A boisterous clamour of inebriated misconduct filled the lively tavern. Liquid spilled from mugs and heresy from lips. The heady aroma of spilled spirits mingled with the tang of sweat, telling a tale of indulgence thick in the air. The intoxicating liquor was a powerful poison flowing through veins and minds alike as an active advisor of rowdy delight. A long day, having come to an appreciative end had loaded this small village tavern with tired patrons looking for a respite from work or cognitive responsibility.


    A young man sat in a shadowed corner of the establishment, golden ichor sloppily dripping from his unkempt beard. His short, wiry frame was cloaked in an oversized mantle, a vast dark green expanse of thick flax draping over his shoulders. The garment was loosely buckled at the collar with an iron emblem depicting a flaming sword, its burning tongues forming the silhouette of a pine tree. Solitary at his table, the man''s only companions were two imposing maces, one black and one white, resting within arm''s reach.


    The young man cradled a large mug of tasteful liquor; he kept the mug close like a precious lover he refused to release. With his free hand, he clumsily scrawled into a small, battered journal, the pen wobbling in his unsteady grasp. His writing was hardly legible, and its contents were even less trustworthy as his slipping consciousness riddled the pages with hyperbole and undue extravagance. Frankly, it was impressive enough that he could even manage to keep hold of his pen in his current state.


    The young man''s already fragile concentration shattered as another patron plopped heavily into the seat across from him, the flimsy wooden chair protesting with a loud, creaking squeal. Blinking blearily, the drunkard turned his gaze to the intruder, struggling to piece together details through the haze clouding his mind.


    The newcomer was an older man, both tall and broad, his substantial frame layered with the unmistakable definition of toned muscle beneath his bulk. His flushed cheeks hinted at a few drinks of his own, though the older man still carried himself with far more composure than the young drunkard. However, what truly grated on the inebriated man''s nerves was the smug, mischievously punchable grin plastered across the guest''s face.


    The guest spoke before the drunkard could shoo him away. "You know, my pa was once a merchant and he did take us ''round the whole country for his work." The older man took a long sip of his own ale that he had brought with him before continuing. "I like to thinks me as a little more educated than yer average small town folk I do."


    The irritable intruder snatched the drunkard''s journal, flipping it around to read, but made little progress as the drunkard quickly yanked it back, clutching it close to his chest.


    Unfazed, the guest continued, "I even know how to read, believe it or not. Can even write meself, though not so good, I''ll admit. Still, even if I do pride meself on me readin, I will do say I cannot for the life of me read whatever in hell you been writin there."


    The drunkard sneered at his guest with an unamused expression. The sneer sent a shroud of noxious breath that forced the guest to wave his hand in a frail attempt at dispelling the foul stench of alcohol.


    The older man took another sip from his own drink and carried on. "As an experienced travelin'' man as meself, I got me the privilege of not only hearin ''bout the world, but to see it as well ya understand. So, whereas many of the nice folk ''round these parts had heard of the big spooky Clotted Forest Mercenaries and hope never ta see the blokes, I get the privilege to see ya green cloak and emblem and know that they already have."The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    The drunkard took a deep gulp, draining his mug, and was about to rise when his guest raised a hand to stop him. The young man froze half out of his seat, and the guest signalled down a waitress, who promptly refilled the mug. The young drunk warily jumped from cup to annoying stranger and finally decided to sit back down.


    The old man continued. "Now a part of bein'' so worldly ya see, means I ain''t goin'' to play part as some closed-minded ignorant small-town kid ya hear? That ain''t me, no sir. Ya see, I think people can be people, and ya shouldn''t judge a book by its cover or a man by his emblem. My pa taught me that. Smart man he was."


    The older man nodded in reminiscence and took another swig, "Though I ain''t gonna judge on no first impression, I do lean on to judge on an impression ya hear? And I''d feel a lot safer with a name friend. Of course, I don''t think it fair to take and not to give. My name''s Praetor."


    Praetor extended his hand, waiting for a handshake that never came. The drunkard did not even acknowledge the extended hand. Instead, he tucked his journal into an inner pocket of his leather armour.


    After a long pause, the drunkard finally spoke, but Praetor had to strain to make sense of anything beyond the incoherent slurring and stumbling words. "Ish shnot parr ah those shtphid clotted morons anshymo."


    Praetor tried to hide his laughter by taking another sip of his drink; this young man was much further gone than Praetor had expected. He wondered if the young man might not even be able to maintain consciousness in his inebriated state. Despite his borderline incoherent state, the young drunk still plowed through his cup, swiftly finishing his new mug and hailing the waitress for another refill.


    Praetor replastered an overcompensating false grin on his face as he continued his not-so-subtle interrogation. "It''s good to hear that ya no killer no more, but I''d still feel better with a name."


    The drunkard glanced down at the liquid flowing from the waitress''s jug into his mug. He chuckled, then grabbed the mug and replied. "Chu ryly no hoawh to bribe ah mun. num Mulct."


    It was quite the challenge to decipher the drunkard''s words, so he had to check for confirmation. "Ya said yer name was Mulct?" With an affirmative grunt, Praetor now knew who he was interrogating. "So, what brings a mercenary-" the drunk glared, and the old man corrected himself, "Sorry, ex-mercenary to this here peaceful town?"


    “I''n un knosh, mabe kansh find shumshpliche quiet to wrier mi buk.”


    "Yer writin'' a book, are ya? Is it about yer'' ventures with the Clotted Forest Mercenaries?" Mulct lost himself in the swirling dew within his cup. Praetor felt like he could practically see the man''s mind walk away from reality into its own little bubble. "Well Mulct, I can tell ya I''m glad to hear yer not here to cause no trouble ''round here. We''d be happy to have an author in our little community we do, though ye wouldn''t be findin'' yerself many readers in this town." Praetor chuckled at his own comment. A few patrons who had been listening in from a table over also caught themselves laughing at the joke. One hollering a jovial protest.


    Praetor finally stood up, taking the final gulp to finish his mug of ale. "Well, sorry for the interrogation, ma friend, but I just had to check that you weren''t another dirty savage, ya know? But ya seem like a kind fellow, glad that yer able to come back to civilized society. I wish ya tha best."


    The old man then nudged the drunk for some friendly ribbing, "Maybe ya can even find yerself a nice woman to settle down with now. I heard that since they''re next to no dames in mercenary groups, that they all a bunch o'' disgustin fruits."


    Praetor began to walk away, feeling fairly good about his encounter with the stranger. He made his way back toward his friends, waving to a waitress for another refill when he suddenly felt a force slam into his back. Mulct had thrown his whole body into the attack, tackling Praetor to the ground. "What the he-"Praetor''s shout was cut off by a fist slamming into the back of his head. Mulct packed quite a punch for such a short man, and he didn''t stop at just one. He rained down heavy blows onto the stunned Praetor. Only three strikes in, and Praetor was knocked unconscious, bloody cracked skull leaking onto the establishment floors.