07 – Tavern

  Elanil slowed instinctively as they approached the tavern, letting her gaze slide over the building. It was exactly what it was supposed to be—wide, squat, built to endure careless elbows and occasional scuffles. Light flowed from the tavern windows in thick, uneven bands, staining the packed dirt road amber. The lively sounds were heard inside—the buzz of many voices talking over one another, punctuated by the dull percussion of mugs meeting tables, the outbursts of laughter in response to someone’s witty, and perhaps very vulgar, joke. Sometimes someone raised their voice in the midst of an enthusiastic argument. The smell was unmistakably tavern-ish: a light sour note of spilled ale that had soaked into wood long ago and given up any hope of leaving.

  Inside, the noise thickened, becoming almost physical. The tavern was crowded, on the verge of becoming chaotic—tables packed close together, benches shared without asking, patrons leaned in toward one another as if proximity itself was part of the experience. A fire burned in a broad hearth, more for atmosphere than warmth, casting restless shadows across low beams darkened by years of smoke. Elanil felt it immediately: the peculiar coziness of a place designed to absorb people. Everything here had survived being knocked into—no delicate things, practicality run the show here.

  Behind the counter stood the innkeeper. She was plump, middle-aged, and built like someone who had spent decades carrying trays without complaint. Her hair was pinned up in a way that suggested it had lost that particular battle many years ago. Her face was open and expressive, eyes bright with a cheerfulness that had learned how to coexist with impatience. She was currently leaning over the bar, finger wagging at a red-faced farmer who appeared to be defending a very bad idea.

  “No, you did not pay already,” she said, voice loud enough to cut through nearby conversations. “You said you would. Those are different things, and don’t you slur at me like I don’t know the difference.”

  The farmer laughed, unoffended, and slunk away under the amused scrutiny of his companions. Only then did the innkeeper look up—and pause. Her gaze flicked from Elanil’s ears to Nura’s tusks and back to their faces. It lingered on Nura’s axes, Elanil’s bow, and moved to where people, dressed and armed in such a manner, usually had their badges telling about the guild affiliation and rank and... found nothing.

  There were some organizations whose members, so to speak, were reluctant to disclose such information for entirely objective reasons. However, members of such guilds wouldn’t have carried weapons in plain sight, as these strangers did. The innkeeper’s experienced eye saw enough in these two to understand that things weren’t so simple with them. Her intuition, though, told her that they posed no danger. At least for now.

  “Well,” she said briskly, straightening. “You’re not from around here.”

  “Right. We’re not,” Elanil replied.

  “Folks who belong don’t come in this late looking this clean.” She leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice just enough to signal a change in register. “You looking for rooms, food, or trouble?”

  “The first two,” Nura said. “Especially the second one. And a lot of it.”

  “And drink,” Elanil added.

  “So, what would the strangers like to order?”

  “Depends on what you have,” Nura said.

  “Can’t say that our menu is long—our food’s no frills, but it’s filling.”

  “Exactly what I need,” Nura smiled wide. “I’m so hungry that I’m ready to eat a whole bull right now.”

  “Okey-dokey,” the barmaid cheerfully laughed and then turned to Elanil. “What about you? Any preferences?”

  “Do you have something with mushrooms in your menu?” she asked timidly.

  “I’ll see what we can do for you,” the woman nodded understandingly. “Sit where you can find space. I’ll bring your food when it’s ready.”

  She turned away without ceremony, already calling out orders to someone unseen in the back.

  Nura watched her go, amused. “She didn’t even ask who we are.”

  “She asked what matters,” Elanil said.

  They found a corner of a long table and claimed it. Around them, the tavern surged and settled, loud and warm, like a living thing that had decided—at least for tonight—to make room for them. They’d barely settled at the table when Nura slapped her forehead.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  “Damn, we completely forgot to ask her if they wanted the beetle meat we looted.”

  “Let’s go back and ask,” Elanil suggested, about to rise when Nura stopped her with a gesture.

  “Stay here, I’ll ask myself,” she said, rising. “Or else they’ll take our seats. Better watch my stuff.”

  And she walked off toward the innkeeper, weaving between groups of animatedly chatting customers. Funny, Elanil thought, all those village men and women were so immersed in their social life that they seemed oblivious to the presence of a Wood Elf and an Orc—rare visitors in these parts. The only one who noticed, in fact, was the innkeeper. But mostly because it was her job—she had to pay attention to who fate might bring to the threshold of her tavern.

  While she was alone, Elanil studied the tavern and its patrons. And the more she observed their simple, uncomplicated lives of countrymen in a magical world, the more touching everything around her seemed. Indeed, this place had such strong D&D tavern vibes that it was simply impossible not to be captivated with it. If she had her way, she probably would have even hung around here for a long time, if not settled permanently. Although no, perhaps that would be unlikely. She would probably quickly become bored with a pastoral life, and her soul would yearn to travel again, to seek adventure. Adventurer—that was her calling. And taverns were taverns for a reason: to periodically rest body and soul after a particularly long and difficult quest.

  “Nope,” Nura’s voice rang out nearby, snatching Elanil from her thoughts of the future.

  Next came the dull thud—two large bowls, filled to the brim, hit the wooden tabletop. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been daydreaming but apparently long enough for their food to be ready. The bowls steamed appetizingly; their aromas were even more enchanting. Nura’s looked like pieces of roasted lamb or beef, resting on a large mound of couscous. And Elanil’s—her mouth dropped open in delight. A full plate of mushroom ragout, fried in a sour cream sauce. Exactly what she needed. But then she remembered Nura’s remark, the one with which she had appeared.

  “What did you say?” Elanil asked.

  “I’m telling you, no, she won’t buy our beetle meat.” Nura explained. “She said, the most we could sell it here is to some farmer, to feed the pigs. People here are squeamish about eating beetles.” She glanced at the crowd and added with a wry smile, “They’ve probably never known true famine in these parts.”

  “Which doesn’t mean it’s bad,” Elanil remarked.

  “No one’s saying it’s bad.” Nura tore her contemplative gaze away from the people around and, nodding at Elanil’s plate, asked, “Is this what you like? Or should I go exchange it for some good mushrooms? I don’t even know what good or bad ones look like, so it’s easy to fool me.”

  “No, this is just fine,” Elanil assured her, adding, “Thank you for your concern.”

  “No problem,” Nura waved her hand. “Well then. Let’s not waste any time. Enjoy your meal.”

  For a while, silence reigned at their end of the table. Both were completely absorbed in their dinner. Finally, having finished her truly generous portion of mushroom stew, Elanil allowed herself to stretch in relaxation. Her body had softened from such satiation, her mood had suddenly turned blissful, and she was even beginning to feel a little sleepy.

  Lazily looking around the tavern, Elanil winced slightly at why she hadn’t noticed it before. There was a man standing near the hearth with a lute slung casually across his back, as if he had always been there, and not only Elanil but everyone else had simply failed to notice him.

  The bard wasn’t tall, nor short. Seemingly agile yet strong in his constitution, he looked both like a typical minstrel and someone who would be swift to break his adversaries’ limbs if the need arose. Blond hair fell loose around his shoulders, catching the firelight in a charming way. His clothes were travel-worn but neat, fitted well enough to make it clear he knew exactly what effect that had.

  He took the lute, tuned it with his thin, professional fingers, and tried the first chord. The melody followed, soft and measured. It sounded like the flow of a mountain river, cheerfully playing with splashes on the rapids. It threaded itself between sounds rather than trying to dominate them, weaving through laughter and clatter like water washing over stones. When he started to sing, his voice was warm and rich, carrying just enough weight to matter.

  Funny, Elanil noted, that nothing in the tavern changed. The noise didn’t subside. No heads turned. No expectant hush rippled through the crowd. A pair of men nearby continued arguing about sheep. A serving girl walked past the bard, nearly brushing his shoulder, eyes fixed on her tray. As if his repertoire had already bored everyone here.

  Elanil listened to the song thoughtfully. Every word. Every note. The song wasn’t extraordinary in plot—travel, loss, the long road, the quiet ache of coming back to places that had changed while you hadn’t—it was performed with an ease that made it feel honest rather than rehearsed.

  “You see him too?” she decided to ask Nura just in case.

  “Of course, I do,” Nura looked at her as if asking—what a strange question. “And I hear him too,” she added.

  Elanil watched the bard as the song continued. His gaze swept the room, passing over patrons who did not register him at all—and then, briefly, met Elanil’s eyes. There was a flicker of something there. Recognition, perhaps, or amusement. He smiled, just a little, and kept performing. Then he shifted closer to one table as he played—a mug passed straight through the space where his elbow had been a second earlier, carried by a man too drunk to collide with reality.

  Finally, the song came to a gentle close. The last chord hanged in the air for a few seconds before dissolving into the darkness of the hall’s smoky ceiling. The tavern continued to exist as a buzzing hive, just as it had before his song. No jingle of coins to pay the musician, no applauds, not even the meager ones, strained as an act of polite disdain. Zero interest in music.

  Those people probably spent too much time digging in the ground to appreciate art, Elanil thought and took a coin out of her money bag.