As the barkeep came around with another round of the town's best ale, one of the frequent men started one of the tales that were so commonly shared in the crowded inn on rainy nights. The men laughed among themselves, as the lone figure in the shadowy corner continued to gaze into the flames of the roaring fire. There was something about this man that set him apart, perhaps it was his well-worn appearance, or the general air of rugged unkemptness that was common among those like him. As the barkeep passed the hazy corner the man nodded in response to the unasked question and the barkeep replaced the hooded man's empty mug with one brimming full of the steaming hot tea that he was so partial to.
Just as the barkeep prepared to continue on with his rounds the tale ended, and one of the quieter men turned to the corner and asked the lanky man for a tale.
It had almost become a game to ask the one known only as Strider for a tale. Sometimes he would answer with a slow nod, followed by a tale from days of old, tales that few now knew. Other times he would not, with a barely discernable shake of his head he would turn down the request and continue his meditations as he stared into the flames. Today was one of the times that he would not speak, barely even shaking his head as he lost himself in the recesses of his mind, evidently troubled by something that no one else knew. Perhaps another day he would share a tale with these people who knew nothing of the dangers that surround them.