Rowan Greye swirled the ale in his cup discontentedly. It wasn’t very good ale. It was too strong, on the point of being spoiled. But what more could he expect from a place like this? The tavern Rowan was in was called “The Buttery Bride,” located in Athelon, the capital of Paenor. What the name meant, Rowan didn’t know, and didn’t desire to. It was a grungy place, with low ceilings, next to no lighting—save the sputtering fire in the hearth, whose smoke just make it harder to see, as the building had no chimney— and folk that weren’t the most pleasant. On some days, the place filled to the brim with refugees, street toughs, soldiers, and escaped convicts. The Buttery Bride served as a refuge for all kinds of people. The tables and chairs had seen many years of wear, some stained with the drinks and blood spilled during brawls started by soldiers enraged by their poor luck over dice. That, however, was what this tavern did have going for them. A man could always find a game of dice, here. And that’s exactly what Rowan was looking for. A grizzled deserter from the Kederin War in the east handed Rowan the dice in a beaten wood cup, and Rowan swirled them around, listening to them rattle. “What are we betting on this throw, boys? I’d bet 4 irons each that this throw comes up with all 5 kings showing.” Rowan said with a cheeky smirk on his face as he nudged the man to his left with his elbow. “Foive kings, Row’n? Oi’d bet me heart that ye’ll get less than two, Oi’d say.” The man grunted in his strange western accent as he pushed Rowan’s elbow away. Rowan remembered that the man’s name was Herek. Rowan had diced with him earlier in the week. The men around the table urged Rowan to finally roll the dice, and Rowan blew a lucky breath on the cup as he rolled. The worn wooden dice, painted white with the knife on one side, the king on the other, and dots numbering two through five on the others, tumbled from the cup and onto the table with a clatter. The men watched intently as the dice stopped and showed an entire set of 5 kings. The gamblers stared in shock and began grumbling as Rowan scooped in the money they had betted against him. “Boi the Noightwatcher’s bloody bloide, how’d ye do that, man?” Herek growled as he stared at Rowan underneath furrowed eyebrows. The other men turned to Rowan and asked the same question, growing skeptical and much more angry. “It was when you blew on the cup, wasn’t it? You had the dice in your mouth, you filthy cheater!” A man shouted at Rowan as he stood up, banging the table and sloshing some drinks. Rowan stayed in his chair, and shrugged, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I just get lucky sometimes,” Rowan said slowly. “So do all of you. Most of you were here when when Bandarb over there got the 4 rolls of all knives, remember? Well, I guess that’s unlucky, but that’s not the—” Rowan felt a cold length of metal press against his throat, cutting him off mid-sentence. “Tell us how ye do it, laddie, or Oi’ll gut ye loike a peeg.” Herek growled through gritted teeth, gently pressing the meat knife to Rowan’s skin to remind him that it was there. By now, all eyes in the tavern were on him and Herek. The barkeep, a stout old man with hands calloused from years of beating his rowdier customers, held a shard of a broken bottle in his hand, ready to intervene if things went south. Rowan duly noted that the barkeep would be unlikely to reach him in time before Herek skewered him. Rowan thought through his options carefully. He had a knife up each sleeve, tucked in both boots, and one nestled in the small of his back, but he didn’t want to make a move for any of them just yet. He would have to stall, and make a move when Herek wasn’t paying attention. It would be a shame to kill Herek. He was good at cards, when not filled with liquor. But that was the nature of bar fights at The Buttery Bride. Rowan had only ever killed two people, and he would never forget the sight of their faces as they died in his arms. Rowan sighed, accidentally letting the blade nick his throat. A drop of blood formed there, and trickled down his throat like an ant climbing on his skin. It tickled, but Rowan ignored it. Right now, his life was at stake over dice. “Ye got foive seeconds before Oi chop ye neck out!” Herek shouted. Rowan raised his hands slowly, and Herek hesitantly moved the knife away. “All right, all right, I’ll tell you. But I didn’t switch the dice when I blew on the cup. That was just misdirection. You see, I hid a fake cup in my trousers, where I…” Rowan explained as he slowly leaned to reach for his left boot knife. He continued to ramble about weighting the dice and other gibberish and gestured grandly with his right hand, keeping the other gamblers distracted while he slowly slid the blade from its sheath on the inside of his boot. “…and when the stars of the Great Boar hang over your home, you need to dance the sacred dance around the dice to enchant them with the power of luck. It’s really quite complicated. See, you’re not supposed to dance the sacred dance with clothes on, and you have to have 5 barmaids with—-” Rowan was cut off by the door to the Buttery Bride creaking open, letting in the cold spring breeze and a spray of rain. A solitary man stood there, silhouette illuminated by the glow of the moon behind him. He stepped in slowly, absorbing the amazed gazes of the men at the tables. Many of the men here had seen battle, but Rowan wouldn’t call them soldiers. Not like this man. This was a soldier. Rowan noted that he was in full armor, but bore no colors of any Paenori lord that Rowan knew of. In fact, they bore no colors at all. The warrior sat down at the bar next to poor Yeri Tronger, who blushed and scooted a seat away. The barkeep snapped out of his trance and immediately went to serve the soldier. Everyone watched, breaths held tightly. “What variety of drink would you like, my lord? The Buttery Bride serves the finest craft brown ale in all of Paenor! May I interest you in a cup?” The barkeep said, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple. He wasn’t used to dealing with such fancy folk. “I’m not a lord, thank you. But I will do one of those brown ales, in as big of a mug as you can get.” The lord said in a strangely feminine voice. Rowan wondered if the visor on the man’s helmet was distorting the way he spoke, but then he removed the helmet. Long, silky brown hair tumbled away from the woman’s helmet as she pulled it away and set it on the table. Her hair rolled down past her shoulders in gentle curls, and it framed a very…not male face. No, this warrior was certainly no lord. A lady, perhaps? Rowan didn’t know why he hand’t guessed it before. The woman’s breastplate was clearly made to allow room for a more womanly build. She was notably Kederin, with her golden tan skin, and her close-set slanted eyes. Those eyes were dark brown, and to Rowan they were pools of beauty that a man could drown in and die happy. She had a delicate nose and a strong jawline, and full lips that seemed to think something was always a tad funny, with the way they perked upwards in the corners. He was immediately in love. The woman gestured at the barkeep, who had re-entered his shocked trance, and he scuttled off to find some “craft” ale. Really, the stuff tasted like paint lacquer. At the barkeep’s disappearance, the tavern returned to a semi-regular state. Men continued gambling and drinking, but many shot a wary glance or two towards the tantalizing woman in the armor, sitting alone at the bar. “Ye were tellin’ a tale of how ye tricked us with those doice of yers, lad. Finish it up quick, Oi don’t wanna gut ye with a loidy in the room. Just give us our money back once ye finish this story. Moighty good one, at that.” Herek murmured to Rowan as he slipped his meat knife into his pocket. Rowan did the same, slipping his boot knife back into its sheath as he sat down. Peace, for now. “So what I was saying, with the five barmaids, you need to…” he trailed off as a barmaid happened to walk by carrying a tray of drinks, and she glanced at them suspiciously. A man across the table from Rowan pinched her rear, and she squeaked, slapped his hand away, and hurried on to deliver the drinks to the proper table. Rowan frowned and turned back to his story. “And with the barmaids, you need to—oh never mind, there’s another one coming. They’ll gang up and flog me if they hear what this sacred dance requires.” Rowan complained halfheartedly as another barmaid strode by. The men, seeming to catch on to what Rowan was insinuating, let slow smirks spread across their faces. Rowan tried to move past the topic before the men’s imaginations got out of hand. Really, all the dance required was a single kiss from each, but Rowan let the men dream. [spoiler]I appreciate if you read all this, let me know what you thought. [/spoiler]