The Rusty Tankard was one of those rare taverns that hadn’t been blacklisted yet.

  Dim lanterns, scarred tables and the usual smell of stew and spilled ale.

  The party had claimed a corner booth after turning in the Dullahan's bounty at the Guild.

  Fanática had shed her usual armor, for it was sent to the Guild for the usual maintenance.

  And the maul safely leaned against the wall in her room.

  It was a brief time of respite from tireless evil smithing, though it didn’t make her happy.

  But the party insisted.

  “Lass, we can’t run from one bounty to the next without a pause. Look at your worn armor. Does it benefit a church nun?”

  Thrain argued, exchanging a knowing look with Gorzod.

  “It’s burned, worn and literally dripping with undead ichor, after you punched these zombies into paste.”

  Fanática looked at her trusted armor.

  Indeed, it was lately looking a little worn and dirty.

  Liora pinched her nose whenever she was too close.

  Maybe Thrain is right?

  They went to the guild to drop their weapons and armor for maintenance.

  The nervous clerk said it will be done for tomorrow.

  “But..” Fana tried to protest.

  There was still heretical evil to smite somewhere tonight.

  She knew it was lurking somewhere.

  “No buts.” Gorzod interrupted. “Today we finally REST!!”

  Liora and even Erian nodded with agreement.

  The saint reluctantly agreed.

  Fast forward, and the party was dining in the Rusty Tankard.

  Faná herself sat in simple linen: a modest cream shirt, long grey skirt, hair braided loosely.

  No halo - it showed up when she was using her divine powers.

  Just a young woman with kind eyes and a habit of murmuring grace before tearing bread.

  To anyone who didn’t know better, she looked like Villager Girl A.

  Which was exactly how half-elf bard Lirien saw her.

  Lirien swept into the tavern like he owned it - lute slung across his back, cloak artfully rumpled, smile practiced in a hundred market squares.

  Grabbed the wine at the counter.

  And like a hunter stalking his prey, he scans the assembled crowd, his eyes finally landing on Faná.

  His lute was already in hand before he reached the table.

  “O, fair maiden,” he began with honeyed voice, just loud enough to carry, “your beauty dims the candles and shames the moon. May I offer a verse in tribute to eyes that hold the quiet grace of dawn?”

  The party froze mid-bite.

  Gorzod’s tankard paused halfway to his mouth.

  Liora leaned back, arms crossed, the faintest twitch at one corner of her mouth.

  Erian almost choked on his stew.

  Faná blinked up at the bard, bread halfway to her lips.

  She smiled politely. “That is very kind. The Goddess blesses all who speak the truth.”

  Lirien took this as encouragement.

  He launched into a poem that rhymed “radiant soul” with “heart’s true goal” and “pious grace” with “angel’s embrace.”

  It was terrible.

  But it was delivered with the confidence of a man who had never once been told no.

  Barbarian leaned toward Thrain and muttered, low enough that only the dwarf could heard:

  “I’ll bet 100 aure that she’ll shoot her holy fires before he ends the chorus.”

  Thrain snorted.

  Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

  “Or maybe she’ll bless his lute, so that it will start playing itself but only church gospel.” Dwarf laughed.

  Liora, without looking away from the show, deadpanned:

  “He just rhymed ‘devotion’ with ‘ocean.’ Elves had wars over less.”

  Erian stared, wide-eyed, his cheeks slowly turning the color of ripe beets.

  He tugged Gorzod’s sleeve.

  “Should… should I do something? He’s… he’s being very forward.”

  Gorzod grinned, “Go on, lad. Mediate. Protect the maiden’s honor.”

  Erian stumbled forward, staff clutched like a crutch.

  He cleared his throat three times before sound emerged.

  “Um. Excuse me, sir bard? Perhaps… perhaps the lady would prefer to eat in peace?”

  Lirien turned his eyes narrowing.

  He sized Erian up: gangly teenager, staff too big for him, face scarlet. And smirked.

  “Ah. The secret swain steps forth. Jealous, are we, boy? Fear not for true love brooks no rivals.”

  Erian’s brain short-circuited.

  “W-what? No! I-I’m not- I mean- with Faná?!”

  The very idea hit him like a bucket of ice water.

  His face went from red to ghostly pale in under two seconds.

  He backed up so fast he nearly tripped over a chair.

  “You… you’ll regret this,” he squeaked, voice cracking on the last word.

  The table erupted.

  Gorzod roared with laughter, pounding the wood so hard mugs jumped.

  Thrain wheezed, tears in his eyes.

  Even Liora let out a rare, soft huff that might have been a chuckle.

  Bard, triumphant, turned back to Faná with renewed strength.

  “See? The boy knows his place. Now, where were we, my dove?”

  Faná tilted her head, still smiling that gentle, guileless smile.

  “You speak beautifully of piety. That pleases me.

  Would you like to pray together before the next verse?”

  Lirien blinked.

  Was that an… invitation?

  Then - bolstered by sweet wine and misread signals - he slid closer on the bench.

  His hand found a way to her knee under the table.

  Faná froze.

  Then her eyes widened.

  “Premarital intercourse!” she gasped, as though naming a demon.

  Her halo suddenly ignited, a golden light flooded the tavern like someone had dropped the sun indoors.

  The table flipped away, the mugs shattered.

  Other patrons screamed and dove under benches.

  Faná rose, her clothes billowing in an unfelt wind.

  “O Goddess of Immaculate Boundaries!” she cried. “Shield this vessel from unlawful familiarity!”

  The air condensed, and gold light gathered in her hand.

  It was not metal, nor wood, but a flawless hammer-shaped mass of divine radiance.

  Then she swung it in a perfect arc.

  It connected with the Bard’s lute, and continued to pass through the overturned table which Lirien had tried to use as a shield.

  Wood and strings exploded into glittering motes.

  The shockwave continued: half the tavern wall buckled outward in a shower of timber and rain of plaster.

  Roof beams groaned.

  A chandelier crashed down in a rain of candle wax.

  A drunk patron was sprawled under a table that should have crushed him, miraculously unscathed.

  A tavern girl, sidestepped by an invisible current of force, blinked in awe as a beam of timber splintered harmlessly past her.

  Lirien hit the floor and scrambled backward on hands and heels, eyes enormous.

  He screamed something incoherent and bolted for the door.

  Outside, under the moon, a bard sprinted down the main street in scorched velvet, clutching the splintered remains of his lute.

  His tattered cloak was flapping like a flag of surrender.

  And inside the ruined tavern, the party sat amid the wreckage.

  Thrain raised what was left of his mug in salute.

  Erian stared out the new hole in the wall at the fleeing figure.

  He spoke quietly, voice still shaky but edged with something like satisfaction.

  “I told you so.”

  Faná turned to them, halo dimming to a gentle glow before disappearing, her expression serene once more.

  Her divine weapon slowly dissolved into motes of light.

  “The Goddess protected my virtue,” she said happily.

  Then she noticed the destruction.

  “Oh dear. We should probably tithe for the repairs.”

  Somewhere in the distance, Lirien’s wail echoed off the rooftops.