World's Tale: Royalty and The Dragon

Chapter Two: The Mountain People

Wrego had always been a relatively peaceful village. Nothing special ever happened, nobody new ever came to stay and rarely anybody came to visit. Most of the time they'd have people passing through, directed to the other side of the mountains, where the Alon empire ended and Thalas began.

It had been long ever since the two countries were at war, decades even, which made it easier for the common people to safely cross the border without fear of being arrested or killed by the soldiers of each respective realm. Nobody but themselves could defend them from the brigands, thieves and bandits that kept the roads under close control, though.

The only thing the villagers really proud of, there in Wrego, was their festivals during the summer period, one at the start and one at the end of the season. The village was probably one of the lasts that still remained true to the traditions of asking the deities for a prosperous summer: no dryness of the soil, no sicknesses, a new healthy year for the younger ones.

It so seemed that it was going to be yet another incredibly sunny day.

Summer revealed itself to be a truly unforgiving season even for the mountain people, yet, despite the scorcher, everyone seemed in a frenzy. People running to the inn, then to the mayor's house and then a last stop to the storage. Rinse and repeat. Carrying boxes and barrels from the mildly ruined construction to the restructured inn, the Boar's Inn, they called it. Even some of the village's weakest and thinnest old women were participating in the rush, which really left little to imagination as of why people were this.. Anxious.

Sitting to the side of the Inn, basking in the shadow that the mountain cast upon them, there were a couple villagers.

A group of four men collected around a small table, their pints resting right on it. All of them, no exception made, were wearing ragged clothes, not even the clumsy mending could hide the holes near the bottom of their pants anymore. The shoes, the only part of their clothing that wasn't completely ruined were a mean as any other to mask from people's eyes their cut up socks.

It were things like these that usually reminded travelers why Wrego was known as one of the poorest outer villages of the domain. Not to mention the run down houses, the measly crop fields just past the village or the kids that appeared so thin a stranger would think they were underfed.

Despite the misery and the constant struggle of the people of Wrego, it was a humble happy village, the folks living there were able to bring out the positive from everything.

The tallest man of the group of four took a sip from his pint and ran his hand through his short, messy red hair. The freckles on his cheeks made the man seem like one of the men of the North. He was also extremely grumpy, and sometimes too aloof, for someone his age.

This man would be Rohan, one of the hunters.

Once he'd finished savor his drink, he dried his beard on his own, dirty, shirt "Wasn't that stupid convoy supposed to come in hours ago?" he mumbled nervously.

"Aye, 't was" answered loudly another one of the group, Phill. Out of the four, Phill would be the youngest one, just recently having entered adulthood on his twenty-first birthday. Nevertheless, in that village far away from everything, and everyone else, the adults had allowed young Phill to start drinking with them years afore that.

A small man he was. So small that'd be often teased for his height, but adored by kids because they considered him an older brother, there was no one he was incapable to befriend.

"I betcha those royal suckers went back to Lence days ago" roared Rohan again, clenching his fist and hitting the table as hard as he could immediately after.