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.