"Another one? Been a while since the last." Even as the man asked, his companion's head shook in exaggerated distaste. The two men's clothes were rough, their arms strong, and the hands that gripped their drinks calloused. The light streaming through the tavern's open windows revealed that they were staring at it's new entrant: a man, younger than themselves, face darker than was standard for the region, and less specifically or obviously muscled. A short sword hung from his hip, an unstrung bow was on his back, and a leather pack was strapped over his shoulder. His clothes were all earthy colors; browns and greens were favored, but black filled what might otherwise have been gaps.
"My da always told us about when he was a boy, and the king's men were in town. Housing for free -- or near enough -- but after a few winters here, they gave up, he said." The man chuckled drunkenly at the idea of foreigners not taking to the local weather, while his friend only grunted acknowledgement into his pewter pint. The newcomer made no sign of having heard, despite being only twice the table's width away.
"Do you have a bed for the night?" he asked the barman, who's excitement about seeing a member of the then-fading itinerant demographic had been unsubtle. The stranger had an accent as unusual as his skin tone proved in the small village, but it wasn't incredibly pronounced.
"One opened up a few days ago, matter-of-fact." This small piece of dishonesty prompted further laughter from the more vocal drinker, which the tavern owner and guest again ignored. "I'd prefer ponies or rams, for coinage; harder to use other ones 'round here, you understand."
The outsider unslung his the pouch from his shoulder, and reached in. After a moment, and some of the tantalizing sound of metallic friction, he removed a small silver disk with an embossed ram; one of the more solid currencies in the region. Without asking the price of a night, the young man placed the coin on the table, before repeating the process with two more.
"I'll need food," he said. "And directions to whoever will sell a few days of it."
"You'll be going into the old forest, then?" Despite asking, the innkeeper eagerly took the coins he'd been given, turning around to weigh one against a standard he kept, affirming its authenticity. "Nasty trip, the path to that castle. Folk who come back -- those as do return -- report monstrous things out there."
"I met a few of those monsters in the goat-town," the stranger answered, speaking of a major city to the east, from whence the ram currency stemmed. The joke earned him some geniality from the locals, and his requested food and drink were placed on the bar without any further delay.
After quietly finishing the dull meal, he was shown his tiny room for the night, which was not a great deal larger than the bed it housed. Rather than placing any valuables there before the sun set, the mercenary again enquired after where he might buy rations. After the stranger mounted the horse he'd tethered outside, the tavern's owner asked for a name to call him by.
"Frog," was the answer, succinctly given, before the young man rode towards the local farmland. Best to start in the morning, he'd decided already.