Death by Drunkenness
At winter, the outside of the tavern looks peaceful. Logs and tree trunks make up most of the building's outer structure. It's impossible to see through the windows, but the lifelessness from within can be felt outside.
As the stranger pushed open the heavy wooden door, the gust of the wind he'd left behind mingled with the promising scents of cooking – hopefully, food. The walls are covered in a layer of dust, making it near impossible to see what the few paintings on the walls are about.
The tavern was sparsely occupied, the winter chill keeping most costumers away. Above, sturdy wooden beams supported the upper floor, their lengths punctuated by hanging lamps that cast a dim light.
Walking towards the bar, the stranger settled onto a stool, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the empty space as he waited. Loud noises ring in the man's ear, making him turn around to face a slender figure next to a table full of people.
"Here is your five Boiled Garlic Rabbit on Parsnip Rice, 4 beers and one water. Please enjoy." The old man heard from across the room.
The young woman, still holding her tray, gave a quick nod in acknowledgement before turning back towards the bar. She walked with a fluid motion, the tray balanced effortlessly in her hands. As she approached the counter, her gaze fell upon a man seated near the end, a familiar smile tugging at her lips.
"What do you wish my Sir? The usual?" She asked, her voice warm and inviting.
She recognized him instantly, having served him countless times before. He was a pleasant regular – always punctual with his payments, never one to cause a disturbance, and consistently courteous, never failing to offer a polite word and a genuine smile.
But as she looked at him today, she noticed a shift, a subtle change in his demeanor that set off an internal alarm. His usual relaxed posture felt stiff, his eyes lacked their usual spark, and a shadow seemed to linger around them, a reflection of an unease she couldn't quite place. A strange feeling of concern washed over her as she waited for his response.
"Yes, the usual." he said, his gaze fixed on the glass she'd just placed before him. "Do me a favour little girl, every time I finish the drink, pour me a new one." He attempted a smile, but she saw through the façade immediately. She poured his first drink of beer.
She always could tell, even with one small look. Then she proceeded to pour the man's first drink of the night, it was her job after all. It was amazing the fact that the girl could, by no means, project a full mind report with only one look towards someone. That fact created a whole new level of perception as she analytically pushed boundaries with absolutely no efforts.
"You look like you've been wrestling a particularly stubborn pig." she remarked, a chuckle bubbling in her throat, her voice light but laced with a hint of playful skepticism.
"Something like that," the regular grunted in response, his voice rough as worn leather.
Leodora leaned closer, resting her elbows on the polished wooden bar, her gaze fixed on his hands.
"I'd say that boar might have won a round or two," she observed, her voice taking on a more teasing tone. "You seem to have gotten a bit...messy." Her eyes danced over the evidence.
His hands, usually calloused and strong, were now unmistakably stained with a dark, dried substance. It looked like blood, though she couldn't be sure. A shadow crossed her face. He quickly pulls them back, clenching them into fists. He avoids Leodora's eyes.
"Just a job. Nothing to worry about." He shifted in his seat, trying to deflect. "Heard the old man finally got that new Firewhiskey? Been meaning to give it a try." His eyes darted towards the bottles lined up behind the bar, a glimmer of something almost like hope flickering within them.
Leodora, though still intrigued by his obvious discomfort, seemed to accept his deflection. "Firewhiskey, is it? I'll get you a bottle." She called out.
He stared intently into the bottom of his empty mug, his jaw locked. He refused to meet her eyes, his gaze fixed on the swirling dregs of ale. The silence between them was thick with unspoken questions.
She turned toward the heavy door, grasping the handle and cracking it open, only her head showing in the space.
"Firewhiskey, huh? I will get you just that". He takes a long look to his empty glass, his jaw tight.
She turns slightly on her stool, facing the bar, leaving a silent tension hanging between them. He doesn't respond, staring intently at his empty glass. She walked towards the heavy door, grabbing the handle, cracking it open so that she could enter.
"Oh!... Sir Farbridge is in the bar," she announced, her gaze fixed on her father who was bent over the hearth, diligently stirring a large pot. "He seemed upset, asking to pour him a new drink every time the old one vanishes..." Her words trailed off, painting a picture of a man desperately trying to drown his sorrows.
Her father, a robust man with a touch of grey at his temples, grunted without turning. "Alistair... that old fool. His last hunting must have not gone well," he grumbled, his voice rough yet familiar. The wooden spoon in his hand moved rhythmically through the bubbling stew, a testament to years of practiced cooking.
"Father," Leodora began, her tone softening, "Would it be too much trouble for you to perhaps... have a conversation with him? I think a conversation between two old friends might lift his spirits." She watched him, hoping her simple suggestion might sway him.
He finally looked up, his usual jovial expression replaced with a furrowed brow. "You know how he is," he replied, his voice tinged with a mixture of exasperation and concern. "Every time you try to talk to him, he just drinks faster, like lightning striking in a storm!" He gestured with the spoon, his eyes holding a worried glint.
"Father..." she pleaded, "I must appeal to your feelings. He appears be hurt... or some sorts... It wouldn't harm you to just try and talk to him." She gently stressed the importance of acknowledging his friend's pain.
"Waste my time on him?" he scoffed, though the harshness lacked its usual bite. He looked back down at the stew, his shoulders slightly slumped as if with resignation.
"Well... it would not be a waste of time." Leodora insisted. "Uh...it would be ...I cannot find the proper words at this moment, but I know! Father will regret not to speak To Sir Farbridge if he is in fact truly needing a friend." The conviction in her voice made her father pause.
He sighed. "Perhaps after the customers leave." he conceded, his gaze softening slightly. He added a handful of chopped herbs to the stew, the fragrant aroma momentarily masking the tension. "Any other orders?" he asked, attempting a return to normalcy.
"Just the hunting party of five, and Sir Farbridge for now. He wants a bottle of Firewhiskey," Leodora replied, the order spoken with a slight hint of apprehension for what Sir Farbridge might do with it.
Chuckling, her father turned back to the stew, a familiar twinkle returning to his eye. "Now, where's that Firewhiskey bottle?" he muttered, as if speaking to himself.
"I'll go get it," Leodora offered, a small smile playing on her lips. "And... Father? If you find out what happened, will you tell me? I'm worried about him." Her concern was clear.
"Of course, Leodora," he said, his expression softening. "Go on now, the man's waiting for his fire water. And tell him I'll see him when the stew's ready."
Leodora nods and goes to the back of the kitchen, retrieves the bottle of Firewhisky from under a large seg and then hurries back to the bar area. Her father sighs and goes back to his work but his brows remains furrowed in concern for his injured friend, as he continues to stir the stew with his spoon.
Leodora nodded, relieved, and turned towards the back of the kitchen. She retrieved the bottle of Firewhisky from under a large sack of dried beans, the glass cool to her touch. With a swiftness born of familiarity, she hurried back to the bar area, the sounds of clattering mugs and muffled conversation now audible. Her father, meanwhile, sighed again, a deeper, more thoughtful sound, and went back to his work. He continued to stir the stew with his large wooden spoon but his brows remained furrowed.
Returning to the bar, her gaze swept across the room and landed on Sir Farbridge. His empty glass, a thick-bottomed affair usually brimming with stout, was held limply in his hand. His gaze was fixed on the vacant space within, as if he were searching for answers to riddles only the liquid, now gone, could have revealed. A sigh escaped Leodora's lips. She knew this look. It was the look of a man wrestling with something unspoken, something heavy.
She approached, setting the bottle on the counter with a soft thud. She reached for it, the cool glass a familiar comfort in her calloused hand. She unscrewed the cap with practiced ease and began pouring the stout, the rich liquid cascading into the glass, a dark pool reflecting the dim light.
"Thank you, Leodora," Sir Farbridge said, his voice a low rumble that was surprisingly gentle for a man of his stature. He finally looked up, his eyes, a deep, worn blue, meeting hers for a brief moment.
"My Sir, you really should take your time with it," she replied, her tone a mix of gentle reprimand and genuine concern, "I'd rather not have to pour you another quite so soon." She punctuated her sentence with a slight twist of her lips, a small smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
Sir Farbridge chuckled, a deep, throaty sound that rumbled in his chest. "Sweet girl," he said, his gaze softening, "We've known each other long enough, haven't we?".
"Yes..." Leodora conceded, her response laced with a patient resignation. She had known him a long time, indeed, and knew his stubborn nature well. She had also seen the toll the drink sometimes took.
"You know I can handle my drinks," he continued, his voice just a touch louder.
A burst of raucous cheers erupted from the back of the establishment.
"Worry about those brats," Sir Farbridge said, gesturing with a slight tilt of his head towards the back, his attention already pulled away by the commotion, "not me."
Leodora gave him one last look, a shake of her head conveying her disagreement. She wiped her damp hands on her green and brown dress before grabbing a cloth to clean the neglected tables.
Leodora gave him one last look, a subtle but firm shake of her head conveying her skepticism and worry. She knew he was trying to deflect her concern, but she wouldn't be easily fooled. She wiped her damp hands on her green and brown dress, the coarse fabric a familiar comfort. Then, with a sigh, she grabbed a slightly frayed cloth from under the bar and began to methodically clean the neglected surfaces of the nearby tables, her movements efficient and precise.
Leodora's gaze drifted inward as she murmured, "Sir Farbridge is truly something... such a talent." A soft smile touched her lips. "He's always finding new ways to braid his beard. Two this time. I wonder what he'll conjure up next?" She chuckled quietly.
Meanwhile, she met the table still wiping tears of laughter from their eyes. "Just the lass we needed!" one of the men exclaimed, slapping the table. "We've been sharing the finest jokes!" he winked, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
"Barging in on the best one, too," a woman added with a dismissive wave of her hand.
Leodora, raising a questioning eyebrow and leaning slightly towards them, a half-smile playing on her lips, asked, "You wouldn't, by any chance, want another round while I'm here?".
"I wouldn't refuse another beer... might dull the pain of these dreadful jokes," the woman said with a completely deadpan expression.
"Dreadful Roland? But they're hilarious!" the first man protested.
"They're all terrible, Rhys. Just a load of noise. Honestly, it's enough to make a sane person take to the hills." Another male snorted, a sound not entirely devoid of amusement.
"Alright, alright, one more for the road!" Rhys declared, ignoring Roland. "Here's one for you. Why don't skeletons ever go trick-or-treating?" He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.
"I'm almost afraid to ask," Leodora sighed, with a hint of a smile. "Why, Rhys, why don't they?"
"Because they have no body to go with!" Rhys announced, puffing out his chest with pride as if he'd just solved the most complex riddle in the world.
"Oh, mercy. That was... something," Leodora managed as she pursed her lips.
"If you like puns, what did the ocean say to the shore?" The younger man asked tentatively, a bit shy around Leodora. He couldn't meet her eyes, his gaze lingering on her apron and then at the table.
"What, Jasper?" Leodora asked, tilting her head slightly, genuinely curious. She noticed the flush on his cheeks and softened her tone, finding his bashfulness endearing.
"Nothing, it just waved," Jasper recited proudly, his shy smile widening. He finally met her eyes before looking away with a small blush.
Rhys erupted into another fit of laughter, slapping his knee this time. The others chuckled, and even Roland let out a small huff that could have been interpreted as a laugh, his lips twitching for a moment. A small spark of amusement briefly lit up his otherwise somber eyes.
"You lot are going to give me wrinkles," Leodora chuckled. "But I admit, that one was a bit clever. Alright, you win. You're killing me. So, besides the laughter, what else can I get for you all? More ale to fuel this comedy show? Some bread to soak up the drinking?" she gestured to their half-empty mugs with a playful smirk.
"A round for the lot, please dearie! And water for little Jasper!" Rhys requested, his voice still booming, and ruffling Jasper's dark hair, making the young man smile.
Leodora headed towards the bar, shaking her head and laughing lightly, leaving the group still chattering and their laughter still echoing through the tavern. The tavern, once almost fully filled, only their boisterous group, was now only remaining.
With a practiced ease, Leodora made her way to the bar, the familiar clink of glass a comfortable rhythm in the space. She noticed Sir Farbridge, his brow furrowed in thought as he contemplated an empty glass. A silent gesture, a quick pour, and she moved on, leaving him to his musings.
Her attention then shifted to a table of five, their boisterous chatter rising above the rest. She refilled their cups, but their conversation took a turn as they inquired about accommodations for the night. Leodora directed them towards the inn, and soon they were gone, leaving behind a few coins and the faint scent of their drinks.
As the tavern began to quiet, Leodora efficiently collected the discarded tankards and wiped down the tables, the lamplight glinting off the polished wood.
Sir Farbridge remained, a solitary figure by the hearth. Just as she finished, her father emerged from the kitchen, arms laden with three steaming bowls of stew. Leodora quickly set a table for them, her usual efficiency on full display. Her father, with a smile that crinkled his eyes, gestured towards Sir Farbridge. "Come, friend," he boomed, "you've got nowhere else to be. Join us for a bite."