The night at the Swinging Sword in Red Larch was alive with the clamor of conversation, the clinking of mugs, and the occasional burst of laughter. The inn, a beacon of warmth and light, played host to a variety of souls, but none as notable as Bara’s Marauders. The group, led by a male halfling named Bara, had made themselves comfortable at one of the larger tables, their voices weaving through the air like threads of an intricate tapestry.

At the bar, leaning into the shadows with a mug in hand, was Iraun Thelder. His presence was almost a fixture, as much a part of the inn as the aged wood and the flickering candles. Though his gaze seemed lost in the depths of his drink, his attention was far from the amber liquid it contained.

As the night wore on, Iraun’s consumption did little to muddle his senses but rather sharpened his focus on the Marauders’ conversation. Perhaps it was the ale that loosened his tongue, or maybe the solitude that comes with knowing too much, but Iraun found himself calling out to Bara, the words slipping from his lips with a mixture of mirth and recklessness. “Oi, Halfling!” he shouted, his voice carrying over the din. The words that followed danced on the edge of coherence, a jumble of sounds and laughter that filled the space between them.

Bara, taken aback by the sudden attention, approached Iraun with a proposition to join as a follower, and presented an offer for him to join their ranks. Iraun’s response was a laugh, rich and booming, that seemed to echo off the walls. “I serve a god, and it howls,” he proclaimed, the statement hanging in the air like a challenge.

The atmosphere tightened, charged with an unspoken tension that threaded its way through the patrons. Yet, Iraun remained as still as the stone, his demeanor unchanging, a passive observer to the storm he had stirred.

It was then, with a casualness that belied the keenness of his observation, that Iraun dropped a piece of information that caught the Marauders off guard. “You want to buy a donkey you ask? Need one for the long walk to Lance Rock,? I will sell you one, for 52 gold pieces and 70 silver?” His voice, tinged with amusement, suggested a familiarity with their plans that none could account for.

The revelation brought a hush to the table, the Marauders exchanging glances, their minds racing to piece together the extent of Iraun’s knowledge. The implication was clear: he had been listening, not as a drunkard lost in his cups, but with a purpose that remained veiled behind his one-eyed gaze.

Bara, recognizing the depth of Iraun’s awareness, chose to laugh, a sound that cut through the tension with the ease of a well-honed blade. Speaking slowly, Bara says ” Well, Iraun Thelder, it seems you’ve got ears as sharp as your god’s howls.”

The moment passed, leaving behind a thread of intrigue woven into the tapestry of the night. Iraun returned to his drink, his role as an observer resumed, his secrets and the reasons for his attentiveness buried deep within the confines of his silent watch.

And as the Marauders returned to their plans, the air filled once again with conversation and laughter, but the shadow of Iraun’s words lingered, a reminder that in the world of adventurers and quests, nothing was ever as simple as it seemed.