[The Bounding Tankard] Back to the Grind

Jacques Alutris brushed the dirt from the road off his shoulders, sighing in relief as he pulled open the door to the Bounding Tankard. The early morning sun behind him highlighted the swirls of dust and the shine of the bartop.

“Ah, home sweet home” He muttered to nobody in particular, running his hands along the counter, feeling the gouges and rough spots in the wood.

The bartender, back in his native environment, smiled. He tromped up the stairs and set down his pack, producing a couple new pint glasses and tankards from it. He carried them back down to the bar area, and made himself busy with the process of cleaning them and drying them before racking them up above the counter to wait for their use later that day. Nodding in satisfaction, he moved to the kitchen, pulling ingredients from sacks and boxes to make a stew. The sound of a sharpening steel rasped through air as Jacque sharpened his knife before getting to work. His hands flew as he hummed a cheery tune, ingredients plopping into the stock that’d been prepared a few hours earlier. He snapped his fingers, flicking a spark of flame into the woodpile, the magics igniting a blaze under the pot holding the soon-to-be food. The flames danced beneath the heavy iron apparatus, their heat rolling away from the alcove in which they burned in waves. Jacques nodded and moved on to the next item on his expansive list. The culinary exploits continued for several hours, roasts and chickens being thrust into ovens, soups being put to boil, breads set to rise and bake. The kitchen filled with the intoxicating scent of delicious food, and the cheerful sounds of a man who loves his work.

Finally, as the bells tolled two, Jacques stepped back from the counters, smiling as his eyes roamed over the prepared food for the nights to come. He wiped his hands on his apron then raised a finger and levitated a bottle of whiskey and a glass to his hands. A dull blue glow surrounded him as his magic worked and the drink floated through the air to his hands. He poured himself

“Jacques! You about?” A voice shouted. Jacques poked his head out the door to the common room and chuckled as he saw the owner of the voice, a short and somewhat rotund man by the name of Johnson.

“Ah! Johnson! In to pick up your things?” Jacques asked, chuckling as he hung his apron on a peg. The man reddened before laughing, a warm and welcoming sound. Jacques grabbed a paper-wrapped bundle from the shelf above him and placed it on the bar before him.

“Yes, yes. That lass got me by the loins and I had no mind to remember the things I brought with me.” Johnson said, taking the package. He tossed a coin on the counter. “For not trashing it like the last bar I got… occupied in, did.” He smiled and walked out.

“Of course. You have a good day, I’ll be seeing you tonight!” Jacques called as the man made his way out. He once more nodded to himself and then went to work arranging the common room for the night’s patrons. Tables slid into place and chairs began to fill the spaces. Spills and stains got wiped up. The musky scent of burning wood and cooking food filled the space over time as Jacques worked.

“Well, I’ll call that good” Jacques muttered as he pushed the final chairs into place. The common room laid before him, a smattering of tables, chairs, and benches, arranged haphazardly in something vaguely resembling rows. The raised stage in the back, with its two iron braziers and smattering of stools, was ready for what bards and musicians chose to take it up. The shadows, soon to be banished as the lanterns hanging from the rafters were lit by sparks of magic. The bar sparkled, the varnish wiped to a sheen and the stools arranged neatly in front of it. Jacques grinned and glanced at the clock as the bells began tolling their distant dirge.

“Ah, four o’ clock. Right on schedule.” He said, flipping a painted wood slat to “open” in the window. Fetching his apron, he tied it on and stood behind the bar, flipping through a book as he waited for patrons to show.

Nevin was still recovering from the events in the Church of the Crimson, his mind heavy and still plagued with worry about the whole situation. He had hoped that a night of rest would alleviate some of his fears, but all sleep had garnered him was nightmares, visions of still being trapped in that stone chamber as the Scarlet Servant laughed and called him 'brother'. The man knew that he was not that thing, not like that thing - he was still human to a degree, not a writhing mass of worm-like beings masquerading as a man - and he knew that his magic was antithetical to the abomination he had slain.


But the fear, those few moments where he thought he was the same, they still haunted him. So here he was, after a rather sleepless night, wandering the city streets of Radasanth, trying to find something to distract himself with. He didn't much care to bother Stare with his issues right now - not when she was dealing with her own ghosts - so he was looking for a safe distraction.

It was the smell of food that caught his attention first, the scent of freshly cooked, hot food cutting through the odors of the city. Nevin looked around as bells began tolling, marking the hour's change, trying to figure out where the much better smells were coming from. He saw it then, a flow of people coming in and out of a building, talking with each other amicably. One came out carrying a roll in his hand, and Nevin knew that was where he could bury himself in some food for a bit.

So in he went, joining the small flow of people, and sequestered himself quietly out of the way, ordering some food and mead to lose himself in for a time.

Sketch sat around the hearth, his too long body warming up in an overstuffed arm-chair. He ran a hand through his dark, grey flecked hair, letting his dark green eyes rest while he allowed the crowd of the "Tankard" to file in and get there food and drink. He dusted the dirt from the cuffs of his suit coat, and straightened his black tie.

He looked around as people came in from outside, he nodded as he recognized Nevin, his alchemist friend. He motioned over to the bartender to favor his friend with a meal, and jangled his purse to signify that he'd pay for it after he told his story.

After the crowd had gotten large enough for his tastes, he cleared his throat and tried to signal that he was about to begin. He mustered up his deep voice and began his tale.

“Deep bellow the earth, far below the lands touched by the sun, there is a vast kingdom built by the dwarves. Before most races on the surface brought fire to kindling, the dwarves mastered the arts of metallurgy. Numerous master smiths have arisen from the stout folk, their work legendary, but none are more famous than Romoghlin The Mad.

Romoghlin was the product of two great houses in the dwarven kingdom of Gaelyn. His mother was the heir to a long line of powerful arcanists, their magic and artifice bringing great advancements not just to Gaelyn, but all dwarvenkind. His father, the scion of the longest line of master smiths that had ever been recorded, their work appearing in song and story going back through the whole of history.

Romoghlin, the heir of both great and esteemed houses, mastered all they could teach him before he reached his first century. The young dwarf was a product of many great forces working in his favor. He was given every opportunity possible- the best teachers, rare resources, endless coffers. Even all these resources paled with the greatest resources he possessed- his own brilliant mind.

They say, that as Romoghlin was studying smithing, he invented a hammer powered by the heat that came out of the vents in the mountains, capable of flattening the densest of metals to wire without heat. As he was tutored by the arcanists, he could develop more efficient formulae for transferring magical energies.

As Romoghlin reached his proper maturity, his great feats grew more and more spectacular. He created giant golden golems to guard the King, immune to all weapons and magic. He made digging machines able to create tunnels and excavate ore faster than a legion of miners. The few weapons and tools he created that the surface folk were lucky enough to find still shape the surface to this day.

But, above all the things he created, the one thing that is sought after is his runic lexicon-his record of magical symbols he crafted. So great was his understanding and knowledge that towards the end of his life, Romoghlin realized that the laws of magic he was taught by his tutors, that the power he used to craft his many storied wonders, was completely flawed and inefficient.

Dwarves have always been famous for their magical runes, the magical symbols that grant power to whatever they inscribe them upon, yet Romoghlin sought to reinvent the whole system, to break it down and raise it to the absolute purest form. The strain is said to have been so great that Romoghlin was seen talking to himself, jumping at shadows, yelling at the servants for no reason.

It is unknown what happened to Romoghlin, and the great kingdom of Gaelyn. Some say he went mad in his pursuit of unlocking the symbols of magic itself, and cast a great doom on the kingdom, killing everyone. Others say that the other dwarven kingdoms grew angry at how quickly Gaelyn was growing, thanks to the advancements of Romoghlin. Regardless of the cause, the kingdom of Gaelyn died in the lifetime of one of the greatest minds to exist.

I leave it to you. Did the kingdom grow so fast that it threatened the peace of the dwarves? Did the mad genius lose the last vestiges of sanity and destroy his kingdom in a mad fit of rage? No one has ever made it past the twin gates of polished obsidian to find out.”

Sketch finished as the crowd applauded his telling of one of the dwarven tragedies. He walked over to the well polished bar and paid for the meal he'd ordered for Nevin.

As the bells tolled 4 in the afternoon, Romis and his ever present friend, Stella, made their way down the streets of Radasanth. They’d just arrived by ship from the southern coast. Fueled by Stella’s exuberance, the two were on a search for a few particular items, but unfortunately had no clues where to even begin. The first attempt along the southern coast had proved fruitless, but neither felt like making the journey to Radasanth over land.

Stella openly gaped as they made their way through the crowded streets. Thus far, this was the largest city she’d been in since discovering this plane of existence. The sheer enormity of the city rendered the usually chatty fae absolutely silent. Romis noted her silence and grinned to himself as the crowds parted slightly to allow them passage. Getting through crowds was rarely a hassle for the tall, heavily muscled man and today was no exception. Eventually the scent of delicious food brought Stella out of her silence.

“Mmmm… that smells delicious! Where is that coming from?”

Romis looked around, inhaling deeply then nodded in the direction of The Bounding Tankard. “Seems to be coming from that tavern there. Shall we investigate?”

“Oh yes!!”

The two quickly crossed the street and made their way inside. Romis found them an empty table and they took a seat. As they passed a waitress, he ordered a mead or himself, water for Stella and a meal for each of them. His fae companion was rarely interested in alcohol, though she did enjoy watching the antics of those that partook in it. While they waited for their food, they took a moment to look around and get a feel for their surroundings and the people around them.

A wispy blonde fae, green eyes half-lidded in the content of wanderlust, plodded along the road headed nowhere as usual — or rather, he had been until a rather good smell had hit his nose. A very many good smells. Soup and chicken and bread… Fenn’s stomach rumbled. It wasn’t long until he found the source of the mouth-watering scent.

The Bounding Tankard? Interesting name for such an establishment. Fenn halted to stare at the place; it was homely and well-kept. From behind him, Daugi gave a quiet “wuff” of inquiry. Fenn shrugged. Would it be worth trying his luck inside? Most places usually booted him out before he even got his drinks ordered. Sometimes because didn’t exactly evoke the image of the typical tavern patron — looking like a small child and all. Sometimes because damnit they had tolerated his antics once and they didn’t need to do so again. But, on the off chance that this tavern wouldn’t mind him, he was kind of in the mood for food and a bit of the strong stuff.

Fenn pushed open the door and skittered into a seat at the front counter. Since he had forgotten to tell her to stay outside, Daugi trotted in happily behind him. It was a good thing they had gotten rid of her fleas.

The boy’s ears flicked curiously. Wait. Was that a story he was hearing? And in a familiar voice nonetheless!

John sauntered down the road, hands in pockets, wondering where he could get a bite of stew or some freshly baked bread at this hour. The outskirts of Radasanth moved past him slowly as he walked. If he made his way closer to the inner city the more wooden buildings would give way to stone, and the cobbled streets would be paved with flagstones. Jamie frequented those parts of town often, catering to clients as she did, though all business was in a slump in the aftermath of the magical explosion that rocked Corone's capital.

All business save construction, at least, the half-giant thought, catching glimpses of far-off scaffolding between buildings. They were going up fast, he mused.

John turned his thoughts back to finding some food and a good drink. It was late afternoon, but taverns would be opening or open, with warm food. He rounded a corner just in time to see a huge wolflike figure disappearing through the open door of the 'Bounding Tankard'. John frowned.

If fenn's back in town and didn't tell me, he's gonna be in trouble, he thought, almost having to duck his head as he approached, his head nearly brushed the hanging slab of wood depicting a tankard, with comical arms and legs, carved to depict it, well, bounding. He did have to duck his head for the door though, and hoped that Jacques had some good grub.

Time passes all too quickly when there’s three dozen people demanding your attention and five more waiting behind them. Jacques sometimes disliked that, the sudden passing of time that comes into your mind as he lifted his eye from some bottle or bowl that he was preparing. Yet it was all part of this business. Faces and hands, shifting and tapping and drinking, clanks and clacks. All the sensations of running a bar on a busy night. Workmen coming in from their days on the scaffolds to warm themselves by the fire and enjoy a hearty stout. Bards plying their trade of storytelling and engaging the crowds, musicians providing the tune to set the mood of the night.

Tonight, as the crisp fall air blew through the open door and made those outside draw their cloaks a slight bit tighter around their shoulders; the pale violet and burning orange of the sunset gave way to the blackness of the night, people filled the chairs and stools of The Bounding Tankard. What they sought was a simple matter, good food and drink, and perhaps a story or two. Which seemed to be exactly what a tall, dark man, seemed to be doing. The crowd was huddled around him, enraptured in what seemed to be a tale of a dwarven prodigy. Jacques had earlier seen him motioning for food, in the common language of gesturing towards the table and holding up a coin purse. Jacques quickly prepared the meal and sent it out on its way to the table, ready to be consumed by the studious fellow that the storyteller had pointed towards. A simple meal, of beef stew, bread, and a hunk of good cheese sent out with a simple brown ale. Hearty, yet simple fare. A good meal for a night such as this, where, were it not for the lights on every corner, one would look behind them at crunch of a leaf or the clack of a heel. A night for hands hovering far too close to knives concealed in sleeves and belts. Such a thing attracts all sorts to places of respite such as the Tankard.

A man entered Jacques’ establishment, wrapped in a deep black cloak, seemingly weighted, as the bottom never truly seemed to move. He was quiet, moving with purpose. A small order, food, mead, water. Typical clientele. Jacques nodded as the man placed his order. “That’ll be two silver pieces and three copper.” He said, after the man finished talking. The barkeep soon busied himself with fetching some roasted beef, alongside potatoes and beans. He tapped the mead into a tankard and the water was fetched from a large barrel. Jacques quickly brought their food to them and motioned to a table being wiped off by his mother. “There’s a table right over there. Good spot if you care to listen to the music.”

Jacques leaned on the counter, rubbing his hands together. It was barely a quarter of an hour past seven, and the place was nearly full. Average people though. Men in business garb, wizards in their robes, dark figures brooding. Small children accompanied by not-so-small wolves.

“Wait, wha-!?” Jacques hissed to himself as the boy walked in, casually patting a direwolf on the head. The beast let out a soft sound of approval and hugged the boy’s side as they entered the establishment. Jacques raised his eyebrows and shrugged. The beast had yet to lose his trust, and he doubted even something that large would be able to stay upright faced with a shock to its muzzle.
Jacques resumed his vigil of the door for just a brief moment more, before a familiar, and rather large, shadow filled his view. A literal giant of a man, John appeared in the doorway to the Tankard, looking hungry. Jacques looked above the bar, checking for the two bottles of fine whiskey he kept just in case his business partner and acquaintance returned. Patting them comfortably, he motioned John over, before beginning the preparations for a little… show.

Jacques placed his hands on the bar and drummed his fingers a few times. With each tap a lantern flickered above the patrons’ heads. Flames danced and swayed as a little pyromancy nudged them to and fro. A slightly harder snap and some lanterns blinked out in a puff of smoke. The sterile smell of ozone, telltale sign of Jacques’ sorcery, filled the room though was quickly replaced once more by the smell of alcohol and smoke. He motioned to the musicians quickly, and they nodded knowingly. A somber and haunting melody began to play from the stage, where an empty highbacked chair, flanked by the iron braziers, sat waiting for a storyteller to ply his trade. Hairs raised on the backs of many patrons, shivers ran through the crowd as the music filled the air.

It was nearly All Hallow’s Eve, after all. Maybe a bit of a spook was in order.

Nevin had let the darkening night air wash over him as he quietly sat at his secluded table. After ordering food of his own, he had begun to write feverishly, burning through page after page of his notebook. Thankfully it was a fresher one, newer than most he tended to carry around or he might have run out of pages. As it was, he was actually almost completely though the book by the time he slowed down.

For once, he was not writing more alchemical formula or notes. No, this time he was writing on the Crimson - like a man possessed the gospel of Crimson flowed from his pencil, filling up page after page of the notebook. In three separate occasions his hands had fought him. When he started to write down something from his memories - a strange force guiding him to correct things, making part of the teachings... Cleaner, better.

He could see improvements over what he had once experienced, but it was less like updated ways to do things and more of... A reversion to something that had already been there before? The things he changed flowed better with the rest of the... The.... Even in his mind he could think of no other way to describe it than as a holy book. But that was what it would be, wasn't it, the holy book for the Church of the Crimson.

He looked around, shaking his head and massaging his hand as he took in the changes that had happened while he was working. Sketch had, at some point shown up, and looked to be wrapping up a tale of some sort - and oh Crimson, that was Fenn walking beside Daugi, in a tavern. The massive dire hound looked to be causing no trouble herself, other than the distance that everyone gave the pair.

But the wolf wasn't the only overly large person in the Tavern now. At some point a truly enormous man had entered, and even though he seemed perfectly calm, he absolutely filled the place with a quiet presence as he ate. Truly, this place had a bizarre clientele, not that the Alchemist was going to compla-

When had extra food arrived?

Among the things John liked about this tavern, aside from not only one, but two chairs to accommodate his large body; was the readiness with which the barkeep and tavern owner supplied him with good whiskey. He imagined it was partly because he paid good coin for what he drank, and drank quite a bit. In addition to that, though, he probably kept some ne'er do wells out of the tavern, or at least kept them from causing any trouble for him.

He entered and ducked his head in acknowledgment of Jacques' presence, though missed the cue for his approach. The smell of stew and bread weighed heavily in the air as he walked over to one of the chairs sized large enough for him, the one next to it occupied by a man scribbling furiously on paper. He sank into the chair, suddenly realizing how long he'd been walking around the city, and waved a pretty young girl over, ordering two bowls of hearty stew, as well as a bottle of that whiskey Jacques had behind him on that high shelf. He flipped a couple of thick golden marks on the table as she left, quickly fetching his meal.

He took the time to listen to the end of the story from a slender man in the corner. He plied his trade well, and John found himself staring silently as he wove his yarn to the end. He clapped softly with the rest of them as the serving girl returned smiling in that pleasant-but-distant way serving girls did. She laid both large bowls in front of him, spoons in each, and a nice thick wedge of bread half stuck in the stew. John smiled as much at the stew as at the whiskey. Jacques' bread, or whoever's it was, was great, and everything ordered in the place always came with a nice piping hot piece of bread, and since they served so many, it was always fresh from the ovens. His eyes drifted to the big wolf that Fennik had managed to befriend, and pinched off a bit of bread, dipped it in the broth of his stew, and clicked his tongue softly at the dog. It was huge compared to most, and a lot of people didn't know how to react to such a huge animal. John knew the secret was to act like a member of the pack. Be calm, and most importantly, share. The direwolf padded over, surprisingly quiet for its bulk, and gently took the proffered bread, gulping it down quickly. For a moment, it looked back up at John, as if wanting another. Not begging, mind you, direwolves did not beg for their food. Just as quickly, though, it looked back at the fae sitting atop a barstool, and made her way back.

Gotta protect the young ones, I guess.

He wondered if the wolf would bring Fennik, so the fae could have a morsel as well. He smiled a little.

Tonight was going to be a good night.

Ahh! Fenn finally saw the source of the stories. So that was Sketch telling tales. The boy made a point of clapping at the end of it.

Fenn slapped his hand on the counter loudly — both spreading out a patch of frost, and catching the attention of the bar’s sole tender. REQUIRING MUCH FOOD, MANY DRINK, he rapidly wrote in the ice. FIVE OF WHATEVER IS NOT SPICY. SURPRISE ME.

He had spent several productive hours earlier gathering wallets. There was money aplenty in his pouch to pay for a big meal. Were the satchel not enchanted, he would have had a good deal of hassle hefting his haul around! The day that Corone decided to use iron coins instead of gold was the day Fenn was going to give up his lifestyle of risk and reward, of risky rewards — that was, never.

Daugi was... wait, where was she?

“Wuff!”

Oh, over there, padding back his wa- wait! That was John! Not bothering to pay attention to the barkeep, Fenn squeaked and slapped a new note on the counter. MOVE CHAIRS, ORDER IS SAME! With that, he rushed off to take a seat next to his giant friend. Only after sitting down, did he spot the redheaded alchemist at the table too.