For enormous, winged, fire-breathing, scaled beasts, dragons are rather good at remaining undetected. At least, the ones still alive are. Sir Charles the Relentless pushed on, crashing his way through the forest while cursing dragonkind's love of remote locations. His armor did little to ease his passage, causing him to sink into the soft earth. The forest was also far thicker than he had anticipated, undergrowth and saplings slowing his pace to a crawl. A small part of him thought the other knights may have been right; maybe swords did have their uses anyway. He shook the thought away, gently caressing the haft of his halberd. Polearms are better than swords, after all.
He had been tracking his current mark, a proud red dragon, for three months now, the telltale signs of draconic intervention as good as spoor to him. He had isolated the beast's location to Dorfenburg, a small trading village just south of the mountains. The village made its wealth by outfitting travelers and traders who sought passage through the mountains. Great wealth flowed through the area, though little of it stayed. Even still, it was said to be a comfortable village during the off-season, and a veritable bazaar during the warmer months. Many well-marked paths lead to the village, an artifact of its part-time status as a trading hub. Charles avoided these paths outright, deeming them "too obvious". Likewise, he eschewed a bestial mount, the added responsibility of feeding another creature "too inconvenient and expensive" for a man on a mission. Sure, it took him three times as long to travel, but as far as he was concerned, it meant that his foes were three times as surprised by his arrival. This dragon was as good as dead.
Hours of schlepping passed uneventfully as the sun traced through the sky. Nearing nightfall, the weary paladin finally drew within spotting distance of the village, though the low light precluded any attempts at early reconnaissance. Not wanting to enter town at night, covered in mud, he chose to make camp where he stood. Sleeping outside of armor was how one got assassinated, so he simply wrapped himself in a thick blanket and laid back against a tree. Come morning, he would need to clean himself off and procure food and lodging, but that could wait. For now, he decided on sleep.
Morning came, as it is wont to do, and was accompanied by the sounds of a knight furiously buffing his armor. With a groan and a stretch, he righted himself, inspecting his handiwork. In particular, he admired his ability to polish the back of his armor while still wearing it, yet another skill that put him above the other knights. He bet they even took their armor off. It was barely past dawn, yet he strode merrily -- and loudly -- into the village center, appraising the citizens and buildings alike. As always, he found it difficult to interact with the peasants. Every time he went to explain his glorious mission to anyone cautiously appraising him -- obviously curious about his holy quest -- they would slink off as though avoiding some kind of madman. Even when he followed, attempting to set straight the bill, they paid him no heed, hurrying off with haste. Obviously, they were simply in a hurry to return to their chores. Such hard-working people, he mused, as he stepped into a tavern.
The slight dinginess about the tavern mixed nicely with the soft light of morning and alcohol-assisted silence, giving the establishment a bit of a "homey" feel. Being a trading village, Dorfenburg was filled with taverns of all sorts, yet the lack of exterior ornamentation and central location marked this as the tavern of choice for the year-round residents. A perfect place to start an investigation. He clanked loudly into the tavern, taking a seat in the best-lit corner of the room. He sat patiently, clinking softly as he adjusted in his seat. A slow rustle coming from a room at the far end of the tavern drew his attention, announcing the arrival of the barmaid. She staggered in, obviously both annoyed at having been woken up so early and surprised that a patron would appear at such an hour. Despite her weary appearance, Charles was immediately drawn in by her beauty. Long red hair framed a gorgeous, porcelain-colored face. Her modest dress struggled to tie down her heaving chest and barely covered the wide sway of her hips. Soft green eyes peered at him from between errant strands of hair.
Her slow stagger halted abruptly when her eyes met his...helmet. She snapped awake quickly, confusion dragging her from her stupor. For a while, she simply stood there, as though questioning why an armored man with a polearm would be in a tavern scant minutes after sunrise. With a sigh, she straightened up, walking briskly towards the knight before inquiring how she may be of service. He laid out his needs in great detail, indicating what times he would need a place to sleep and what sorts of food were required for him to best complete his mission. Her face scrunched as she tried to keep track of his...specific demands, though her sagging expression showed her reluctance to continue enabling his madness. Her expression reversed, however, when he abruptly stopped talking and withdrew a small pouch and emptied its contents onto the table. While Charles' first paying job had been dragon slaying, the bar maid had a much more practical understanding of money. Coming to a total on-par with the tavern's annual income, she knew a deal when she saw it, scooping the money before he could change his mind and agreeing to his requests. The knight thanked her, carefully studying her curvaceous form as she went off to see to her tasks.
For Charles' part, he remained seated, waiting for more patrons to arrive. When food came, he ate; when drink came, he drank, but he never moved. Even as customers began to arrive as the sun was setting, he remained in his seat, watching the crowd, listening for rumors about dragons or other strange goings-on. As the drinking carried on, the crowd grew louder, making it difficult for him to make out individual noises. He considered drawing in closer, but decided to remain where he was and wait.
Hours passed and the revelry broke up, some choosing to return home, while others claimed spots throughout the floor or in private rooms for the night. It was now that he chose to begin his search. With surprising grace, he crossed the room, careful to not trample the drunkards. He scanned the room, picking out the least-intoxicated patron, and made his way over to begin questioning. The patron in question sat alone against the wall, nursing what was left of his drink while staring off into space. I gentle prod on the shoulder broke him out of his trance, directing his attention towards the gleaming tower of metal standing beside him. The man cried out in surprise, recoiling in panic. The knight spoke calmly, wary of the man's fear, and clearly introduced himself before explaining that he was looking for a dragon to slay. A brief physical description of said dragon followed, though it did little to alleviate the look of confusion upon his face. The paladin stared down his visor at the man, hoping draw out a response with a bit of intimidation. Unfortunately, the man could only stutter, a common theme whenever Charles would question common men about dragons. Obviously, he was too afraid of the dragon's retribution to reveal any information. The knight was moved by pity, assuring the man of his safety before searching for the next-most-sober person. It was going to be a long night.
Charles was about to abandon his efforts for the night, having exhausted the tavern's supply of semi-lucid drunk people, when a soft voice called to him from the kitchen. The tavern maid beckoned him to follow before retreating around the corner. He followed, trading the loud snores of variously incapacitated patrons for the soft crackling of the fire, still burning strong after a long day of preparing meals. His armor gleamed in the firelight, casting odd specs of light about the room. He took a seat near the fire when bidden, relaxing almost immediately after a long night of browbeating drunkards. Being a paladin was a hard job.
For a time, they both sat near the fire, enjoying the relative calm after the bustle of the evening. The lady spoke first, identifying herself as Elizabeth, daughter of the tavern's late proprietor. She claimed to have inherited the tavern after his death, being unwed and also the man's only child. Her mother had died of the plague years before, leaving her alone. She did not make enough to hire any assistants, which explained her near-constant presence. He questioned why she would tell him so much about herself unbidden, choosing to return the favor by drowning her in tales of his own exploits. She seemed to eat up his tales, the gleam in her emerald eyes assuring him of her genuine interest. For the first time he could remember, Charles had found an audience that enjoyed his stories of adventure and combat. He talked for hours, recounting nearly every event of his years on the road as she listened intently.
