As evening draped Mundramon City in hues of twilight, Enevar made his arrival. Dismissing his horse to the care of the stable, he embarked on a familiar path, heading towards the haven of respite he knew well—the Fun Boot Inn.

Enevar's footsteps resonated with a sense of purpose as he navigated the bustling night streets of Mundramon. The city, though dynamic and vibrant, held a sense of familiarity for him. This wasn't his first sojourn to Mundramon, and the well-trodden path led him directly to the welcoming facade of the Fun Boot Inn.

Having reached his destination, Enevar stepped into the inn, the warmth of the familiar surroundings embracing him. The bustle of patrons and the aroma of hearty meals enveloped the atmosphere. As he approached the innkeeper to secure a room for the night, Enevar's weariness from the road seemed to dissipate in the anticipation of a well-deserved rest, but more than that, a veiled intention. He knew well Fun Boot Inn— he had been here, except the barkeeper seemed to have changed.

As Enevar entered the lively ambiance of the Fun Boot Inn, his perceptive eyes immediately caught sight of a barmaid skillfully balancing tankards, weaving through the patrons. The resonant chords of a minstrel's small guitar added a musical backdrop to the bustling atmosphere.

Zooming in on the bar, Enevar's scrutiny focused on the barkeeper, a fairly young individual with a mop of brown hair. His attention, however, lingered on a defining feature—a scar under the barkeeper's chin. The jagged mark, a testament to a past encounter with a blade, did not escape Enevar's discerning gaze.

Enevar, leaning casually against the bar, addressed the barkeep with a gruff but polite demeanor. "One room, and a mug of Opaque White," he requested, sliding in a gold coin with a casual nonchalance. The coin, a spoilsome acquisition from Joruk, the unfortunate mercenary, represented a shift of wealth from one pocket to another. "Keep the change," Enevar added, a flicker of mischief glinting in his eyes.

The barkeep, appreciative of the unexpected generosity, responded with a touch of banter. "That's generous of you, old man! Your room is at the furthest to the left," he noted, accepting the gold coin. "So... Travelling?" he inquired, curiosity sparking in his eyes.

"Aye," Enevar confirmed with a gruff nod, his weathered hand idly scratching his beard.

As Enevar sought information, the barkeep, seizing the opportunity to indulge his curiosity, probed further. "You seemed too old to be traveling alone, any companions?" he inquired, casting a discerning eye over the solitary traveler.

Enevar, unimpressed by the intrusion, responded with a hint of defensiveness. "Is it your job to be nosy? I smell the sewers on you. Thief's Guild?" he retorted, his words carrying a subtle warning.

The barkeep, undeterred, playfully silenced the conversation. "Shush... pipe down, old man if you don't want a dagger jammed into your throat," he teased, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. In a fluid motion, he grabbed a mug and poured gin—an exotic rice wine from the east—displaying a flair that hinted at a familiarity with more than just the routine of an innkeeper. "Here, an Opaque White," He pushed the mug to Enevar, with an unchanging smile.

Enevar, with a firm grip on the freshly poured mug, responded to the barkeep's inquiry about companions with a straightforward declaration. "You asked about my companions. See the longsword in my back, and the hatchet by my waist? They are the only companions I would need," he asserted, a taciturn confidence emanating from his weathered demeanor.

The barkeep, unfazed by Enevar's defensive posture, attempted to diffuse the tension with a light-hearted comment. "Calm down, old man," he suggested, pouring himself a drink into an empty mug. "So what gave me away?" he inquired, seeking to unravel the mystery behind Enevar's astute observations.

Enevar, not one to mince words, responded matter-of-factly. "Sewer smell," he stated, pointing to the telltale sign that had not escaped his discerning senses.

The barkeep, seemingly surprised, quirked an eyebrow. "Seriously? I don't smell it on me..." he contested, genuinely puzzled.

Enevar clarified with a gruff chuckle, "I meant the smell of stagnant water. It is the kind of smell that wouldn't go away no matter how much you wash," offering a glimpse into the depth of his observations and the keen instincts that had guided him through the twists and turns of countless encounters on the road.

The barkeep, perturbed by Enevar's uncanny deductions, dismissed the notion of riddles with an impatient tone. "Riddles now, come on... it ain't funny," he remarked, a hint of frustration lacing his words.

Enevar, undeterred, continued his elucidation. "It is like the smell of blood from someone who had killed too much, but different," he explained, delving deeper into the intricate nuances of his olfactory perceptions.

In response, the barkeep, attempting to lighten the conversation, made a jest. "So I had the smell of someone who had stolen too much?" he suggested, a playful smile on his face.

Enevar, however, corrected the assumption with a blunt assessment. "No, you have the smell of someone who was neck-deep in crimes and had become too used to it," he asserted, laying bare his deductions with unapologetic candor. "You commit crimes for the sake of crime, and not the benefit thereof. You are basically the equivalent of bloodlusted mercenaries. So, rumors?" Enevar inquired, steering the conversation toward the information he sought.

The barkeep, cautious yet compelled, responded with a measured tone. "I don't want any trouble with you. So, you want information? You clearly are not ordinary," he acknowledged, eyeing Enevar's distinctive robe. The barkeep, sensing an opportunity, added a sly proposition. "Say, old man, that's a nice robe you have there. Maybe if you pitch it in, I might reconsider," he proposed, the glint of opportunity presented in his eyes.

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Enevar, acknowledging the barkeep's perceptiveness, decided to unveil a valuable offering. "You seem like a smart man, so I won't push you," he stated, sliding in a Dragonheart scale—a precious half-artifact, and half-catalyst—across the bar.

The barkeep, seizing the intriguing item, inspected it keenly. "Wyvern scale?" he questioned, observing the heat emanating from the scale. However, upon closer inspection, realization dawned. "No, this looks like a basilisk scale..." he mused, his understanding growing. "Is this? Is this a dragon's scale? No, it is a dragonheart's scale..." he exclaimed, his eyes widening with the recognition of the rare commodity.

Enevar, withholding the full extent of his intentions, hinted at a more significant proposition. "Just know that it is not just rumors I want for that scale. What do you think of a job? That will be the down payment," he proposed, introducing a mysterious and potentially lucrative opportunity.

The barkeep, eyeing Enevar with a mix of curiosity and wariness, questioned, "Who in Aurum's testicles are you?"

Enevar, maintaining an air of enigma, responded, "I prefer that you don't know," He took a swig of his mug, and showed a relieved expression.

The barkeep, realizing the gravity of the proposition, acknowledged, "This seems like a big job."

Enevar, confirming the magnitude of the task, replied with a simple, "It is."

Surveying the inn discreetly, the barkeep weighed the implications of the mysterious job. "Let's talk later. I will come to your room and discuss... further arrangements from there," he suggested, recognizing the need for discretion in their conversation.

Enevar, displaying a no-nonsense demeanor, warned, "Don't make me wait for too long." With that, he walked towards the stairs, ascending to his room, leaving the inn below.

Enevar entered the small but sufficiently comfortable room, its modest accommodations providing a haven for a night's repose. The dim glow of a solitary lantern cast a warm ambiance, flickering shadows dancing along the walls.

In a subtle display of caution, Enevar concealed his hatchet discreetly by the pillow, ensuring it remained within arm's reach should the need arise. The longsword, however, he strategically placed against the wall, its gleaming blade catching the light as it lay within easy sight, a silent declaration of readiness.

Having arranged his weapons with calculated precision, Enevar settled onto the bed, its worn but serviceable mattress yielding beneath his weight. The anticipation of the barkeep's arrival hung in the air, the room steeped in quiet suspense as Enevar hummed to himself a silent song— one he vaguely recalled his wife would sing to him.

As Enevar lounged in the modest room, contemplative in the dim light, the door creaked open, and a woman stepped inside. Recollection stirred within Enevar as he identified her as the barmaid from downstairs—brown hair cascading in loose waves, an alluring figure, and a countenance that bore the youthfulness of no more than eighteen years. In her hands, she cradled a tray bearing a bowl of gruel adorned with visible chicken bits.

"Hi, the barkeeper sent me... Here, on the house!" she cheerfully announced, her demeanor bright and endearing as she presented the tray to Enevar.

However, Enevar, seasoned by the wary habits of a traveler, greeted her gesture with immediate suspicion. "Where is the barkeeper?" he inquired, a glint of caution in his eyes as he contemplated the unexpected visit and the motives behind it.

The woman, undeterred by Enevar's suspicion, offered an explanation with a casual smile. "Dealing with more customers. It seems he will come later," she explained, taking a seat beside Enevar, her proximity evident as their skin made contact. "So you don't mind me accompanying you a bit, don't you," she added, her tone carrying a hint of familiarity.

However, Enevar, ever vigilant, noted the strategic placement of the woman between himself and his longsword. "That pretty much confirms it," he observed, his suspicion solidifying into certainty.

Perplexed, the woman questioned, "What?"

Enevar, unmoved by any attempt at deception, seized the situation with swift decisiveness. "Honey traps wouldn't work on me," he declared, his hand closing around the woman's throat. In a swift motion, he slammed her against the wall just adjacent to his longsword. The tray with the gruel spilled over the bedsheet as the woman grappled with the sudden assault.

"So what is this about?" Enevar demanded, his grip unyielding as he confronted the woman with an intensity that left no room for subterfuge.

"Huh~ mercy!" she gasped, her plea echoing in the small room as the spilled gruel stained the bedsheet beneath them.

"My patience wears thin, woman," Enevar stated with a firmness that echoed the tension in the room. His grip on her throat tightened abruptly, a manifestation of the impatience that simmered beneath the surface.

Unexpectedly, the barkeeper burst into the room, panic etched across his face. "Damn! Unhand her!! Stop! You are killing her!" he pleaded urgently, the distress evident in his voice.

Enevar, unmoved, questioned the barkeeper's plea. "And why would I do that?" he inquired, the air thick with a palpable sense of mistrust.

The barkeeper, now attempting to explain the situation, hurriedly interjected, "I really am sorry, but none of this is of ill intent! This girl here is my niece, and she's very rebellious, and wants to score some points from me."

Enevar, skeptical and unyielding, withheld his judgment, his gaze shifting between the barkeeper and the girl.. and he was confused. "Really? If this is an attempt to diffuse her failed task, then you are doing poorly...

The barkeeper, desperation etched across his face, pleaded with Enevar for understanding. "Please believe me!" he implored, acknowledging the inherent distrust associated with his profession. "Of course, you wouldn't easily believe me considering my profession, but please, she's too young and too dumb—please spare her..."

Enevar, seemingly unmoved by the barkeeper's plea, redirected the conversation pragmatically. "I need new bedsheets, and food," he stated, his gaze fixed on the spilled gruel staining the bed. "Normally, I would have ripped her tongue, but I would leave her alone intact as an incentive, and to prove to you I am not an unreasonable man."

The barkeeper, sensing an opportunity to rectify the situation, pledged immediate action. "Right away, I will bring you bedsheets and food immediately. We have good gruel here with lots of meat... so would you please let her go?" he requested, hoping to appease Enevar.

Enevar, releasing his grip on the woman's throat, acknowledged that their conversation was far from over. "We are not done yet, barkeeper; we still need to talk."

The barkeeper, heaving a sigh of relief, recognized the need for further discussion. "As an apology, how about I give you my name..."

Enevar, displaying his seasoned skepticism, questioned the sincerity of the gesture. "Not an alias? It's not like a random thief's name has any value, except to bounty hunters..."

The barkeeper, with a nod of understanding, offered insight into the significance of the gesture. "Yeah, and in my line of work, giving real names would mean sincerity," he explained, acknowledging the inherent value and weight that a name carried.

"Or a pissing contest of who can piss the farthest," Enevar retorted, employing a metaphor that hinted at the dubious honor among criminals—a subtle comparison of whose exploits could garner the highest bounty, and consequently, the most respect.

Unfazed, the barkeeper, now identified as Leland, offered his name. "My name is Leland," he revealed.

Enevar, maintaining his air of indifference, responded bluntly. "And I wouldn't even care."

With a resigned sigh, Leland ushered his niece out of the room. "See you later, mysterious old man," he bid, the door closing behind them.

Enevar listened and heard their steps going away. "Niece? I wouldn't be so sure about that... They looked too much alike... maybe a daughter..."