Heavy feet, or.. Hooves, meet the floorboards of your hometown tavern, and you look towards the door where the cold air seeps inside.

Technoblade.

You know him well, almost as well as anyone else in the room does, and he stomps towards the bar to take a seat on a stool.

He's radiating some kind of attitude, and it's not good. 

"Mead," he demands, and you set down a glass in front of him, elbows pressed into the wood as you lean forward.

"Don't wann' talk 'bout it," he grumbles, crossing his arms as he tilts his head away, leaning forward a little.

His beard and hair are full of now melting snow, and you silently hand him a towel before you begin to pour him a glass of mead.

He sips, nods a thanks, and then hands you a palmful of various gold coins.

"Keep the change."

You don't argue with the brute. How could you? You've watched him pull a poor sucker's arm off.