A pair of eyes flickered up beneath a heavy gray hood at the newcomer’s predicament, watching the escalating situation with an exasperated interest. The girl never should have taken off her hood. Pretty thing, and apparently pretty naive to boot. Well-made clothes and silver jewelry and a long, lustrous shock of red hair. Instant tavern fodder. She’d invited trouble from the moment she walked into the door.

Not your problem

The cloaked figure turned back to the bar and took a sip of the brewed acid the unwashed barkeep had the audacity to call ale. The figure’s other hand rested comfortably on the silver hilt of the sword concealed beneath. Mazdara, an old and trusted friend.

The only friend you’ll ever need.

One bar patron got too close, brushing up against the bar stool beside them. The drifter stiffened, the hand on the sword repositioning itself and ready to draw in a second’s notice. Eyes narrowed beneath the hood, and for an instant, a flash of crimson cut across the normally green iris.

The drunk mumbled an apology, before collapsing to the floor in a drunken heap. The hand relaxed, and the grip resumed its former position, the ball of the hilt resting in the palm of their gloved hand beneath the cape.

The bar didn’t exactly invite relaxation. Those that let their guard down were dead before they knew what hit them, and those were the lucky ones.

Friends like Mazdara were essential in places such as these.

The drifter took a moment to glance around the tavern. Bilimont’s Inn was a small hole in the ground; a haphazardly stacked hovel of rotting boards and slipping shingles that housed the countryside’s finest pickpockets, drifters, deserters, and general lowlifes for miles around. From the moment the stranger had set foot in the bar, the patrons had labeled them a drifter, and that suited the traveler just fine. Drifters were often seen as the most dangerous and the most predictable of travelers, and were usually left well enough alone.

The hut sported a few termite-ridden chairs and what could be only drunkenly called an excuse for ale, but it was a welcome respite from the snow. The traveler hadn’t wanted to stop, but there was little choice.

Heavy snow meant tracks. The drifter could not afford to make tracks right now, not when the others were so close behind.

They must be less than a day away now; I can’t afford to slow down now. Not when it’s so close.

The drifter shut their eyes, sighing deeply with exhaustion.

A touch at the shoulder. Would you be interested in the sacred gems of a lost city, sir? I have many special items that you may find of special interest-

Before the thief could finish his sentence, he found himself hauled forward by the collar and staring into a pair of very annoyed eyes, the color of dark bottle glass.

”Get your slippery paws off of my person, or I’ll use your intestines as a rope to hang you. I doubt anyone would miss a pickpocket,” snarled the voice from beneath the hood. With a shove, the frightened thief found himself released, and he hobbled back into the fray, hoping to find a less-guarded pocket with a less violent owner attached. If anyone thought to listen to the voice, they would have noted that the voice was calm and well spoken, carrying an almost musical lilt to it. Soft. Educated. Fortunately, very few people listened to each, especially in these troubled times. Having an education was not so much an asset in a place like this so much as a marker for getting one’s head bashed in.

The drifter sighed to themselves. One of the random oafs now had his paws around the girl, and was hauling her away from the bar despite her protests.

Not your problem. Keep your focus. You don’t need this trouble, now. You need to find a scout that knows the land and trade for some items, and you’ll never get them here if you blow your cover.

Out of the corner of the bright, sea green iris, however, the scene was sinking in. The figure could not help but feel a prick of irritation at the man’s advances. An already thin temper was waning thinner. Why were all men in the taverns either large, stupid, drunk, deaf, or an unfortunately common combination of all four? Women were a scarcity here, and those that were presence only had two uses, neither of which interested the drifter at the end of the bar.

The figure shook their head and took another sip of ale, grimacing at the taste and at the shouts that were beginning to escalate in the small, rotting walls of the tavern. The world is not your problem, not anymore.

"Let me go, you ape!" The girl's shouts were breaking over the already loud hum of the tavern. Can’t I get any peace?

Slamming the mug down on the counter, the hooded figure stalked to their feet and walked over to where Big, Tall and Stupid was molesting his newest victim. The oaf soon felt an impatient tap on his shoulder akin to a stab.

”Leave her alone."

The man glanced behind him. “The ‘ell you want? Wait yer turn. There’ll be plenny t’ go around.”

“I said, leave her alone.” The stranger spoke again from beneath the hood, but this time, a hint of steel carried in the tone.

The giant turned over to regard them, the whiskey on his breath enough to intoxicate a small army. The drifter nearly took a step back. “Mind yer business,” he snarled.

”As you wish.” Shrugging, the hooded character brought their knee up to embed itself in the small bit of flesh that sunk barely below the man’s impressive stomach.

The giant bellowed as if the gates of hell had been unleashed in his groin, gripping himself and releasing the girl immediately, who stumbled back with a look of surprise on her face.

"Yer gonna pay for that!" he managed to squeeze from his thick, spit-caked lips. The figure winced under the spray that emanated from the foul-smelling cavern of the peasant’s rotting mouth.

“I suggest you leave, before the night gets worse for you.” The man bellowed and grabbed a chair, smashing it against the edge of a table. The chair splintered upon counter, creating a series of sharp and splintered edges.

”All right, then.” A shrug, and the drifter drew their sword. The silver point caught the light, and a strange, thin song seemed to pierce the tavern’s thick clamor. Even the drunken fool seemed taken back a moment by the piercing swordsong, but alcohol had dulled his already dulled wits to prevent him from knowing when he was outmatched. The swordsman danced back a little as oaf swung, the powerful swipe’s path almost audible in the roar of the tavern. The sword cut through the crowded atmosphere, cleanly slicing the chair in two and leaving the man holding nothing but a wooden rail. The man was dumb, but strong. As the figure dodged, however, the hood fell back, revealing a pair of green eyes and a swath of long blonde hair that had been tucked into the folds of the long, gray cape.

Her cover was blown.

”Damn,” she muttered. The man was jawing the air like a fish out of water. Stepping forward, she pressed the blade beneath the fat slope of his gut. "All right, then. Tell me, guts in, or out?" Before the oaf could answer, she swiped her sword down the front of his generous middle, slicing his vest lacings. Laughter erupted as the man’s magnificent gut spilled over in layers of fat, draping his pants.

By now, the entire bar had stopped to watch the fight. She’d attracted more attention than she’d wanted in a year. Damn, damn, damn! You should have minded your own business!

The giant backed up, glaring at her with glazed, drunken hatred, his face red from ale and embarrassment. "No bitch bests me!" He lunged around the sword point, prepared to crush her skull with a single blow.

The young woman rolled her eyes aiming another kick at his ankles. The giant fell with a loud, shuddering thud that rumbled the glasses on the bar tables, spilling ale onto several laps.

The silver sword hovered hover his jugular, and a brown boot buried itself in the fat of his throat.

"First time for everything, you witless troll," she snarled, before swiping the sword back to strike him across the skull with the handle. The man’s head slumped to the side; he was out cold.

The young woman turned around to behold the spectators. "Anyone wants to follow me and try anything fancy, I’ve got plenty more left for all of you." A few men backed up. Narrowing her eyes, the young woman yanked her hood back over her head and stalked for the entrance. So much for a quiet night and a few hours sleep.

She caught the other girl's surprised eyes as she turned to leave, pausing in the doorway. "Are you coming, or did you change your mind about your would-be suitor?"

~*~*~*~*~