"More ale!" Bracht called, pounding the table.

He laughed as a serving girl, trying to dodge boots and benches to the front and groping hands from behind, fell into his lap, three mugs to a hand sloshing over to land on his tunic. "Now that's service!" The nearby crowd roared with laughter and cheered as Bracht sent her on her way with a stolen kiss and a pat of his own, but not before swiping one of the mugs. She smiled warmly and winked as she hurried away, and Bracht was fairly certain he'd not have a cold bed to himself this eve.

The tavern was full of men finishing their day with mead and ale and wine, their work done, their wives and families at home waiting for them to return. Bracht loved them all, though he knew not a one. They were like him, looking for something they might never find, but content to while away the hours here in the meantime. Most of them were merchants, men who made their living buying and selling those goods everyone needed. More than a few were farmers and ranchers, staying late or staying the night after selling their goods in the markets, waiting for the dawn to start anew, or perhaps head for the quiet comforts of their rural home.

Some were men of steel who made their way through life selling their sword and their skill to use it. Bracht was one of these last. A sell-sword, Sword-Brother, mercenary, adventurer, and sometime guard. Just past his twentieth winter, Bracht led the life of a freesword, selling his skill to those who could afford him. And they were getting few and far between, he had to admit. His last job had been training those damnable Hellriders, or whatever they called themselves. A prickly lot they were, too, with all their talk of "tradition" and "honor" as if he had none. When his contract expired he left with a full purse and no more, for no one was sorry to see him go-least of all Bracht. Many had that opinion of Helegorn's sons.

Of Horseclans stock, Bracht found that there those who held to old tales of when the nomadic horseclans would sweep down out of the Shoulders and rape and pillage their way across the plains of Melfis. The clans had long since settled into more 'civilized' ways, but there were some who preferred to hold to old hatreds. He'd headed to Squarento as he always did, having been away for some time. His factor here in the city had done well, investing in several profitable ventures in his absence.

He had no idea what he was worth, but from the amount of money his factor appeared to be skimming he figured he was doing pretty good. One day he'd be able to retire and live out his years in comfort. He'd find or buy himself a young maiden and ruin her with children, lots of strong sons to raise and carry on his tradition. Perhaps he'd even buy an inn like this one, like the one his father ran. He caught himself smiling at the daydream and shook his head. He knew better. He loved this life and would probably never give it up until the Lord of Battles decreed his last day.

Ever since he could remember he'd wanted to lead the life of a warrior. He found something romantic in the tales of the old soldiers who came around the inn his father ran. Born and raised in Yssead, a smaller town in the eastern part of Helegorn, Bracht was the middle of three children, both his siblings sisters. His father had been a soldier and an adventurer before taking his sizable savings and buying the inn near the end of the town. Both Genna and Nika had worked there before marrying and moving off. Genna lived in nearby Hilp, but Nika had found a knight to swoon for her and she'd been born off to Tirion to be a Lady. Bracht hadn't seen either one in years, though Genna kept in regular contact with their parents.

Bracht would manage to make his way back to the inn to see his father one of these days. The old man would weep and laugh and carry on, telling all who would listen of his son's exploits. Some were even true. It made Bracht glad to have his father proud of him. He'd worked the stables of his father's inn for years, learning to handle the variety of steeds that came with the variety of people who traveled the roads. Many of those were soldiers and mercenaries, or adventures coming to or from some long-lost treasure. Bracht had sat rapt many a night as tales were told by the fire, and when he'd been old enough he'd begun to learn the sword himself. It wasn't until later that a soldier mentioned that with Bracht's size, a great axe might be more to his liking.

Bracht was big, that was true. Even then he'd topped six feet, and not yet out of his teens. He'd saved his coins and purchased himself a polearm, a great bardiche of some seven feet in length. After a few tentative training sessions Bracht cut several feet off the handle, leaving a four foot shaft to hold the foot wide double-blade. He traded or paid for lessons from whoever would teach him, and once he thought he knew enough he left his parents a note saying he'd be back with a king's treasure or not at all. He'd been sixteen then, and he'd returned four months later with several cracked moonstones and a handful of silver.

Still, he'd seen battle, and he had the taste of it. He'd hired on with a caravan for a pittance, helping to fight off two raids-one by bandits, where he had his first kill. The second had been orcs, attacking with the sunset while the wagonmaster still debated on a camping ground. He'd been as far as Gance since he first crossed the Shoulders, and the dust of the road was in his lungs and in his blood. He'd rested up and hired on again as soon as he was able, this time with his father's blessings. The old innkeeper had given his son a shirt of chainmail and an old spear. And of course, Bracht still had his great axe.

He'd been gone for a year the second time, and when he'd returned he was a man, eighteen years of age and broad across the chest from countless hours swinging his axe. He'd let his beard grow some, dark and unruly like the thick mop atop his head. Dark eyes peered from beneath angled brows, and a slightly crooked nose rose above an expressive mouth. Not quite handsome, still Bracht's physique and character won him many friends. He was a warrior now, living to fight wherever he was needed or wanted.

Bracht shook his head to clear away the reverie. The past was the past. He was happy with his life, but he would never be content. He just couldn't resist the pull. The dust of the road was in his blood. Tomorrow he would set out for Riverside as the gypsy had intimated he should. Who was he to ignore what was obviously direction of the gods? Adventure awaited him, and perhaps a means to end the strife in Helegorn and Maendin's oppression.

He banged on the table. "More ale!"