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...because you're a travelling warrior, with a reputation that precedes you. You've just walked into this tavern named after a famous horse, on a dangerous evening, heavy with snow and anticipation. There were glances and whispers that kicked up as you walked into this place. A rough-looking tavern-keeper with a scar over one eye is nodding at you, so you walk over.

You eat alone. Of course you eat alone, away from the jocular commotion nearer the center of the place. Your glances track from your bowl of soup to the others in the tavern. Who is looking? Side-eyes here and there. You know they all know. Disgraced knight, now a wandering ranger. . .vagabond. Once the most feared knight in the King's army.

The soup is intoxicating. For the last three days you've eaten nothing but seeds, roots, and one gamey bowl of squirrel stew.

You look up from your bowl, as a large-breasted woman sits herself beside you, suggestively close. She nods to a table across the room. A group of rag-taggers subtly lifts their pints in your direction, all in unison. A gift for the night, fit for a knight.

You nod, but politely send her away, and she appears relieved, even grateful for a moment, as she slinks back to the drunkards' table with its hooting and hollering.

You've got no time. Your most trying adventure is about to begin. . .



You set the dishes in the sink, and you realize your leather forearm guards, which bore the signs of a hundred slices, have turned into red flannel. Your wife is on the other side of the room dealing with the kids. There's a news anchor on the tv who is nodding at you, the viewer. You're about to go assemble a bed frame. It's a Saturday.

But that soup was fucking good.