While gathering information at the mercenary guild, Elahar heard unsettling news—warriors from the Elven Kingdom had come seeking him. Yet what they carried was not welcome nor respect, but ridicule and scorn.
In a quiet village inn, Elahar sat across from two elven warriors. They were well-known fighters of the kingdom, men he had crossed paths with more than once before his departure. But now their eyes were changed. Gone was the respect he once knew; in its place lingered only contempt and derision.
"So this is Elahar, once a swordsman of the kingdom?" one sneered, lips curling in mockery.
Elahar met their gaze calmly, offering no answer. He weighed their words in silence, trying to discern the truth behind them. Yet his quiet seemed only to provoke them further.
The other leaned forward, voice sharp."When I heard the rumors—that you hunt for mere coin—I was disgusted. You abandoned the pride of our people, sold yourself as a guard to degenerates, all for a taste of battle. Was that your choice, Elahar?"
Elahar's brow furrowed faintly. Their words were twisted echoes of falsehoods. Since his departure, tales had spread through the kingdom—that he fought for petty silver, that he lent his blade to the corrupt. He could guess the source well enough. Those who had once been overshadowed by his name—the second or third among the kingdom's ranks—had stepped into the void he left behind, blackening his reputation to secure their own place.
The two warriors pressed on.
"We once looked up to you. But now you're nothing but shame to the elves. Wandering battlefields for coin—what a fool we were to ever call you a hero."
At last, Elahar's calm voice broke the air."Whether the rumors are true or not, I chose this path for one reason—to find myself. I do not seek strength to fulfill your expectations, nor the kingdom's."
His eyes were steady, unshaken. The warriors faltered for a heartbeat, unsettled by his conviction, yet their scorn remained.
Through their words, Elahar found himself forced to confront his past once more. His decision to leave had never wavered, but now he understood how it was twisted in the eyes of those who remained. Still, he would not bind himself to their judgment. His choice was his own, and he would walk it to the end.
"I did not become a warrior to live shackled to the kingdom's pride. The strength I pursue carries a meaning you cannot grasp."
The warriors scoffed, unwilling to hear him. Rising from the table, one spat back:"So be it. If you are so resolute, we will waste no more breath. But know this—we no longer see you as a warrior of the Elven Kingdom."
With a final look of disdain, they left the inn.
Elahar watched their retreating forms, his mind steady, his resolve only hardened. He was no longer the kingdom's guardian, no longer bound by its rules or traditions. Their condemnation was the price of freedom—and he would pay it gladly.
He rose from his seat, eyes alight with quiet determination. Whatever the kingdom thought of him mattered little now. His journey lay ahead, and on that road he would meet the strong, forge his creed, and walk ever forward guided by nothing but his own conviction.
****
A Toast of Conflict and Reconciliation
Elahar stepped into a tavern where mercenaries of every kind gathered. Humans, dwarves, half-orcs, and others mingled freely, drinking together, slapping each other's shoulders, and roaring with laughter. To him, the sight felt alien. The boisterous disorder was the opposite of the solemn order of the Elven Kingdom. Here, people were unrestrained, closing the distance between one another without hesitation, a manner that clashed with the etiquette of his homeland, where respect for personal space was sacred.
As he took his seat, a human mercenary at his side cheerfully slapped his shoulder. Elahar stiffened at the touch, but quickly masked his surprise with a faint smile, raising his cup.
"Come, elf, share a drink with us! That's how things are done here."
The mercenary laughed easily, tossing out jokes, speaking with open familiarity. In the kingdom, such casual contact would have been seen as crude, even offensive. Yet here it was simply the way of things. Elahar steadied himself, trying to adapt.
"If this is their way… then I must learn to walk with it."
He sipped the strong drink, letting its unfamiliar burn linger on his tongue.
His eyes caught on a platter piled high with spiced meat. The aroma was sharp and heavy, so unlike the subtle, nature-blended foods of his people. Cautiously, he picked up a piece and took a bite. The flavor overwhelmed him at first, and the mercenary beside him burst into laughter at his expression.
"So the elf eats meat! Now you're a true mercenary. You'll fit in fine here."
Elahar forced a smile and nodded. Strange as it was, he reminded himself that this was part of the path he had chosen—to step beyond tradition and embrace the unfamiliar.
Then, from the far side of the tavern, voices rose. Two mercenaries had leapt from their seats, shouting, their argument escalating until fists flew. Elahar's hand went instinctively to his blade, but no one else moved to stop them. Around the room, laughter and cheers rang out, as though the brawl were nothing more than entertainment.
Blows landed, chairs broke—but when the fight ended, the two bloodied men rose, clasped shoulders, and laughed together. One offered a cup to the other.
"Fine! You've beaten me this time. The next round is on me!"
"Then I'll drink to your loss, friend," the other replied, grinning as he raised his cup.
Elahar watched in astonishment as the conflict gave way not to enmity but to reconciliation. Their fight had cleared the air, and with drink they sealed their bond anew. It was a ritual of trust—an understanding that today's enemy could once again be tomorrow's comrade.
"So this is their way… to end strife not with silence, but with blows, and to return to fellowship with drink."
Leaving the tavern, Elahar reflected on the gulf between this world and his homeland. In the Elven Kingdom, conflict was suppressed, hidden behind cold restraint. Here, it was brought into the open, fought out, and released. Through struggle, they found reconciliation.
"To shed anger through battle, and return to comradeship with a toast… There is meaning in this as well."
He realized then that to grow stronger in this world, it would take more than swordsmanship. He would need to learn trust, to forge bonds through struggle and camaraderie. Strength was not only the edge of the blade—it was the fellowship that bound warriors together.
"Perhaps this too is why I left my homeland. Not only to seek strength, but to broaden myself."
Resolute, he stepped out into the night. He would fight, clash, reconcile, and build bonds—learning as much from his companions as from his battles. In the glow of tavern lights behind him, a new spark of purpose burned bright within.
"Next time, I too will share a toast as their comrade."
And so Elahar walked onward, determined to carry these new lessons with him into the journey that awaited.
**
First Steps in Fellowship
From the mercenary guild came a request Elahar could not ignore: to join a small expedition made up of mixed races. Their mission was to venture into a dangerous region haunted by powerful monsters, secure vital supplies, and establish a foothold for future operations.
He had always been accustomed to fighting alone. But this time, he would need to march and fight beside others—humans, dwarves, half-orcs. It was a challenge unlike any he had faced before.
The company was diverse:
the dwarf, stout and proud, who managed gear and weapons with unmatched skill;
the human mage, sharp-minded, specializing in reconnaissance and healing spells;
the half-orc, broad and unyielding, who stood at the vanguard like a living wall;
and Elahar himself, swift and relentless, the blade that would cut through the enemy's line.
From the outset, cooperation was preached as essential. Yet culture and temperament quickly clashed. The dwarf scoffed at reliance on others, preferring to act on his own. The human mage, though intelligent, slowed decisions with over-analysis. The half-orc, impatient and blunt, had no tolerance for waiting on drawn-out plans.
"A dwarf has no need of others," the dwarf grumbled. "Better to do it my way than waste time on pointless talk of 'teamwork.'"
The mage retorted coolly: "Without cooperation, survival in this place is impossible. We work together, or we die together."
Elahar took it upon himself to mediate, to weave their disparate strengths into unity. He listened, adjusted, and sought balance. Yet even so, discord remained, especially from one human mercenary among them—greedy, self-serving, unwilling to share.
This man grasped at every scrap of reward, shirked danger, and even in battle held back, letting others bear the brunt.
"If this is all the pay I get for such risk, then of course I'll take what's mine and more," he sneered.
Disappointment weighed heavy on Elahar. He knew survival depended on trust. Yet rather than condemn outright, he tried to persuade.
"This task cannot be done alone. Without trust, none of us will see the journey's end."
But the man's ears were deaf. He clung to his selfishness, blind to reason. At last, Elahar let him go his way, turning his focus to those willing to fight as one.
And together, they grew. Elahar darted through the fray with his blade, striking in tandem with the half-orc's shield-breaking charges. The dwarf kept weapons sharp and armor steady, while the mage's spells eased wounds and guided their path. Slowly, the company found rhythm, their strengths intertwining, their trust beginning to harden like steel.
When the battle ended and silence fell, cups were raised. Around the fire, drink passed from hand to hand, and laughter bound them tighter than chains. The selfish mercenary sat apart, isolated by his own choosing, while the rest of the company forged bonds that would not easily break.
Elahar lifted his cup, quiet words falling from his lips."Cooperation is not surrender—it is the strength that lifts all. What benefits one, benefits all."
In that moment, he understood. Strength was not only the strike of a sword. It was found in comrades who fought together, in trust that could not be broken, in bonds tempered by hardship.
For the first time, he felt ready not only to walk his path alone, but to grow alongside others.