Drake weaved through the bustling crowds of Oakhaven, taking in the sights and sounds of the city. Merchants hawked their wares from colorful stalls, children darted between legs, and the air hummed with the energy of a thriving trade hub. But Drake wasn't interested in shopping just yet. He had a more pressing need: finding a place to relax, have a drink, and maybe stir up a little harmless trouble.
"A tavern," he muttered to himself, scanning the street signs. "That's what I need. A good, rowdy tavern."
He spotted a sign depicting a crooked tankard hanging above a wooden door. The sounds of laughter and boisterous conversation spilled out into the street. "The Crooked Tankard," he read aloud. "Perfect."
He pushed open the door and stepped inside. The tavern was dimly lit and filled with the smell of ale, roasted meat, and unwashed bodies. A roaring fire crackled in a large hearth, casting flickering shadows on the rough-hewn wooden tables and benches. Patrons of all shapes and sizes filled the room: burly mercenaries, weary travelers, shifty-looking rogues, and even a few finely dressed merchants.
Drake grinned. This was exactly the kind of place he was looking for. He made his way to the bar, sidling up to a free stool. The bartender, a stout man with a bushy beard and a stained apron, eyed him with a practiced gaze.
"What'll it be, stranger?" he grunted.
"Ale," Drake replied. "Something strong."
The bartender poured him a tankard of dark ale, the foam spilling over the rim. Drake took a long drink, savoring the bitter taste.
"So," he said, setting the tankard down on the bar. "This place seems lively. Any interesting stories going around?"
The bartender chuckled. "Depends on what you consider interesting. We get all sorts in here. Travelers with tall tales, mercenaries bragging about their latest conquests, and the occasional drunk spouting nonsense about goblins and stolen treasures."
Drake's ears perked up. "Goblins and stolen treasures, you say?" he asked casually.
"Aye," the bartender replied. "Some fool came in here a few days ago, babbling about a Sunstone stolen by the Grimgut tribe. Said it was a relic of immense power."
"The Grimgut tribe?" Drake asked. "Where can I find them?"
"They dwell in the Whispering Caves, to the east of the forest," the bartender said. "But I wouldn't recommend going there. It's a dangerous place, even for seasoned adventurers."
"Dangerous is my middle name," Drake quipped. He took another drink of his ale. "So, this Sunstone… any idea what it looks like?"
"Just a shiny rock, as far as I heard," the bartender shrugged. "But this fella was saying it glowed like the sun itself."
"Interesting," Drake muttered. He finished his ale and signaled for another. He was getting the information he needed.
As he waited for his refill, he noticed a group of burly mercenaries sitting at a nearby table, their voices growing louder and more boisterous with each passing drink. One of them, a hulking man with a scarred face, slammed his fist on the table, sending tankards rattling.
"I tell you," he roared, "I've faced dragons bigger than this tavern! And I've never backed down from a fight!"
Drake couldn't resist. He leaned back in his stool and called out, "Dragons, huh? I've heard they're just overgrown lizards with bad breath."
The mercenaries turned to look at him, their faces hardening. The hulking man stood up, towering over Drake. "What did you say, stranger?" he growled.
Drake grinned. "Just saying," he replied, taking another sip of his ale. "Maybe you were just fighting really small dragons."