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“Yes, speed’s not important,” Ernst smiled, chewing on the last bits of pork. “Because if we get to that dragon and Tregon over here was about to be swallowed whole, then we fucked up something beforehand. Far as I know from what our captain’s said, there’s only one special way to kill a black dragon and none of us has it. So if something like that were to happen, then, well, shit, that’s tough luck. An arrow is a flying fist,” Ernst educated. “It hits with the fury of a god, not with a little cut. The more vital the body part and the more force on the arrow, the better the chance of felling.”

With an empty plate and a vacant bowl, and with a filled stomach, Ernst was finally done with his breakfast. Stuffed, but a little unhappy at having to entertain the little bitch who has done nothing but fling insult after insult his way, even when he was trying really hard to be nice despite it. Really and although he did not show it, he had already regretted his decision to give her a free drink.

“You know,” he said, rubbing his belly and coming to a final decision: “I don’t like you. I’m heading off to get supplies,” he stood up, “and to cool off a bit.” 

Making his way to the counter and dropping off a handful of copper coins to the appreciative tavern keeper, Ernst then proceeded upstairs to don his gambeson and weaponry. As there was no point to it, seeing as the party was heading off at noon-time and it was still early in the morning, he opted not to wear his sallet helm and mail shirt. He descended down the stairs looking like a militiaman: bow on his back, quiver with bodkins and his arming sword at the side, and super-thick, protective pads of layered fabric patterned into diamonds covering him from his neck all the way to his knees.

Silently, he swung open the tavern door and exited into the village outside, muttering, “What a bitch. Hope she dies horribly,” before setting off for the local blacksmith and farmer’s market.