A large group of especially noisy men, wearing the uniform of the militia, sat and stood around one of the tables. The wench kept pushing through the crowd, moving time and again from the storeroom to their table, making sure their mugs were kept full.

“Wench!” cried out one of the soldiers. The rank on his sleeve was that of a sergeant. “Bring more brandy for me and my comrades!”. The wench hurried to the storeroom, the sweat glinting off her face. She pushed through quickly, not stopping to scorn those who sent grabby hands her way or made rude remarks, simply because there were none. Unlike girls in other inns and taverns, she was spared that sort of attention due to her uncomely features. Her hooked nose was covered with large warts, which also adorned her pointed chin and filthy curls of coal black hair hung around her face which was constantly stained with grease and soot. Like most residents of the dock area, her only outfit was patched rags of undistinguishable color, which hid all other features of her person. Some of the regulars used to jest that the tavern, known as the “Hag’s brewery” was named after her. As it was, it took her moments to return, carrying four jugs of brandy. Carefully, she placed them in front of the dark-haired sergeant and removed the empty ones, wordlessly slipping away.

A gust of cold wind blew in as the door opened. A burly man, broad shouldered and standing almost seven feet tall, stepped inside. Wearing a long overcoat of dark brown furs, the man somewhat resembled a bear. The thick black beard and the cold, beady eyes that now searched the room completed the man’s savage appearance. A murmur of surprise replaced the cheerful chatter as the villagers suddenly fell quiet at the sight of the man. In the near darkness of the inn, it was still easy to spot the large twin bladed axe that was strapped to the barbarian’s back. As he moved towards one of the tables, the villagers pressed together, trying to stay out if his way and the barbarian sat heavily on a chair whose last occupant was now cowering under the table. Without being asked, the wench squeezed through the petrified men, placing a large jug of strong ale in front of the newcomer, before returning once again to the safety of the storeroom. The barbarian drank, seemingly unmindful of the terrified looks on the villagers’ faces and slowly, as it came clear that the man’s business in the place was no different than their own, they resumed their drinking and laughing, though keeping a watchful eye on the barbarian.

“As the keeper of peace in this town I demand to know your name and business here!”

The barbarian looked up to see the sergeant standing next to him with two more of the militiamen behind him. He turned back to his drink. “Your name, barbarian!” The sergeant put whatever was left of his nerve into these words. “Thsalvast Derlkleer” The strong accent of the western folk in the barbarian’s deep voice was unmistakable. His steel-gray eyes met the sergeant’s and once again, everyone in the room fell silent. Thsalvast Derlkleer was a renowned bounty hunter from the savage west. Over the past two decades he has presented numerous kings and rulers the heads of wanted outlaws, usually separated from the rest of the body. The sergeant chuckled. He had heard of more then a few captains who “developed” severe disabilities having refused to cooperate with Derlkleer.

“Well, well, well, “ a soft voice from the other side of the room broke the eerie silence “if it isn’t the famous Derlkleer in our little town. Who, might I ask, are you after?”. All eyes turned at the speaker, who sat in the corner, hidden by shadows, as the barbarian gave his answer. “I am here for the man who calls himself ‘the red raven’.” The villagers gasped in awe. “The raven?” said the man in the shadows “that’s a novelty! What makes you think you’ll succeed where all others have failed?”. The barbarian rose to his feet “Thsalvast Derlkleer does not fail!”. The sound of slow clapping came from the shadows in mockery of the barbarian’s dramatic outburst. “Forgive me for being skeptical, my savage friend. Many have made that claim and still they were fooled by the raven. I don’t think the sergeant here could count the times the red-headed bandit slipped through his fingers even if he had a dozen more hands.” The barbarian stared at the shadows, trying to pierce the darkness with his eyes. The unseen speaker was starting to irritate him, which was probably unwise. “One more question, if you don’t mind” the soft voice continued, “How will you find him? No one knows what he looks like except for the fact that he has red hair. Besides, he hasn’t shown his face in quite a while. By now he could be miles away, living like a king with all his loot. Or,” there was a short pause “he could be sitting right here in this room, drinking sweet wine and enjoying the show”. This was more than the large man could take. He pushed his way through, reached forward and grabbed the man by his robes. To his amazement, that was all he held. The man with the soft voice seemed to vanish into thin air. Enraged, Derlkleer tore the dark robe in half and tossed it aside, then turned to face the villagers. Three dozen pairs of eyes were set on him as they stood there transfixed, like living statues, paralyzed by fear.

The first to react was the sergeant. “The bastard!” he cried, “my purse is gone!” a murmur went through the crowd as several more villagers realized they were robbed as well. A chair flew through the air and crashed on the wall. The villagers’ attention was shifted from their possessions back to the barbarian who started to tear the inn apart in a fit of rage. His money pouch was stolen too.

He rushed out of the tavern, followed by the militia sergeant, his face red with anger. “Search the streets and alleyways!” the sergeant shouted orders at his men “Check all the houses! This time the raven won’t get away!”.

Three hours later the soldiers were still running through the streets, though they knew it was futile. If the robed man were in fact the red raven, they’d never find him. A few early rising merchants were on their way to the market, pulling handcarts or carrying heavy sacks. The soldiers stopped and questioned each one. As time passed more and more people went about their business and the street began to fill up, making an impossible task a lot harder. Still, the sergeant had not calmed down yet and the soldiers preferred to be out in the street rather than return to the barracks and face him - or worse - the dreaded barbarian.

Meanwhile, a few blocks from the ‘Hag’s brewery”, the wench was heading away from the tavern, walking slowly in the empty streets of the old dock area. Having cleaned her face of the grease, she did not seem as gruesome as before. In fact, if it wasn’t for the warts, she might even be considered attractive. As she approached her destination, she raised one hand to her face, and one by one, picked off the warts, tossing the delicate pieces of makeup aside. She grinned as she reached down to her belt, feeling the bulge of a money pouch that until recently belonged to a certain bounty hunter from the west. She reached the abandoned dock and boarded the small boat that was waiting for her. It’s time for the red raven to find a new nest…