The story of Link's life AFTER he saves the Princess.
The door of the inn slammed open, the young man outside was almost thrown into the room by the wind. He staggered for a moment, then, balancing himself, he walked up to the bar. The innkeeper gave him a quizzical glance.
A nod. The man turned, filled a pitcher, and placed it in front of the bedraggled youth. He was wearing what must once have been a green tunic, now worn and faded, and an odd, floppy, vaguely conical hat that drooped down his back, heavy with rainwater from the storm outside. On his back he carried an elegant short bow and quiver, still beautiful despite signs of wear; a large shield, which had once born a crest but was now so battered that the original design had totally faded, leaving only a dull blue; and a long sword.
The sword was what most often drew attention. It was certainly impressive, longer than a one handed weapon should be, and with a highly decorated hilt and scabbard. It looked too large for its bearer to wield, and indeed, none of the patrons had ever seen the odd, pointy eared boy draw the blade. None of them even knew his name, or what he did to gain the ruppees that went over the counter in exchange for his drinks. Some speculated that, given his attire, he was a mercenary, who came here to rest after his battles. Others suggested that he was a wanderer who had decided to settle here due to the rich hunting grounds nearby. A few, though they were rarely listened to and often laughed at, claimed that he was a hero from Hyrule, who, after saving the Princess, had been left by the wayside as the Hylians began their conquest of the neighbouring kingdoms.
The man himself never spoke, not a word. Many believed him to be dumb, others, that he was cursed by the Gods. A few of those who praised him as the Hero of Time whispered that the Princess of Hyrule had cut out his tongue after she had betrayed him. He comunicated with no one, save the innkeeper, and even to him it was reduced to the bare minimum of nods and hand gestures.
This particular night was like every other. The few hero theorists gathered around a table and conversed in whispers, occasionaly glancing over to the seemingly oblivious figure and consulting various parchments. The other patrons had glanced up as he staggered in, but payed him no more attention and went back to their drinks. The wind outside was feirce, and the rain lashed against the windows as it continued to pour in torrents from the black sky. Rolling thunder occasionally boomed, competing in volume with the wind and rain. Such weather was not uncommon this high in the mountains, but nevertheless it made everyone edgy.
Suddenly, there was a lull in the noise out side, and in the abrupt, eerie silence there could be heard footsteps on the gravel outside. The silence continued as the steps drew near the door, and then stopped. All through the inn there was the quiet, discomforting sound of weapons being drawn from hidden sheaths. The innkeeper reached beneath the bar, and brought out a large, loaded crossbow, setting it down on the counter and flicking the safety catch off. The only person who seemed unperturbed was the young man in green. Who remained sitting at the bar with his back to the door, nursing his drink with both hands.
There was a long, agonising pause, as everyone held their breath, waiting for something to happen. Then the door exploded inwards, scattering shards of wood across the room and knocking over several tables that stood near it. The innkeeper raised his weapon and fired, as did several others, drawing bows from various concealed pockets and innocent looking bundles. The bolts all struck the object standing beyond the door, but none had any effect, bouncing off it with a series of metalic 'ping's. The last bolt never even reached it, as the object raised a hand and snatched it out of the air with lightening speed. Everyone in the room now had a weapon drawn, again with the exception of the enigmatic youth, and most were now backing away from the door as the smoke cleared to reveal an armoured man standing in the doorway, the bolt held in his left hand. With a brief flex, he snapped it, the sound breaking the silence sharply. In his right hand, the figure held a massive sword, which he now raised and pointed directly at the young man at the bar. The man sighed audibly, raised his mug, drained it and turned to face the intruder, drawing his sword and grabbing his shield all in one movement.