A.K.’s Advent 2025 – Day 2

<< Day 1 | Day 3 >>

A Party Walks Into A Tavern
Part 2
Paramount Prattling and the People Paying Attention

A table was flipped as the two attacked each other, and Fiorella finally shrieked as a scuffle ensued right there on her tavern floor. There was muffled swearing, fists hitting flesh, and a slender-fingered hand shoved right in Fiorella’s face.

“Hello, miss,” the elf said as he took a step over the two trading blows. “I am Sylvir Ia’olas of the Malagate Thicket Starweavers.”

She slid her hand into his but only because she thought shaking might make the fracas feel normal. It did not. “What on earth is happening?”

“Hmm?” The elf called Sylvir raised golden brows nestled into skin the same color as the dark walnut beams overhead, emerald gaze flicking down to the two like he was just noticing them. “Oh, they do that.”

Fiorella yelped as a rogue boot went flying. “Shouldn’t we stop them?”

But then a cry of surrender split the tavern, and both men fell away from one another.

“It’s fine,” coughed the paladin from the floor. “No need to be alarmed, madam.”

Fiorella looked to each of them in turn, the grinning elf with a gentle hand wrapped around her own, the wary orc picking at the place the bolt had been, and the two men who would be sporting black eyes in the morning sprawled out on the floor taking heaving breaths. She supposed it was normal for men to brawl in taverns—back in Crossglen her father was part of a brawl at least once a week, but he was usually drunk first.

The crow swooped down from the rafters to land on Drex’s chest and caw in his face. The lithe, dark-haired man grumbled but got to his feet, offering the paladin a helping hand as if he had not been the one to put him on the ground in the first place. He surveyed the other’s face then flashed half a grin at Fiorella. “Think we could get a bite to eat, sweetheart?”

It was probably pointless to say since they already had, but she sputtered, “Please make yourselves comfortable,” and scurried to the kitchen to put on the stew. They were, after all, guests.

The table had been righted when Fiorella returned, and all four were sitting around it deep in whispered conversation. It was perhaps impolite not to announce herself, but the inn saw to correcting that, an otherwise perfectly silent floorboard creaking under her next step. They clamped their mouths shut then, and four pairs of eyes met her.

She would have hesitated under their collective gaze if she wasn’t painfully aware that the creak was the inn’s first rebellion since the travelers stepped foot inside, and a quarter of an hour of good behavior was its best record yet.

“Four leek and potato stews, and an extra piece of rye for our feathered friend,” she called and swept across the dining room, massive tray in hand.

The crow cawed, feathers on the back of his neck puffing up as he hopped from one foot to the other.

Drex snorted at the bird on his shoulder. “Yeah, you’re real charming.”

Fiorella agreed wholeheartedly. “I have plenty of rooms available,” she said as she placed the bowls before each of them. “And there are private baths upstairs as well as—”

“We don’t have any coin,” blurted the elf, wide apologetic grin plastered on his angular face.

“Fucking hells, Syl.” Drex lobbed a chunk of potato at him. “That wasn’t the plan.”

Fiorella shook her head and continued to smile because that was something she was unequivocally good at. “The Fitzwright Inn doesn’t turn away weary travelers.” That was what her aunt wrote in the letter she’d sent summoning Fiorella anyway, and she managed to stay in business even through that plague when royal orders had deemed nonessential questing illegal, so a coinless party was probably a much easier obstacle to overcome.

“We must apologize, madam.” The paladin sat himself pin straight and locked his gaze onto hers. That made Fiorella’s stomach go a little wobbly and not just because she wasn’t very good at maintaining eye contact. Even with the bruises and the dirt, he was rather nice to look at, and his eyes were a striking shade of blue again—well, they had probably always been, light was just tricky and bewilderment did all sorts of things to one’s perception. “We should have made our circumstances clear when we entered your fine establishment and imposed on your precious time.”

The faucet chose just that moment to leak into the basin, a tiny sound that echoed loudly and hollowly in the otherwise empty tavern.

The paladin’s russet brows knit over those dreamy blue eyes. “We will, of course, find a way to repay your kindness and hospitality.”

There was a tickle of magic at the back of Fiorella’s head, and she knew then it was true—he would make things right, she was sure because she had met paladins before, and they always tried very hard to right wrongs even if there was very little that could be done. And also…gods, that face of his was just so nice. But then the magic tugged at her ponytail and knocked away the passive thought for a slightly more profitable one.

“Actually,” she said, sucking in an excitable breath. “There are ways to pay other than coin.”

The elf froze mid bite, spoon hovering just before his lips, and so did the orc, bowl tipped up against his mouth. Drex cocked a single black brow, and the holy man cleared his throat.

“What, uh…what did you have in mind, madam?”

The idea swirled through her head like the lines of a difficult-to-recall spell. It was a good idea, maybe even a great one, but it couldn’t just be blurted out: it needed finessing. “So I’ve been getting by here on my own for a little while now, but there are some things I just can’t do all by myself, and it seems rather fortuitous that four strapping, capable, handsome warriors just strolled through my front door.” She grinned extra wide at that, hoping the flattery would be endearing.

Drex elbowed the paladin. “So fortuitous it might be ordained by the gods, eh?”

“Nuala does ask her disciples to answer the calls of those in need,” he murmured. “Does this task require just one of us?”

The elf pointed at the others immediately, and the orc gave Fiorella a look she would have called terrified if she thought someone so big could be fearful of someone like her.

“Oh, this should be fun.” Drex leaned back with a wry smile, arms crossed over his chest. “So, which of us do you like best?”

“The thing is,” Fiorella went on as shame crept into her words. “I think I might need all four of you.”

Drex snorted. “At the same time?”

“I don’t know how else you’d do it.” She swallowed and bit her lip. “My entire basement needs to be cleaned out.”

The holy man hadn’t yet touched his stew, but he choked anyway.

“It’s really quite embarrassing.” She lifted the serving tray to hide the reddening of her cheeks and peeked over the rim. “But it’s just full of direrats down there.”

“You have direrats in your basement?” The elf pursed his lips. “I’m not sure I’ve ever heard that one before, have I?”

Drex deflated. “I don’t think this is a euphemism anymore.”

Fiorella’s brow pinched, unsure what he meant, but she had to go on before she lost her nerve. “So the truth is that I’ve only been at the Fitzwright Inn for a week, and before that it sat empty for an entire moon because Aunt Belladonna was called to go on a quest—don’t ask me for what, she was purposefully unspecific—but she had to leave the Fitzwright to another Fitzwright so that the magic in the inn would listen, and apparently I’m the only other Fitzwright who fits, which seems not at all right to me, but who am I to argue with ether?”

The inn creaked like a strong gust was blowing over its roof, but the trees outside didn’t sway.

“Exactly,” she sighed. “I came all the way from Crossglen, but I never left home on my own before, and I had to sneak out in the middle of the night, so I got a little lost at first, and then I got a lot lost at second, but then I met this nice old man from Crossport who was selling vitality potions out of a colorful wagon—oh, you should of seen it, it was purple and red with these beautiful yellow awnings—and I asked him, ‘Oh, is Crossport named after an old set of intersecting roads like Crossglen is?’ And he said, ‘No, I think it’s called Crossport because everyone there is cranky all the time,’ and we laughed and laughed, and he was so kind to take me all the way to the widest part of the Mortvale River. Did you know a river can be so wide that a whole boat carrying an entire crew and passengers can travel down it and pass another boat going the other way? I didn’t until I got on one, but it turns out I’m probably meant to stay on dry land despite that most of my dreams are about flying because my stomach did not enjoy one second of it, and I ended up at the wrong port because it also turns out throwing up for three days straight makes it really hard to understand a captain who already has a thick Brincarian accent. But then these really nice nuns let me join their caravan—oh, you might know them! Sister Hestia and Sister Felicity?”

The paladin gave a single shake of his head.

“Oh, well, makes sense—they weren’t Nuala’s disciples. In fact, I don’t think they said who their god was, but they wore these flowy veils and pretty white necklaces and were so kind and helpful, and they finally got me to Hastrid’s Pass only about a mile from here, so I just hoofed it the rest of the way, but by the time I arrived, the direrats had beaten me to it, not that I could get the basement door open at first on account of the magic not listening to me since I’m not very good at it, but to be fair, I wasn’t allowed to practice at home because my father doesn’t like—”

Fiorella felt as though she ran out of breath then. She hadn’t—she was capable of going on much longer rambles since she was so practiced in speaking solely to herself—but the magic of the inn decided to stop her. Importantly, it didn’t intervene because it cared about revealing too much backstory right away, but rather because it was sick of listening.

Magic didn’t, however, take into account the fact that not a single one of her guests would know what the fuck to say in the lull she left.

So Fiorella continued. “Anyway, I finally got the door unlocked after a few tips from Millie, the delivery woman. Millie’s just wonderful—she’s so strong and tall, and she says she doesn’t have magic, but she told me where to look for the right spells and suggested substituting mirksage for marshwort because of the season, and it actually worked! But turns out I wasn’t supposed to get through that door because, you know, direrats. I’m pretty sure I only made it out by yelling words that sounded like Thryndalian curses, and now they’re down there and I’m up here, which is better than the alternative I guess, but I can’t get rid of them on my own which is why I need, well, all of you.”

The four stared at her unblinking, and her heart raced, breath finally running out. Gods, she hadn’t sold that well at all, had she? She had the unfortunate opportunity in the silence left after to really look at them then and feel even more pathetic about what she requested.

The orc they had called Korthak was the largest being on two legs she’d ever seen, broad and muscled green chest bare save for a leather pauldron on one shoulder. No one likely ever said a word to him about dressing, though, with that gigantic battle axe strapped to his back and those tusks that gave him a permanent grimace. The elf was in stark contrast, completely covered with a bright teal vest over his lantern-sleeved shirt and a short cape over that, finely detailed with golden trim. He was so well put together, his long fall of golden hair brushed back and straight, and delicate jewels dangling off his pointed ears. Beside him sat the thinner man who had been called Drex, every stitch of his clothes black as midnight from the leather dagger holders lining his chest to the fingerless gloves he’d yet to remove. His skin was exceptionally pale in comparison, but his thin cloak and hood would see to covering that, and he could be naught but a shadow then. Finally, just to her left sat the paladin, neat like the elf, but his modest white surcoat and deep blue undershirt had both been patched at one time. His baldric was also plain, but the leather had the oily shine of someone who cared for it, and the sword was…well, she didn’t make a habit of gaping at men’s swords, but gods this one was huge.

Perhaps it should have been reassuring, the impressive weapons strapped to their sides and backs, the armor meant for true battle, the muscles and scars that said they had conquered multiple hells, but it only made Fiorella’s insides go watery. Would they even deign to lower themselves to slay a few pathetic direrats?

“They were really big.” Her voice wobbled as she gripped the edge of the table and leaned in. “Their front teeth were extra pointy, and, um…I’m pretty sure one of them was carrying a mace in its tail, and—”

“Do not fret, madam.” A hand laid itself atop hers, and warmth spread out from under the holy man’s palm. “We will rid you of this trouble.”

“We will?” asked the orc through a mouthful of stew.

“We will. On my honor, by the light of Nuala, Valen Trueheart is at your service.”

Tears sprang to Fiorella’s eyes as hope bloomed in her chest—and not just the hope that someday the hearth would be cooperative or that the rest of the windowsills might unstick, but honest-to-the-gods faith. How many nights would she have spent agonizing over what would become of the inn and her familial name? Exactly none now, answered the ether that swirled somewhere inaccessibly in her veins.

“Great!” She slapped the serving tray on the table and began collecting their bowls. “I’ll show you the way. It’s just down the hall—don’t mind the empty ale barrels, I haven’t figured out how to fit them out the door yet, but do avoid the floorboard six paces in: it trips you on purpose. And then—”

“Ah, actually madam, would it be too much of a bother to allow us this meal and a single night’s rest first?”

Fiorella froze, half-eaten stew sloshing in her grip. “Oh, of course! I’ve been looking forward to the hosting part of being a hostess anyway. I’ll make sure my four best rooms are in perfect order.”

“We only require two doubles,” said Valen, and when Drex grunted, the paladin glared at him. “We do not wish to impose.”

“Direrats are weakest at dawn.” Sylvir the elf was flipping through a book that he’d produced from inside his coat, bright eyes darting over the page as his finger traced the lines.

“A few hours after dawn, actually,” Drex corrected.

“But it says here—”

“In fact, noon is probably best.” Drex flipped the book shut on the elf’s hand, and the crow promptly chomped on his ear with vengeance.

“Oh, yes, of course, up with the, uh, lunchtime bell? Not that I have one of those, but I’ll get one!” Fiorella couldn’t hide her big beaming smile, eyes flicking to Valen—oh, good gods the perfect name to match his perfect eyes and perfect teeth and—well, she couldn’t mind about any of his parts, perfect or otherwise, because she had linens to refresh.