It was coming towards sunset when the Cockatrice Inn finally rose into view from around the final bend in the river – a three-story building of white stone, cracked but still solid, resting on the water's edge and surrounded by wooden walkways, railings and stairwells. They hugged the structure's exterior, connecting all the doors to the rooms on the top floor, the main entrance on the second floor, and the jetty protruding out into the river on the bottom floor.

Said jetty led through an open entryway under the building, wide enough for two barges and tall enough for a minotaur to walk under, and Logan could guess from the barrels and crates he could see inside through the fading light that that was the inn's storeroom. Shuttered windows could be seen on every level, all pulled closed as the dark of evening began to creep in and to keep out biting insects from the river. Not far north from the inn, hills began to loom up again that slowly grew into mountains the further you went, with a wide dirt road snaking between them to form a mountain pass.

Edwyn slowly steered his barge until it came to rest along the jetty, and as Logan gathered his things, he said "Many thanks, Sir Logan."
Stepping onto the jetty, Logan turned to him, his pack slung over his right shoulder. "What for, Master Butterbeer? I didn't do anything of note."

"I beg to differ!" Edwyn scoffed in response. "Ye agreed to ride with me, paid me full price when I offered half, and gave me some piece of mind." As he spoke, the halfling pulled off his straw hat and fanned his face as sweat beaded on his brow. "That's worth a thanks, wouldn't ye say?"

Logan looked pensive before replying "I suppose..." while trying his best to be modest. He then asked "Is there anything else we can do? Help you get the barge inside, perhaps?" He was mindful of the sweat on Edwyn's face, glistening under the purple and orange sky.

"Nah, ye needn't worry yerselves!" Edwyn replied, giving as dismissive wave. "I've been doing this for thirty years – it's my job!"

There was a stubborn pride in his voice that Logan couldn't help but admire, and a smile crossed his face while Ren climbed from the barge as well and said "Thank you, Mr Butterbeer..." The elf then looked around before asking "Pardon the question, but where do we go from here?"

Edwyn turned to him and said "It'll be Elsa ye want. She's the innkeep, and my employer. Most like, she'll be on the second floor at this hour, in the common room."

Committing that to memory, Logan nodded, gave Edwyn one final thanks for the lift which the halfling brushed off as 'nothing', then he turned to walk up the jetty to the foot of the inn, where he climbed up a wooden stairwell.

As he climbed, Logan saw Ren's shadow behind him, but if not for that, he wouldn't have known the elf was following him – Ren's footsteps were all but silent, especially when compared to the rattling of Logan's half-plate and the creaking of the planks under his weight. As they trudged upwards, Logan heard the whine of mosquitos too, and slapped at his neck when he felt a tickling sensation land upon it.

The pair then came to the one door in this place that was built over earthen ground – the one on the second floor. Not far from the Cockatrice was a basic thatch-roofed stable that was overflowing with horse-drawn carriages, and the swinging sign that creaked above them in the breeze depicted the head of the inn's namesake beast, its barbed feathers bristling while its hooked beak was pulled back into a snarl.

In the corner of his eye, Logan saw Ren shudder as he looked up at the sign – an action which made him raise an eyebrow.
"Cold?" Logan asked.
Ren looked at him and shook his head. "Nervous."

Logan chuckled. "There's nothing to be nervous about – just another roadside inn. Or riverside, in this case," he said. He was starting to get the feeling that Ren was one of those perpetually jumpy and anxious types, but he didn't think so unkindly. Life on the road was dangerous, and it could certainly be nerve-wracking. He had grown used to it over the years, and as ever with elves, it was impossible to tell how old they were – Ren had the large eyes, soft features and youthful innocence of a teenage boy, but for all Logan knew, he could be fifty or even a hundred.

'He might even be as young as me...' Logan thought. He himself had twenty-three years under his belt – a young adult amongst humans, but that was a child lifespan by elven standards, or so he'd heard. 'Maybe that's why he's so jumpy...'

Logan decided to maybe ask his erstwhile companion about this later, and so he led the way in, the warmth, smell and sound of both a crackling fire and many drunk bodies packed tightly together immediately washing out as he opened the door.

The Cockatrice's common room was flush with activity – every table, either long with benches down either side or square with chairs clustered around it, was so packed that not even Edwyn could have squeezed in to find a seat. Most of the customers appeared to be either human or halfling merchants, with a couple of bodyguards scattered amongst their number. Those were of many different races – humans, dragonborn, half-orcs and tieflings, but the other chief giveaway being their attire. The guards wore leather, chainmail or some mixture of the two, with half-helms and coifs over their heads, while the merchants were garbed in hats and doublets of bright blue, red and off-white, their attire woven from silk and trimmed with fur.

This gave the impression of prestige, but upon closer inspection, it was plain to see that the furs they had bought were from rabbits instead of ermine or sable. Whether the merchants were aware of this or had been fooled by some unscrupulous conman, Logan couldn't tell and didn't really care – he had never been one for fine attire.

Regardless, the merchants were all talking and laughing amongst themselves Against the far wall, a fire was blazing steadily in the hearth, radiating comfort throughout the room. And not far from there stood the bar, where a stout and matronly woman in an apron stood filling tankards from a tapped barrel. Her black hair was threaded with grey in places, but her plump, rosy cheeks and warm smile gave her a pleasant appearance.

"That must be Elsa," Logan said aloud, gesturing with his head. He and Ren then approached the counter, shifting and sidestepping past the overstuffed tables, and as they did so, Elsa turned her head and moved across to greet them.

"Good day, young masters!" she declared cheerfully. "Please forgive the crowding – had a whole gaggle of merchants come through all at once, but we've still food and drink aplenty! What'll you have?"

"It's no worry." Logan replied calmly, referring to the crowd as he and Ren slotted in to his right, between himself and a pair of half-drunk mercenaries who had a cutthroat look to them. "And I'll have a mead, please. Chilled, if you can."
Elsa nodded before turning to Ren. "And you, master elf?"
Ren gave a quick glance in the eye before looking away again. "Just water, please."

That made one of the mercenaries scoff, but by the time Logan turned to look him in the eye, the man had turned back to his drink. He was built like a beer keg himself, massive and stout, his face as red as the great bush of a beard that hung down from under his kettle-helm.

Elsa filled two tankards from kegs that were lined up against the wall behind the bar, with one foaming at the top while the other wasn't. As she returned, she said "Never you mind Gaston, dearies. He cackles at anyone who don't drink as heavy as he does." She then put two tankards on the counter before Logan and Ren. Logan gave this 'Gaston' a sideways glance before reaching to take his drink. "I'll keep that in mind..." he said before looking to Elsa and lifting his tankard to her. "Thank you, ma'am. To your good health," he toasted with a smile before taking a swig. The mead was golden brown, sweet and cool and thick on the tongue – just the way he liked it.
Elsa smiled as he drank. "If you pardon my saying, m'lord, you've the look of a knight to you. You're bound for the tourney, I presume?"

There was an accent to Elsa's voice that Logan couldn't quite place, but when she spoke of his knighthood and tourney, Logan's throat tightened and his pulse quickened with anticipation.
"I'm a knight, yes, but no lord," he told her. "What's this about a tourney?"

Elsa smiled, her eyes gleaming with a look of 'I knew it!'
"You're on the southernmost tip of the Kingdom of Milisevre, monsieur. I'd no interest in it myself, but a few months back, I had a traveller mention as he came southwards through the mountain pass that our king is hosting a grand tournament for knights all across Faerun. Not long after that, I've had plate-armoured lordlings come in now and then, talking of entering the tourney. They paid well, but their retinues crowded up all the rooms we have and then some!"

"Milisevre?" Logan asked, his eyes widening. "Forgive me, but I've never heard of this country. Is that where the pass to the north leads?"
"Indeed, monsieur." Elsa replied, nodding to him. "Follow the road, and five days hence on foot, you'll reach our fair capital, Thalmont."

Logan's heart was leaping in his chest. He'd never had the chance to compete in a tourney himself, and if the lists were still open, he'd absolutely take part! True, it would take him longer to get there since he didn't have a horse, but an opportunity like that couldn't be passed up – especially if it was held by a king!

"Thank you kindly," Logan said to Elsa. He then glanced at Ren, who was silently sipping his water, before taking another look around the common room. Over conversations made loud by drink, Logan asked Elsa "Are there any other knights here today?"

Elsa took up an empty tankard and began cleaning it. "Afraid not, monsieur. The last one I took for a knight came through a week hence. I've an elven noblewoman staying in my reserved room, though, and then there's the cleric..."

Logan was just about to ask about said cleric when he was caught by surprise – another figure sidled in on the left side of him, hopping up onto a bar stool and leaned right across his part of the counter, almost knocking over his drink as they did so. "Pour me 'nother round, Elsa!" a deep man's voice, slurred with drunkenness, called out as a scrawny arm shoved out an empty tankard.

Logan was about to roll his eyes at being interrupted by a drunkard when said eyes noticed that the arm had clawed hands and was covered up to the elbow in what looked like fine black... scales?

None of this seemed to disturb Elsa, though, calling out "Be right there, dearie!", not even lifting her eyes while she hurried off to attend another customer. She was clearly used to this sort of thing and made such remarks out of habit.

Meanwhile, Logan turned his head to see this arrival at the bar standing remarkably close to him, so much so that he suddenly felt claustrophobic. Supposing it was male from the sound of his voice, the paladin saw the figure was short and slim, maybe five-foot-one, with a wiry frame wrapped in leather armour and a hooded woollen cloak, both as black as pitch, with fingerless gloves on his hands. A crossbow was slung on its back, while a pair of curved shortswords, several daggers and a case of bolts hung from his belt.

It was already plain to see that he was no human, and that realization only became clearer when Logan saw, protruding out from under the raised hood, a beak as long as his own forearm and a pair of large red-orange eyes attached to a head covered in jet-coloured feathers – the same feathers that fluffed out from every parts of his body that his armour did not conceal. He had no wings, but his feathers, three-fingered hands and three-toed feet surrounded by scales, and his long charcoal-coloured beak gave him strong resemblance to a raven.

A kenku!

Logan shifted away from him a bit on his stool, to which the kenku turned his head towards him.
"Sorry, mate," he said. "Bar was a bit crowded - you were the only guy I could slip past." His voice had changed now, from a deep, drunken slur to something slightly higher in pitch, but much less slurred – a change so abrupt it might Logan feel just a bit too uneasy to feel comfortable.

"No worries," he managed to say. "Though you could have waited, if you don't mind me saying."

The kenku shook his head, the corners of his beak twisting upwards into what might have been a smile. "No-one gets between me and my beer, buddy!" he declared just as Elsa took his tankard and turned to refill it from a tap. As he sat waiting, he drummed the tips of his talons on the counter, the noise rippling up and down the wooden surface, and after a moment, he quickly ran his beady eyes over Logan's attire and asked, "So who are you with?"

Logan was another sip of his drink, taking care to not get any foam around his mouth, when the kenku asked that. Putting his tankard down as he met the avian creature's gaze, he asked politely, "Beg your pardon?"
"The merchants..." the kenku asked as he flicked his head in a gesture back towards the increasingly intoxicated crowd behind them. "Which one of them are you with?"
Logan blinked. "None of them," he said simply.
"Oh, really?" the raven-man asked. "Not a mercenary or such? Took you for one."

Logan felt his eye twitch slightly at that comment, pulling his shoulders back and lifting his chin slightly, but he kept his voice level. "Forgive me, master kenku, but I am a paladin." He said sternly. "I am Sir Logan, of House Galehaut."
That made the little creature's mouth curl again, one corner of his beak rising higher than the other to form something like a smirk. "That so?" he asked. "Well, Sir Logan of House Galehaut, my name is Stalk."
Hearing this, Logan managed a nod – there was a hint of something in the kenku's tone that made him feel he was being mocked. "Just 'Stalk'?" he asked.
A birdlike head nodded back to him, still smirking brazenly "Just Stalk..."

Erring on the side of politeness, Logan lifted his hand to offer a shake. Flicking his gaze down, Stalk eyed his extended palm for a moment before slowly lifting his own hand, and they shook tentatively, the talons on the kenku's fingers clinking against the steel of Logan's gauntlets.

"Y'know, I met another paladin once..." Stalk said as they finished their handshake. Before Logan could respond, the kenku slammed a fist to his own chest and declared "I hereby swear, before Torm the True, to display loyalty above all else, and to face any danger to prove my respect to duty..."

A fine oath, but wasn't the words that caught Logan's attention - it was the fact that the kenku said all of that in a woman's voice! Not just an impersonation of one, done in a comedic falsetto, but so perfectly accurate that it almost made Logan fall off his chair in alarm!

"What in the-?!" was all the paladin could manage when, next to him, Ren leaned across and, to Logan's surprise, broke into a beaming smile.
"Oh my!" the elf declared aloud. "I've never heard a kenku's mimicry before!"

Stalk's eyes gleamed before he then asked Logan. "Friend of yours?"

His face pale from alarm, Logan glanced between the two. "Stalk, this is Ren Revanorin. Ren, Stalk," he quickly introduced.

He had forgotten what he'd heard as a child about the kenku's amazing abilities of mimicry – anything their kind heard or saw, they could copy with inhuman accuracy.

In front of him, Stalk and Ren shook hands, with the wood elf asking in his gentle voice. "So, are you guarding anyone, Stalk?"
Stalk clacked his beak together in what might have been a chuckle. "Me? Nah. I'm just a traveller on his way back home. My flock live in Milisevre, you see..."
Ren nodded respectfully, and a more composed Logan did much the same.
"Anything you can tell us about Milisevre, Stalk?" Logan asked. "Up until I spoke to Elsa, I'd never heard of this kingdom until now. Has it been formed only recently?"

Stalk shook his head and took a swig of beer. "No to both, I'm afraid, Logan. I ain't been there for too long myself..."

"Sir." Logan corrected.

There was a sloshing and a spluttering as Stalk's beer clogged in this throat, some of it splashing back into the mug. Shaking his head, Stalk tilted his head up to face Logan and give him an insolent look. "Excuse me?" he asked.

Logan felt his teeth grind a little in his jaw. "Sir Logan. I am a knight."

Stalk narrowed his eyes, talons drumming on the counter once again. "Before you get all uppity, mate... I suggest you take a look at Ren. I'd say he might have had too much, but he's drinkin' water."

As he said that, Stalk leaned partways over the counter to look at Ren, who was nursing his drink of water as he sat with his head low down. The elf wizard glanced up, his big eyes peering through a few locks of hair that had fallen loose. His expression was one of discomfort, and he responded to the looks by pulling even further in on himself.

"Ren?" Logan asked. "Are you alright?"
Ren's large grey eyes turned to meet his. "Yeah, yeah. I'm just not the best with..." his dry mouth opened to continue, but then his gaze flicked to something behind Logan. "Why are you doing that, Stalk?"

Logan spun back around, and with the tail of his eye, he saw Stalk suddenly spring back to his seat from leaning across the counter, his gear clunking as he landed, his eyes shifting around. Logan noticed the kenku wince as that noise drummed outwards, even when most of it was drowned out by the clamour of the inn.

Almost like he was hiding something... as if he didn't want to be seen leaning even further across the counter...

Logan then flicked his gaze sideways to behind the counter for the briefest of moments. He could see that the closest thing to Stalk was actually Elsa, her back turned as she carried a tray of dirty plates to the kitchen to be washed. As she trotted along, a ring of keys hanging from the belt around her stout waist jingled like wind chimes in a gale.

The keys to the inn, Logan had no doubt...

There was a long silence as human and bird locked gazes before Logan himself finally broke the quiet.

"What are you up to, kenku?" he asked, his voice stern and his right hand slipping below the counter to inch towards his sword.
"None of your business," Stalk replied, his left hand suddenly shifting his cloak aside while the hilts of the knives at his belt gleamed meaningfully. "Keep your beak where it belongs..."

For a moment, it seemed that the worst might happen, when a voice suddenly not only cut the tension, but severed it completely.

"Yes, fight! Fight for my amusement!" came a high, childlike voice followed by a squeaky, mischievous cackle and the pungent smell of leaf-mold.