix of irritation and amusement in his response.

In the wake of Enevar's departure, Sayleh's decision to withhold information about the imminent arrival of the caravan carrying horses stemmed from a complex web of motivations, tinged with both concern and a lingering sense of caution. Truthfully, Sayleh's actions were driven by a desire to help his old friend, a man whose past bore the weight of an era of blood and evil.

Enevar, in his self-imposed recluse, had managed to resist the pull of his violent instincts for almost a decade. The once notorious Endeman, finisher of life, and usurper of happiness, had seemingly found a precarious balance away from the allure of murder and the thirst for blood. Sayleh, aware of Enevar's inner demons, harbored a hope that the village life would lead his friend towards a path of redemption, away from the shadows that had defined much of his existence.

In Sayleh's mind, the best-case scenario was that Enevar, confronted with the challenges of a quieter life, would choose to relinquish his violent tendencies. The prospect of Enevar giving up his dark impulses and settling into a more serene existence was the beacon of hope that guided Sayleh's actions.

Yet, underlying this hope was an unspoken fear, a realization that Enevar, despite his age, was still undeniably Enevar. The potential for the worst-case scenario lingered in the back of Sayleh's mind. If stirred once again into action, Enevar might become the godforsaken Enderman, a force that extinguished life with ruthless efficiency.

"Oh, spinner of fate, please watch over him," Sayleh prayed.