The cracked, rusty bell chimed its dull jingle as Kor'Ak slid the door to the tavern open, the old door groaned and moaned as it swung open on it's long-decrepit hinges. The tavern was more or less empty, the wooden floors stained brown and red in small splotches from long spilt drinks. The Djálik warrior was given the same nonchalant greeting he'd become all-too familiar with. "Ah Mr Gale, another mug of my..." the raggedy old, gnomish barkeep seemed to spit out the latter half of his words in mild anger "vile swill?"

  "Apologies, I did not know you made it yourself... nevertheless, it is still rancid, Ranpa" The gnome looked up at the Djál, eyes questioning and lips parted into their permanent sour grimace "You're fully aware my name is not Ranpa, it is Fo-Shizzle Fizzle; I'd rather you remember that name, considering you've been living, drinking and eating here for over a month now!"

  A badly-cleaned ceramic tankard was pulled from behind the bar by Fo-Shizzle, the empty object was hurled across the tavern towards Kor'Ak as he was busy closing the heavy wooden door behind him. The mug soared just above the steel collar of Kor'Ak's armor. Ceramic shattered into pieces as it crashed against the Dark-skinned, iron hulk's skull.

  The hulk turned around slowly, seemingly unfazed.

  "Fuckin 'el lad, what's your skin made of?" the elderly gnome chuckled on; ever since he'd watched a rowdy patron shatter their own arm when they struck his new lodger, the barkeep had made it his quest to see what it would take to get any real reaction out of Kor'Ak. So far everything short of a dagger was something the dark beast had merely shrugged off.

  Kor'Ak groaned, he hung around in the empty bar, handing over a Silver Krown for each mug of 'vile swill' that he forced down his throat.

  It took an hour and a dozen drinks of what tasted like a mixture of feces and blood for Kor'Ak to start feeling that gentle, warm buzz that ran through his body. A loud belch signified to Fo-Shizzle that his primary, and only customer was ready to crash for the night. The gnome slid over a rusty key, a heavy wooden tag with a faded room number was looped through a hole in the key. Stumbling, Kor'Ak managed to find his way to his room. A simple bed, small handfuls of hay sticking out from within the rough mattress. The one source of light, a small window in the room let in shafts of filthy, almost eerie light. Thick grime clung to the cracked circular window. The last object in the room was little more than a wooden lockbox, unlike his room key, Kor'Ak kept the key to that chest to himself, but would return it when he eventually left.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Admittedly, it would take very little effort to bypass the shitty, non-magical lock.

  Kor'Ak collapsed onto the makeshift bed, it's oaken legs groaning beneath the weight of his full-plate armour and gear. And, both peacefully and loudly, Kor'Ak drifted off to sleep.

  The memories were vivid. Not hazy, as solid as if they were happening now. As if they were Kor'Ak's present, not his past.