The Wounder Warrior was truly the best tavern in the town of Perry. It had creaky stairs, cobwebs that glistened in the moonlight, drunks that could hold their bladders better than their drinks and the best soup Dartelo had tasted in days.

'To be fair, this is the only tavern and I haven't eaten all day,' he reminded himself.

After he had gone down with Siem, the two had gotten themselves some soup, sat down on a table that looked as if it hadn't been cleaned in days and eaten like mad dogs. The soup was called Weary Warrior's Delight. According to the tavern master, it was a delight, because as a warrior, having any food at all was a delight.

"But then why is it called weary? Is it because the warriors were tired of battle?" Dartelo had asked.

The blind old man had turned his face in the general direction of the teenager, and with a wicked smile, said, "Because when you have it often enough, you'd wish the battle never ends if all you'd get is this sorta soup."

Dartelo looked at the grinning old man and wanted to ask what was in the soup, but then had thought better of it and had joined the waiting Siem to find themselves a table. The hour being as late as it was meant that even the usual drunks had gone home by now. The two wooden bowls sat, as empty as their stomachs had been a short while ago.

Dartelo looked towards a big table, placed in one of the corners near the fireplace. Lord Alfors sat in a chair, slices of herb bread sitting in a plate in front of him. A surviving member of the escort was on each of his sides, but directly in front of him, an enormous man was seated.

The stranger looked as if he weighed at least half as much as Dartelo's horse. His body was so huge that it was a wonder the chair hadn't given up and crumbled underneath its force. The man was gesturing erratically, beads of sweat streaking down his neck. His fat fingers were each adorned with at least one ring, and even under the fireplace's bleak light, they would shine and catch one's eye. His robes were a light shade of blue, with odd figures sown into them here and there.

'Some poor tailor probably had to cut a great big hole in the sky to get enough material for robes as big as those.' Dartelo thought, the absurdity of the idea eliciting a laugh which he barely smothered.

Siem, who had been busy picking at his fingernails with a short dagger, looked up at him disapprovingly, and scolded, "Watch it. Do not cross those you know nothing about, just because of their looks."

Dartelo silently nodded, hoping it would appease his teacher, before he once again looked towards Lord Alfors' table, hoping to catch a glimpse or maybe even hear a bit of the conversation.

Lord Alfors himself would at this moment give away all of his worldly possessions just to be rid of the stranger that was somehow managing to talk, eat and drink without taking a single breath in-between. 'I wonder if all of those rumors about how decadent rich people are came about after a lot of people met dear Sir Loras...'

Sir Loras was the stranger sitting in a chair opposite him. While he was technically an aristocrat, his title was that of a Reserve Iorissian Knight and, seeing as the day when the Kingdom of Ior would stoop as low as to call upon his services had not and probably would not come, Sir Loras was in a jam. If a Iorissian Knight was never called to fight in defense of the kingdom, his title would die with him. This was the reason behind his sudden appearance at the tavern, a mere half an hour after the group had wandered in.

Suffice it to say, Loras was not a man of noble upbringing, nor did he have any good characteristics that one could readily note. What the man did have was the most insatiable greed Lord Alfors had ever seen. Whether it be money, jewelry, lavish clothes, food or drink, it was obvious that Loras had amassed or indulged in all of them. And very heavily at that. But the one thing that the man had obviously not yet gathered in his palm was the good favor of a true nobleman. And that good favor might mean his son could keep their title, and with it – control over Perry Township.

While Lord Alfors would normally have nothing to do with the talking blob that was hastily devouring the only suitable food in the tavern, he was short of luck and, more importantly, short of men. 'Oh well, beggars can't be choosers I guess,' the noble sighed mentally.

"Sir Loras, you were saying something about mercenaries?" Lord Alfors casually remarked.

"Why yes I was, my lord. I was just about to remark how there are a few mercenary groups, which I keep in contact with for dire needs, that would be honored to serve at your side. Their rates are, of course, not abysmally high and while they may not be the type of folk we may view as..., cultured, all of them are good at what they do. Just say the word and I shall immediately send a messenger. The closest group lives in a town half a day away from here." Loras explained, his sausage-like fingers resting on his gigantic belly.

"I'd hoped we could make the journey on our own, but circumstances being what they are, I'll have to trouble you." Alfors said, his face contorted with feigned rage. Only those that had been by his side for years would know that he seldom let his actual emotions leak out.

The chair underneath Sir Loras moaned as the gigantic "knight" sat up. "As you wish, my lord, I shall get to it right away. If you need anything at all, just ask a watchman to notify me and it shall be arranged."

"Indeed. Have a pleasant evening, Sir Loras. I shall hope for pleasant news in the coming days."

The round man bowed and then hastily made his way out of the tavern. Dartelo had been watching all along, but since he had only had a few lessons with Siem, he could only understand a couple words that the two had exchanged.

Lord Alfors, having finished his dinner, sent off one of the guards and soon he had returned with glasses of ale, one placed in front of everyone present, except for Dartelo.

"Tonight, my men, let us drink for those who are no longer among us." Lord Alfors said, as for once a genuine expression appeared on his face. He seemed truly saddened by the losses they had sustained. "May they rest eternally in the glory of Ior. To the fallen!"

The soldiers lifted their glasses and one after another repeated his words.

To the fallen. To the fallen...

"Siem, do you know who that man was?" Dartelo asked, after things had finally quieted down.

His teacher downed the last of his ale before answering. "Probably the person in charge of Perry. Lord Alfors wouldn't meet with anyone less."

"But then, why did he meet with him at all?" the lad wondered.

"He didn't meet with him, it's the other way around." Siem said, as he contemplated another glass of ale. "If you run a small township like this, somebody like our Lord passing through is no different than the gods ascending from heaven."

Dartelo pondered upon this for a while, before thanking Siem and going back up to the second floor. He was dead tired. Dzherbon was just leaving their room, finally free to go have some dinner. He looked at the half-asleep young lad, snickered, and wished him a good night's rest. As Dartelo was tucked underneath a warm blanket, one last thought passed through his head before he finally fell asleep.

'To the fallen.'