Frostwilde had never been a warm placeâ€”not by a long shotâ€”but the temperatures tonight, in particular, seemed determined to keep every living creature off the streets and firmly entrenched in their heaviest coats and deepest tankards of mead.<br/><br/>Tryn was one of those long-term residents who no longer attempted to argue with the weather.  He had no problem at all staying indoors on nights like tonight, and after the afternoon's particularly brutal match, he wanted nothing more than to nurse his aching bones and burning ribs over a strong drink.  Andâ€”luck  in his favorâ€”he'd already been at the Gypsy's Bones when the ice had come howling down from the Crystal Mountains.  Like most of the storms that haunted Frostwilde on a near-daily basis, the gale had been quick to sweep the streets with the deadly frost and snow that had already piled several inches high against the door.<br/><br/>â€œGot another one of these?â€  Tryn waved his wooden mug at the portly woman behind the bar.  She glared at him, but took his tankard and retreated into the cellar behind the counter.<br/><br/>He took the opportunity to let his forehead thunk down onto the counter in front of him, heaving a long sigh as he studied the grain of the wood close to his nose.  How many times had he sat on this exact stoolâ€”the one that creaked and wobbled if you turned it too far to the leftâ€”or tasted this particular brew?  Too many times to count.  The predictable, commonplace normality of it all threatened to choke him at times.  Ten years ago, he'd been so sure this was just a passing-through place.  A moment to rest; a dark corner to lick his wounds was all he'd needed then.  And now?  He wasn't so sure he'd ever turn his boots onto that alluring southward road into the mountain canyons and out of the cursed, freezing North.  Now, he came here to sit and stew and drink, because he had nothing else to look forward to.<br/><br/>â€œDon't drool on my counter.â€  The barkeepâ€”Hilda, the old hagâ€”scowled as she slapped his mug down in front of him again, sloshing a bit over the sides.<br/><br/>He waved her worries away tiredly with a bandaged hand, wrapping his fingers around the familiar mug.  He grimaced a little as he sat up, pulling at the black and blue mess wrapped around his torso.  Some Arcasian warriors had been through Frostwilde that day and he'd made the regrettable decision to accept his handler's challenge to them.  Of course, only after Borag had set the match and accepted almost four hauls of gold had he informed Tryn that he would be<span style="font-style: italic">losing</span>the match that day.<br/><br/>Hating himself for it, Tryn hadn't had any choice but to agree.<br/><br/>It hadn't been pleasant, to put it mildly.<br/><br/>â€œHow's the storm looking, Gord?â€  Left with a sour taste in his mouth at the memories, Tryn turned his attention to the willowy young man clearing a table across the room.<br/><br/>Looking a little startled to be suddenly addressed, the youth pulled down the wooden shutters just enough to look outside, and quickly refastened them.  â€œStill snowing, sir.â€  The boy announced apologetically (no matter how many times Tryn tried to speak to the lad, he always seemed terrified of him).  â€œBut it's slowed a bit, I'd say.â€<br/><br/>â€œGood enough for me.â€    Counting out a handful of coppers, Tryn pushed them towards Hilda and left his untouched drink on the bar.<br/><br/>â€œBest stay here, Tryn.â€  She grumbled as if obliged, but reluctant, to prevent the young fighter's imminent demise.  â€œDon't want to get caught out in this tonight.â€<br/><br/>â€œAw, Hildy. You do care.â€  Tryn tried to smile at her as he tied a heavy wool scarf around his neck and face and pulled up his fur-lined hood, but his heart wasn't in it.<br/><br/>She returned a rude gesture, and this time he found it easy to grin.<br/><br/>Taking a bracing breath of warm, painless air, he bent his head and pulled the door to.  The heavy wooden panel was nearly ripped off it's hinges by the force of the gale, but he managed to sidle through and get it shut again with minimal angry protest from Hilda. He couldn't help but think that he'd gladly face the trials of the weather over her stormy aura.<br/><br/>Drawing his hood down over his eyes, he set his shoulders against the wind and turned his feet towards home.