Gorn's Showcase of Power, and Tavern

Gorn, ever alert, noticed the subtle shift in the woman's posture, the unnatural stillness that betrayed her feigned injury. His years of experience navigating the treacherous roads had honed his instincts, and he knew a trap when he saw one.

"William," Gorn's voice was low, a warning in its tone, "bandits. Prepare for a fight."

"Bandits!" William echoed, surprise coloring his voice.

Unlike the thrill of encountering a rare magical beast, the threat of bandits was a mundane reality, a constant shadow lurking on the edges of civilization.

William dismounted, drawing his sword with a practiced flourish. The woman, her act exposed, sprang to her feet, her eyes glinting with malice.

"You're quick," she sneered, "but not quick enough. Run while you can! Maybe your horse will carry you far enough to escape."

William had entertained the same thought. Why not simply flee? But Gorn had a different plan.

"Running is an option," Gorn admitted, his gaze fixed on the woman, "but we've been traveling for quite some time with only one horse between us. It's time for an upgrade. And I believe you can help with that."

As if on cue, a band of rough-looking men emerged from the surrounding woods, their leader astride a magnificent stallion. Gorn's eyes glinted with a predatory light.

The bandit leader bristled, his face reddening with fury. "Who do you think you are?" he bellowed, his voice echoing through the trees. "You think you can take us all on?"

Eight against two. The odds were undeniably stacked against them. Yet, an air of confidence clung to Gorn, unwavering and absolute.

He surveyed the bandits with a chilling disdain. "Please," he scoffed, "your strongest barely scrapes level 25. You're no match for me."

A palpable tension rippled through the bandit ranks. Gorn's casual assessment of their strength was unsettling. Accurately gauging an opponent's level was a difficult skill, one that spoke volumes about his own power.

"Don't try to scare us with your tricks!" the leader blustered, though a flicker of doubt betrayed his bravado. "Numbers win battles, and we have you outnumbered!"

Silence. Gorn didn't waste another breath on threats or boasts. He simply moved. One moment he was standing beside William, the next he was a blur, a phantom of speed that vanished into the space between one blink and the next.

Before any of the bandits could react, their leader's head flew from his shoulders, a crimson geyser erupting from his neck. The stallion reared, its riderless form crashing to the ground. Gorn reappeared as if from thin air, his sword dripping with blood, his expression a mask of cold fury.

The bandits, their bravado shattered, stumbled back in terror. They had never seen such speed, such power. This wasn't a simple hunter; this was a force of nature unleashed.

Gorn moved like a whirlwind, his sword a blur of deadly precision. He cut through their ranks, his every strike finding its mark. Cries of pain and terror filled the air as the bandits fell, their bodies littering the forest floor.

The remaining bandits, their courage completely evaporated, turned and fled, their cries echoing through the trees. Even the woman who had orchestrated the ambush scrambled away, her limp forgotten in her desperate bid for survival.

Gorn watched them go, his chest heaving, his eyes burning with a cold fire. He didn't pursue them. He had made his point.

William stared in awe, his mouth agape. He had witnessed Gorn's strength in the village, but this... this was something else entirely. The sheer speed, the effortless power, the chilling precision – it was like watching a predator toying with its prey.

"Gorn," William breathed, his voice filled with a newfound respect, "that was incredible."

Gorn grunted, wiping his sword clean on the fallen leader's tunic. "They were weak," he said dismissively. "Undisciplined. A pack of wolves would have put up a better fight."

But William knew better. He had seen the fear in the bandits' eyes, the terror that had driven them to flee. He had witnessed the power that lay dormant within Gorn, a power that could shatter bones and extinguish life with terrifying ease.

'How strong is he?' William wondered, a shiver running down his spine. He had much to learn, much to achieve, if he ever hoped to reach that level of mastery.

Gorn approached the fallen stallion, its eyes wide with fear, its muscles trembling. He calmed the creature with a gentle touch, then turned to William. "Looks like you have a new mount, lad," he said, a rare smile gracing his lips.

William grinned, his heart filled with gratitude. He approached the stallion, its fear quickly subsiding under his gentle touch. He mounted the magnificent creature, its powerful muscles rippling beneath him as he took the reins.

With a newfound sense of purpose, they continued their journey.

The journey proved surprisingly uneventful after the bandit attack. News of Gorn's brutal efficiency seemed to have spread like wildfire, a silent deterrent to any would-be highwaymen.

Had the surviving bandits relayed tales of his impossible speed and devastating power? William wouldn't be surprised. Among those who lived by preying on the weak, Gorn's reputation was clearly one to be feared.

The next night, however, offered a welcome change from their previous roadside encampments.

Gorn had mentioned taverns along the way, and he wasn't exaggerating. As dusk settled, a two-story wooden building emerged from the twilight, its windows glowing invitingly. A weathered sign swung above the doorway, depicting a frothy tankard and the words "The Drunken Boar."

A sturdy-looking fellow with a bushy beard stood near the entrance, his eyes assessing the approaching riders. "Welcome, travelers!" he boomed, his voice surprisingly cheerful. "I can tend to your horses for the night. Feed 'em, water 'em, and keep 'em safe from any sticky fingers."

"How much?" Gorn asked, his tone blunt and to the point.

The stableman blinked, momentarily thrown by Gorn's directness. "Twenty copper coins," he replied, recovering quickly. "A fair price, wouldn't you say?"

Gorn, without a word, tossed the coins to the man and strode towards the tavern entrance, William close behind.

Inside, the common room was sparsely populated. A few lone figures hunched over their drinks at scattered tables, their conversations hushed. The tavern keeper, a plump woman with tired eyes, dozed behind the counter, her head resting on a stack of worn ledgers. The door creaked open, startling her awake.

"Good evening, travelers!" she chirped, her voice regaining a semblance of enthusiasm. "Welcome to the Drunken Boar! We have plenty of rooms available, all at a reasonable price."

"How much?" Gorn's voice boomed through the quiet room.

"Eighty copper coins per person," the woman replied, her eyes widening slightly.

Gorn, true to his efficient nature, simply placed the coins on the counter. "Two rooms," he declared.

The woman's smile widened, her weariness momentarily forgotten. "Excellent! Right this way, gentlemen. I'll show you to your accommodations."