Meinhardt Volker was bored of the the Nag. He was bored of the town, and of rest. He’d returned from his last contract a fortnight past and had been thankful of the downtime; for the first few days. Two weeks on, however and he was eager to be off once more. The word from Ludolf was that something would be coming any day now and Volker was chomping at the bit. 

To pass the time, the mercenary had settled into a steady routine not unlike that of a garrisoned soldier. He woke early from the guesthouse across the brook from the Nag and would go for a long run along the creek. A cold breakfast would be had in a glade on the outskirts of Übersreik, and then Meinhardt would return to get his kit on. The rest of the morning would involve physical training with a full pack, and would include everything from hauling logs, jumping back and forth across the creek and climbing every tree he could find. The locals had chuckled at first, until the local militia sergeant had begun incorporating small aspects of the training regime into the drills the militiamen did on the eighth day of every week. After lunch at the Nag was weapons training at the woods edge. One proud oak had served as a pell and had been mightily beaten by Meinhardt’s hammer and chopped at by by axe and knife. After an equipment check, it was time to eat. 

After dinner at the Nag there wasn’t much else to do but have a few drinks, and though fairly well off as far as out of work mercenaries go, Meinhardt didn’t like to pay for anything he didn’t have to. Plenty of soldiers, mercenaries, old drunks and even the local boys would like the chance to prove they were Big Strong Men. Thus he would sit with a mug of ale, a clay cup and a coin on the table: a challenge. Men would sit at his small table and place down their coin, they would clasp hands and the first one to wrestle the others to the table was the victor. Meinhardt had lost a few, but the usual result was to take the mans coin and put it in the cup with a clink. 

His latest win had come from the smiths apprentice, who had tried and failed thrice this week. He was a strong lad, perhaps even stronger then Meinhardt, but with no technique. Twisting subtly at the wrist, the boys knuckles had lowered steadily until they rapped against the wood. Old and crafty had defeated young and strong yet again. He would never get rich arm wrestling for pennies, but it kept him in all well enough.

As Meinhardt watched the newcomers and enjoyed his mug he wondered yet again if the Elfish bouncer would ever sit at his table. He thought he was stronger then the elf, put probably slower. It would be an interesting challenge. So far, however, Galadred had merely watched the room, dutiful and perhaps as bored as Meinhardt Volker was.