The walk down the hill into Groville didn't make the village look any better. Up close, the smell of woodsmoke, livestock, and unwashed human bodies hit Ron like a physical wall. His wet sneakers squelched loudly in the thick mud as he walked down the main "street," his shivering peasant guide leading the way like a terrified hostage.
A few locals who were out in the drizzle—covered in rough, brown potato-sack clothing—stopped dead in their tracks. They stared at Ron's tall frame, the intricate modern tattoos peeking out from his soaked sleeves, and the bright, unnatural white light still emitting from the phone in his hand.
"Mère de Dieu..." a woman whispered, dropping her bundle of firewood into the dirt and pulling her dirty children behind her. "Look upon his garments! The dark skin... the devil's sigils on his flesh!"
Ron didn't even look at her. "Yeah, yeah, happy Halloween to you too, lady," he muttered, keeping his hand close to the waistband of his jeans where his glitched pistol rested. "Hey, Frenchie. Where's the spot? The tavern. The place with the liquor."
The peasant pointed a trembling finger toward a larger wooden building with a crooked wooden sign depicting a rusted pig. "The... the Boar's Head, Sire Demon. They have ale. And mead. Please, can I depart now?"
"Nah, you're my translator. Move it."
Ron pushed open the heavy oak door of the tavern, a rusted iron bell clinking overhead.
The moment he stepped inside, the entire tavern went dead silent. The rowdy chatter, the clinking of wooden mugs, and the scraping of benches ceased instantly. The tavern was dark, lit only by a roaring hearth fire, and filled with the thick stench of stale beer and roasting grease. Decades of soot coated the low wooden ceilings.
Every single eye in the room locked onto Ron.
Sitting at a long table near the fire were a few local enforcers—men in leather jerkins and rusted chainmail—and a heavily bearded monk dressed in a coarse brown robe.
The monk took one look at Ron's tattoos and his modern clothes, and his face went completely pale. He scrambled out of his seat so fast he knocked his wooden stool backward into the dirt.
"A demon!" the monk shrieked, his voice cracking with pure, fanatical terror as he fumbled around his neck, ripping out a heavy wooden cross. He fell to his knees right there in the dirt, thrusting the cross forward toward Ron like a shield. "In nominee Patris! I cast thee out, foul beast of the pit! Look upon the holy wood and tremble!"
Two of the armored men-at-arms at the table stood up, their faces tight with superstitious rage, drawing heavy iron broadswords. "Stand back, Father! We shall cleave the marked beast back to hell!"
Ron stood at the entrance, water dripping from his hoodie onto the floorboards. He let out a deep, long, exhausted sigh. His hands were tucked casually into his pockets, his posture completely relaxed, exactly like a man who was just too tired to deal with this drama.
"Man," Ron said, his deep Texas drawl cutting through the tense room. "I have had the shittiest day. My car is in a river. My condoms are gone. I'm soaking wet, and I am starving. If one of you medieval cosplayers takes one more step toward me, I am going to lose my temper."
The knights didn't understand the words, but they understood the tone. They lunged forward, swords raised.
Ron didn't flinch. One hand stayed in his pocket. With his right hand, he smoothly drew his custom pistol from his waistband and aimed it dead-center at the lead knight's chest.
He didn't pull the trigger. He just held it there, his finger resting lightly on the guard, a cold, completely unimpressed smirk cutting across his face.
To the tavern, he was just holding a small piece of black iron. But the peasant guide, who had survived the forest, screamed from behind him, throwing himself to the floor. "Nay! Fall to thy knees! He holds the sky-fire! He will tear the roof off the world!"
The lead knight hesitated, his sword halfway through the air, confused by Ron's absolute lack of fear.
"Go ahead," Ron muttered, tilting his head slightly, his eyes cold. "Step up and see what this little black box does. I got infinite tries to teach you a lesson."
The monk looked from the gun, to Ron's tattoos, to the supreme, unbothered confidence radiating off him. The sheer weight of Ron's presence—a modern man completely unfazed by swords and crosses—paralyzed the room.
Ron slowly lowered the gun just an inch, turning his eyes toward the terrified barkeep hiding behind the wooden counter.
"Now," Ron said, slamming a wet, crumpled twenty-dollar bill onto the bar counter. "Someone get me a drink that doesn't taste like garbage, and a steak. And make sure it's got some damn salt on it."