As I come in, I almost stumble on the boy carrying the mugs and I am about to upbraid him. Then he looks up at me and I suddenly can't say a word. It's like looking into a magical mirror that shows the past. I smile at him and let him weasel his way among the customers.

With a small frown, I throw back my cloak and stride inside the tavern with my helmet under my arm and my hair tied down my back. The place is full of people drinking and carousing. I notice a lady with an apron, serving at the table. "Greetings," I say, knowing that my accent will raise some stares in that place - wherever it is. "I would like something to eat and drink, my lady, and my horse needs attending too."

Some people do turn and stare. You never know how a Goth might be received in certain quarters... I might as well let myself be known. "My name is Thidrek of Bern, son of Thetmar."