The noise around him was enough to make the owner of the establishment lean forward and narrow his eyes. "What's that you said?"
"Hot food," Skharr answered and pointed at what was being warmed by the blazing fire. "Drink and stable for the night. Me and horse."
The man nodded. "Just as well. No rooms left, see ya. Busy time, folk wandering to the Gretter pilgrimage, see ya. Food, drink, and stable for the night will be a silver and three coppers, see ya?"
He narrowed his eyes but produced the required coins and placed them on the table. They disappeared quickly and the smaller man turned to direct one of the maids near the fire toward the tall barbarian.
"Find ye a space to sit if you can." The barkeep motioned at the packed room. "Elsewise, ye might need to eat on yer feet with a windowsill for a table. Or by the well in the back if silence suits ye best."
Skharr shrugged unconcernedly and turned to where one of the maids had collected a mug and filled it with something to drink, together with a platter and a bowl. She waited for the cook to fill both with food and he knew he would be found. Folk had little difficulty locating him in a crowd if they needed to.
He pushed through the crowd to a place at one of the windows and perched on the sill as a new song began. This one was considerably less sprightly than the last. It was a ballad—the kind that usually spoke of unrequited love and betrayal and sometimes even tragic death. Not only that, it was long enough that most folk wouldn't recall enough words to sing along, which left the room a good deal quieter than before.
The young maid with flaxen hair and a long blue dress with simple red floral patterns navigated the crowd expertly while holding the platter that carried his food. She placed it lightly on the sill beside him with a soft laugh.
"Sorry about the delay—got too many folk in here today," she told him and kept her voice down so she didn’t speak over the music. "Most days its quieter, but the—"
"Pilgrims." He finished her sentence for her and carefully made sure the platter was balanced. He didn't want to be splashed with hot soup should someone unintentionally bump into him in the crowd.
"Aye." She laughed. "You're not on pilgrimage, though. Most of those folk got those pretty blue markers on their chest to tell them where they need to go. Your path leads you to Grymian, by any chance?"
His eyes narrowed. "Why?"
"Word's gone out that insults were traded 'tween the prince there and one of the dukes in Grenland. That they's sending out for those who can hold their own in a fight and paying good coin for them too. They've got levies to count on, no doubt, but veterans and mercenaries look to make the most in the fighting."
"Why do you think I'm looking for a fight?"
Her eyebrows raised, unsure of what to make of his change in tone. "Well…you look like a fighter, doesn't you? Got us some big farmer lads around these parts, but them's got a little more padding around the waist, if you understand me, and none have scars like yours. I read you as a man who don't mind taking coin to fight other men's fights."
He considered what she’d said before he nodded. Her reasoning did make sense. "Not looking for fight but looking for coin. Will see."
The young woman smiled and curtsied prettily before she turned away and returned to the fire. She was stopped on her way by a couple of men who shouted something at her that Skharr couldn't make out, but she tried to veer away from them.
Before she could dart out of reach, one of the men caught her by the waist, dragged her closer to him, and yanked her onto his lap.
"Never mind that ale, love!" the man shouted. "Found me something to drink right here. What say you, love? How much for a drink from your petals? Or for you to take a drink from me?"
The woman tried not to engage and instead, looked away and tried to push to her feet. Skharr could make out small blue patches on their coats, which indicated that they were pilgrims and therefore outsiders and likely a little too deep in their cups to find a way out of town until the morning.
The innkeeper cursed, thumped his desk in frustration, and hurried to where the woman continued her attempts to pry herself free from the men who merely laughed at her struggles.
"Come now, boys, this isn't that kind of establishment, see ya?" the proprietor shouted over laughter. "Let the lass go. Should you still feel the urge, Madame Kora's is down the street."
"But your offerings look far riper and much less bruised," the man with the maid in his lap yelled. His shout brought the music to a halt and drew the focus of every patron in the room to them. All five men in the group were oblivious to the attention and continued to laugh.
"And we're still waiting for our drinks!" another one shouted, stood from his seat, and waved his empty mug. "You needs get us our drinks now!"
"Let the lass go and—"
"Drinks now!"
The man continued to wave his mug wildly and this time, caught the innkeeper across the brow and upended him with the force of the unintended blow. The proprietor’s fall drew another laugh from his friends, but the mood from the rest of the inn looked far more hostile.
Skharr sighed. If a fight erupted, not only would the five men find themselves beaten to a pulp or even killed, but the ensuing chaos would certainly result in him losing his meal. Someone was bound to barrel in and tip everything over and he wasn't likely to see a refund if the food was wasted.
He pushed away from the sill and approached the unruly group.
"Come on, then, bard!" The man waved his mug again, more than a little unsteady on his feet. "Sing us a ditty! Something loud and boisterous!"
"He's not a bard," the barbarian pointed and ducked under the waving mug. "He's a minstrel. Learn the difference."
"What?"
The ruffian froze in place when he realized he was staring at the warrior’s chest and not his eyes. He took a step back to find the eyes but the large man closed the gap in the blink of an eye. His arm flicked out and he caught the drunkard across his cheek with the back of his hand.
Skharr's knuckles connected with the pilgrim's cheekbone with enough force to spin him before he fell head-first. He knew the act would not go unpunished and had already turned when the unconscious unfortunate's friends struggled to rise from their seats to retaliate.
The idea was to prevent things from escalating, and he extended his hands to grasp the shoulders of the two closest to him with sufficient strength that they could feel the strain on their collarbones. He forced them into their seats again.
Reason prevailed when they realized who had compelled them to sit, and they didn't move for a good few seconds while he turned his attention to the maid who was still trapped on the one pilgrim's lap. She took his proffered hand and no hold prevented her from standing this time.
"Good?" he asked and searched for any marks on her pale skin.
She nodded and he turned his attention to the man who had forced her onto his lap.
"Sorry," the warrior all but snarled at him.
"Damn well better be!" The man hissed through clenched teeth, looked around, and attempted to find some bravado. "You think followers of the Blessed—"
He stopped talking when his opponent grasped the top of his head. His hand was large enough to fit the whole crown and even part of the forehead in it—enough to squeeze and make the man feel like his skull was being crushed.