Billian's Rest was a large town, bolstered by trade and economics but started from less then pristine origins.  A smuggler camp, a place for criminals and society's refuse to hide.  Hardly two centuries old, the town had grown quickly when someone had finally realized that the endless tracks of lumber not ten feet from his door would fetch a hefty price in the heart of the Empire, where such ancient growth forests were all but gone.  Real lumber was hard to find in those parts.<br/><br/>The tiny hamlet doubled and tripled in size before simply exploding.  Thousands flocked to Billianâ€™s Rest, and soon the criminal and wretch infested smugglerâ€™s post had become a bustling and rich town.  An impressive and well thought out wooden curtain wall surrounded the town, but even then there were hundreds of houses and stores and workshops outside the impressive barrier.  Near everything was made of wood; here it was cheap while stone was simply too rare to quarry and too expensive to ship in.  What few buildings that sported stone foundations were capped in wood, anything past the first floor made of the sturdy local logs.<br/><br/>Billianâ€™s Rest boasted an impressive militia, and only some five score of Imperial Soldiers, mostly the personal guard of the local bored Magistrate.  An opulent man, powerful in the local community and whoâ€™s heritage could be drawn back to one of the worst criminals of the last century.<br/><br/>The once-Knight reached the town gates late into the evening a few days later, well past the hours of anyone doing anything deemed seemly in the common eye.  The militia-men guarding the closed west gate werenâ€™t letting anyone through, but were polite enough to at least guide him to a reputable inn in the outskirts of the town, and it was nearly midnight when he finally reached his destination.  As he turned his mount, the two men peered rather pointedly at the fine shield strapped to his mountâ€™s saddle horn, in easy reach should the rider have needed it.  The symbol was familiar, if vaguely, but neither were able to place it immediately, although the pair were left stewing it over as the quiet man rode away.<br/><br/>The Boars Rest was a sprawling place of countless additions and renovations, two stories and with no less then three wings that stood where other buildings might once have existed.  Hard to tell with the impossible to map maze of streets that made up the hovels and sprawl of the outer town.  Even at such an hour there was plenty of noise to be heard from within, and the tired man simply dropped Longstepâ€™s reigns next to a hitching post where a an old mule and a poor example of horseflesh stood bow backed.  All three animals were eyeing the water trough with obvious distrust.<br/><br/>He patted his warhorseâ€™s flank, and the big animal let out a knowing snort and stood itâ€™s ground, likely hoping some fool might come to try and steal it.  A bit of excitement before bed.<br/><br/>Still wearing the heavy chain shirt, he thought twice and draped a simple grey cloak over his shoulders to help hide it and the fine blade openly belted at his side.  The steps creaked comfortably under his weight and he strode up and through the front door.  The common room was a massive and oddly shaped room, the walls at various angles and the floor boards of differing ages and wear-and-tear indicating where expansions had expanded it.<br/><br/>Not quite crowded, the place had a comfortable atmosphere at first glance.  Lively music played by some tipsy locals, dice and card games at some of the larger tables.  Farmers and woodsmen, merchants and craftsmen made the brunt of the clientele, and a dozen or so women ranging from hardly sixteen to a grey-haired woman served tables.<br/><br/>It wasnâ€™t long before heâ€™d arranged stabling for his horse and a room for himself.  He saw to Longstep himself, and by the time he was done brushing the warhorse down and seeing to food and water, the common room had just about emptied out for the night.<br/><br/>His belongings were neatly stored in his room, although it took two trips to get it up.  A full suit of armour was a mighty burden to carry, heavier carried then worn; a good suit of armour carried the weight well distributed about the body to make it easier to wear, and between the clinking clatter of the saddle bags and the fine shield he brought up some few heads turned to watch.  Again, none recognized the symbol directly, although some couldnâ€™t help but feel they had seen it before somewhere.<br/><br/>He sat at one of the tables for a late night meal, dressed in shirt sleeves and breeches.  The skin of his shoulders, just barely exposed at the edges of his shirt collar, were worn and sunken from long years of wearing his heavy armour, where straps had worn the skin raw.  His hands bore the calluses of a swordsman and he sat tall rather then with the comfortable slouch of a common man.<br/><br/>Only the young serving girl and a single older man manning the counter and kitchen were still awake, and a scattering of locals who likely retire to their homes once their tankards were empty one last time, remained in the room.<br/><br/>The young girl seemed uncertain about approaching when he had finally taken his seat.  She had circled the room twice to check on the handful of other patrons, clearly working up her nerve to approach the handsome, if tired, man.  But when she did finally, she had a lovely smile and dimpled cheeks, pale blond hair held in an intricate braid past her shoulders.  She was tired, but was young enough that the long shift had hardly touched her eyes.  Ah the boundless energy of youth.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">â€œGood evening, my Lord.â€ </span>Her voice held all the life and energy of a shy young girl trying to sound brave in front of a handsome man.  She held her serving tray to her chest, arms wrapped about it protectively and seemed hardly able to raise her head enough to peer up at him through her eyelashes.<br/><br/>He was a kind man despite all he had been through.  Kind, but distant.  His voice was pleasant, low yet confident, and he looked up at the girl briefly.<span style="font-weight: bold">â€œI am no Lord, little sister.â€</span>He paused then, studying her briefly.  A brief pang of regret somewhere in the depths of that ashen waste of his soul, as he noticed how close she looked to one of his fallen Brotherâ€™s fiancÃ©e, as last he had seen her before the War.  Old memories of another life, and he let the thought drop.<br/><br/>The girl only knew that he was staring, and blushed softly at the thought that he found her pretty.  She found some more courage and lifted her head a bit, studying the stranger openly,<span style="font-weight: bold">â€œOh, Iâ€™m sorry Sir.  The shield, your bearingâ€¦Iâ€™m sorry if I offended you?â€</span>She offered a hopeful smile, trying with all the enthusiasm and awkwardness of a child to impress him.<br/><br/>He offered her a soft smile, though it hardly seemed to touch his eyes.  They werenâ€™t threatening, no sense of arrogance or violence resided there.  They were simplyâ€¦cold, like stone, without the glint of emotion.<span style="font-weight: bold">â€œNo little sister.  Think nothing of it.â€</span><br/><br/>She had finally met his gaze, her eyes wide and eager and curious, but could only hold it a moment.  A chill ran down her spine, a maternal pang of sympathy struck her and she had to look away.  It had been so brief a glance, but even she could see the sadness in his eyes, the loss.  It was almost enough to bring a tear to her eye and she didnâ€™t even know his story.<span style="font-weight: bold">â€œOhâ€¦oh Iâ€™m sorry, Sir.  Something to drink?  Eat?â€</span>She stammered briefly, her voice cracking before she managed to bind it all together again.<br/><br/>His soft smile held and he produced a few coins to set on her tray once she had lowered it to accept them.<span style="font-weight: bold">â€œSome stew and bread, if it pleases you little sister.  And a bit of tea, if it is no trouble.â€</span>He had seen her reaction of course, and it was vaguely comforting that she wasnâ€™t so embittered with life to have not only noticed but to have been moved.<br/><br/>She curtsied briefly, giving him one last glance and the ghost of a smile, and then departed to the kitchen to get his order.  He turned his head just a touch, enough to over hear part of a conversation between a trio of woodsmen that were a few tankards past a few too many.  They had beeb discussing old stories mostly, the sort that always arise from men of the woods.  Exotic and mysterious creatures and the like mostly, a foresterâ€™s versions of a fishermanâ€™s â€˜the one that got awayâ€™ stories.<br/><br/>There was the occasional mention of Orcs, a common enough problem in the outer provinces but never much of a real threat, especially to a town the size of Billianâ€™s Rest.  The eldest of the three, easily into his sixth decade, was adamant that they were up to something though; rumors of raids on the smaller settlements, of missing cattle, empty farmsteads, strange sightings in the night sky out over the woods, but the younger men just laughed it off.  Crazy old man.  And the once-Knight simply turned away, affording the idea some thought.  Heâ€™d seen enough of those supposedly empty rumors himself but had had no reason to think twice of it; an empty farm house a league or more from the road?  Abandoned, or that they were simply away, and he hadnâ€™t spared it a second thought at the time.