“Eons ago, when life was young and darkness slept in the heavens, a blade was forged by the gods themselves, for the beast men to wield. This sword would...”
“I paid for a story, not another myth of divine craftsmanship.” 
The tiger bard frowned and closed his eyes, releasing a soft sigh as he lowered his instrument. Another deep breath let the scent of cooking vegetables and burning meat fills his nostrils, strengthening his resolve to sing for coin. Wiping off a layer of drool, he nodded. 
	“I assume that story is less enticing for you than it is to my own kind.” The human patron gave a small nod and peeked around the slightly dark in. The ambience was subpar, though it was justified; dragons were rampant this time of year, looking for mates and place to nest. A warm, bright, cosy tavern was perfect, hence the dark, moist and cold atmosphere, only made bearable by the pungent smell of good cooking. 
Despite it being the dead of night, the inn dressed in a haunted mist and bathed in moonlight, little shady deals took place. It might be the dangerous environment, the hard to reach front door or just maybe the burly dragon kin guard, who occasionally puffed a puff of smoke to show everyone he didn’t have any ethical quarrels with eating sentient flesh. He was might impressive in his shiny silver armour, formidable flail and buckler. Though a warrior of such class got very little respect when protecting a lowly hovel to travellers. 
	“So, Mister Barkeep. Seen any dragons lately?” A rather unimpressive beast boy asked. He wasn’t dressed for any real battle, wearing leather and ringmail, with a few sheets of metal. 
	“Enough to kill any retirement; one peek through my window and you should get one in your sights.” The orange furball shook his head.
	“Eh... I figured on my way in. But I’m looking for a particular one! A brown dragon dressed in robes, who likely ordered little food!” The barkeep looked up, one eyebrow up in his furry haircut.
	“I did... he paid me in natural, instead of coin. A pile of firewood for a night’s stay. He left when he claimed to have a vision. I don’t know where he went though and no money can help me ‘remember’.” The feline youngster shrugged.
	“I guess... but that answer is enough for me.” The gruff ant shrugged.
	“Curious, though. Got any squabbles with him? Debts or some personal score to settle?” 
	“Nah. It’s more something he did! He inspired me to take up the blade and I have a few questions for him.” 
	“He did that? Well, I can’t imagine a pacifist like he could do that. But... do you still want a bed or not?” The feline shook his head.
	“Sorry, but I just came in for a drink and a question.” The boy popped a few chunks of gold on the table and stretched, before heading to the door and slipping by the dragon bouncer. 

The mountains outside were coated in thick snow and dry shrubbery. Spruce and evergreen were few and far between, leaving little landmarks in the narrow valley. A sign nearby read “Ruskin Lodge, first, last and only rest between Furs and Skins.” The feline knew it all too well. The valley had ruins of failed outposts all over. It was rugged terrain, impossible for armies to station effectively. The lack of proper sunlight and moonlight made it dark, with the howling wind giving the shivers to just about anyone. 
A quick peek down the road gave the boy a sight of a dot of light. It was a torch or maybe a spell of light, guiding a lone traveller along the slimmer parts of the path. 
	“HEEEEEY!” The boy shouted down the valley, almost deafened by his own echoes. The light halted for a moment, a spotlight blinding his rugged furry face, before returning to the path and continuing on.  He sighed and sparked a light in his lantern, before quickly following suit.