boo.
the price we pay
Morning had just crested the horizon below, but even the first rays of light, which are so often the brightest, were not enough to cut through the ever-present fog that cloaked the forest below. That came as no surprise to Talin, the one and only innkeeper at the Dragonbone Pub. He had lived on the cliffs for as long as he could remember, first as a young boy helping his father's dream of a pub come true, then as a older man tending to it himself like a father himself. He often swore there was so much of his blood in the woodwork that it was almost like family.
Few people had stayed the night, but Talin was expecting company. About a fortnight ago, a note had been pasted to his door, written with an odd golden ink, saying that a certain number of travelers would be arriving within the month. Talin still had the note in the pocket of his apron, reaching in every so often just to touch it. When he did, a pleasant tingling spread throughout his body, and a smell of wild places surrounded him. The innkeeper had seen many strange things in his life, so it wasn't out of the question that something magical was about to happen.
The kitchen had been awake for some time, bustling about with the few staff Talin kept. The innkeeper himself was currently brewing up more portions of a special ale he liked to call "Talin's Bite". Some people had come just to taste it, for no one had been able to recreate it just right. It had quite the kick when first swigged, but began to bubble and fizz before melting away in a honey sweetness. Many couldn't pass the challenge of the first taste, however, so the few that had tasted the entire bouquet often referred to themselves as Champions, Talin included.
The cool, sweet morning air of the cliffs began to filter into the pub as Talin opened windows and propped the door open, cleaning out the stale pipe smoke from the night before. He stood in the doorframe, his large chest expanding and deflating as he drunk in his surroundings. Small pockets of snow lay on the ground, but the innkeeper expected them to be gone by midmorning, for he could feel the temperature rising steadily. It would be a glorious day.
In a sudden change of atmosphere, Talin called out, "Margie! Time to break our customers' fast. I don't hear no pots clangin' in the kitchen."
"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. Right away, sir." A pale slip of a lass appeared for a moment in the kitchen entrance, dipping her head worriedly and bobbing up and down in awkward curtsies. She left as quickly as she had appeared, the rustling of pots now being heard.
"Second cousin Larabelle, my foot." Talin shook his head, still staring out the door. "That Margie's no relative of mine. Likely her folks just wanted rid of her."
"Rid o' who, you?" A creakingly old voice startled Talin, causing him to turn and catch sight of an extremely old man hobbling his way up the cobblestone path.
"Croaker! Ol' chum, I thought you died ages ago!" Talin let out a rippling laugh as he caught up the old man in a ferocious embrace, which was returned by a knock on the head by the old man's walking stick.
"Boil me bum, but sure an' I'm like an old wart, mate." Croaker grinned, displaying his five teeth. "You'll never rid o' me, not in this life or the next." He ripped himself from Talin and made his way into the pub, practically throwing himself on the nearest seat. "What's this about a Larabelle now?"
"Oh," sighed Talin, plopping down opposite his friend. "Few weeks ago, I got a letter from some old witch claiming to be my second cousin, and it came with this little ghost girl."
As if in response, a loud clang of pots and pans followed his statement, after which was a miserable, "Ow."
"Said I had to take her on as me staff, an' I didn't have the heart to turn her away. After all, Margie came this far, which is more than many others. Guess I'll just have to keep 'er."
Croaker laughed, an awful sound, banging his wooden staff on the floorboards. "Tough luck, Talin. Funny, never figgered you the soft type."
Talin made as if to reach across and slap the old man, but instead sat back with another sigh. "Maybe I'm just gettin' old, friend." Both men sat for a few moments, neither saying a word, when Talin got back to his feet. "Looks like I'd better get back to it. Customers are gettin' up, and I have a feelin' there'll be a few more through the day." The innkeeper pushed back his chair, getting up with effort, and began to walk back to the kitchens.
"Aren't I a customer, ye old stoat? Don't I deserve your 'tention?"
Croaker's plea stopped Talin, who looked over his shoulder for a moment. "Sure, but customers pay. You don't."
That sent Croaker into another fit of stick-banging giggles. Talin marched to the bar, a grin on his face. A mug of Talin's Bite sat on the counter, slightly warm, but he downed it with one swig. The great fireplace on the far right right side of the pub was crackling contentedly, creating a sort of morning-time symphony. There was really no better time to be alive.
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