Back at the Tavern

He wakes with a groan, rubbing his eyes. The ranger realises he is back in his room in the tavern, resting in his bed. He pulls the covers off, revealing the bandage wrapped around his chest. His brows furrows as he tries to remember what happened, finally recalling the fight against the bandits. Hal sighs "I hate bandits."

He sits up, wincing in pain, when the door opens. Helena, the barkeep's daughter, walks in, a shocked expression on her face when she sees Hal sitting up.

"You're... you're sat up."

Hal smiles weakly "Yes, I am. How did I get here?"

"My father brought you back after you defeated the bandits. I did my best to stop you from bleeding out, but I'm no cleric."

"You did this?" That surprises him. "Thank you, Helena."

She smiles softly "It was my pleasure. How are you feeling?"

"I'll be fine. I heal quick."

Helena nods, "I can tell, you've only been asleep for a day or so."

Hal leans forward, placing a hand on the edge of the bed as he stands.

"Hal!" She rushes over, placing one hand on his arm and the other on his chest. "You'll hurt yourself, stay in bed."

"I told you, I'll be fine. I need to walk, get some fresh air."

She sighs, shaking her head in frustration. "Fine. But I'll come with you, to make sure you don't do anything stupid."

"Would you pass me my shirt?"

Helena nods, before realising her hands are still holding on to him. Her face turns bright red with embarassment and she quickly turns away, passing Hal his shirt without making eye contact. He pulls it on, before noticing a large hole in one side, surrounded by a dark red stain.

"Damn... I liked this shirt." He mutters, as he begins to walk out of the room.

"I can go to the tailor for you later, if you want." Helena offers "I'm sure they can repair that shirt, and if not, I can get you a new one"

"You're far too kind, Helena. I'd appreciate that"

The pair walk downstairs, into the main hall of the tavern, which is relatively quiet. Faldor is working on the bar, and he looks up at Hal, surprised to see him out of bed. "What are you doing out of bed, lad?"

Hal chuckles, taking a seat at the bar. "Helena said the same thing. I hope there wasn't any trouble after the bandits?"

"No, not at all. I was worried about you the whole way back, though. Glad to see you're doing better."

"Like I said to your daughter, I heal quick. Any chance of something to eat? I'm starving."

Faldor grins, as Helena walks to the kitchen to get some food for the injured ranger. The barkeep pours him a large tankard of ale. "Thank you for your help, Hal. I didn't want to say anything in front of Helena, but I noticed a sigil on that elf's scarf. Those four were part of a large group of bandits, and some ruthless ones at that. I don't know if talking would've worked with them, and they might've taken everything we had even if it did."

"Gods, I hate bandits. I'm only sorry I got hurt and wasn't on guard on the way back."

"No, lad, you're fine. You did me a big favour. You're welcome to stay as long as you like, on the house. Besides, I think having some muscle around here is good for business."

Hal chuckles "How so?"

"You scare off the riff-raff, and it makes people feel safer."

"I see. Well, thank you for letting me stay. I was planning on moving on soon, but I might stay a little longer, after such a kind offer."

Helena returns, a bowl of beef stew and a chunk of fresh bread in her hands. She places it in front of him, a smile on her face "Eat up, you need to get your strength back."

"You're worse than my old mentor" He grins, digging in to the stew. He finishes it quickly, he was practically starving. After Hal finishes eating, he stands up. "Thank you, both of you. I'm heading back to my room now. How much do I owe you for the food?"

"This time, lad, nothing." Faldor says, "Though I can't afford to do that too often"

Both men laugh, and Hal walks up the stairs, unassisted this time. He returns to his room, removing his tattered shirt and sighing. The injured ranger takes a seat on a chair in the room, and sets to work resharpening all of his weapons. He takes particular care honing the edge of his new shortsword, remembering an old lesson taught to him by Woden.

'A blade is only reliable if you sharpened it yourself, boy. You can't trust the edge unless you put it there yourself.'

He smiles at the memory, continuing the process, when he is interrupted by a knock at the door.