He finished the last bite of his breakfast and let his gaze wander thoughtfully around the room. What did this day hold in store for him? As a bard, he often found answers in the strings of his instrument, so eventually, he reached for his lute to play familiar melodies for the next hour.
When the sun reached its zenith, he finally set off for the tavern. The path seemed far less arduous than usual, and his thoughts began to drift in time with the steady rhythm of his steps. And yes, inevitably, his mind turned to his new mistress—the one whose name began with “V.”
What exactly might she be doing right now?
Worthy bard? … – Yes, beloved traveler, German is right here
But he shook his head, brushing the thought aside. Somehow, the present moment was so inviting that he felt no desire to brood over other people’s affairs. Instead, he delighted in the mild midday breeze gently brushing through his fur and watched the canopy of leaves rustling softly above him. Sunlight played a game of golden tag amidst the branches, and a deep, unshakable peace lay over the forest.
A genuine sense of anticipation grew within him at the prospect of playing at the tavern. Nothing complicated and no melancholic ballads with dense lyrics, just simple, cheerful tunes. Played simply for the sheer joy of it. He found himself humming a light melody, and a smile stole across his face. Yes, this day promised to be wonderful. A day to simply wander and do exactly what a bard’s heart desired Finally, he reached the inn. He paused at the doorway and looked around.
It was curious just realizing how much one’s internal perspective determined whether one entered a place with eager anticipation or wished for nothing more than to beat a hasty retreat. Today, however, he was full of purpose. With a firm grip, he pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped across the threshold.
But he froze mid-motion.
Instantly, the eyes of everyone present turned toward him, a scrutiny the likes of which he had never experienced before. It was an oppressive blend of lurking curiosity and condescending pity, coupled with an almost palpable disrespect radiating from the taproom. The cheerful tune on his lips died away at once.
In silence, his jaw set tight, he made his way through the rows of patrons. The weight of those stares pressed heavily upon his shoulders, and the plan to bring out his lute vanished. He decided simply to order a pint of mead, drink it in peace, and leave the strings untouched. “It’ll pass; you’ve been through this sort of thing plenty of times before…” he murmured to himself, only to realize that this time, the opposite was happening.
People were shunning him.
His music was unwelcome; ultimately, he sat frustrated in a corner of the tavern, eyed with suspicion – and he could have sworn they were whispering about him behind his back. In the end, he sat in a corner, playing softly to himself. Eventually, a lynx approached him and asked, “Is it true what people are saying?” Fian looked at the lynx curiously. “Is what true? What are people saying?” he asked. “Well, just that business with the female white wolf, that you’re her new pet. That she simply took pity on you…” Before Fian could reply, the lynx turned and walked back to a group of drunken patrons. “That’s how it was,” he added, glancing back over his shoulder with a grin.
Fian’s paws tightened around the neck of his lute. The room’s low murmur had given way to open, mocking whispers.
The gazes directed at him were no longer furtive; they were unabashed and condescending. He felt the blood pounding in his veins and a hot rage spreading through his chest. He was a bard, a free spirit—and certainly no one’s lapdog. Furthermore, he forced himself to stay calm, took a deep draught of mead, and stared fixedly at the wooden tabletop, hoping the interest in him would soon subside. But the pack had tasted blood. Another massive figure detached itself from the group of drunks. It was a burly boar wearing a stained leather doublet and a crooked, cruel smile. He lumbered toward Fian’s corner with heavy, thudding steps, backed by the raucous laughter of his cronies.
The boar stopped right in front of the small table. He said nothing, merely staring at Fian with that arrogant grin. Then, slowly reaching into his pouch, he pulled out an object made of thick, riveted leather and dropped it onto the tabletop, right in front of Fian’s mead mug with a sharp, clacking sound.
It was a heavy, clunky collar; attached to its massive iron buckle was a short, broken length of chain dangling from it. “So you don’t get lost on the way back to your mistress,” the boar growled in amusement, planting his massive paws on the table and staring provocatively into Fian’s eyes.
That look … Something pushed him over the edge; something inside Fian snapped. He had meant to think it over for a moment, but then all reason gave way to a wild, unbridled rage that shot hot through his veins.
Who did this boar think he was? In the very next second, he had the leather strap between his paws, and the heavy iron buckle struck the boar’s tusks with a crunching sound. Yet the boar stood his ground, clenched his fists, and shouted over his shoulder, “Tavern rules be damned – I’m going to teach this pet some manners!” He tore the collar from Fian and raised the heavy buckle to strike, but before he could land the blow, a deafening crash shook the ceiling beams.
The tavern’s heavy entrance door had slammed shut with tremendous force.
The noise in the taproom died instantly in the guests’ throats. No one had noticed the door opening, yet there she stood, utterly motionless in the dim light of the entryway. Her gaze was clear and piercing as shards of ice and swept slowly over the frozen crowd. It was the uncompromising look of an ice-cold huntress who had just stepped into her own territory:
Calm, commanding, and deadly. The atmosphere in the room shifted in a heartbeat; the oppressive, raucous hostility gave way to an icy, reverent silence, broken only by the soft crackle of the hearth fire and Fian’s heavy, ragged breathing.
She walked across the room with her head held high and stood before the drunken boar. She studied him silently.
Their eyes met, and after a moment, the boar pointed at Fian and said mockingly, “You ought to keep an eye on your pet; he’s making himself very unpopular around here.”
Instead of replying, she simply studied the boar without saying a word. She just stood there, looking at him. Then her gaze fell upon the collar, and she held out her paw. “May I see it?” she asked in a quiet, icy tone. “Certainly…” The boar handed her the collar with a sneer and walked over to his cronies.
Under the curious gaze of the tavern crowd, she weighed the leather collar in her paws and considered the matter. Finally, she looked at Fian and asked in a calm voice, “Well, if my Snuffel isn’t above such things, then this must be his collar—though I find the chain excessive; that’s coming off. As for whether it will actually adorn his neck… well, that remains to be seen.”
With those words, she tucked the collar away and carelessly tossed the iron chain onto the floor before sitting down at the table next to Fian.
Before he could speak, she placed her claw on his leg, signaling him to remain silent. After a few minutes, she pricked up her ears and said loudly, “But right now, I’d prefer a bard who is above such things.”
With that, she beckoned another bard to the table and asked him to play softly.
