Friend it is a word that has lost its meaning for me now, but when i was on pursuit of my vengeance, I had a person, a friend, whom I trusted more than myself, he was the reason i decided not to destroy morrowind, he was the reason i killed my beast, he was the reason i toppled the hierarchy of morrowind and put it in chaos, he was the reason for the fall of house Greystone or rather i should say that house Greystone fell because they picked the fight with the wrong people. He became someone whom I considered as family.

  Lucius made his way to the village tavern. In a place like Old Oak, the tavern wasn't just a drinking hall—it was the town's confessional, its town square, and its library of whispers. It was the only place where tongues loosened enough to speak the truths that daylight made too dangerous.

  He pushed open the heavy wooden door.

  The interior was surprisingly well-kept, defying the decaying aesthetic of the rest of the village. The floorboards were swept clean and polished to a dull shine by decades of boots. The tables were sturdy oak, scarred but scrubbed free of grease. A large stone hearth dominated the far wall, a low fire crackling within, casting a warm, orange glow that fought back the pervasive gray of the outside world. Lanterns hung from the exposed beams, their glass clean, burning steady and bright. The air smelled of roasted meat, yeast, and woodsmoke—a scent of comfort that felt almost alien to Lucius.

  Behind the bar stood the keeper.

  He was a man in his late fifties, though he carried his years with the solidity of a boulder. His hair was gray but thick, swept back neatly, and his beard was trimmed close to his jawline—disciplined. He wore a simple linen shirt and a leather apron that had seen years of service.

  But it was his hands that caught Lucius's eye.

  As the barkeep polished a tankard with a rag, his hands moved with a dexterity that belied his age. They were thick, broad hands, but the skin was rough with specific callouses—not the widespread roughness of a farmer gripping a plow or a laborer swinging a hammer. These were callouses on the knuckles, on the ridge of the palm, on the index finger.

  They were the hands of a man who had spent a lifetime hitting things, and hitting them hard. The hands of a fighter who had traded violence for pouring ale, but hadn't forgotten the weight of a fist.

  The barkeep looked up as Lucius approached, his eyes sharp and assessing—another trait of a man who had survived fights. He didn't smile, but he didn't scowl either. He simply waited, rag in hand, tankard on the bar.

  "Evening," the barkeep said. His voice was gravel over bedrock. "You look like you've walked a long way to find a place this quiet."

  Lucius greeted the barkeep with a nod and ordered a smoky steak and a mug of ale. The barkeep, reading the room and the man with the ease of long practice, pointed him toward a secluded corner table. It was the perfect vantage point—back to the wall, clear line of sight to the door, shadowed enough to be ignored. Lucius took the seat, settling into a calm composure that buried the earlier storm deep beneath the surface.

  The tavern was lively for midday. Tavern girls wove through the crowded tables with trays of frothy ale and steaming meat, gliding past patrons with practiced grace. Lucius’s order arrived quickly. He took a long sip of the ale, the cool bitterness a welcome relief to his dry throat.

  Then the atmosphere in the room shifted. It wasn't a drop into fear, but a surge of energy.

  The door swung open, and a man entered who demanded space simply by existing. He was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a brown overcoat with a thick fur collar and heavy brown pants. But it was the steel that caught the eye—plates sewn directly onto the shoulders and lower arms of his coat, and steel caps on the toes of his combat boots. He wore half-finger gloves with steel plates over the knuckles, weapons disguised as apparel. He was like a walking weapon.

  He walked with his chest puffed out, carrying a cocky attitude like a banner. He moved as if he owned the floorboards beneath his feet.

  Instead of silence or fear, his arrival brought smiles. "Dale!" someone called out, and grins spread across the faces of the patrons.

  The barkeep was already moving, pouring a massive jug of ale before the man even reached the counter. The man picked it up without a word and drained it in one long, impressive gulp. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. The barkeep poured another. And another. And a fourth.

  He drank four jugs of ale in rapid succession, a feat of gluttony that seemed to impress the room rather than disgust it. Finally, he slammed the last empty jug down.

  "Now that's how you start your day, eh?" he announced, his voice booming.

  He turned from the bar, ignoring the cheers, and strode to a shady corner of the tavern where an errands board hung. He pulled a flyer from his pocket and pinned it up with a heavy hand.

  Lucius watched from his shadow, his black eyes tracking the man's every move, noting the steel, the confidence, and the strange reverence of the crowd.

  The man returned to the bar for yet another jug, leaning in to speak with the barkeep. Their conversation was low, obscured by the din of the tavern, but Lucius watched them with the stillness of a predator. His steak remained untouched, the steam slowly dying. His ale was still full.

  He raised the mug to take a sip, disguising his scrutiny, and saw the barkeep gesture subtly in his direction. The man—Dale—turned, his eyes locking onto Lucius across the crowded room.

  Dale pushed off the bar and started walking toward the corner table.

  He didn't ask permission. He simply grabbed a chair, dragged it over with a screech of wood on wood, and sprawled into it. He leaned back, kicking his boots up onto the table, the steel-capped toes resting just inches from Lucius’s steak.

  A tavern girl appeared almost instantly, placing another jug in his hand.

  "Thanks, Rose, my luv," Dale said with a wink, his voice thick with unearned familiarity.

  He started drinking—not gulping this time, but sipping slowly, his eyes never leaving Lucius’s face. He was sizing him up, dissecting him with a gaze that was sharper than his drunken demeanor suggested.

  "You don't look like someone from here," Dale said finally.

  Lucius nodded once, his expression neutral. "I come from far away. I wanted peace, so I wandered here."

  Dale stayed silent for a moment, letting the noise of the tavern fill the space between them. His eyes dropped to Lucius’s hip, then back up.

  "That revolver of yours speaks otherwise," Dale said.

  Lucius didn't flinch. "You need protection in foreign lands, don't you?"

  Dale smirked—a knowing, arrogant expression that suggested he saw right through the mask. He reached into his coat and pulled out a copy of the flyer he had just pinned to the board. He tossed it onto the table.

  "You should come," Dale said. "Let some steam off here. It's not a proposal, it's an advice."

  Lucius looked down at the paper. The ink was fresh, the message crude: FIGHT TILL ONE OF YOU BITES THE DUST. ONLY KNUCKLE DUSTERS ALLOWED.

  Before Lucius could respond, Dale leaned forward, dropping his feet from the table. "Plus, you get a good amount of coins. Consider it."

  He stood up, drained the last of his ale, and walked out of the tavern without looking back, leaving Lucius with a cold steak, a full mug, and an invitation to violence.

  This man at that point I thought was another rich asshole, playing a role that he liked for that time, but I was wrong he was someone whom I admired more than Chyros or Lanze, dare I say at some point I admired him more than Sable.