The crumbling remnants of the ancient trade route known as Imperial Way remained heavily trafficked, even in these dangerous times. War refugees, wandering bands of elves, traders and even the occasional military patrol from the North passed along this flat stretch of land where, even centuries after it had last seen any maintenance, a few stones and one or two of the old Wayside Station buildings could be seen here and there.
With the traffic, the Hog & Horse Inn was an oft-frequented place, busy all times of day and night with dozens of customers. Since it was first constructed half a century ago, each of its owners had made a tidy profit in just a few years' time and then sold the place to retire in comfort. Each owner that was, until Darith Wayam. Darith genuinely loved the life of an Innkeeper, and he intended to stick to that profession for the rest o his life. Most of the time his young wife, Avera, was content in that knowledge. The work kept her so busy that she didn't have time to think about it.
The exception to this was winter. It was told that in the ancient days, before the Godfall, the Priests of the Sun-god Jordil in service to the great Gothrond Empire would travel Imperial Way all the way from its source at the hidden elf-lands to the great southern ports, calling upon Divine Light to melt away the snow and keeping the trade road open. But those days were long past; Jordil and many of his fellow gods were dead and gone, and the Gothrond Empire with all its glories nothing more than a memory.
In winter, Avera Wayam had no customers to keep busy, no duties to occupy her mind with. In winter, Avera Wayam was alone with her misery. Her husband and their employees were there, of course, but Darith Wayam was only interested in his wife when none of the barmaids would accompany him to the "secret" room he kept for his trysts... a room he had unwittingly revealed to her once when, too deep into his cups, he had mistaken her for a stranger and invited to the room. Her parents had assured her that the marriage to Darith would be a good one, for surely in just a few years he would retire a wealthy man and she would find herself living in one of the great walled cities of the North (if, in fact, those were anything more than myths born of history). But shortly after their wedding, Darith had made it clear to her that he intended to die an Innkeeper... and that she, therefore, would die an Innkeeper's wife and nothing more.
Mid-winter, when the days were short and the frigid nights long, was the worst. Avera sat staring into the hearth fire, which her husband insisted be kept bright and cheery at all times should a customer come calling, and tried not to cry. She had been considered the most beautiful girl in many generations in her home village; pale-skinned with raven-dark hair (evidence, she was told, that one of her ancestors had interbred with a barbarian of the Eastern Plains) and blue eyes. Her figure was lovely... firm, round breasts and well-rounded hips spoke of her ability to bear healthy children. She just couldn't understand why her husband didn't want to give her any. She was beginning to suspect that he enjoyed her misery.
Outside, she heard the sound of hooves and the jingle of harness, but these were not the sounds of the horses her husband and his men took when they left to hunt. These had the sound of larger horses, their hoof-falls sure and powerful. War horses. Rushing to the door, Avera looked outside and saw seven men such as she had never seen before. Hard-faced and cold-eyed, all of them bore scars from battle. Two of them were of half-elven blood, but lacked the characteristic fey beauty their kind was known for. All seven men wore battle armor and weapons, except one who sat wrapped in a midnight blue robe, an orb that seemed to be filled by a tiny storm within floating by his left shoulder. Avera had seen mages before, of course, but rarely did they travel with such company.
But it was the leader of this band that she was drawn to. She knew him to be the leader because she had seen mercenary units and adventuring bands aplenty in her time as an Innkeepers wife. She knew the way that deference was paid to the one who led safely through danger, whether that person bore an official rank or not. These men spoke with thick accents, but she understood them still, and knew that this man was called by his name, not by any rank. "Thedrun" she whispered to herself.
