Wren liked working the afternoon and evening shift in the tavern. Sure, it could get awful rowdy some nights, more than once the city guard had to break up fist, knife and even magical brawls; one mage scrap had ended with a table and chairs being transfigured into a wooden dragon golem! The beast was now out front on the roof, and the namesake of the establishment.

Still, the troublesome crowd weren't his cup of tea. It was old knights, the wizened sorcerers, the rogues missing an eye that he liked. They told all the best stories. There was one, however, that would always stand above in his memory. It had been many years ago, three months into his employment, when the young warrior had sat at the bar, ordering the cheap but filling stew and a watered down beer. The latter was more a legacy since magic water purification was so widespread, but the flavour went well with many a meal The Wooden Dragon served, so it remained a staple.

The man was dressed simply, his equipment older than he was by the look of it, but clearly well maintained, the leather oiled, the metal plates marked with signs of repair and battle damage. The short bow was of odd make, twisted forwards and backwards like a snake, unlike the local style of longbow. His sword was finely made, but like the dark haired man's attire, older yet well kept.

It was all quiet until the nearby table of newly anointed knights, all full of mead and self-importance, started getting boisterous. The latter was usually knocked out of them after they saw actual combat, and realising that knighthood more often than not meant killing their King's enemies rather than rescuing damsels or slaying monsters. One of their number, a lanky, handsome ginger fellow with the slightly pointed ears, human with Elven ancestry, strutted up to the bar and tried to force conversation upon the stranger. It was when he questioned what the warrior fought for that it happened.

"I'm only in it for the money" didn't exactly go down well. But, against the expectations of every patron in the bar, when the table of greenhorn knights stood and made to "teach the man honour", which was beyond ironic, it was the five shiny-armoured graduates that were left scattered, unconscious and mildly bleeding upon the ground.

With so many witnesses, including a merchant of some importance who had been a patron of the tavern since he was a simple market trader, the city guard could neither sweep the matter under the rug, not blame the young warrior. The knights would only spend a night or two in the gaol, but the experience was enough to knock them off their high horses.

Wren had approached the stranger when he returned the next night, a touch nervous but filled with curiosity. "If you pardon my asking..."

"Why am I only in it for the money?" The voice was different than Wren had expected. Tired, but understanding, like the older patrons Wren liked so much. "I was like those knights once, full of untested ideals and grand heroic plans."

A hardness took over the warrior's face, the steel mug that could take Orcish strength groaning and bending as the barkeep would swear his eyes turned slitted and ringed in electric blue.

"Do you recall the attack on Stormhold, winter before last? There was an adolescent dragon amongst their number. I slew it...but at a terrible cost. It's progenitor was there, watching, likely using the fight to blood their spawn, not thinking anyone could harm their youngling. I thought it would kill me, but it did worse. It took my family, keeping them as slaves, and gave me an ultimatum. Bring it the horde it's child would have gathered by the time it reached adulthood, or they would die in ways I could never imagine or forget. So, yes, when people ask me what I fight for, I tell them truthfully. They never ask who I fight for."