Medieval: Kingdom Come: Deliverance

When Peter arrived at the village of Takhoff with the old hermit and the herbalist, it was already dark.

The blacksmith's furnace had gone out, but the tavern not far away was brightly lit.

Bohemian village taverns are simple yet lively, serving as the village's entertainment center. After a busy day, villagers gather in small groups. Some order lentils and dark bread to fill their stomachs, others sit at outdoor tables chatting over large beers, some come to watch without spending a penny, and some even set up dice games to try and win money. The truly wealthy, however, will spend a few pfennigs on meat and wine to enjoy inside.

Those willing to spend a few Grossen coins are mostly merchants from afar who have come to buy local specialties and want to stay overnight at the tavern. The villagers here are generally not that generous.

As soon as I stepped into the tavern, "I felt like I was back at Trossky Castle, with the same noise and commotion."

Romeo, the herbalist, sighed. Inside and outside the tavern, the raucous laughter, the clatter of dice, the clinking of glasses, the muffled conversation, the crackling of the fireplace, and the shouts of the maids filled the air. It was a stark contrast to the quiet, orderly, and conservative medieval village during the day. Occasionally, the impatient snorting and pawing of horses tied to posts could be heard. These sounds mingled together, creating a unique, vibrant symphony of a remote rural night—weary, noisy, yet filled with a warm, tipsy feeling and the scent of livelihood.

"I think I hear the wine calling to me."

A strong, pungent odor, a mixture of the sour smell of cheap ale, the aroma of roasted meat fat, the smoky scent of aged meat, the sweaty smell of damp wool, and the earthy, gamey smell, wafted over. The old hermit peeked out from behind Peter; he had been carried on Peter's back and slept the whole way, but woke up as soon as they arrived at the tavern, his nose twitching.

And he's a drunkard! You're a cultivator, shouldn't cultivators abide by the precepts?

Oh, the monks in the church don't have a ban on alcohol? That's alright then.

"Now that you're awake, get out of bed and walk around a bit."

Peter put the old hermit down and let him go on his own.

The old hermit's feet sank into the compacted earth, which was damp from the recent rains, leaving his boots smudged with mud. But he didn't seem to care.

"I've been away from my hometown for thirty years, and I miss the tavern there every moment. There are no clashes of swords here, only cheap wine, dice, roast meat and rough banter after a day of hard work, but it can give you a good night's sleep."

"Then why did you choose to live in seclusion after returning from Prague?"

Peter knew that the old hermit had a knighthood and was not afraid of the wanted notice from thirty years ago.

"Perhaps it's a feeling of trepidation when getting close to home, or perhaps it's the feeling of unfamiliarity that the houses remain but the people I knew are no longer there. I both long to be close to them and fear getting too close."

It's normal for the old hermit to have some inner conflict after being away from home for over thirty years.

"In my hometown, this mentality is called: 'The closer you are to your hometown, the stronger your feelings become, but things have changed and people are no longer the same.'"

Peter quoted a poem from his hometown.

"A very elegant phrase, but it doesn't seem to be a Latin proverb. I really can't figure you out. You always seem to have the linguistic flair that only nobles can display, yet you act like an illiterate when it comes to basic Latin knowledge."

Latin was a common language and writing system in continental Europe, controlled by the Church. It was so obscure that even Italians couldn't speak it, let alone people in Bohemia, France, England, and other countries. However, during the Middle Ages, countries only had their own local dialects and no written script, so they had to borrow Latin for writing. This resulted in nobles appearing polite and eloquent, but in reality, most of them were illiterate.

Peter walked past the tables and chairs outside the tavern, scanning the area, but he didn't see Pavlena or the blacksmith Latovan.

All I could see were several farmers dressed in coarse linen trousers stained with mud and their frayed outer garments open, gathered around a table. They held up wooden wine cups and loudly shared what they had seen and heard in the fields during the day. Their voices were rough and hoarse, accompanied by boisterous but out-of-tune drinking songs. They clinked their glasses together, and dark ale foam dripped down the rim of their cups onto the greasy tabletop.

The atmosphere was completely different at another table. Two men were engrossed in a dice game. Six dice, carved from cow bone or hardwood, clattered rapidly in a worn wooden basket. Points were awarded based on combinations, and the first to reach a predetermined number won. The few pfennigs and copper coins they had placed gleamed faintly in the oil lamplight.

Several spectators stood by, and each time the result was announced, the winner would let out a suppressed roar of excitement, while the loser would slap his thigh in frustration, gulp down a drink, and urge for another round. The spectators would also urge the losers to leave so they could go up and gamble.

"If I had my lead dice, I would definitely go up there and beat them all to a pulp."

Peter felt a pang of regret. Where was that lead die again? It seemed to be in a cave at the lakeside campsite. He'd have to go get it sometime.

Pushing open the tavern door and entering the inner room, the first thing that catches the eye is the flickering fire of the stove, with burning oak logs providing light. The owner is a burly man with a round face and red nose, wearing a greasy, shiny leather apron. His large hands are deftly wiping thick earthenware goblets, refilling them with ale drawn from a wooden barrel in the corner.

His daughter, Manka, her cheeks flushed from the fire, nimbly weaved between the crowded tables carrying a heavy wooden tray, placing newly ordered roasted meats and drinks, then clearing away empty glasses and gnawed bones. Occasionally, a drunken guest would half-jokingly tug at her sleeve, but she would just laugh and quickly pull away.

Passing the stove, one enters an indoor living room, brightly illuminated by a large grease lamp on the wall. The interior space isn't spacious, and the air is thick with a smoky, almost palpable, aroma of cooking. Several rough, heavy oak tables occupy most of the space, their surfaces blackened and gleaming from countless cups, grease, and the passage of time, covered with knife marks, burn marks, and wine stains deeply embedded in the wood grain. Long benches and round wooden stools serve as seating, and are currently occupied by people.

Those who could dine indoors were mostly wealthy consumers. There were merchants from other places who came to buy ironware, herbs, ores, or high-quality timber; there were outsiders wearing dark, thick woolen travel cloaks and soft hats; there were village guards in armor; and there were adventurers with unfriendly eyes and short swords at their waists.

Peter also has his targets: the blacksmith Latova and Pavlena.

Latovan sipped a glass of relatively clear liquor in front of him, while Pavlyna had a bowl of mutton soup and a piece of white bread in front of her, but she seemed absent-minded, glancing outside from time to time.

When she saw Peter appear, she immediately stood up excitedly and waved.

"Sir Peter, why were you gone for so long? I was worried that something had happened to you. Thank God you're finally back safe and sound."

Pavlina patted her chest and let out a long sigh of relief.

"God bless you, Pavlena. Some things happened, but none of it matters. I also brought back two friends who will become our companions from now on."

With so many people present, Peter couldn't go into too much detail, and simply introduced the old hermit and Romeo.

The blacksmith looked at Peter, then at the old hermit, and asked excitedly, "Peter, that thing...?"

"No rush."

Peter raised his hand to stop the blacksmith from asking questions, gestured for everyone to sit down, and gestured for the tavern waitress to come and order.

"Didn't we just eat wolf meat when we arrived?"

Romeo was puzzled. After skinning, deboning, and gutting the whole wolf, they obtained 20 pounds of good meat. They cooked 5 pounds of it and ate it, and stored the remaining 15 pounds of raw meat in their carrying space.

"Eating wolf meat outside is for survival, but drinking and eating meat in the tavern is for living. This meal is on me today, consider it a welcome feast for the two newcomers. After the meal, stay overnight at the tavern, and we'll go home early tomorrow morning."

After saying that, Peter took out three Grossington dollars and tossed them to the waitress, saying, "Bring up your best wine and the best food. I'm going to drink with my friends until we drop."