Tavern Squad - Origins

Chapter Four

The small alcove had collapsed backward revealing another chamber, the shadow creature gone entirely. Through the chamber were two sets of stairs, one leading up, with daylight and the sounds of happy birds spilling down it, the other leading down, deeper into darkness.

Aan’mar let out a long sigh and Hinky sat down on the ground.

“So what does this mean?” Crop asked, peering over the others’ shoulders, “did we survive the Dungeon?”

Brunthar shook his head but didn’t elaborate.

“Looks like we’ve just gotten started,” Aan’mar replied, “seems like this rock thing–”

“Wyrmstone,” Crop said, jumping in. “It greeted me in my head. Pretty unnerving.”

“Sounds like it. Well, it looks like this Wyrmstone is the key. At least for now. Except we’re out of weapons. And energy.”

The group was quiet, all looking up the staircase out into daylight.

“Drink,” Brunthar said, and walked up the staircase.

“There’s not going to be a tavern up there,” Aan’mar said to his back.

“Maybe there is, maybe there isn’t. At this point I’d be willing to make my own,” Hinky said, slapping Aan’mar on the back and following Brunthar up the stairs, “It would be the most legendary establishment in all the land. It would be called The… Hinky’s… It would not just be a tavern, it would be the tavern. I don’t know, I’ll think of a name later.”

Greck’lil and Crop followed, leaving Aan’mar to stare into the darkness down below. Then she sighed and followed the group. How hard could it be to run a tavern after all? They could always come back if they got bored. When they got bored. And now that they knew it was possible to survive the Dungeon, getting clientele to brave the Gods’ Trench didn’t seem so far-fetched…

It was three months later when Brunthar, Hinky, Aan’mar, Greck’lil, and Crop walked back into the Battered Wineskin. Despite the few numbers and short statures, the group looked down upon everyone in the bar. But not a braggadocious word spilled from any of their lips, not even Hinky’s. The first to move was Brunthar, who marched right up to Renna, and handed her a flier.

“Tavern,” he said, pointing at the flier.

“What? You went to a different tavern? Where’d you get the scar on your arm? And why would we go to a different tavern?” She asked, in a hail of confusion.

“Not a tavern. The Tavern,” Brunthar replied. Then he turned around and left, followed by Hinky, Aan’mar, Greck’lil, and Crop.

Renna looked down at the pamphlet, which announced a grand opening and had directions shown upon a little map. The map showed, quite clearly, how to get to The Tavern. The Tavern, it seemed, sat at the dead-end of The Gods’ Trench. The only thing between Renna and The Tavern, was the Dungeon. Renna sat for a moment, looking at her stale beer and her once-bloodstained scimitar. Then she snatched up her coat and sword and left for The Tavern. She left behind only the pamphlet, with the little map, and the undeniable fact that the heart of an adventurer cannot truly rest while out there lurks the unknown.