Private Tales Wayfarer's Folly

[Rovan Ravenhill]

Spoiler: Music

By the gently winding Cairou River, in the small town of Creek Hollow, squeezed in between the old sentry tower of Gibbleghurst and the Wrainsright Chapel, the Wayfarer's Folly squatted in half-timbered happenstance. Priding itself as the building with the 'narrowest front and widest clientel,' the two hulking stone structures on either side contained its narrow timber frame, much like a stone sheath carrying a tiny wooden sword; the sword, in this case, puffing out gaily with smoke from its triangular and thatched roof, blaring with laughter, clanking cutlery and instruments both stringed and fluted.

It was within this quirky establishment, seated on a chair carved from white birch, facing a stone bar counter with a white tablecloth (which could well be an old pilfered altar from the chapel next door) that a lone scribe found himself drinking his woes away. Well, not entirely alone. He did have the barkeep, who seemed mostly intent on checking the taps on his kegs:

"I say, Jason -- Jason, wasn't it? -- I do not even know where to begin! My story is so outrageous I hardly dare believe it myself."

"Well, start at the beginning then, innit?" Jason said, giving the tap a smack, cocking his head, anticipating a drop.

Fortunately, drops flowed freely from Rovan's goblet of Iskandar Red, which he promptly lifted and took another strengthening gulp from. Images of massive reptillian eyes, crashing ice, wriggling shadows and floating shards competed for space in his addled brain, making his heart pump rapidly, as if it thought he needed the blood to run and scream for his life all over again. He steadied his lugging organ and routing mind with another sip. A fireplace burned heartily nearby, warming his side and feet reassuringly. This all reminded body and soul that they were no longer in the dreadful north, but in the pleasant south, far, far away from biting cold and endless nights.

But then another reminder sliced into his chest, painful and sharp like a piece of cutting glass. Rovan raised his free hand and massaged his solar plexus, but the needle-like stab lingered, sending shivers of cold through him, all but banishing the heat from the hearth. He winced, his brow wrinkling, mouth curling in distaste.

"I tell you what it is," Rovan said, hoping the sound of his own voice could distract him from his new pains. "You try braving an old ice tomb with a knot of mercenary dwarves, a flock of squawking scholars, a throat-singing frost goblin and an overgrown wolf, and you tell me how you'd broach that."

"Blimey. A wolf, you say?"

"Quite." A bit of wine sloshed from the goblet and landed on his lap, as if to punish him for his backbiting of previous companions. He did regret it when it came to Tafna Gringhook and Frazil Valrulf, to be fair. Rovan clicked his tongue and attempted to brush off the stain briefly, continuing: "Add to all that ungodly temperatures, ancient curses and living," he fluttered his hand, searching for appropriately ghastly words: "writhing, wriggling shadows . . ."

"Chilling."

And,"-the shivers nearly overtook him again, as thought preceded verbalisation-"a dragon. An actual dragon! Can you believe it?"

"Unbelievable."

Rovan stared at the barkeep, who had attempted to extricate the broken tap from the barrel, now scratching his head in puzzled wonder.

"Are you even listening?"

"Mm. Aye, they never do." Rovan was about to re-iterate the most important part, before the barkeep added half-heartedly, now fetching a hammer from below his counter. "Scaly bastards."

A hand suddenly landed on Rovan's back, and he swivelled to look into a pair of grinning, middle-aged knuckleheads, greasy hair and beard poking out from under a leather cap and a gugel.

"Oy, don't stop now. Just when thing's gettin' good. What then? Dragon leave some precious crotch-scales for ye? Maybe some water wench flung a burnin' scimitar at ye?" They cackled loudly at each other, their grating laughter spearing into his ear-drums. The talker had a fat white pimple on his lower lip which quivered with each utterance. "Wait, I know! Y'found some dwarven statue, shittin' pure golden ingots outta its arse." Cue laughter. A finger snapped, another stroke of inspiration, pointing at him: "Or maybe ye met with some six-armed demon, givin' you a good ol' embrace? And mayhaps somethin' sardin' more--"

"Oh, piss off, you gobshite goblinoids!" Rovan snapped before they could bump their elbows too much. Their ridicule cut deeper than he would like to admit. Luckily, they left him at that when the hollering voices of a local dice game summoned them, cheerfully heeding it.

"Goblins, mh. Nasty, very nasty."

The final coup de grace from the distracted barman, pretending to listen. Rovan groaned in dismay and drained the goblet in one final swig. Then he sunk his face into his palm, rubbing his eyes and temples, before proffering the goblet without looking.

"Just top me up, curse you."

Serelai Virelle

 

[Serelai Virelle]

The much needed warmth from the Folly’s hearth clung to the young half-elf, seeping into chilled bones and weary thought. Serelai had chosen the seat nearest the fire, the comfort of light and warmth after too many cold roads, and colder looks, a most welcome respite. Her travel cloak hung from the back of her chair, a dark silhouette glinting faintly where the fire caught the fine weave of its silk. Steam curled lazily from the mug cupped in her hands, fragrant with some local concoction of berries and herbs. She’d barely tasted it. It was simply something to hold.

Her gaze wandered only occasionally, a lazy sweep of bright emerald eyes that shimmered faintly violet whenever the firelight struck them right. When the scribe at the far end of the bar began his story, she had not meant to listen. Yet his voice carried, full of theatrical flourishes and desperation. "Writhing shadows", "ancient curses", a "dragon".

She scoffed softly into her drink, but her amusement didn’t quite reach her eyes. There was something too raw or uneven in his tone, for her to fully dismiss it. The tavern’s laughter swelled and faded; the drunkards drifted back to their games. She shifted, setting her mug down with a soft clink, chin settling against her palm as she regarded him across the bar’s flickering expanse.

"A dragon, hm?" she said at last, voice even and quiet but carrying easily through the lull, touched by her usual perfect balance between curiosity and cold reservation that so comfortably kept everyone at arm's length. "Fascinating."

A faint smile touched her lips; not kind, but not cruel either.

Rovan Ravenhill​

 

[Rovan Ravenhill]

Rovan's eyes drifted sideways, catching sight of the owner of the light and steady voice. The sight of one of her ears, sharper than most of the human kind, along with the high cheekbones, the emerald eyes and the spotless skin, told him that this was someone of the elven persuasion. Rather unfairly, the gods granted them striking beauty, just to rub it in along with their longer lifespans. His nose wrinkled and his brow fell, wary of another bout of mockery, perhaps of a more distinguished kind, while Jason went about refilling his goblet.

A raucous laughter from the dice table cut the air between them. With a halfway glance in their direction, he concluded that the company of a lone elf would probably be the lesser evil.

"Yes, as draconic a beast as I ever saw," he mumbled, straining to keep his pouting out of his voice, fingers curled around the stem of his goblet, swirling it gently before engaging in a more measured sip. After a gentle lip-smack, his half-lidded eyes gazed over the rim of his own drink at the wall, affecting a studious monotone: "And no, before you ask, I did not mistake it for any overgrown crocodile, salamander, lizard, constrictor snake or some overbloated toad. It was quite large and quite winged."

Turning his head slightly, Rovan's squinted, pine-green eyes sauntered back to rest on Serelai in askance vigilance.

Serelai Virelle