Aaron stood before the restaurant, his heart pounding in his chest like a relentless drumbeat. The rough wooden door, worn smooth by countless hands over countless years, seemed to mock him with its solidity, a tangible barrier between his world of cold and hunger and the warmth and plenty within.
He hesitated, his hand hovering inches from the door, as the sounds from inside washed over him the murmur of conversations, the clinking of tankards against worn wooden tables, and the distant laughter of patrons enjoying their meals.
With a deep breath, he pushed the door open, and a wave of sensory overload crashed over him. The restaurant was a symphony of light, noise, and tantalizing aromas. Candles flickered in ornate holders, casting a warm, golden glow over the bustling tables.
The air was thick with the scent of roasting meats, freshly baked bread, and the sweet tang of vegtables. The patrons, had their faces flushed with warmth and contentment, seemed to inhabit a world entirely apart from the grimy streets outside.
He stood frozen in the doorway, his clothes and dirty face drawing curious glances from the patrons. He felt like an intruder, a ghost from another world stepping into a place where he didn't belong. His heart pounded in his chest, and for a moment, he considered turning back. But controlled himself.
'Get yourself together man, it is not the first time you have been in a restaurant, why are you so afraid?' Aaron chided himself.
The patrons, engrossed in their meals and conversations, barely noticed him, but Aaron felt their indifference like a physical blow. He was invisible to them, and the realization stung.
The inn was a labyrinth of tables and chairs, each one adorned with worn but clean tablecloths and sturdy tankards that were filled to the brim with what could he only assume were beer or another drink similar to that.
The walls were lined with simple decorations a few faded trinkets and hunting trophies that spoke of the inn's history. Aaron's eyes were drawn to a particularly inviting corner by the fireplace, where a group of patrons sat, their faces flushed with warmth and contentment. His stomach growled, and he quickly looked away to not get into trouble with the drunk patrons.
He moved cautiously through the inn, his eyes scanning the crowded tables for any sign of opportunity. He knew he couldn't afford to be timid, that he had to seize this chance to change his circumstances. With a determined set to his jaw, he approached a busy server, a young woman with harried eyes and a tray laden with dishes. Her apron was stained but clean, a testament to the hard work that went on behind the scenes.
"Excuse me," Aaron said, his voice barely above a whisper. The server paused, her eyes flicking over him with a mixture of annoyance and dismissal. "I was wondering if you might need any help," he continued, his words tumbling out in a rush. "I can wash dishes, clean tables, anything. I just need a job."
The server's expression hardened, her lips pursing. "We've no need of your sort here," she said, her voice crisp and dismissive. "Be off with you. We've got honest work to do." She turned away, her back a clear dismissal., her tray clattering as she hurried away, leaving Aaron standing alone in the midst of the bustling crowd.
Aaron's heart sank, but he refused to give up so easily. He turned to another server, an older man with a kinder face, and repeated his plea. But the reaction was the same, a dismissive wave, a sneer, a clear message that he was not welcome here.
He approached another server, and another, each time meeting with the same cold indifference. It seemed that no one was willing to give him a chance, to see past his ragged clothes and dirty face to the desperate need beneath.
As Aaron stood there, his desperation growing with each passing moment, the background music and conversation became more prominent. A bard in the corner strummed a lute, his voice rising and falling with the cadence of a heroic tale.
"The whispers about Gareth, the Swift, weren't just campfire tales; they were the stuff of legend. He moved at a speed that defied everything, no man or thing would even reach him. Forget about horses; Gareth was the horse.
He could outrun anything on four legs, and even falcons had trouble keeping up. They said he could cross miles of rough terrain before sunrise, a feat that left even seasoned travelers shaking their heads in disbelief.
His sword, Whisper, was another story altogether. Forged in some legendary dragon's breath, or so the stories went, it was rumored to be sharper than a whisper of death itself. And Gareth? He had this fire in his eyes, a kind of quiet intensity that made you think he knew something you didn't.
Up in the jagged peaks of Dreadwood, a real nightmare was brewing. Sir Kael, the Berserker, had carved out a reputation for himself. He was a mountain of a man, all muscle and rage, and his axe, the Crusher, had tasted the blood of a hundred soldiers in one sitting. A hundred. "
As the bard's tale reached its peak, Aaron felt a prickle on the back of his neck. He risked a quick glance. A man with a bushy beard with unkempt clothes sat alone, his posture relaxed and his plate empty of food lost in his world. Seeing the man was not staring at him, he turned his back and continued listening to the bard.
"The King's army had marched up there, banners waving, ready to take him down. They never stood a chance. Kael just laughed, this chilling sound that echoed through the valleys, and then he went to work. He carved through them like they were nothing, a whirlwind of steel and fury.
The King was devastated. His kingdom was terrified. So, he put out the call – anyone who could take down Kael would be rewarded beyond their wildest dreams.
Gareth answered. He wasn't in it for the reward, though. He had his own reasons. He just knew it had to be done. He didn't ride to Dreadwood; he ran. He was a blur, a whisper of wind, a force of nature. He reached the edge of the shadowed peaks before nightfall.
He found Kael in a clearing, a giant of a man, his muscles rippling, his face a mask of cold fury. The Crusher was dark with blood.
"Kael!" Gareth's voice cut through the stillness. "This ends now!"
The patrons listened with rapt attention, their faces alight with the romance of the story. The bard's voice was rich and melodic, filling the inn with a sense of adventure and excitement that was almost tangible. Even Aaron was listening to it with rapt attention. But also caused him to question what was he hearing.
'Are they that exaggerated as he claims? So they are superhumans or he is just talking bull?' Aaron thought to himself
The inn's staff, noticing Aaron still present, began to grow impatient. A burly man, his face red with exertion, emerged from the kitchen, his eyes narrowing as he spotted Aaron. "You," he growled, his voice a low rumble that seemed to shake the very air around him. "Out. Now."
Before Aaron could react, the man grabbed him by the arm and physically removed him from the inn, shoving him out the door with a harsh word and a dismissive wave. Aaron stumbled, his face flushing with humiliation as the door slammed shut behind him.
The man's rough hands had left a print on his arm. He stood there for a moment, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his eyes stinging with unshed tears. The humiliation was almost too much to bear.
As Aaron turned to leave, he noticed the patron from the inn emerging from the door. It was the same man that he thought had stared at him. His gaze flicking over Aaron with a mixture of curiosity and something elsesomething Aaron couldn't quite read.
'Sh*t, am I in trouble? Is it because I stared at him or is he from one of the gangs?' Aaron slowly began to panic, thinking what his best course of action would be. As he was racking his brain on what to do he heard the man in a gruff voice say.
"Hey lad, I saw you wandering around at the inn,"