The inn sat at a crossroads between the Highlands and the south, a squat stone buildin' that'd seen better centuries. The sign above the door was too faded to read, but the firelight spillin' from the windows was enough to guide any traveller.
I tied Loaf to a post near the stable and went inside.
The common room was warm and loud. Dwarves mostly, with a scatterin' of humans and a gnome who was losin' at cards to a bearded woman twice her size. The ale was dark and cheap. The food was heavy. It was exactly what I needed.
I found a corner table and sat down to listen.
That's the thing about inns. People talk. They tell stories to strangers they'd never tell their neighbours — exaggerations, rumours, half-remembered truths passed from traveller to traveller.
And one story caught me ear.
A dwarf at the bar — prospector, by the look of his gear — was holdin' court.
"—went into Blackrock Mountain, they did. A whole company of 'em. Came out with scales the colour of molten gold and stories that'd turn yer beard white."
"Dragons?" someone asked.
"What else? That mountain's full of 'em. Always has been. But lately they're different. Aggressive. Like somethin's pushin' 'em from below."
"From below?"
The prospector shrugged. "Below, above, who knows. Point is, adventurers went in, cleared whole wings, and came out rich. But some of 'em didna come out at all."
I sipped me ale and let the story settle.
Blackrock Mountain. Dragons. Adventurers who went in and didna come back.
Sounded like the kind of tale that got bigger with every tellin'. But there was somethin' to it — there always was. Somewhere beneath the embellishment, real people had done somethin' real.
I finished me ale, paid me tab, and stepped back out into the night.
Loaf grunted at me from the stable post.
"I know," I said. "I heard it too."
I didna know what it meant. I didna know if it was true.
But it was another piece of the world I hadna seen yet.
And that was worth somethin'.