The Black Citadel was without a doubt one of the most magnificent things he had seen in his entire life. Steam and water turned huge wheels, which propelled various machines of all shapes and sizes, while rows upon rows of cannons were stacked next to the smithies and caused the ground to shake when they were tested on the firing range. It also happened to be the ugliest, noisiest and most unwelcoming places he'd had the dubious pleasure of exploring. These Charr were deadly serious all the time, each one occupied with patrolling, forging weapons, training in their combat fields and Gods knew what else apart from having any fun. Damn it, was this a city or a military camp? 

He'd been wandering in the downpour for the past couple of hours, still not certain where he was supposed to find a place to stay. Most locals he encountered didn't even stop to answer his questions and the ones that did had a few choice words directed at humans. The Charr had been ancestral foes of the humans for centuries and these last few years of peace were not enough to mend those prejudices - to say that they hated Garret and those like him would be putting it mildly. The feeling was, of course, mutual, but Garret was the guest here, so he strived to be on his best behaviour. 

All of this had given him plenty of time to think and consider his options. That Sylvari woman at the gate had been very blunt and forthcoming, which was both a relief and a shock to Garret. Relief because someone had finally given them some details and shock because the extent of what he had gotten himself into had just become painfully clear. Hauling crates and dealing with doylaks was one thing, but going up against an Elder Dragon of all things was quite a different matter. Aye, he knew that he was signing up for this back in Divinity's Reach but at the time the threat appeared so distant and unreal. And yet, the woman spoke about it as a matter of fact, as if considering the possibility that it actually [i]was[/i] real.

Actually, come to think of it, that Sylvari might be more unpleasant than the Black Citadel itself. She was commanding and haughty, strutting around like she owned the place. Garret had hoped that the two had been leading their caravan would assume charge or, perhaps, somebody else. But no, he was stuck with a cold-hearted bitch that threatened to leave stragglers behind. Just great, that's what it was. 

With every passing minute he regretted his decision to come here more and more. Should he just leave? He was supposed to report to the Sylvari, but why should he? These damned Orders were supposed to provide them with at least some form of shelter after a month of lugging their baggage around, but they hadn't even taken care of that. What sort of organisation was that? By Balthazar's hairy balls, he didn't even know what Order had hired him, how was he supposed to report to anyone?! 

Occupied with such grim thoughts, Garret kept walking through the darkening city, until he eventually came upon a tavern. A statue of a fearsome Charr towered over the entrance, holding a huge bow that must have been as tall as a man. Since Garret was tired of being cold, wet and miserable, he decided to try his chances here and walked through the door. 

He was greeted by sounds not unlike the ones in human taverns, only here the music sounded more like battle marches and the raucous laughter was replaced by raucous...growls? When he set foot inside, all heads turned toward him at once, making him feel like he was a particularly interesting create that had crawled out from under a rock. Well, these overgrown cats could go to hell for all he cared, Garret hadn't always been a wagon driver, so if they thought they could intimidate him with a few harsh stares, they could guess again. 

The lone human walked over to what he supposed was the bar, where a grey-haired Charr had narrowed its eyes on him. He was a bit shocked to realise that she was female, judging by the way her hair was braided and how her features appeared somewhat softer than those of the males. Still, she towered over him and seemed just as tough and muscular as the rest of them. Garret coughed politely before raising his voice to speak.

"Hello, I was wonderi-" 

"We don't serve your kind here" she snarled at him "you humans are too weak to appreciate a proper Charr drinking hole!" 

"I'm not here to drink..." Garret sighed, but he was interrupted before he could continue.

"Then what the hell are you doing here, pink-skin?" 

"If you'd just let me talk, I might be able to explain." 

That's when he felt a big, hairy hand clench his shoulder. He turned around and a saw a much larger Charr, a male no doubt about it, with reddish fur, huge horns and a fearsome set of teeth jutting out from his mouth. An even more wicked-looking sword was strapped to his side. 

"This one giving you problems, Karra?" He said in a deep, rumbling voice. 

"I don't need your help to deal with this runt," she retorted, "he was just about to leave." 

Garret gritted his teeth, trying to get a rein on his emotions, but to no avail. He considered himself a calm man, but the ,month-long march, coupled with that blasted Sylvari mouthing off at the gate and now these bloody Charr…It was too damned much. 

“I wasn’t about to leave.” He told them, his voice taking on a threatening edge. “I want a fucking room to stay the night and a pint of ale to wet my throat. I’ve got coin.”

He proceeded to take out his coin pouch and placed it on the bar, but at the same time the male Charr slammed his palm over his hand, trapping it under a layer of fur and muscle. 

“You insolent scum,” he leaned in closer to Garret, spittle flying from his mouth that reeked of alcohol, “you know how many humans I killed in the last war? You know how my ancestors torched this pathetic kingdom to the ground and routed your cowardly armies?” 

“Best leave now, pink-skin,” the innkeeper said, her smile revealing her sharp fangs, “you don’t want to rile up Scaarin.” 

The Charr’s grip on his hand tightened, producing an audible crunch, a little more of this and he was likely to have a shattered hand among the list of things he hated about today. A familiar sensation shot up through his veins, the thrill of the adrenaline rushing through his body. Aye, Garret hadn’t always been a wagon driver, he had been a soldier once and he had fought his fair share of centaurs. They were dumber than Charr, but just as big, if not stronger. 

“Or what?” Garret shouted “I’ve had enough of your furry bastards! Are you all talk are you going to back those threats?” 

Silence descended upon the room and the tension grew so thick that one could cut it with a knife. The male Charr, trembling with anger, let go of his hand and looked him straight in the eye.

“You’ve got three seconds before I take your head off. One…”

Garret returned the gaze and remained unflinching. This was it – his plan would either work and he’d get a bed or his head was going to decorate the fireplace, which meant he wouldn’t have to suffer this blasted existence any longer. Seemed like a fair deal, either way you looked at it. 

“Two…”

Scaarin’s long claws did seem capable of slicing him to shreds, the Charr wouldn’t even reach for his sword, Garret was certain. The way the Charr’s arms hung at the ready indicated that. At least, that’s what he hoped – it was hard to tell with these felines. 

“Three!”

As expected, the beast swiped a clawed hand in his direction, but Garret was faster. He ducked under it and reached for the big Charr’s sword, drawing it from its scabbard. Another blow came in his direction, but he spun around before his opponent had a chance to react. Garret went low, slicing the tendons behind the Charr’s knee, effectively hamstringing him. A bestial roar followed as Garret’s opponent went to one knee and tried to turn around. 

And again, Garret was faster. The sword in his hands was already at the Charr’s neck when their gazes met. If the room had been silent before, it was now as quiet as a graveyard. The shocked expression on the innkeeper’s face almost compensated all the shite Garret had to endure today. Almost. 

“You wanted a fight? There’s you fucking fight!” he cried out, voice thick with anger. “I just wanted a damned bed, but no – you Charr always have to fight something! And what’s this talk of ancestors, eh? My own great-great grandparents lived here and fled after you bastards summoned that firestorm from the sky, because you couldn't beat them in a fair fight. Should I avenge them, here and now, is that what you want?!” 

He pressed the sword into the Charr’s throat, drawing blood to prove his point. Their gazes held each other for a moment, which seemed to stretch on for an infinity, but then Garret threw the sword aside and offered his hand.  

“Fuck history and fuck wars. That’s all in the past.” 

The Charr, Scaarin, eventually accepted his hand and allowed himself to be hoisted to his feet. Two other Charr came to accompany him back to his table, where his leg was bandaged and another drink was poured. Everyone went back to their business, as if two patrons hadn’t just tried to murder each other before their eyes. 

“You’ve got guts, pink-skin, I’ll give you that,” the innkeep, Karra, said, “but don’t think you can drink any of our ale, it’s too strong for you. Wait here.” 

Garret sat there, the realisation of what he’d just done finally dawning on him. He looked around, trying to see if anyone was contemplating revenge on him, but he saw nothing. Even the big, angry Scaarin was merrily drinking and talking with his companions, the events of a couple of minutes ago already forgotten. In a way, by fighting and proving his mettle, Garret had earned his place here. That’s how he felt it, at least. The Charr were thought too much of themselves to directly admit it. 

Karra returned with a cask of ale, bearing a familiar marking. Lion’s Arch!  

“Here, this one’s on the house” she said, as she poured him a pint, “room’s on the left, take this key.” 

Garret downed the pint in one go and then took the offered key. 

“Don’t think it’s anything much,” Karra continued, “no fancy beds that you humans like, you’ll sleep on the ground and I’ll hear no complaints from you!” 

Garret nodded. He ordered another pint and paid for it and the room, after which he departed to his quarters. It was indeed very sparsely-decorated, with a small window, a straw mat and a broken piece of glass that was supposedly a mirror. There was a chair as well, where he could leave his clothes, but that was it. In short, the room was as severe as the Charr that had built it. 

He wasn’t one to complain, however. After months of sleeping under the stars, this looked like the Queen’s chambers to him. He tossed his cloak on the chair, took off his traveller’s boots and lied down on the mat, where he discovered a coarse blanket waiting for him. It wasn’t much, but it was more than sufficient. 

His mind sorted through the events of the day. After they had been given their orders, the wagon-drivers had decided to set up a makeshift camp outside the city walls. Garret, of course, would have none of it and had decided to seek a proper place to stay, along with a few other brave souls. He hoped those men hadn’t gotten into any fights, because they were decidedly less prepared to handle them than he was. Ah well, he wasn’t their mother, no sense worrying over them… 

Whatever other thoughts came to his mind were quickly forgotten, as the exhaustion that had piled up for weeks finally overcame him. Thoughts and worries were cast aside, replaced by the calmness of a deep, dreamless sleep.