SETUP:
This is a story seed, originally intended to stimulate a Story-By-Baton multi-authored stream. So far, there have been no nibbles, except whatever has knocked around in my skull.
Meeting at the Thirsty Mule
It was a slow night at The Thirsty Mule. The nights had all been slow at this tavern and every other in Havenport since the war ended in mid-summer nine months ago. A year ago, the taverns were full with mercenaries rushing to the front for the spring campaign or hobbling away. And with the merchants and camp followers who sold their wares to them. Now, half the taverns were out of business entirely and only the locals and few straggling soldiers without a war came to linger peacefully over mug and platter in front of the fire.
Maistra was one of those stragglers, a half-elf who felt unwelcome in any society except the armies to which he attached himself. Bereft of home and, for now, a job, he remained here with no good reason to stay and none to go. With coins from his cashout still in his pouch, he camped out in the woods to the north of town, wandering in as far as The Thirsty Mule a few times each week. He listened for news of the next conflict brewing where his superior archery could be redeemed for coins from the highest bidder. He was neither humble nor inexpensive, but even his haughty patience had become depressed by the nightly dullness in the world. Everyone, it seemed, was finally exhausted after the decades of conflict and ready to give peace a turn.
Across the table sat Franklin, the beardless but bulky farmboy. A year ago, Franklin was eager to join the combat, but could not disobey his father who forbade it. Now, with his father's death in the winter, he found little difficulty in abandoning his family loyalty to his eldest brother, only now to have no army to which to run away. At seventeen, Franklin was larger than most full-grown men by at least a head and broader (and heavier) by half again. He fed his appetite for military adventure with his nightly visits to the taverns, asking the soldiers to tell their tales. As he (with his recent inheritance) was the one paying for the drinks (or even a meal when the story particularly excited him), he found many soldiers willing to abide his company and curiosity. Some of them with greatly enhanced imagination as the evening's beverages added up.
Tonight it was The Captain who told the tale. Nobody was clear about which side The Captain had served in the war, but all felt certain he and his troop of cavalry were deeply immersed in its many seesawing battles. None of his horsemen remained to lend testimony to his history and he skillfully avoided the mentions of names and places that might reveal his battlefield loyalty. Even his own name and origins were a mystery that the audience forbore exploring, for his powers in relating his ageless legends of conquest and defeat enraptured them beyond such mundane curiosity of here and now. He stood at the hearth with his boot resting on the log pile. The rumor was that the lower leg in that boot was wooden itself, but none here had ever seen the evidence.
The injuries to Norford, the tavern owner, were plainly seen. He waited upon his customers himself now that he could no longer afford a barmaid. With a large-wheeled cart and a crutch, he moved amongst the tables delivering drink and meal. Despite the lack of his left hand and most of the leg on that same side, he had built the cart many years ago for travel amongst the soldiers in the camps with his "extra comforts". Whether in sympathy or because his cart filled a real need, his business there prospered enough for him eventually to buy The Thirsty Mule in Havenport. Now, Norford had no other options, but to struggle through these lean times until business resumed. [i]Who would ever have thought the war would end,[/i] thought Norford as he rested upon the seat which swung out of the back of his cart.
Tina looked over at Norford, wishing to offer her help. She was his barmaid as recently as two months ago. Then he told her he could not pay her anymore. She offered to work for a pittance or even nothing but food and lodging, but his pride was too obsinate. Her father was the blacksmith and her new husband his apprentice. Her marriage was the price she paid to move back into her father's house when she could not earn her own income. Derrick, her husband, smelled of smoke and sweat just like her father who had always made her feel unwanted for the flaw of not being a son. Derrick did not care for her much either, but needed to yield to the pressure from the old man if he wished to continue as his apprentice. Slipping out to her old haunts at The Thirsty Mule, even if infrequently, was Tina's only pleasure now, mixed with the pain of seeing Norford struggle so.
The only other person in the tavern tonight was new. A figure sat concealed under a large hooded cloak in a corner distant from the fire and the others. Norford had attended to this guest upon arrival, but he only received a silver coin without a request for food nor drink. The stranger simply asked in low whisper to "rest for a while with no disturbance". Well paid for nothing, Norford readily agreed. He had not seen the stranger shift position in three hours since sitting there and assumed that he (or perhaps she) was asleep.
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