Lucian inhaled deeply as he landed heavily upon the mossy rock, exhaustion gnawing at his bones. It had been a relentless week spent soaring through the skies, each beat of his wings a reminder of the urgency that drove him forward. The Gallows Swamp stretched before him, an area he had only glimpsed once in passing. Now, he ventured forth, knowing it was a risk worth taking, hoping for any lead on Rylan's whereabouts.

With renewed determination, Lucian staggered into the tavern, a wooden structure teetering on the edge of the water, its inviting glow beckoning amidst the mist. As he stepped inside, the warmth washed over him, contrasting sharply with the chill of the night air. Dancers of the fae twirled gracefully on a wooden stage, their glimmering skin and feathered wings creating a mesmerizing sight. Dwarfs adorned in thick beards roared with laughter, chugging ale in a drinking contest, while finxes—those cunning fox-like folk—gathered at tables, sharing stories and enjoying their respite.

Lucian made his way to the bar, an imposing centaur standing behind the polished wooden counter. “Excuse me,” Lucian began, his voice steady despite the thrumming of nerves within him. “Have you seen a pack of Wolfbanes pass through?”

The centaur regarded him with a sidelong glance, golden eyes narrowed, as if weighing his worth. Long seconds passed before the centaur finally spoke, his voice deep and resonant. “Vampires aren’t welcome here, visitor. What business do you have among our kind?”

Lucian swallowed hard, the weight of his nature heavy in the air. “I’m just passing through. A goblet of something, please.” He offered a handful of coins, and the centaur scoffed but complied, pouring crimson liquid into a goblet before shoving it across the counter.

Taking his drink, Lucian chose a shadowed table near the back corner, the ruckus of the crowd fading into a dull roar as he eavesdropped on the lively conversations unfolding around him.

“Didya hear about that big bounty on the rogue goblin king?” a dwarf with a long braid exclaimed to his friends, slapping the table with enthusiasm. “A thousand gold! I plan to spend it on a boat!”

“Nay, it’s not worth it,” said another dwarf, chugging a tankard. “If the stories be true, the goblin’s got a whole army. Better to let a bigger idiot fetch his head.”

The fae dancers laughed, teasing from the stage. “You lot are all talk! We know how to handle our foes, don’t we, m'Lady?” One of the fae winked at her companion, flinging her hair as the crowd erupted in cheers.

“Anyone seen those lycanthropes?” a finx chimed in with a sly grin. “I bet they’re up to no good. Always lurking, always hunting.”

Lucian clenched his jaw, his gaze focused on the entrance when suddenly, the tavern door burst open, and a group of werewolves entered, their powerful frames silhouetted against the dim light. They were larger than the Wolfbanes he'd encountered, muscles rippling beneath their fur. They joined the ruckus, but their voices dropped to hushed whispers, an air of menace radiating from them.

“Something ain't right about the moon’s pull lately,” the largest of the group muttered, scanning the room like a hawk. “I caught wind of something… down in Moonhallow.”

Lucian’s hand trembled around his goblet, recognizing the danger that lurked within those walls. Another werewolf nodded, his intensity palpable as he continued, “Rumors of vampire raiders. Might be they’re at the guild now.”

Suddenly, one of the werewolves caught a scent, his eyes narrowing. “I can smell one nearby!” he growled, baring his fangs. An instant later, he hurled a nearby wooden table aside, the crash sending a chorus of protests through the tavern.

“Hey! What did you—” a dwarf shouted, but the leader of the werewolves advanced, tearing up a floorboard and throwing it without remorse at the centaur behind the bar. “Shut it, hooves! We don’t need your chatter.”

The centaur grunted angrily but fell silent, keeping his eyes trained on the scene. The fae had begun to stir, their graceful forms morphing into sharp-edged intensity as magical energies crackled around them.

“Watch your back, wolf!” one of the fae called, readying her hand, but the tension escalated as the werewolf, now with a scrawny sidclops—half goat, half person—in his grasp, snarled, “Blackbeard, you’re under arrest.”

Lucian’s heart raced as he caught sight of a wanted poster depicting Blackbeard’s likeness plastered to the wall nearby. He swore under his breath, noting how the tavern had fallen into a deathly silence, an unspoken respect given to authority as royal guards from the Pendragon Guild turned up. Lucian felt the weight of their presence, recognition and fear mingling in the air.

The leader of the werewolves faced the guards, his expression a mix of defiance and agitation. “You shouldn’t interfere with our business,” he warned, the growl in his voice echoing ominously. “These bounty hunts are none of your concern.”

Yet, it was the guards who stood resolute, their gazes unyielding. “You know better than to threaten peace in our lands, wolf,” one of them replied, motioning forth as they took Blackbeard into custody. Silence now cradled the atmosphere, every eye watching the unfolding drama play out.

And as tensions flared and tempers ignited, Lucian seized his opportunity. He slipped out the back door, the shadows engulfing him as he vanished into the night, vowing that he would not stop until he found Rylan and unraveled the truth surrounding the devastation of Moonhallow.

The young merchant boy heaved out a sigh as he entered the clearing in the forest. He had been travelling for three days now and had another day to go before reaching the neighboring village.

He looked up ahead and couldn’t believe his eyes as he spotted a beautiful tavern sitting atop a shimmering lake. The tavern had such an inviting air that he could feel himself being drawn in, taking a step forward almost involuntarily.

He could nearly feel his aching feet sing with relief and his mouth salivate at the thought of having a rest in this cozy inn. He was so tired and weary, there was no other place he could think of to be than this delightful tavern on the water.

As he approached, he noticed a hazy mist surrounding the tavern like an invisible force field. He cautiously lifted his hand to touch the mist and instantly felt a jolt that stung his skin like an intense burn. He cried out in shock and pain but a mere moment later, the mist parted for him like a curtain, drawn open to reveal the captivating tavern and bright sunlight once again.

Walking through the section that had parted for him in the mist, he began to take in his surroundings more clearly. He was welcomed with alluring sounds and smells, encouraging him to continue along the path. Through the sounds of rustling leaves and chirping birds, he heard a familiar cawing. It took him a second to recognize it, as it was very much out of place in this forest. He heard the unmistakable sound of the green-eyed hawk, a bird he had encountered on his travels. It was a warning for ships that sailed too close to treacherous waters. This bird must have been a long way from home.

Growing nearer to the tavern, the young merchant stopped to observe the exquisite foliage surrounding the lake. Vibrant shades of red, orange and pink flowers coloured the path he followed, each with a complex pattern like a kaleidoscope. Among the flowers he noticed the small grey mushrooms dotting the striking field of colours. They were poisonous mushrooms. One bite and he would fall onto the path before reaching the tavern door, which was now so close to the merchant that he was mere steps away. He thought it odd that something so wild and perilous could grow in this paradise.

Now overcome by his thirst and aching legs, the merchant hobbled the last few steps towards his salvation. He was overcome with anticipation and excitement over what he might find behind the ornately carved wooden doors. As he pushed them open, his senses were flooded with the sweet smell of pies. He felt a rush of warmth and joy spread over him as he stepped into the tavern. He finally had a place to rest and feel safe.

Suddenly, all the candles around him blew out and cold air blasted into the tavern. The sweet smell disappeared just as quickly as it had taken over him. Something felt terribly wrong. Intense dread and fear crept into every crevice of the inn. Just as the doors shut behind him, the merchant’s piercing screams were swallowed by the sinister tavern.

I was just a weary traveler winding through the lagoon. I had heard stories of this majestic inn that sat above the water and above any trouble. And above alligators. The inn was run by a kind woman who seemed to know everything there is to know. She knew who I was the moment I walked through the door. But it was run by the woman and her granddaughter. Blue eyes sparked with curiosity and brunette locks were weaved into an elaborate braid. Vines from the lagoon hung from the braid, making her seem even more vibrant. And it was more than her beauty that attracted me. It was the way she would sit on the balcony and sang songs around the campfire to young and old. Again she was beautiful and kind, but one more thing stood out. Her magic. It had layed dormant for years, just building up so it could explode with joy in her. She could make plants grow and move things around with her mind. But the power to make people smile. It wasn’t until the day I decided to stay was the day I learned her name. Amira, the treetop princess. And when i kissed her I knew I would stay here forever

In the lake of Moore lies an odd little tavern, one taken straight out of a fairytale. That’s why when Atlas, a bard in search for the next great story stumbles upon the place, he makes his way inside.

“Hello?” Atlas calls, pushing the creaking door open. The tavern is illuminated by the warm glow of wax candles, the aroma of pines wafting in the air. Tables of pixies and trolls chug down sizzling green liquids.

“Yohoooo” a chipper voice calls from a room down the corridor. A pixie about a head shorter than Atlas strides out carrying four jugs of rum in her hand. Her hair is the green of moss, and her skin the brown of dirt.

Fluttering her thin wings, she passes the cups to a table of hobgoblins who pay her no mind.

“Excuse me” Atlas says, stopping the pixie before she can go back to the next room.

She looks up at Atlas with large green eyes. “We don’t get many knights around these corners.”

Atlas smiles, looking down at his royal crest. “Ah, your mistaken. I’m no knight. Only the humble bard to the throne.”

The pixie scoffs, flicking the crest on his chest. “Humble by rampallian!”

He’s not off to a very good first impression, he thinks.

“My apologies, my lady. I have only come here in search of a tale I can bring back to my courts. You see, I was told by an old fella called Gadfold that this tavern was full of stories untold.”

The pixie grins, tugging the bard by the sleeve of his shirt. “Don’t be so formal, come with me.”

The pixie hovers in the air as she guides Atlas to a corner of the tavern, where the breeze from outside blows out the candles.

“I will tell you a story about a girl with a heart of stone” the pixie tells Atlas, throwing him a cushion as she plops herself on the floor. They both lean against opposite sides of the rickety walls, legs presses against each other.

“That does not sound like something of my interest” Atlas says. He has heard many stories of girls with stone hearts who had it broken by a prince’s kiss.

“Hush and hark!” The pixie scolds, kicking him with the sole of her foot. She leans in closer to him, a playful grin at the curve of her lips.

“There once was a girl with a stone heart. Unfeeling and unyielding, she would never know how it felt to love. Hate. Lust.” The pixie wiggles her eyebrows at Atlas and he rolls his eyes.

“Go on. Carry on with your tale.”

“Yes, be patient! Anyways—the girl wanted to feel, for her cold heart left her feeling utterly empty. So, she sought out a witch by the name of Hyacinth.”

“That is an awful name” Atlas protests.

The pixie ignores him. “The witch had said, ‘bring me the heart of a mortal every night, and by the next full moon I shall restore yours!’ So every night, the girl creeped out to the streets and retrieved the fresh heart of a stranger.”

The pixie stopped to yawn, stretching her arms and wings. Atlas watched with great care.

“On the final day, the witch collected the heart and warned the girl that once she felt, she could never go back to the way she was before. But the girl didn’t listen. So the witch restored her heart of stone, breaking away the jagged and cold edges she was forged with.”

“Go on” Atlas says when the pixie pauses to think of what comes next. Is this he imagines, how the royal courtiers see him? Feel when he tells his tales?

“The girl felt the grief and pain for all those she had killed when her heart was stone. It was too much, she couldn’t take it. The girls heart gave out and she died like the others.”

Atlas stares at the pixie open mouthed, dazzled by the ending.

“So…where’s the happy ending?”

“There is none” the pixie responds.

“What—she simply died?” Atlas leans closer to the pixie and her cruel mouth.

“You see bard, you came in looking for a story. I gave you a warning your courts wouldn’t hurt to follow.”

“And what is that?”

The pixie smirked, pulling her knees closer to her chest. “Pay a little price and I’ll tell.”

Atlas has never met such a witty pixie. They were always pretty little things he didn’t think much of. But of this pixie, he did.

“I have silver, though I believe it wouldn’t be enough to pay for such a unique tale.”

“Oh don’t worry” the pixie says. “I’m more of a kiss and tell kind of girl.”

“Excuse me?”

The pixie leans in closer. “Care to pay the price?”

Atlas closes the distance between the two of them, softly pecking the pixies lips.

The drinkers around them laugh. One whistles.

“What a clever mouth you have” the pixie whispers, pressing a finger against his parted lips. “Now for my end of the bargain.”

The pixie leans in and whispers the moral into Atlas’s ears, careful none around them hear.

And when she finishes, they both share a reckless grin.

“Oh, they would love that.”

Me? I've seen a lot of strange things in Shroomvile, but this neighbor of mine takes the Shroomcake. there I was lying in my bed playing with my little Kalimba trying to fall asleep and then I heard strange voices outside, Because I like fresh air my little window was open. so annoyed I sat my kalimba down on my bedside table and crept to the window and here at 3 in the morning, my new neighbor was mowing her yard without touching the mower, and worst of all it wasn't doing it properly was just mowing in a giant circle. so annoyed I closed my window and hopped back on my bed picked up my kalimba and tried falling back to sleep. then before the break of dawn, I heard faint voices again so this time I decided not to fall asleep, So I sauntered into my little kitchen to make more swamp tea and then realized I had run out, It was just great, so I walked to the hallway and put on my tattered brown jacket and walked outside shroomville was very busy for only being seven in the morning I close the little wooden door then went around back to my shed and got my watering can then went to the garden hose by my mushroom cottage as I was waiting for the water to fill up I noticed my neighbor was outside with a shovel in hand digging holes in the ground. Maybe she's planting flowers I thought to myself. Once the can was full I turned the tab then heaved the watering can to my flowers and started watering them. Once that was done I sat the can by the hose and then walked into the main street mushroom people were walking around doing what they do best I turned down Maple Street and went into the little tea shop and my friend was there behind the counter talking to a customer so I walked down the aisles looking at the many different tea’s there was Bog Rock Tea and Pixie Pox Tea then I found my personal favorite Wallowing Swamp Tea. So I grabbed one -ahem six boxes then made my way to the counter

“How's it going Sir Frogs?.” Fluffy the frog asked

“Welp this morning was bad,” I said as I fished out sixteen pebleos

“That bad eh, well we can get coffee nuts my shift is about to end ye know,” Fluffy said as she took the pebleos and put them in the cash box

“Naw too many people let’s have a stake out inside my house with swamp tea and coffee nuts.” I said as I started walking to the door “I’ll see you at seven fluffy.” Then once I was outside with a bulging bag of Swamp tea and Coffee Nuts I walked back to my house as I walked I subtly looked over at my neighbor's house the once brown mushroom house was now black and pointy at the rim the windows looked weird with black and purple paint then in the garden with black flowers it looked to be mushroom and frog hands sticking out of the ground then there that peculiar patch of cut grass in the shape of a circle as I went inside my house I started preparing for the stake out.

The tavern was an old oak building built on the river banks with a indoor bridge connecting the two buildings. From the outside it looked slightly creepy, especially if you come across it in the fog, but inside it is the cosiest, prettiest place you could imagine. Filled with laughter, happiness, good times, and magic.

The tavern is filled with witches and wizards, fairies and pixies, giants and dwarves, werewolves and vampires and all other magical creatures you could imagine.

The tavern was a place to bring together all the magical communities.

It was a wonderful place.

Despite its story-book setting, nestled on the bank of Galamaas River, The White Stag was a rundown establishment, even on its best days.

A low ceiling—and a poorly ventilated chimney—trapped the smoke from the log fire, the pipe-smoke, and smells of ale and spirits, which, when compounded by the poor hygiene of some of its patrons, made it a place of acquired tolerance.

The wooden bar, tables and chairs, and side-booths, all showed signs of both age and maltreatment from the various drunks and fights they’d seen over many a year. The head and antlers of a long-ago hunted white stag—now stained a hideous yellow colour from years of tobacco smoke—hung on the wall behind the bar.

Dull orange light, from several lanterns hanging from the ancient ceiling beams, struggled to bring any form of brightness through the thick clouds of smoke emanating from the cheap, poor quality tobacco. There was always a most miserable atmosphere. Even the frosted windows, with years of ingrained smoke on the inside, and filth from the muddied streets outside, seemed intent on keeping the daylight out.

The upstairs was no better. Six dingy bedrooms lined either side of the first floor; in constant occupation as the local working girls entertained their clients for as many hours as they could attract custom. Here, too, personal hygiene was an insignificant consideration and only those with the strongest constitutions, or the most desperate of sexual needs, ventured into these rooms, such was the stench from the carnal activities of the occupants.

The White Stag was also a major source of custom for the local doctors, with fight and stab wounds, food poisoning, and venereal disease all being a common cause for treatment. The medical practitioners, of course, had no effective treatment for the constant stream of gonorrhoea or syphilis, and relied heavily on toxic metals, such as mercury, arsenic and sulphur to provide seemingly convincing treatments. These applications were merely a charade, often resulting in serious side effects, with many people dying, particularly of mercury poisoning. The continuing treatment required by these side effects meant, of course, additional and ongoing business for the quacks, so few were too upset by the lack of a cure.

Aevin’s eyes were drawn to the door as four soldiers entered the tavern. He supped his ale, watching as the commander strode purposefully to the bar. A few words, a pointing gesture from the barmaid, then the realisation that he was the reason for the soldiers’ intrusion. His back stiffened as he raised himself in his seat—the usual corner booth, away from the snide comments and the suspicious questions.

The poor light in this corner gave him the privacy to enjoy his ale whilst avoiding any unpleasantries with the locals. They were no more inclined to friendliness toward him, than they were to the despised military men. They grudgingly tolerated his presence. Many felt a righteous superiority over him; a sanctimonious snobbery at his fall from favour. A smugness always filled the faces of anyone who spoke to him; taking a satisfaction in knowing that he got exactly what he deserved. Probably.

The ageing commander was of average height and build, despite the bulk of his mail and breast plate making him look larger. His sweat-drenched hair and frowzy appearance suggested a man under immense stress. It was obvious from the stubbled, unshaven face, and the worn appearance of his uniform—not to mention the unpleasant body odour—this was a man who had been on duty some considerable time. All the soldiers, in fact, looked exhausted following days of searches and arrests, but all remained vigilant of any trouble. The quelling of the initial riots may have brought an uneasy truce, but they had done little to calm the mood of the majority; the ordinary, the poor. These were dangerous times for exhausted soldiers of the crown.

“Aevin Ras… The Legist and Logician?” the commander snapped, making sure the whole tavern heard and saw the interaction. The soldiers’ entrance had brought an unpleasant, unfriendly silence into the bar, and the mute audience eagerly soaked up every word of Aevin’s brief exchange with the group’s commander. Eavesdropping, listening for any confirmation for their loathing and mistrust of both men. He looked down at Aevin with a sneer. Not even a common soldier had any respect for him, it seemed.

“I am,” Aevin replied.

The commander thrust his hand out, nodding at the rolled up parchment he was holding. “This is for you, Ras.” Aevin took the scroll, smiling sarcastically at the surly messenger.

He turned it in his hand, scrutinising the seal. It was not one he recognised. “Who is it from?” asked Aevin.

It was the commander’s turn to smirk. “You have twenty-four hours, savage-lover,” he stated bluntly. “Long live the king!” He then turned to his escort and nodded toward the door, making to leave. He paused and turned back to Aevin, waiting for the obligatory response.

Aevin smiled. “Yes,” he said, “long live the king.”

“Twenty-four hours,” repeated the commander. “Long live the king!” he shouted as he and his companions disappeared into the street.

‘Bastards!’ cried a lone dissenting voice as the hostelry door slammed shut. ‘Fuck the king!’ cried another. Aevin grunted to himself. The bravado in not being recognised always encouraged the loudmouths; those who had all the answers; those who would show the king’s men ‘what was what’… but only when they were out of earshot.

He looked around the barroom, a bitter, sardonic laugh held inside as the revellers returned to their drinking. The talk, mumbled and secretive as it was, was now all about him and his visitors. No doubt all were now resolute in their belief that he was nothing more than a crown informer. Why would anyone, if not involved with the crown, receive a hand-delivered parchment from the military?

As each face took a furtive look over their shoulder at him, he just smiled, nodded his head, and raised his tankard to them. The looks they returned left no doubt how they felt about him. It never occurred to any of them that the contempt they had for him was nothing compared to the contempt in which they were held by the ruling class. He was a man caught between two cultures; neither of which wanted him; neither of which he wanted to be part of.

He cast one more glance at the scroll and finished his ale, despite the taste having soured since the soldiers’ visit. His eyes sought the barmaid and, raising his tankard high above his head, he gestured his desire for a top up. She neither smiled, nor gave any form of positive response, but, within a couple of minutes, she’d appeared by the side of his table.

The tankard thumped down onto the old worn wood, ale slopping over the lip. “Do you think I’ve nothing better to do than wipe your arse, Aevin?” she chided. “Get your ale at the bar next time, like everyone else.”

“Do you really want a scene every time I want a refill, Mayra?”

“I s’pose not,” she conceded. Her eyes fell upon the message still unopened in his hand. “Aren’t you going to read that? Must be important.”

Aevin placed the scroll on the table. “I’ll get around to it in time,” he replied, scanning the barroom once more. “I’m sure there are more than a few in here interested in its contents.”

“Mmm,” hummed Mayra. “At least they didn’t arrest you.”

Aevin winked at the woman. “Not yet, at any rate.”

Mayra collected the empty tankard and laid it on her half-full tray. “How have you been, anyway?” she asked. “You haven’t been in much lately.”

“That’s not concern for me, is it, Mayra? You better not let any of that lot hear you, they’ll tag you as a pariah, same as me.”

“Best not linger, then,” she laughed. “I’ve got my reputation to think of.”

She turned with a whoosh, her skirts flying in a spin. Mayra was possibly the closest thing Aevin had to being a friend. At least she smiled when she took his money, which was more than any of the other traders in Galamaas City did. Oh, they’d happily relieve him of his coin, but civility? No, they had none of that for the ‘savage-lover’.

He mused, with a rueful smile, on how one piece of advice… one opinion… had turned his life upside down and left him without family or friends. It had also left him without justice or closure; his wife and son murdered; his respectable position at court a thing of the past. He was a prisoner of Galamaas City—barred from leaving its gates—living a solitary sentence; a miserable life full of suspicion. And now, it seemed, he was of interest to the military once more.

————————————————————-

Declaration: just started a new WIP and this prompt fitted in with a chapter that needed a tavern. Happy days 😊

Bubbles the cauldron. Cackles the woman. Purrs the cat. Whispers the wind.

Ahh… a pinch of this. A bit of that. A stir here- Now add this.

The woman in her tavern, surrounded by the murky waters and leaping frogs. She whispers and mumbles jumbled words as she sits at the pot, watching the purple mixture bubble and churn like a storm on edge.

The cat sits, eyeing her skeptically as she babies her mixture, combining herbs and spices grown in a dark room at the back of the tavern.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” says the cat in a deep voice.

“Ha, mmm… she- Ooh,” the old woman mumbles incoherent words, hobbling over to the cat and scratching its black fur.

She returns to her cauldron, stirring the mixture and turning it over into different jars and glasses.

“This… eh.. mmh, sure,” she says as the sun sets, the light retreating from her tavern on the water.

The old lady turns into a beautiful young woman, the cat turns into her lover, the jars turn into their dinner, it’s a routine cover.

When night falls, beasts of all shapes and sizes roam, looking for something old, frail and worn. Something known as the witch who lives in a tavern on the water.

I awakened at four On the water by daybreak The work is hard and wet The time has come to rest my weary bones

But what do I do when this story ends Time and idle hands may be the death of me The yields have diminished And my crew is but me

And as I pondered what came next I do what I do daily And seek refuge from my busy mind At a tavern on the water

As I hoist my aging body from the boat I tie it to the mooring and climb up the ramp I hear familiar laughter and music in the air I belly up to the bar

Here is my refuge from the toils of the day Many men jammed the little tavern Smelling of sweat whiskey and desperation The hearty laughter betrays the foreboding

So we drink through our pain Of muscle gone too far in the day And wonder if this is all that there is A tavern on the water

The Tavern on the Water had the weather to thank for it’s good business that night. Alys adjusted the kerchief keeping her curly red hair out of her face and looked around to see if anyone needed a refill or anything of the like.

The room was loud, and laughter and chatter filled the space. The majority of the noise came from a group of rough-looking men on the other side of the room, but they were mostly behaving well, so no one seemed to mind.

Alys topped off a few people’s drinks then walked over to the counter with the register and started wiping off the crumbs that had ended up there from all the food she had served.

Then she heard someone trying to open the door from the outside, but before she could go and help, the wind banged the door against the wall as it flew open.

In the doorway stood two people. They had dark cloaks on with the hoods up, which generally wasn’t a great sign as to the type of person wearing the cloak, but Alys wasn’t worried. It was raining buckets outside and a person would have to be insane to be out there without a cloak. Even with the cloaks, the pair was soaking wet and dripping all over the floor.

The taller of the two newcomers managed to shut the door again before both walked over to where Alys was wiping down the counter. The shorter person pushed back their hood and Alys tried not to show her suprise.

It was a girl. A teenage one who looked about Alys’s own age of eighteen. Women in general almost never came through the tavern, and when they did they were all older and rougher. This girl had wavy brown hair (although it was a little frizzy from the rain) and dark brown eyes that looked nervous and hopeful at the same time.

“Do you have any rooms available?” She asked softly. Alys could barely hear her over the group of rowdy men on the other side of the room.

“I- I don’t know,” Alys said, frowning thoughtfully. She thought they might have one open…

“Hey Thia,” Alys called, and her twenty-two year old coworker looked over from her place at the bar. “Do you know if we have any rooms left?”

Thia shook her head. “The only open beds in this place are in the servants quarters with us. And you know the rules, anyone who stays there has to work for it.”

Alys sighed. “I’m sorry, we don’t-“

“We’ll take it if we can,” interrupted the still-hooded member of the pair of strangers. With the flick of a wrist, the taller stranger pushed his hood back, spraying water droplets across the room and revealing straight black hair and the same dark eyes as the girl. He looked a little older, maybe nineteen, and was relatively good looking if Alys had anything to say about it.

“That is, if you don’t mind working tonight,” the… definitely not boy, Alys thought… guy asked, looking at his partner, who Alys was starting (and, alright, maybe hoping) to think was his sister. They did look pretty similar.

The girl shook her head, a small smile on her lips. “ ‘course I don’t mind, anything is better than sleeping out in the rain. Is that alright with you?” The dark-haired girl suddenly asked, turning to Alys.

Alys shrugged. “Hey, I don’t mind. Besides, this might be really good for us. Can either of you cook? Because our cook is out sick and Thia isn’t really the person to cover for him.”

“I can,” the girl answered, with another small smile. “I was practically raised in a kitchen.”

“Good,” Alys said, relieved. She loved her older sister, but seriously, Thia could burn water. “I’ll show you to where you’ll be staying, and you can change out of those wet clothes before you start.”

Alys started to turn and walk away, then realized something. “Oh! I’m Alys. What are your names?” The young waitress asked, turning back to the pair.

The two were quiet for a moment before answering.

“I’m Elle, and he’s Rohan” the girl - Elle - said, gesturing to her companion. “He’s my brother.”

So I was right, thought Alys happily. They are related. “Well, it’s nice to meet you both,” She said with a smile. “And welcome to The Tavern on the Water.”