Zarek and the other soliders sat on a dusty, gloomy and ill smelling pub in Bartha. Zarek could feel the barbarians' stares, their eyes pierced the back of his head. No one liked them, except the King himself. He sighed. The other soliders drank ale, laughed loud and slapped each other on the back, while Zarek was sipping to a glass of milk. He hated the taste of alchohol. It tasted awful. The other soliders bullied him for it, but he didn't care much.