It was a generic tavern, neither falling short nor exceeding the expectations of any visitor.  It had the upsides, the familiarity even for a traveller visiting for the first time, that worn in feel that gave it a cozy air, a fire with just that right kind of cackle as if saying “Come in on and dry off, get warm”.  It also its share of downsides; the dark interior lit only by a smoky fire to the better to hide the stains and built up damages to the chairs and tables, the house brewed ale that was on the verge of souring, and a variable clientele that could range from quiet locals to wandering brigands.  Tonight to start the tavern had little of either.  A couple old men sat at a table and were no doubt enjoying a few of the other good parts of the tavern: a warm meal, old friends, and a welcoming innkeeper’s daughter that made sure they were cared for and would remember to remind them to bundle up before they left later in the night.

It was a quiet day for this tavern and that would’ve been preferable.

It would not last.

The trio burst that burst into the tavern were heard well before they reached the door.  Their horses had run through the town at a gallop, followed by the far off cursing when they realized they’d missed the tavern door in their rush and a stupor already fed by several drinks.  When the biggest of the three entered, not bothering to try and clean off his mud caked boots before advancing on the bar, the innkeepers daughter did her best to be ready for them.  She had prepared drinks to meet their raucous demands, was ready with stew to calm them, had cleared a table near the fire.  She had hoped it would be enough to maintain some semblance of calm until they decided to leave.

However, the brigands took all the preparations as a sign that this was their night and therefore grew only more raucous.  They sped through drinks and demanded more and when one of the older men tried to get the brigands to settle themselves, “To behave like gentlemen,” that was enough for the trio to badger the old men, throwing out quips of “dried sacks” and “brooms without strands.”  Eventually the old men got up and left, throwing apologetic but unhelpful eyes to the innkeeper’s daughter.  With seemingly no remaining patrons to draw their attention the brigands turned their gazes and quips to the poor girl.

Had she always been here?  She had?  Well then hadn’t she grown?  Grown in all the rights ways one answered with a laugh that sent all three howling.  The woman, barely more than a girl, tried to keep the bar between her and the brigands, trying to hold to her own little territory against their incursions.  It was a losing campaign.

The largest of the brigands, growing bold under his continued drink and the support of his companions, pushed his way behind the bar.  The woman backed away, the man advanced.  As she smelled the stink of his sweat and the wilds, the other two men continued their laughing.

In the back of the tavern, in a corner set away from the fire, someone cleared their throat.  The brigands laughter stopped and all three turned to see the man in the corner.  He was hunched over a bowl of stew and had raised his tankard.  For a moment, intoxicated minds wondered how they had missed him.  One briefly had a thought that the man was some wandering Fey but his synapses were too addled by drink and the confidence that comes with being in brazen company to wonder why such a thing would occur to him.  They settled that it must’ve been the cloak and mantle draped over his shoulders.  The worn gray had the same color as the faded wood of the tavern’s walls and in the dim corner he had seemingly disappeared.  Yes, that was all it was, he was so inconspicuous they had simply missed him.

The brigand behind the bar gestured to his two companions, the order clear that they should get rid of the man, to stop him from interrupting their fun.  The duo obeyed and wandered over to the table.

Hadn’t he heard that the tavern was closing early tonight?  They asked, barely able to contain their laughs behind belligerent grin.  It was a special event and he wasn’t invited.  They continued, growing amused by their own tale.  If he didn’t want to be wearing that stew he should get going.  They were bantering between themselves and unable to notice that the cloaked man was unperturbed by their presence, by their threats, or their numbers.

The two brigands hovered over the cloaked man.  They watched with dumbed smiles as the man simply set his tankard back down, lowered his spoon back into the stew.  The third brigand watched, forgetting the barmaid for the moment, confident anyways that the bulk of his form wedged behind the bar prevented her escape.  The first of his friends reached down toward the cloaked stranger’s bowl, intending to make good on his threat.

The stranger raised a hand, a single fingered extended.  Wait the motion said.  After a moment the cloaked man’s gaze turned to face his intruders.  The eyes were pale and hard.

The brigands missed the important of that final sign.  Instead, they laughed.  Could you believe this guy?  Who did he think he was?

The man now reached for the stranger.

What happened next was quicker than any of the brigands could follow in their drunken states.

There was the sound of a crash and one of the bandits fell back to the tavern’s ground.  The man clutched his face, crimson blood flowing from between his fingers.  He attempted to mutter something but it was drowned out by the combination of his hands and the blood.  At the table the only sign of what had happened was the fresh dent in the old wood, the newly uneven texture illuminated by the dancing light of the fire.

Drink hooded eyes tried to communicate to a ale soaked brain what had just happened, but all the nearest brigand could manage was to look down at his compatriot.  Anger overtook whatever attempt the man’s addled thoughts was attempting to piece together and he stepped forward, hands fumbling for the club that hung from his belt.  He started yet another threat, confident that this would go like he expected, that he’d knock this man about like he had others.

The club was raised and the cloaked man moved again.  A quick rustle and then steel flashed in the fire flight.  The club was knocked into the flames and now the cloaked man was standing.  His blade pressed against the voice box of the brigand.  The box bobbled up and down, slowly as the brigand swallowed, eyes fixated on the blade.  A little pressure and the cloak man pushed back the brigand, the brigand’s steps quickly taking him back until the cloaked man nodded towards the door.  The brigand turned and ran, slamming the door behind him.

As its sound reverberated back to silence the cloaked man’s gaze pivoted and looked at the only of the trio still sanding.  The brigand had drawn the attention to him self.  Had shouted that the cloaked man should drop his sword, that he would harm the girl.  The barkeep stood clasped by the neck, a rusty dagger held against her chest by the brigand’s large hand.  The cloaked man, did not drop his sword.  It hovered by his side as he took three measured steps forward.  The brigand tightened his grip, the girl gave a choked gasp, her eyes widening, pleading that she be spared from this night.  Did he want him to hurt the girl?  Came the brigand’s questions.

In answer, the cloaked man’s free hand reached up and pulled down his hood.  His pale eyes better revealed in the light.  Green irises and no pupils.  The stoic stare flanked by scars earned over ages.

The last brigand squinted, opened his mouth for yet another boast, for yet another threat.  Instead the eyes widened.  Adrenalin had burned through the drink and his mind saw now who it was that he faced.

The dagger clattered to the well worn wood floors.  The girl grasp and scrambled to the side as she was released.  The brigand backed away from the girl, forced his bulk back out from around the bar.  His words fell in a cascade, his apologies, his pleas, his assurances that he would never do such a thing again.

The pale eyed man simply watched, watched the cowed brigand scramble towards the door, fall and trip, and pick himself up with more apologies and pleas.  The man waited until the once bold brigand’s hand rested on the doorknob.

Then the ring of metal on metal sounded.

The brigand nearly jumped at the sound, of the worn blade tapped against the metal of its scabbard.  Terrified eyes turned to look at pale ones once again and then to follow the gesturing blade.  It pointed back to the brigand’s remaining companion.  Hands still clutching his bleeding face, that brigand had managed to raise himself to his knees.  His leader bowed to the pale eyed man, rushed to his companions side and lifted him up.  The pair together retreated back towards the door, both bowing, the uninjured brigand continuing with his pleas, his cries of how just the pale eyed man was.

The door shut behind the pair and the pale eyed man stood watching the door.  The sound of shuffling feet, of tired horses mounted, and galloping along packed dirt reached the man through the door.  He waited for it to die away, for the only sound to be the low cackling of the fire.  To it he quietly added the rustle of his sword returning to its sheath and then he turned to look at the innkeeper’s daughter.

She had watched the door from the safety of the back corner of the bar.  Her blue eyes turned to him and she lowered a shaking hand from her throat, held them before her and tried to smile.  He nodded in return and turned to return to his table.

“Did you desire a drink Master Fey?”  The barmaid asked, her voice not quite hiding the waver in it, the one fear that had been replaced with another.

“Just water please,” came the answer.  Resignation in the pale eyed man’s voice.  It wasn’t a particularly nice tavern, but not a bad one either.  Now though it could not be a warm and dry spot for the night.  Fear would grow and draw greater dangers.  Dangers worst than that of drunken brats, ones that would not be stopped by a stare and a legend.  He would finish the stew, a warm and full belly would at least be a comfort, and he would return to his wilds.