The entirety of Gordhurst was within eyesight, though there was not much to see. The town was a cluster of weathered cottages constructed around an old tower and the tower had seen far better days. Fang stood at the foot of the clearing, on the unkept road, and looked for signs of life. There were lights in the windows and smoke that drifted from crumbling chimneys, but it seemed there was nobody on the streets. There were no patrolmen.

Fang stroked at his muzzle with a clawed finger, weighing his options. He did not want the wrong person to come out of their cottage and see his gigantic, werewolf form stalking around in silence. That was asking for trouble. He continued to watch from the edge of the clearing until he saw two figures stumble out of the larger building in the area, with the exception of the tower.

Their steps had the telltale swagger of drunkards and the scent of ale on them was strong. Even with his superior sense of smell, he did not have to try hard to detect it. Fang now had his in. The local tavern would welcome his coin.

He pulled down his hood, unveiling his wolfen head and pointed ears. His sword firmly placed in his hanging scabbard, Fang raised his open hands, padded like paws though they were, and proceeded to step toward the town proper through the clearing.

He had considered a whistle but found it impossible to do with his fanged mouth. It was yet another small thing about being human he was unable to do in his beastly form. He had never considered how nice a whistle truly was to disarm a situation until it was too late.

As he approached Gordhurst the lights of the town lit his massive form, and now he realized he was entering a truly dangerous place. He began to hum, though it was throaty and tuneless. He never really paid attention to music around the castle back in Triseria. All he had in his repertoire were some simple nursery songs. He began to hum a medley of them as he set foot past the outermost cottage.

He maintained a steady pace and arrived at the tavern. Inside he could hear the drunken conversation. The aromas of spices and roasted meat were intoxicating. He took a deep breath and took the doorknob between two thick, furred fingers. The creaking was severe as he gingerly opened the door and stepped into the light of the tavern.

Fang braced himself and took a sharp breath, raising his hands to the side of his head, palms facing the patrons.

"I am a traveler who seeks food and drink. I bid you no harm, and my purse is heavy with coin" he said as calmly as he could.

The tavern was silent for what seemed like an eternity.

"You aren't with the Ashclaws out of Triseria, are you?"

"I hunt the Ashclaws," Fang growled, "I am their sworn enemy."

This was the truth. Fang had killed four of them thus far in two years.

"I don't doubt it," a patron snorted.

There was some awkward chuckling followed by a grim silence. The patrons stared at the werewolf in their midst. Fang could sense their unease with his presence by how quiet the tavern was.

Fang bowed his head slightly.

"May I put down my hands?" he asked.

The tavern keeper, the man who had questioned him, nodded. Fang let his hands fall to his sides. The tavern keeper was a heavy-set man of middle age, unshaven, but not quite bearded. His mostly red hair was graying at the temples. He had a scar that ran from his left ear to his chin.

"Your coin is welcome here, stranger, but at the first sign of trouble I will put you down."

He gestured to a crossbow mounted to the wall behind him.

Fang nodded and took an empty table in the corner, to his left, away from the other patrons who continued to eye him nervously. The table was merely a barrel and some boards nailed on top. Fang pushed the barrel from the wall enough to squeeze in and sit in the chair that was far too small for him. The patrons began to laugh at the image of the werewolf in a small chair. Fang was thankful for this, but even more thankful for a defensible position.

"I'll take an ale and... do you have mutton?" Fang asked.

"Aye, but it'll be a silver for both."

Fang raised a furry eyebrow.

"A silver for ale and mutton? Is that the price in this town for everyone?"

"It's the price for fearsome strangers. If you don't like it, you can leave, beast."

Fang sighed, "very well. Make it two ales and two mutton."

He pulled two silver from his coin purse and place them on the edge of his table. The tavern keeper approached cautiously from behind the bar and stared the silver on the table in shock. He came to his senses and quickly snatched up the coins.

Fang leaned back, placing his back against the wall. The broadsword slung over his shoulder did not make this comfortable, but he dare not reach for the sword while inside. By now the other patrons had grown disinterested with the immediate danger Fang represented and returned to their conversations, or new conversations, given the circumstances. Once in awhile someone would stare at him from across the tavern, and Fang would not acknowledge them.

The tavern was small, more of a hollowed-out home that an actual space built to serve drinks. There was a wall that was knocked out to make more room for tables, and the tavern keeper's bar was a table in front of the kitchen door, with a shelf lined with bottles and tankards next to the door. Several large barrels stood at the end of the bar and Fang watched the tavern keeper dunk a flagon into it, handing it off to a customer, and sealing the barrel back up.

With his arms crossed, reclining against the wall, Fang began to listen. None of the conversations seemed particularly interesting. One person spoke of crows attacking their crops, while another said the same of rabbits. Another was regaling his friend with tales of sexual escapades as fanciful as any Fang had ever heard in the guard quarters back in Triseria.

One man mentioned how few travelers had been seen in the past few weeks and reasoned it was fitting their only visitor was a beast. Fang found that incredibly rude and growled to himself.

The smell of food and alcohol filled the tavern, but there was also adrenaline. The smell of sweat was heavy in the air. Hearts thumped quickly as each patron acknowledged the wolf in the corner, even after a fleeting glance, but they continued to thump quickly even after. Something had them nervous. At first, Fang considered that maybe he was the cause, but he remembered the two skeletons in the woods. The scent of fear he could detect was not limited to just his imposing presence. Nobody breathed a word about anything involving the undead.

Though, the word "Triseria" caught Fang's attention as he scanned the conversations.

The tone was hushed. There was a woman in her mid-30s wearing a threadbare dress. Her hair was raised high, which must have been a local style. Her companion, a darker-skinned man, clearly a traveler from the West, replied to whatever her query was.

"Yes," his whisper was hoarse, "he definitely is marked by the curse from the Northeast."

"Is he dangerous?" she asked.

"What werewolf is gentle? But no, I've seen the Ashclaw. They're monsters. He's no Ashclaw, but I would not test him."

"Can he turn back?"

"That, I do not know. What man would willingly walk around like that, though? I think the answer lies there, Merith."

"How sad for him to be stuck like that."

Fang had heard enough. He stopped listening and shut his eyes, still leaning with his back against the wall, enjoying the relative warmth of the tavern and the smell of mutton coming from the kitchen.