DRACONIC LEGACY

Everyone agreed to testify that the young man came from the south, from behind the Everfrost rift, when it was already evening and the snow was falling quite heavily. The guard patrolling the post at the village gate saw his figure since crossing the frozen lake of Wayrun at a moderate pace, leading his horse to the bridle. The biting cold seemed not to touch him. He asked the four patrolling soldiers for permission to enter the village, in polite common language although his accent sounded foreign, not northern, nor was it an Orlessian or Concordian nasal one. Even though they had been inspected back and forth from head to toe, the four of them could not immediately guess where the slender and quite tall young man came from, not from his thin coat sprinkled with snow-white grains, or Summeris' horse he was leading. They were only told that he was a wanderer as well as a blacksmith's apprentice, and needed a place to stop for the night. Although not forgetting also from their supervision, on his back hung a pair of swords, In the end, the four guards didn't see any potential danger from the young man before them after their brief conversation. After all, who would try to do things in this kind of weather that could suddenly deteriorate? Even mountain bandits would think twice, then the foreign youth was allowed to enter the village by the four guards. After all, gold was still gold, not to mention the 50 gold Florens coins from a stranger they could divide by four. With a snobby sentence, one of them warned the young man not to cause trouble, while his three colleagues were huddled with broad grins in the corner of the patrol post. They even forgot to ask the foreign youth's name. The residents of Hauger, or rather the drunks who packed a tavern called Hearthwench, had seen the young foreigner tread the thick layer of snow that had piled up the empty main road, had stopped in front of the tavern and seemed to be about to enter. However, then he gave up his intention and resumed his journey. The village of Hauger was not far from the eastern foothills of the Hrothgarr Mountains, a mountain of eternal ice that pierced the sky like a colossal embankment, stretching along with the northern plate of the Ivarise continent.  But at this hour, darkness and frost had shrouded its peak. There were no more open blacksmiths or craftsmen that nomads usually came to during their layovers, it was not unusual for the owners of the workshops and shops in the market to roll up their blankets with their wives. The streets are quiet. The young wandering youth stopped only when he arrived in front of a tavern and inn much smaller than Hearthwench. The Foxhound's name was imprinted on an ageing board, in faded-painted letters, which had snow on the rusty bars. It's obvious that if it's not as popular as Hearthwench, the place is simpler and less crowded. The innkeeper slowly raised his nearly bald head over the vat of pickled cucumbers and measured the young man with his gaze as he stepped inside. The foreign youth, still draped in his black coat, stood stiffly at the counter, motionless and still.  "What do you want to drink?" bargain with origin. “Is Gingeroot available?” replied the young man, his voice tired. "Or give me a glass of Berrywine if you have one." He continued after the owner of the tavern and inn half booed him from behind the counter. “In the north, we don't usually serve children's drinks. The only one that can match the biting cold in the evening, or the warmth of the embers of a fireplace—” "Berrywines then." The foreign youth cut in politely. He also faced the frowning face behind the counter with an even expression. The innkeeper wiped his stocky hands on the tattered canvas apron he was wearing and filled his chipped earthenware glass with Berrywine while continuing to mutter quietly to his young guest, though this was complemented by a small smile from under the hood across the counter. The young man was aware of the unwanted stares from the occupied tables of the shop, provoked by the loud interaction between the two. A glimpse of evil that measures and embarrasses. The young foreigner put down a piece of 2 Florens in exchange for a large glass of Berrywine which he brought to one of the tables. He chose not to sit at the table with some of the other guests. As he took off his coat, those around him noticed that he was carrying a sword -- not something unusual really, since nearly everyone in Ivarise carried a weapon -- but no one carried a sword strapped to his back, as if it were a bow or bow. arrow. Especially if it's a pair.  Underneath his coat was a sleeveless brown leather jacket, with metal plates sewn along both shoulders, looking quite new in the color, made by Dwarves in the style of the collar and print ornaments embossed on the leather surface. The chainmail armor covering his body was the purest and most beautiful piece of Mythril metal they had ever seen, silver as clear as a mirror. The villagers realized that even Jarl Orkhost, the little noble who ruled this area, didn't even wear such fancy chainmail. Likewise, the pair of gauntlets worn by the young man is no less beautiful. The right one has a shell similar to the shape of a dragon's head, while the left is accented with pointed teeth on the back of the arm. Black like a moonless night decorated with gold strokes. Like the look in his black eyes, which radiated innocence and tenderness, to the village people who were watching with various intentions in their dishevelled heads. The simple expression masks the instincts of the wolf, which is always on the lookout in the mind, crowned with a shoulder-length brown reshuffle. He remained calm as a drunkard took his place on the stool across from his table roughly, with a rough knock of earthenware on the table ahead, while two fatter and fatter people took the table next to them. "Don't start any trouble, Klos!" From behind the counter, the tavern owner warned nonchalantly, though his head almost sank into the pickle jar. "Oh, come on. Don't be such wenches, Ernst." An answer with a foul mouth mixed with beer wafted out from across the table. The wandering youth stirred. “We just wanted to get acquainted with…with this young Master,” Klos pretended. "It's up to you, anyway. I'm not joining in." Ernst chimed in. “So what brings you to this remote village of Hauger, Young Master? Especially since it's winter." Klos turned and asked. The foreigner took a sip of his Berrywine calmly then set his cup on the table, responding with a curt grin at the corners of his lips. Even though he was young, he quite understood that the question that came out of this rotten mouth in front of him was just small talk, while wondering how much money he had. "I'm looking for an inn for the night." The young man answered. He looked down, seemingly aware of how many people were guessing the contents of his money bag. "There is none!" grumbled the innkeeper, busy with his pickled cucumbers, feeling that this guest might bring more trouble than Florens' chips. "Just look it up in Hearthwench, I don't have guests." Ernst returned, half shooing away. "However, I am more interested in staying here. I can pay the same price as at Hearthwench.” "There is none. Anyway, finish your Berrywine and find a place to stay. I don't need trouble from strangers." The innkeeper finally recognized the foreign youth's accent. He must be from Eos, a kingdom located in the west of the continent. And it seemed that he wasn't the only one who had noticed this. Anxious faces were watching from the corners of the tavern. After all, why on earth are people from Eos coming to Hauger, which is in this remote northern corner of Nord'ahrum, at the foot of the Hrothgarr mountains, while their own country is in turmoil and horizontal conflict? "I can pay double." The young man chimed in again, this time turning to the innkeeper. “No vacant rooms. Have you heard of that bastard from Eos?” A pockmarked man sitting at the table next to him got up and approached. Two of his comrades rose to follow behind him, no more than two steps apart. The foreign youth seemed surprised at the rudeness he had just received. He glanced calmly at his caller, but a hand slowly slipped under the table. "Do we know each other, gentlemen?" he reprimanded, limited to pleasantries because he was mentally prepared. The pockmarked man in front of him barked again, now standing tall next to the young man. “We don't need strangers like you in Hauger. It's a quiet village!” The pockmarked man continued, his breath smelling beer and garlic and anger. “Did you hear, bastard? Who sent you here? Just confess!” "I think you misunderstood me or recognized me as another person." "Nonsense! So you come into the middle of bad weather like this without any meaning, you say? Let's just say, you're a bounty hunter, aren't you? How many members do you have outside the village? Who are you hunting for?” The foreigner didn't answer, just gave a short grin with an astonished look at the drunkard who suddenly bothered him. He got up and took his glass, and headed for the counter. He glanced at the innkeeper who was trying to avoid his gaze.