“Welcome! My friend, Welcome!” the chubby man, whom Beowulf knew as Rufous said as he approached him with arms open wide.

“That was one way to introduce someone”. Beowulf remarked with a faint smile. “It is good to see you Rufous”.

“Come! Come!” Rufous motioned with arms in a welcoming gesture. “And bring this man some mead”.

He always had been a bit too much enthusiastic, for as long as Azlan had known him, he had a tendency to get a bit too much into festivities.

“Beowulf, tell the men the tale of Galway in detail”, he said as Beowulf took a seat next to the throne.

“But Master, wasn’t Beowulf a wendigo?” one of the men asked.

“The battle of Galway took place long before he became a wendigo”, Rufous wasn’t lying per se, but as usual there was a lot of exaggeration in his statements.

“Please go on sire”, the audience seemed really on board with the idea.

Beowulf was no storyteller, but if they desired the truth, then so be it.

“The battle of Galway was a disaster. I made ill-fitted decisions that ended up endangering the lives of all who were present in the city. Instead of vacating the people from the rear entrance, I made a gamble, too over-confident in myself. And where did that take me? A broken arm, barely moveable legs and relying on luck, I struggled miserably for my life”, Beowulf was staring into his steel mug, filled with mead.

Azlan lifted his head back up and the whole audience had fallen silent, gawking at him.

He glanced at Rufous, who was at a loss for words.

“But I suppose there is no glory without struggle”, Beowulf tried to revitalize the atmosphere. “After all, what is gallantry without a dash of effort?”

“Hear, Hear!” Rufous said raising his bottle of wine. “Raise one for Beowulf, the humble warrior”.

Rufous played his part to salvage the situation.

And the bards resumed their music, with the atmosphere becoming somewhat cheerful again.

“You still don’t know how to enjoy a good tale”, Rufous sighed, sinking into his seat.

“And you’re still a terrible storyteller”, he replied. “Why glorify events that happened a long time ago?”

“However, you did indeed slay nineteen men”, he poured wine into his glass. “That much is a fact”.

“But there’s no need t-”

“Men need tales of grandeur and valor, my friend”, he cut Beowulf off. “So that they may hope for a better future”.

The chief brought the glass near his lips to take a sip.

“Still a romantic. You haven’t changed, Rufous”, Beowulf finished his mug of mead.

“I have changed quite a bit, I’ll have you know”, he motioned with his hand to tell Beowulf to bring his mug closer, so he could fill the empty thing with his wine bottle.

“How?” Beowulf replied with a pseudo-interest as he brought his mug closer to the bottle.

“Look at me and judge for yourself”, he instructed him to guess by his appearance.

“You’ve... put on some weight?” he guessed, unsure of himself.

“No it’s the hair style”, Rufous replied sarcastically as he poured the wine into Azlan’s mug. “Of course it’s the damn weight”.

“Normally you’d expect a person’s weight to decrease after assuming a title of such responsibility”, Beowulf took a sip of the wine, the sweet aroma enhancing its already rich taste.

It appeared someone had a good taste in wine.

That was to be expected, Rufous was a self-proclaimed gourmet after all.

“Forget responsibility and authority, all this title has given me is stress”, he picked up an apple from his side table. “And you know I’m a stress eater”.

Beowulf didn’t.

Not until now, at least.

“I don’t know how my predecessor handled all this”, Rufous sighed while taking a bite.

“Speaking of which, how is your predecessor... your elder brother?” It had been a while since Beowulf had last seen him.

“He’s alive, still sick”, he said absentmindedly. “The local pharmacists say he’s on his deathbed”.

“I see..” Beowulf replied.

“Would you like to pay him a visit?” he offered him.

“No”, Azlan gave an answer.

“Poor oldman, all alone with no one to visit him, only a maid to take care of him”, despite such words there was a distinct lack of sorrow in Rufous’ tone.

“What of his family”, Beowulf questioned.

“Uhh, his wife passed away some years ago, and the only family left is his son”, he said awkwardly. “Timid little fella, a bit of a disappointment to the household, to be honest and it worries me”.

“How so?” Beowulf was a bit intrigued, he had mostly probably seen him earlier at the courtyard.

“Well, he’s supposed to be the next in line after me but the kid doesn’t have any qualities of a leader and I only have a daughter”, he sounded exasperated. “And I have a request for you regarding that. Could yo-”.

The chief’s words faded into distance as Azlan felt molted daggers pierce his neck.

His hand immediately reached out to his neck... but there was nothing there. He hadn’t been stabbed.

Rufous stood up in a jolt, as if in respect, he was gazing at someone behind Azlan’s line of sight.

“Ah, we had another guest over tonight, sorry I couldn’t introduce you to her earlier”, Rufous explained hastily.

Beowulf turned his head to the other side.

“This is Lady Alwyna of Tearwood”, he gave an introduction.

The woman with the cyan colored earrings gave a smile.

“I didn’t expect to run into one of my kind here, even more so, someone such as yourself”.

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