Darkness had fallen and most patrons had already finished their supper when the door to the Mountain Run Tavern creaked open. The few who bothered to turn their heads at the arrival of the newcomers observed a small party of travelers enter. Seeing nothing particularly interesting about the robed and hooded figures - just a group of monks or pilgrims seeking refuge from the road - those who had noticed quickly turned back to their flagons.

The small party, some wearing robes of different colors, but most dressed in grey or brown, their features hidden within the hoods they kept in place, made their way to an empty table in the back of the main hall, the glow of the distant fireplace bringing little warmth or light as they seated themselves.

A barmaid sauntered over. “What’ll ye have then, …er, brothers?”

One grey clad stranger raised his head, the darkened hood aimed at the server. Though his features were hidden, the voice revealed he was a man and the good humor of a hidden smile laced his response. “Good evening, dear woman. We are weary and famished from the road. Whilst our means are limited, we would stay for the night and sup here if you have meagre accommodations and fare that would suit our party.“

The barmaid rolled her eyes, clearly there was not much coin to be made from these beggars. Still, they seemed a decent if shy sort of folk. “Aye we’ll scare up some cheese, bread and mutton for the table, and I’ll bring a pitcher of ale. There should still be room in the stable loft for ye. The hay is clean and dry - 4 bits for the lot, ye can pay in the morning.” She cast an eye over the group again.

”Pilgrims are ye? Where ye be bound, then?” The hoods turned to one another again, as if in silent communal, then the grey robed one spoke again. “We bring word from the East. We seek Commander McKrag, or to speak with Foster - are they in these parts at present?” The woman raised her eyebrows. “Oh, seekin an audience with *King* Foster, do ye?,“ she cackled. “Ain’t seen that big ranger in a few moons now, but I hear the king *she snorted again* is layin out a feast for them lordly types on the morrow. Good fortune bein a’ table there, lest ye come begging.” She chuckled to herself aa she moved back toward the bar.

The darkened hood of the stranger followed her, then turned to his fellows. “Thank you, good woman, perhaps we shall.”

News may not travel as far or fast in Nova Regnus as it did in their home world, yet Tris and Imra had still managed to catch wind of the plague that was sweeping the realm. Artorias had been kind enough to send a letter to where they were staying, one which Imra still kept folded in her book. It warned them. Told them of the disease and of its origins. “I wish we would have talked it through more,” Imra said, a cautious glance cast over her shoulder as the pair made their way towards the dimly lit doorway of the tavern. “Laya asked me what I thought of opening the portal. It felt like we were being pressured into it.” One hand brushed back the hair that had fallen into her face, and Imra looked back over to her long-time friend and confidante. Tris’ bag was overflowing with herbs and flowers, recently harvested from their careful planting experiment along the magical veins that ran throughout the land.

Another strong breeze blew through them, and Tris tightened her cloak around her shoulders. The healer was determined though. A plague was no laughing matter; they had to demolish it as fast and as thoroughly as possible. Tris readjusted her makeshift mask made from clean linen bandages, and handed one to Imra as they walked. “If we can observe the affliction closely enough, I may be able to come up with a more natural and widespread cure.” Both women looked at one another for a moment, pausing before the door to the tavern. “Magic isn’t the end-all be-all, Imra. I don’t trust it when healing a person...not fully.” That had been a mild point of contention between the friends even in Sylbion, Imra’s warmage training had always left an uneasy feeling in the pit of the herbalist’s stomach. But they complemented each other well in that their opposing ideologies let them see the issue in a more complex and complete light.

“I know, Tris.” A confident hand was clapped on the herbalist’s shoulder before Imra pushed open the tavern door. Already, the setting was a welcome change. She broke from her friend only long enough to purchase warm meals and cold beverages for the both of them, a polite smile and generous tip left behind after paying. “Hope you’re fond of stew,” Imra commented, not noticing at first that Tris was staring at a decree posted on the wall. “Tris?” The mage looked around, spotting her friend who looked to be just a touch paler than normal.

“There’s...an amulet,” Tris said low, hands gripped tight around the strap of her satchel.

Imra’s brow furrowed and she ushered the woman to the side, giving the parchment a cursory once-over. Her lips moved silently as she read K’s decree. Familiar names were listed, but the most important part was that amulet. Wide-eyed, the women returned to their table and started to quickly dig in to their food. “If it was broken once before,” Tris said softly,” What’s preventing it again?”

There was a healthy dose of fear behind those words, and as they finished their meal both Imra and Tris continued to go over more of what they might need to make Tris’ herbs more potent and powerful. “Information,” Imra said. “Above all else, we need information.” The woman poked at a stray potato with a fork and hummed. “But how…”

Tris could only smile, for once having a surprise for Imra rather than the reverse being the case. “Oh, I have a way.”

“Do you?”

“Just an old friend you’ll be happy to see.”

It took a moment, but Imra’s eyed lit up at the insinuation. A little too excitedly, she grabbed Tris’ forearm and beamed. Maybe this wasn’t all lost after all.

Evening approaches at the Mountain Run Tavern. In the corner an inebriated bard strums a lute boisterously as his elven companion sings to a different tune. The tavern is filled with the sounds of people talking and grousing about the day and its troubles and joys.

The tavern doors swing open with a bang, silencing all the chatter, as a dusty figure in a wide-brimmed hat, and a travel worn coat and boots enters the smoky but well-lit interior. His boots thump on the wooden floorboards as he strides up to the bar, sweeping his hat off his head. A winning smile and mischievous eyes greet the patrons who have paused their drinking to eye down the newcomer.

The new traveler relaxes on a stool next to a depressed knight deep in her cups. At the far end of the bar, a large man in red nurses a mug of ale. Around the corner strides Foster, who passes a mug of ale to the knight.

“I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before,” says Foster to the newcomer. “Who are you?”

The stranger responds in a distinctive drawl, “Jeff Decorum, at your service. And this is my first time in this fine country.”

“In that case, welcome to Nova Regnus, traveler! Can I get you any food or drink? Our prices are fair and the fire is open to all.”

Jeff takes a long sniff of the air. “I’ll have whatever chow’s already cookin. Smells delicious. As for drink, tea if you have any.”

Foster raises an eyebrow, “An odd request, but I’m sure we have some.” He walks back into the kitchen, wondering at Jeff’s bizarre accent. He shakes his head at the endless variety of portal travelers he has seen.

Back at the bar, the knight next to Jeff taps him clumsily in the shoulder. “Hey, you should wash yer tone… Thash King Foshter yer talkin to… Show some reshpect.”

Jeff raises both his eyebrows in surprise. He had heard of King Foster from other travelers on the road and had planned to meet him during his visit. He did not expect to meet him in a tavern.

Foster takes this moment to return with a steaming plate of roast chicken and vegetables and a mug of tea.

“Everyone behaving all right here?” Foster asks.

“Yesh yer majeshty. Jusht makin sure the new guy shows you proper reshpect,” the knight mumbles.

Foster smiles, “Thank you Gretchen.” Gretchen nods contentedly and returns to her cups.

Jeff takes a deep whiff of the sizzling and steaming food before, savoring the aroma of the meat in particular. He pulls out a handful of coins and places it on the bar for Foster.

“Thank you, your majesty,” says Jeff. “I would like to speak with you further, but this food’s makin me weak with hunger.”

Foster smiles as he sweeps the coins into his apron. “Take your time. I look forward to hearing your story.”

Jeff nods and tears into his meal with ravenous intensity as Foster moves to another section of the tavern.

Half an hour later, Foster returns to find Jeff sipping his tea contentedly, his plate empty except for a pile of chicken bones and some gravy.

“My compliments to the chef,” says Jeff.

“She’ll be pleased to hear that,” responds Foster with pride.

Jeff leans forward. “I must say, I’ve never met, nor heard tell of a King that tends bar.”

Foster raises an eyebrow, “Met many Kings have you?”

Jeff grins. “Maybe. So why the tavern?”

“It’s what I did before these people crowned me King. The work keeps me grounded. How about you? What drew your wandering feet to my home?” says Foster, turning the conversation to Jeff and his mysteries.

Jeff sets down the now empty mug of tea. “I have wares your people might be interested in. I’d like to do business here. With your permission of course.”

Foster stares at Jeff intently. “What kind of wares?”

Jeff’s grin grows wider as he responds, “Spells.”

The large man in red at the end of the bar perks up.

The man arrived in the night. A traveler wrapped in a cloak and hood with boots trailing mud as he entered. The fire was low and only the passed out drunk and a man in red robes and a pointed hat were visible in the tavern at this hour. And yet like clockwork Foster appeared behind the bar to offer this traveler respite as he had for all who entered Mountain Run Tavern.

"Good evening sir, is there anything I can get you to shake off the cold?" asked Foster. Making sure to keep his head lowered so the cowl of his hood hid his face, "I'm just getting my bearings. Won't be here long" the traveler replied, "Though if you have it, I wouldn't mind some salted pork for the road"

Foster smiled "Easy enough." he said. The traveler watched Foster walk back behind the bar and out of sight. His gaze now shifted towards the fire and he took a seat beside the hearth, the wooden chair squeaking as he did so.

The man in red stirred at the noise, but the traveler paid him little attention as he was focused on the parchment, quill and ink he was removing from inside his cloak, and using the light of the fire began to write. His quill scratched frantically as his thoughts became words and the man in red slowly began to gain consciousness next to him.

The traveler continued to write and as he did he found himself muttering allowed pieces of his thoughts. "......hidden enemies.........false allies...........demons may have friends...........not safe, but no choice..........must be warned.........proof....."

"The food you ordered sir." Foster said as he laid a wooden plate down. The traveler jumped nearly spilling ink on his writings. "Thank you" he said with a hint of embarrassment, as he began packing up his things, grabbing the pork in the process and shoving it into a small satchel at his side.

At that moment a strong wind blew in from the night causing the firelight to dim to near blackness for an instant only to be replaced by the soft orange glow just as quickly. The passed out drunk awoke from his stupor and immediately rushed outside to relieve his stomach. But as Foster's eyes adjusted to the sudden change of light he noticed the traveler had disappeared. Foster looked down at the seat and table he was just at and saw both coin for the pork and a small piece of parchment. It read...

"To all iT may concern,

The world is in danger and tHere are some who want it that way. BE careful who you tRust, enemies can hide in plain sight but Eventually they all come to light. They work in the shAdows, and may have helped the demons enter our world. KeeP your eyes and ears open and maybE you'll see my signs and heaR my whisperS.

The Friend"

As Foster finished reading the parchment, he became startled as the voice of the still drunk man erupted from behind his shoulder. "Whoever wrote tat dunt has gud writing skills. His putin big letters in wrong places. Kinda spooky stuff he be saying doh, I'll have to tell me friends when day come round next."

Elsewhere, on the road, the traveler pressed on into the night. Now comforted by the taste of salted pork.