Ryan was getting frustrated with Tru's clinginess towards him. Her constant need for touching him while riding together was getting on his nerves. She was repeatedly scooting towards him if she slid backwards in the saddle; she held him too tightly even when they were riding on smooth, even, ground; but mostly it was her insistent nesting and nuzzling of her head on his back that made him feel the most uncomfortable. They had been traveling half a day, but he made up his mind, without consulting the others, to stop in the first village and get another horse.

  Evening was nearly upon them when he saw plumes of smoke, faintly, on the horizon; the first sign of habitation since leaving Twin Peaks. He quickened his pace; the thought of a reprieve from Tru was near at hand. They reached the village just as the sun laid down to cradle itself for the night.

  “We should keep going,” suggested Serenity. “The moon is nearly complete, and the sky is cloudless.”

  “I believe that we should rest the horses,” began Ryan. “We still have more than a week's worth of travel before we reach Fjalls-r?tr. I don't know about you, but I would like a warm meal and a soft bed before we make the journey.”

  “We haven't any coins, or anything to trade,” Serenity pointed out to him.

  “That's not entirely true. I found a purse in one of the saddles while I unpacked it,” he explained.

  “And you didn't tell us?” said Serenity, slightly irritated.

  “I didn't think it was important. There isn't much, but… The way I see it is, that as long as we are together, what is mine is ours.”

  The light around them was faint, but Ryan noticed the pink hue of embarrassment on Serenity's face. He let himself smile at it.

  “It sounds good to me!” interjected Tru, so as to be heard. “I could use a drink.”

  The three of them gently steered the two horses to the front of the local ale house. This village appeared to Ryan to be around the size of Serenity's home that she had described to him the night before, and he thought that it might be.

  “Is this your home village?” he asked.

  “No.”

  After a long pause, Tru said, “Her village is much further south. Nearer to the elven lands of Myrkvier.”

  “I see,” he said. He looked at the sign hanging from the eave of the building. “This will do.” He pulled back on the horse's reins, bringing it to a stop.

  “The Crow's Nest?” said Tru in a way that made it a question. “You would think that you would only find a name like that in a seaside shanty town.”

  “Why is that?” asked Ryan, showing his ignorance of the world outside of his own experiences.

  “A crow’s nest is usually referred to as a lookout point on a ship. Normally high up on the mast.”

  “Ah,” he said, not truly understanding her. He had never seen a ship, and didn't know what a mast was. He merely agreed by nodding to keep from showing more of his naivety. Tru hopped down from the saddle, and Ryan followed. He started to tether the horse to a post when Serenity asked, “Are you sure about this place?” She sat in her saddle, staring through the opened door into the ale house.

  He turned to see two men that were dressed similarly to the bandits from Twin Peaks. They didn't have on armor, or a uniform; but they had a certain look about them. The clothing wasn't like that of a farmer, nor was it like someone from a proper village. They were dull and faded like you would find on a person who rides a horse all day.

  They both had a belt that contained not only a sword, but a small ax, and several knives. The two men were drinking and speaking loud enough to be heard from outside.”Wait here,” he said, before darting back the way they had come, only this time on foot. He returned a short while later with some cloth thrown over his shoulder.

  “Here, put these on,” he said while handing them the cloth.

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  “Cloaks? Where did you get these?” Serenity asked a little louder than she had intended.

  “Shh! Keep your voice down. Just put it on,” he said.

  They did as asked.

  “Can you two change your appearance with magic? I mean, would it be possible for you to change the shape of your ears to look more human?” he asked.

  “Yes, but it takes a lot of concentration to maintain the illusion," replied Tru. “If I am drinking, I will probably forget about it.”

  “Then, don't drink,” said Serenity, pointing out the obvious.

  “I need a drink,” demanded Tru.

  “Just keep your hoods up, just in case,” said Ryan.

  The trio walked through the opened door and sat themselves at a table nearest the exit. Ryan sat facing the two men that Serenity was concerned with, while the elves sat facing their backs to them. The barkeep sauntered over to the table. The room was dimly lit with lanterns on the tables and sconces with candles along the walls. The aromas of food being prepared made his hunger known to those who could hear his stomach speaking.

  “Wha’ can I get ya,” he asked. “We have some fresh roast pig and a fine venison stew ready if ya like; but if ya prefer we could pluck a chicken or two.”

  “Do you have any fresh bread?” asked Serenity.

  “Not too fresh. It was ovened yesterday's eve.”

  “Do you have any more ale, mead, or something stronger; or did they drink it all?” asked Tru, glancing towards the table of rough-looking men.

  “They have had quite a lot, but we still have plenty if you like.”

  “Ale for me,” said Ryan.

  “Same for me,” Serenity said in agreement.

  Tru took a deep breath and sighed barely audible. “After what we've been through, give me something strong and some mead to wash it down.”

  “I'll fetch that for while you decide whether you're hungry or not,” he replied, smiling at the sounds emanating from Ryan’s torso.

  He returned with the cups of drink and a platter with a loaf of bread.

  “I'll take a large helping of your stew, if you don't mind,” Ryan said hopefully.

  “As long as you have the coins, I don't.”

  Ryan pulled the purse of coins from his belt and gave it a shake to show the keep by jingling its contents, before placing it inside his shirt.

  “And for the ladies?” he asked.

  “Stew.”

  “I know it's late, but a roast chicken sounds delicious,” said Tru, fluttering her eyes. “I hope it's not too much trouble,” she continued with her usual flirtatious pout.

  “The Mrs. would be happy to oblige.”

  “Oh,” muttered Tru, realizing that her flirtatious behavior might have been wasted. “Thank you.”

  “I will return shortly,” said the barkeep. As the man turned, Ryan stood and rested a steady hand on the man’s arm, inclining his head so the barkeep would lean in. In a low, discreet tone, Ryan whispered, “We have traveled all day; is there a place for the ladies to wash and possibly ‘make water’?”

  As the man leaned down to catch the whisper, the dim lantern light caught a pale, jagged ridge of a silver-fleshed scar that started just below his left temple and disappeared into the scruff of his beard near the ear. Ryan remembered seeing a scar like that, but couldn't place it.

  The barkeep nodded and said, “I'll fetch my Mrs.” He went to the back room, disappearing behind the door. As Ryan retook his seat, he heard someone say, “I gotta take a piss.”

  Ryan's eyes moved to the table where the bandits were seated. One stood and began walking towards Ryan and the door to the outside. As he neared their table he tripped over his own foot. The man stumbled forward and landed on Ryan. Ryan felt the man's hand reach into his shirt and his clammy fingers wrap themselves around the coin purse. He could smell bitter ale and rotting teeth on the man's breath

  He grabbed the man's arm and removed it from the inside of his shirt, snatched the purse back, and shoved the man hard. He flailed backward, landing on Tru before falling to the floor. He used his grimy hands to try to pull himself back up by grabbing hold of Tru's sleeve. The sleeve tore, exposing the soft, smooth, and flawless elven skin that was beneath.

  Ryan was standing over the man now; his hand was wrapped around the hilt of his sword. The barkeep charged from the back room noticing where Ryan's hand was.

  “What the hell is going on here?” demanded the keeper. “Thad, what are you doing; were you trying to steal this man's purse? You know we pay Yirrk, your leader, a price for peace. You won't want me to tell him that you're causing trouble again; would you?”

  “There's no need for that now,” stammered Thad in a shaky voice that hinted at his fear of his leader. Thad turned and apologized to Tru, “I'm sorry miss, and may I say, your skin is softer than the underbelly of a whisker fish.”

  Tru's nose scrunched at the thought.

  “Now that is enough, Thad. The two of you need to leave before I send for Yirrk.”

  The two men left quickly. The sound of their horses racing away suddenly brought the tension down in the room. The barkeep turned to face Ryan.

  He looked at him and said, “Why do you carry Johan's sword?”

  Ryan’s breath hitched, the question ringing in his ears. He remembered that scar. He had been ten years old, clutching a wooden practice sword with a splintered crossguard, when he’d accidentally laid that cheek open during a sparring match behind the granary. He could still remember the copper smell of the blood and the way the boy—Jax—hadn’t even cried, just looked at him with wide, shocked eyes.

  “Jax?”

  The barkeep’s hand went instinctively to the silver ridge on his cheek. He didn't answer at first; he simply took a deep breath, the wary guard he’d held against the "stranger" with Johan’s sword vanishing in an instant. A look of pure, startled wonder washed over his face as the years fell away.

  "Just to let you know, I finally learned when to duck, Ryan."