On the road south to Folsen, Karina Mulisen walked.

The rain had stopped only about an hour ago, but the dark trees that hung over the road like creeping watchers still dripped with the remnants of the storm. The cold air was misted, giving the already dangerous forest a much more evil disposition.

Her black boots were worn and stained with the flecks of any dried mud from her march through the rain. On her shoulders she wore a long, deep maroon cloak. The fabric of the cloak was damp, the scent of it telling of its well used age.

Her expression was dark, the solemn contemplation of a long and well traveled warrior. The hair that framed her face was equally dark. Her locks were a dark, thick ebony, like the obsidian blades used by the Queen’s greatest warriors. 

Karina’s back carried the large blade, the hilt a wide brim angled towards the sword’s point. The handle was a deep red, the crevices in the leather where her hands had gripped it evident with wear along the long grip. The hilt of the sword was a dark leather that showed the sheer length of the sword, though its width was no more than that of a bastard sword.  

The sky above her was an inky black. Starless with cloud cover, there was no moon to give her light as she continued her solitary march. But she carried with her no torch or mage’s staff of light. She carried only herself and the weight of her blade. 

In the distance cut through the warm glow of a tavern. The juxtaposition made it an oasis in the dark forest for any weary traveler seeking to gain some sort of respite from the cold and the dark. Even from a few miles away from the place, the uproar and chant of bawdy and rowdy patrons could be heard, the sounds echoing and bouncing off of the trees. 

Karina stopped her hike, considering the available options. 

In her rucksack, she carried the salted meats and hard tack from the previous stop, as well as plenty of water in her skin. However, she couldn’t feel her fingers. The tip of each appendage felt like the grasp of the dead. She was also near freezing, her cloak having rescinded any proper usage for keeping her warm. 

Mother Death was she tired from her hike. 

It was still perhaps half a day’s walk until Marshlyn and she could feel her legs cramping and her calves spasming occasionally. Her shoulders also felt the weight of the walk and the rations could fill her so much. She needed a meal, a hot one, and rest.

But could Morris wait for another night?

He could. He will. She needed to rest. The dull blade never strikes true as her old master would tell her. 

Alliy’s Ales and Pails was a tavern at the base of the Krag mountains that had an impressive cook and staff…in the daylight hours and before the wolf howls started. Now, in the wee hours of the morning, it was staffed by a tired old man, an even more tired woman, and the short form of a halman.

The current clients for the evening were three guards from the only outpost for ten miles around, an elf, and a small quartet of early morning miners who had decided to take the two hours before their shift to eat and create chatter. It was an easy enough night for the old man who’s name was Fjordr.

Fjordr was not the owner, that was for the son of the namesake of the tavern. No, Fjordr was the manager for the small tavern, the son only coming to take the majority of the coin for his own purposes and pay everyone who was there that night the pittance of their pay. 

It was truly shit work, but when the kingdom was in the state that it was, the only options were shit work or the army. Fjordr was by no means a fighter and his bones were too old for the work he would need to do for the job. So shit work it was. 

The door to the tavern opened, the patrons paying no mind to it. Fjordr was the only one who bothered. As manager he had to remember the faces who passed through. It helped too that he was the bartender for the evening and the bar faced the door.

“Welcome,” he said as he gave a brief nod towards the figure.

The figure nodded in return and moved towards a table near the fireplace, placing their legs up on an empty chair. Fjordr noticed the drying mud on their boots. He was surprised, no one would walk through the forest at night on foot if possibly avoidable. The man was even more surprised by the fact that they had come alone.

“Halman!” he hissed out towards the short employee. 

Halman were a species of shorter humanoids, standing around two feet less than the height of the average man. They were marked not only by their height, but also the long tails with furred tips, the nubbed horns protruding from their foreheads, and large ears. 

“Eh?” was the only reply that came, the halman’s eyes focused more on the cards laid out in front of him on the table.

“Do your job, Leek!” came another hiss from the manager.

Leek sighed as he got up, adjusting the spectacles on his face as he carefully laid the cards on the table. He made a sluggish walk towards the figure by the fire, his feet patting on the floor all the way. If he was going to be made to interrupt his game, he would be somewhat obnoxious about it.

The halman stopped as he neared the figure. The thing drawing his eye was the blade slung on their back. As the light of the fire flickered, he could see the face underneath the hood. The face of a woman. 

“I would like something hot,” she said, her voice full of a calm power, “and ale as well.” 

She reached into her cloak and pulled out a leather pouch. She took out two coins and placed them near the edge of the table.

Leek had never been near such a strong figure as her. He was one to always avoid these types. Especially ones with such large blades. The sword gave her the air of a dangerous, resting bear. 

“Ah um…” he stammered, trying to find words from a dry mouth. He swallowed. “Does the lady have a preference for the food?”

“Venison if you have it,” she turned her gaze towards the fire, “if not, bread and soup is fine.”

With that, Leek left her.

Minutes went by slowly, the quiet murmur of the miners mixing with the crackle of the fire to create a cozy atmosphere. The woman by the fire stayed still and silent, the only evidence of her life being the gentle raise and drop of her shoulders as she breathed.

Leek watched her carefully, wary of a warrior with such a weapon. He had heard tales during his off days – when he would gamble – of large armies converging together in the mountains past Naxtol. He worried himself of the seven kingdoms, who’s own tensions have grown. He tried to pay no mind to it, however, and focus on his own matters and vices, but the presence of this woman only served as a reminder of the dangers outside of his little life. What army did she pledge to? What if she was some sort of inquisitor? Was she here to mark for the pogroms of some group?

Leek slowed his thoughts.

No, she was but a traveling sword. The tools she had were marked by no insignia but the damage and scars of battle. 

“Leek,” a voice cut through his thoughts.

“Wuh?” he jumped a bit, the hair on his neck standing.

“The venison for the lone customer,” the cook, Gret, said, gesturing to the wooden plate full of cooked venison. A moment later, she added a tankard for him to take as well.

“Ah, right,” Leek said, his hand reaching for it and the tankard of ale.

His approach back to the woman near the fire was slower, as if each step was measured. Why was he so afraid of her? She had made no threatening movements towards him or any of the patrons. She had been a model customer all things considered. Still, however, he was afraid. 

The halman arrived at her table and set the meal down.

“Thank you,” she said quietly and politely, leaning forward and taking the utensils from the table. 

Leek was quick to nod and leave her to her meal. He was not too keen on doing something by accident and getting punishment from her, or worse, just annoy her with his general presence.

The silence of the bar returned, the low murmur of the miners a bit quieter, eyes dodging over towards the figure as she ate her meal. The air suddenly felt a bit more stale, the mood heavy with suspicion. 

Silence was finally broken, however, by the sound of a rowdy band slamming open the door, their jeers and laughter making nearly everyone jump. Fjordr was the only one who started to sweat. 

“Bar keep!” came a booming shout from the largest man of the group, “A tab and round for me and my lads!”

Fjordr gave a quick hiss towards the cook and the Leek to get busy as the men all sat down. Both rushed to do their jobs, Leek nearly falling as he ran towards the group. The halman was a bit in shock as he got close, the men all reeked of weeks without bathing. It seemed as if the very air they exhaled stunk up the air.

The men all wore dented armor, many carrying blades in exposed sheaths, showing the rested edges and hilts. Many of them wore pieces of armor that didn’t even match, gauntlets, boots, shoulder pads, even chest plates that were grafted from anything they could find. Their faces were in just as much a clean state as their armor, marred with pocked faces, dirt, dried blood, scars, and broken noses that never healed right. 

It was chaotic.

Leek and the cook tried to keep up with the orders and messes, but with there being only three employees at the time and Fjordr trying to keep the men from breaking into scuffles, there was little they could do. The three people could see their lives spiraling out of tonight. Fjordr could practically see the seething rage of the owner. He could even hear his voice, the pitched anger, the spittle flying as he mocked and raged at Fjordr for letting his bar get wrecked. 

Things took a worse turn when the miners left, deciding that they would have a better time trying to relax at their place of work than the only warm building for a few miles. Fjordr was surprised, however, that the figure with the large sword had not made their own exit. They just sat there, their feet up on the chair near the fire, acting as if there wasn’t a group shaking the foundations with their voices. 

“Bar keep!” The leader’s voice cut through the already loud cacophony with a booming shout. “We need more ale!” 

Fjordr went to the back room where the ale was kept. They had already gone through three of the ten barrels before the crowd had come. He paled, however, when he saw how much the bar had left.

They were out. 

He had nothing left to give to the rowdy group.

Fjordr now was less worried about if he would get chewed out by his boss and more so worried if he would even see the sun tomorrow. 

He swallowed, slowly making his way back towards the tables.

“Excuse me, sirs,” he said in a measured, somewhat quivering tone, “we are, unfortunately, out of ale.”

“Out of ale?!” the booming voice of the leader crashed out as he stood, knocking his chair over in the process.

The leader of the band took the old man by the neck and hoisted him in the air.

“This is an insult! An insult to the band of Markus Timb!” his voice kept the booming tone. Fjordr could feel the vibrating baritone in his own chest, his eyes wincing as spit fired out.

“What do we do when we get insulted, boys?” he asked, looking towards the men. Their faces had twisted into malicious grins, a few poking at each other as they cackled and cheered on. Their chant started then, rising into the air with “Kill ‘em!” “Choke ‘em!” “Skewer ‘em!”.

Fjordr reached and gripped the hairy arm, feeling the tense muscles as the callused hand squeezed tight. He gasped for air, his mouth parting like a fish as he tried to gurgle out words of apology. Barely any sound came out, choking out vowels that made little sense all he could muster. 

He wasn’t sure if he had blacked out or if things moved that fast, but it seemed as if in the next instant he went from being choked in the air to being on the floor of the bar, the severed arm of the band leader bleeding on his apron and clothes. 

Fjordr slapped it away, screaming in shock. His screams, however, were nothing to the screams of agony from the band leader. He had never heard someone let out such a cacophony of pain. The man let out curses and pleaded to Mother Death to spare him.

The rest of the band stood, pulling out mails, axes, swords, and knives.

Fjordr had to turn to see who their opponent was. Perhaps the maw of a Shrik. Could it be that an orkyn band had come? No, there would be more blood if it was either. Who they stood against was the figure who had been by the fire, a long blade grasped in one hand. 

He could see her face now, he could see the face of a woman with coarse, black hair. Her face was painted with calm rage, her amber eyes burning with the fiery rage of a warrior. She pulled her cloak off, the dark tattered cape flying to the side. Exposed now was her sleeveless, gambeson covered torso. Her hands and forearms were covered in steel gauntlets, the hand wielding her large blade stretched towards the band. 

She was tall. Taller than any woman Fjordr had seen in his lifetime. She was well built as well, built as well as some in the band if not better. 

The leader of the band let out a guttural “get her!” as he stumbled out of the door, grasping the stump that remained of his arm. 

The first man to charge her was bisected at the waist, the next two to follow meeting a similar fate as the last. The rest of the men spread around her, circling the blood stained woman as she took the blade within both of her hands. 

She was surrounded, but her face showed no falter of concentration or betrayal that could give any of the men around her a chance to strike. She held a defensive position, her blade held close to her body as a shield. 

Three men came at her first, wielding axes and swords. They took swipes at her, but, surprisingly, she was quite agile when dodging their strikes. The men were also fairly agile. Having seen her previous swipes, they knew what to watch for. With the fairly closed space, though, it made it hard to truly get dexterous movements as they would on the more open field. She couldn’t give proper swings, giving them respite from her. 

One man didn’t have as much respite as, to their shock, she grabbed a short sword from the floor and threw it at him, skewering him in the chest. He fell to the floor with a blood curdling scream. The scream was soon replaced with the crackling death rattle from the back of his throat. 

The remaining men were cautious knowing that she had both the agility to throw a short blade and to cleave them in two. They still had a preference of odds in their  numbers though. The question was who would be fodder. 

Circling wasn’t going to work, so the men started to approach her. Those who had shields raised them, others knocked over tables and notched arrows. She started to back away towards the fire. She knocked over her own occasional table, making the terrain of the bar difficult for them.

The woman saw her position and the logs on the fire. 

Stabbing her blade into the fire, she impaled a blazing log and flung it out towards the archers. The speed at which the log was flung gave little time for the men to react, one of them who had tried to flee was met instead with the log hitting him. The scent of burning flesh and scorched hair filled the air.

The split moment of the men watching the log fly gave her the time she needed to launch herself at them. She swung her sword, slicing and chopping anyone she could catch. The screams echoed off the enclosed walls, a small fire starting on one of the wooden tables.

There were attempts at retaliation against her. The strikes were met with either dodges or parried strikes, leading to more cleaved men and screams. 

The room was starting to emanate with the scent of death, the secretion of bowls being lost and the gored scent of opened stomachs burning Karina’s eyes. She had to ignore the bile scents. She had men to send to Mother Death.

Fjordr had retreated to the back room with the cook and Leek. The three of them tried to find the door out of the place. The last thing they wanted was to be a part of the slaughter happening in the dining hall. Fjordr was worried about losing his job as well, the sheer destruction would be hard to hide and clean up. He was sure as well that Leek and the cook would be quitting after tonight. 

There was nothing he could do.

The sounds of screams and weapons hitting wood echoed out. Fjordr tried to ignore the noise as he fiddled with the rusted lock of the backdoor. They had rarely needed to use it and the constant rain had made quick assurance that it would be nearly impossible to even get the door open. He wasn’t helped either by the hushed and feared tones of the employees. No one had expected such a massacre to happen in the quiet, empty tavern. 

Suddenly, the quiet returned.

The sounds of screams of rage, pain, and war ended. The only sound was the rattling of the rusted lock, the rushing words of the other two, and a person not in the backroom panting. 

Boots thumped on the floor in a methodical rhythm. 

Fjordr stopped. There was no hope. There was no getting out of here. That was probably either the mad woman who cleaved those men or one of the men on his way to ensure no witnesses. He should have turned her away. He would take the beating, at least it would be easy to clean up a messed up bar than to try and clean up bodies. 

The thunk of boot steps continued. 

The old man felt the well of tears, his eyes starting to burn. His life flashed before his eyes. It was quite boring.

“Old man,” a calm voice cuts through his thoughts and flashes. “I apologize for the mess.”

He turns and sees the tall woman. Her relaxed posture has returned, her body covered in blood. She wipes down her blade with a rag before returning it to her back. He didn’t know what to say.

“I left a payment that will hopefully cover some of the repairs and clean up costs,” she spoke as if a mother would to a child who did not understand that you shouldn’t pull on the dog’s tail. “I thank you for the meal, drink, and hospitality.”

He didn’t know what to say. What should he say? What could he say? He still did not know. Fjordr just stood at the door, head turned in her direction. He figured he looked like a wild animal at that moment. If the woman found it to be amusing, she did not show it. 

“I wish you good luck, and good evening,” she said with a nod.

And then she was gone.