Interlude: "One very unnoticed morning."

The atmosphere inside the "Good Man's Happiness" tavern offered a deceptive tranquility in the early morning. It wasn't that peace reigned due to a complete absence of souls, but because most of the previous night's stragglers lay inert on the wooden tables or snored sonorously in the darkest corners, fused with the furniture as if they were a part of it. Their bodies twisted in alcoholic dreams, oblivious to the awakening of the new day that barely filtered through the small, misty windows. In some way, that heavy silence, broken only by an occasional groan or the slow jingle of a distant bell, felt strangely peaceful for the few who, like Varzgax, still retained their sobriety and control of their limbs. The air was permeated with a persistent scent of stale alcohol, sweat, and damp wood—a fragrance so characteristic of such establishments that, for someone who had spent half a lifetime moving from tavern to tavern, it had become almost a familiar aroma and, at times, even comforting. It was an olfactory symphony that didn't verge on the unpleasant but settled into the background of daily existence, especially in a place like the Maxlim territory, where life was harsher and the Adventurers' Guild buzzed with frantic activity due to its strategic proximity to the ever-dangerous frontier. At the counter, the tavern owner, a man with a weathered face and few words, polished pewter mugs with an already grayish linen cloth, his movements mechanical and his gaze lost somewhere beyond the main door, reflecting an existential tedium that vividly contrasted with the energy, or the appearance of it, of a pair of adventurers who were already downing their first morning beers to start the day with more vigor. These, with an enthusiasm that Varzgax considered almost obscene at such an hour, prepared to face the missions that the day would bring, their deep voices breaking the silence like hammers on an anvil. However, at one of the establishment's many tables, set apart from the minimal hustle and soft light, sat two figures drinking calmly, their gestures slow and synchronized, as part of a tacit and well-established routine. They were Varzgax and Matthew, two companions on the road, two experienced adventurers, enjoying a day that seemed unusually placid. Varzgax, with the robustness of his thirty years and his imposing stature, observed the sporadic coming and going with a calm that for others would have been disconcerting. His own pint of beer rested half-empty before him, and his gray eyes, subtly almond-shaped, scanned the surroundings, though his mind was far away, weaving complex thoughts beneath the surface of his habitually tranquil smile. Suddenly, the blond-haired man, Matthew, with the indolent grace that characterized him, set his beer mug on the table with a soft clink. Matthew's beautiful sky-blue eyes, which always seemed to hold a mixture of innocence and weariness, settled on Varzgax with an expression of subtle curiosity, piercing his friend's apparent neutrality. His hairstyle, similar to Varzgax's own, framed a still delicate face, one that seemed to have retained the freshness of a carefree day, despite countless days of travel. Matthew: [—Varzgax, you're calmer than usual...] Matthew’s voice was serene, tinged with that sleepy drawl so characteristic of him that to Varzgax it had become a familiar melody. —It's quite unusual to see you so neutral... Are you thinking about something in particular? Matthew's blue eyes, those that Varzgax had seen gleam with heroism and cloud with sadness, were the same as always. However, something about him was different now; it wasn't a fundamental change, but a subtle evolution in his appearance. His adventurer's attire, functional and comfortable, had been enhanced. To his usual outfit had been added a brown jacket, made of flexible leather already weathered by use, which clung to his athletic physique. And to complete the ensemble, a black scarf was gently tied around his neck, adding a touch of practical sophistication that contrasted with the more casual style he often sported in camps or villages. It was a small, almost imperceptible sign of the maturity and experience Matthew had accumulated, an additional layer to his already complex personality. Varzgax noticed it, just as he noticed every small detail about his "brother." Varzgax: [—I was just thinking about what we could do this week, but I was also reflecting on our country's situation, the kingdom's conflict is becoming more significant lately... At this rate, the Hyulkran Forest will most likely end up completely invaded...] Varzgax replied, his voice a soft murmur that barely broke the tavern's tranquility, a deliberate contrast to the gravity of his words. A subtle, almost imperceptible smile played on his lips as he spoke, an expression that, to Matthew, could signify either deep concern or merely a habit. His worries, truthfully, were more than justified in the turbulent environment they inhabited. The kingdom's situation was precarious; even with the legendary strength and coordination of the four knights of the nation, defenses had faltered, and the enemy army's last attack just a few months prior, against one of the border fortifications, had ended in a bitter stalemate, if not a covert defeat. Impotence was a poison that seeped through the veins of the people, and Varzgax was no stranger to its bitter taste. A part of Varzgax, a persistent echo deep within him, knew he could intervene. He possessed the strength, the experience, and even the skills to tip the scales, to be the difference in a conflict that seemed to devour everything in its path. However, his will, or at least the part that allowed itself to be freely manifested in such battles, was contained, redirected. There were already too many dangers in the world, too many loose threads and primary objectives that bound him. He could not afford the luxury of risking everything in a war that, although it affected many, had not yet touched the core of his own purposes, or those of the ones he protected. Great battles came and went, and the true fight, the important one, required a more... personal strategy. The thought crossed his mind like a cold lightning bolt, a flash of conviction that barely altered the gleam in his gray eyes. The truth was that, beneath his calm facade and agreeable demeanor, beneath the guise of an exemplary adventurer, an immense resentment simmered towards the state of the world, towards the inherent injustice that seemed to weave the fate of so many. Not an injustice to be solved with a sword or a spell on a battlefield, but a deeper one, one that he felt gnawing at the very foundation of existence. His goal was a reformed world, more... orderly, though the path to achieve it was fraught with shadows and difficult decisions. Varzgax: [—Finish your beer; we're going to complete the mission we took last night.] Varzgax said in a tone that allowed no argument, but maintained his usual serenity. His words cut through the air with a decision that, though quiet, was unyielding. With a fluid and elegant movement for a man of his stature, he rose from the table. The creak of wood beneath his boots briefly echoed in the tavern's silence. With his gaze fixed on the horizon, or at least on the door that promised a new day of adventures, he began to gather his equipment. He unfastened the Diolenski axe from his belt, weighed it for an instant, feeling the familiar heft in his hand, before securing it back to his back. Every movement was efficient, calculated, the mark of a man who had repeated that routine thousands of times, but who today seemed to imbue it with a new kind of purpose. The gesture, his abrupt decision to get moving, surprised even Matthew, who, with his usual morning drowsiness, had already accepted Varzgax's simple and precise answer regarding his unusual neutrality that morning. Matthew looked at him, his sky-blue eyes reflecting a mixture of astonishment and slight impatience, but without questioning the implicit authority in his companion's order. The blond rushed to finish what remained in his mug, a lazy smile appearing on his lips as he followed Varzgax's steps. For now, at least, Varzgax's mind had already sketched the contours of what was needed. In the quiet of that tavern dawn, while others were barely stirring from their lethargy, he had weighed the pieces, evaluated the implications of distant conflicts and the echoes of a future that now seemed promising. It wasn't a simple mission that moved him, but a deeper understanding, an imperative that pulsed beneath the world's surface. The immediate task with Matthew was just one thread among many in the vast tapestry of destiny, a necessary link in a chain of events that, in his view, would lead to a more correct and peaceful state of affairs—something everyone could enjoy: continuing to help the native villages. His gaze, as it fell upon the tavern exit, lingered for an instant. There was a singular glint in his gray eyes, one that spoke of an unyielding resolve, of a path already decided that stretched far beyond the walls of that establishment. The path was set, and the first light of day, now pouring in more strongly through the cracks, marked the beginning of a quest that, for him, was inescapable and of a magnitude few could comprehend. («I must live peacefully... At least that will be my greatest goal.»)