The crisp night air blew a swath of amber leaves through the air, twisting and gliding past the bushy face of a hooded figure. He carried a large battle-axe that rested between his broad shoulder and his thick muscular neck.
He carried a lantern that lit the dim woods ahead of him. He would need to stop for the night soon, and according to his map, he was nowhere near a settlement.
Which caused him great confusion when he noticed a soft warm glow in the woods ahead, something he knew meant people. He wandered toward the light, and soon enough found himself standing in the hamlet of a small village. This village was definitely not on the map, an oddity considering how many people seemed to live here. The men of the village waived happily at the hooded figure, as he walked towards the building labeled the CookPot Inn.
Opening the door he was greeted by a warm crackling fire, and quaint accommodations that spoke to a friendly atmosphere. The goblin wench behind the counter welcomed him promptly.
"Welcome to the Cookpot in, do you have a reservation?"
He explained his plight to the woman, and asked if there was room for walkups.
"Of course, of course. We can get a room ready for you right away, your name?"
He took his hood off, exposing his very handsome and squared-off face. Ragnar, the famous warrior of bridgewood peak, responsible for felling the etherdragon. He was tall and thick and strong like an oak tree, with hairy muscular limbs that spoke to a lifetime of strength. He flashed his white teeth in a grin, which complemented his silver eyes, something that tended to get him what he wanted.
"Woah, *The* Ragnar? We'll give you our finest accommodations, then. We want to take very good care of our special guests."
Ragnar couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic or not, but he thanked her for her kindness.
"While we prepare your chambers, please feel free to enjoy our tavern. And here, take this:"
The woman handed him a wooden block with a stockpot painted on it.
"Give this to the bartender at the tavern, he'll see to it that you're well taken care of. Now, why don't you hand over your gear and your weapons, and we'll see them to your room."
While Ragnar didn't like the idea of giving his axe up, he didn't want to be rude, particularly when these folks had been so kind to him. And, seeing as he was on the road all day, a free meal in the tavern did sound nice, so he complied. Handing over his weapons, and walking toward the tavern to which the inn was connected.
It seemed somewhat busy tonight, with men of all kinds sitting around the bar and in the booths, enjoying mead and various cured meats. Their attention focused on Ragnar as he approached the counter and set the block he'd gotten from the inn in front of the bartender.
The barkeep in question was a rather large and muscular Orc, who looked Ragnar up and down, before opening his mouth to speak.
"Ahhh... I see... Special VIP here, everyone. Looks like he's getting the royal treatment."
Something about that phrase felt foreboding to him. Royal treatment? He was nervous, was he about to get jumped?
His heart skipped a beat when a mug of frothy mead, and a large plate of cured meats and cheese was placed in front of him.
"Here, on the house. Help yourself."
The barkeep's gruff demeanor was cracked by a smile. Maybe there was nothing to worry about. Besides, Ragnar was the strongest warrior in the land, even unarmed. If these men wanted to do something to him, he could take them no problem.
