The Story Of

Intro

The tavern is nearby- you recognize this bend in the road, that chipped plant pot in front of the house with the green door. You begin to jog.

The rain pouring down from heavy gray clouds seeps through your cloak and searches for the gaps in your armor. The cold creeps all the way into your bones. The thought of the giant, warm hearth at the Bailey's Boot tavern keeps you moving forward.

Finally, you make it to Veridshire's town square. The town isn't that large, but the walk through the freezing rain felt like it took centuries. Despite knowing it's futile, you pull your cloak tighter around you in a struggle for the precious warmth that eludes you.

The cobbled streets, normally humming with some degree of activity, are utterly empty. Stalls with bright cloth roofs stand abandoned and shops with glowing, rain-streaked eyes stare emptily into the plaza. Everyone with half of a brain has taken refuge from the storm inside this afternoon. The marble statue of a deceased town hero stands guard in the middle of the vacant square, watching over the empty streets. Raindrops drip like tears down her pretty face.

You push eagerly at the heavy wooden door of the Bailey's Boot. The atmosphere inside is a sharp contrast to that of the outside. It sucks you up and makes you instantly warmer as the door closes with a soft thud behind you. Usually, the tavern is a little busy at worst. Today, it's filled with people- mostly travelers and the like- seeking to hide from the rain until it's safer and easier to travel again. They burden the air with a din of conversation and laughter. Bootprints of rainwater and mud mark up the floor, tracking patrons' paths to tables. Bailey's few employees flit around, moving like wind from table to table, keeping glasses filled and offering advice on the best prices in Veridshire.

As you walk farther into the tavern, you pass a party of older adventurers seated at one of the tables. From the sounds of it, the group is bickering over which of the town's inns to stay the night at. Pouches with gold and silver pieces spilling out of them sit in the middle of the round wooden table. The coins glimmer warmly in the semi dim glow cast by lanterns hung from the ceiling. The pile reminds you of a miniature dragon hoard, illuminated by a fiery exhale.

At a table across the way, you catch snippets of another party discussing which quest they want to take on from the board while they eat. You glance jealously at their bard's bowl of steaming stew. As you walk by the table, you notice that their rogue is distracted, sizing up the older party you just passed while he fidgets with a wicked knife.

Your hopes of sidling up to the roaring fireplace are dashed when you see that the eclectic assortment of chairs are all occupied already, mostly by adventurers who look much older and more experienced than you. You change course for the bar and tell yourself to be grateful that there's even space enough in the crammed tavern for you to sit.

The owner of the tavern, Bailey himself, greets you by name when he asks what you want, nearly yelling to be heard above the hubbub. You have only been in this town a few weeks and Bailey has been nothing but friendly, treating you with a similar warmth he would a regular in his tavern. He's helped you get more information on quests, given you tips on shortcuts, and even slid you a few extra gold pieces after a quest one time for having done it in an especially timely manner. You're currently staying in one of the rooms on the tavern's second floor. Every morning, you greet Bailey and eat breakfast at the bar before heading out with a quest. It's an enjoyable routine and you look forward to the man's company.

"Something warm to drink. Don't care what," you say at his prompting.

Bailey walks away and returns a few minutes later with a steaming mug of something delicious. It burns a trail down your throat and blooms warmth into your stomach. You shiver a little as your body shakes off the outside's harsh cold.

Bailey asks you about the quest you started today. You relay the broad strokes to him and he pays close attention. You've noticed that when Bailey speaks to someone, he always appears especially focused, as though nothing could be more important than the conversation he's having. Nothing like how he is when he's doing menial tasks around the tavern. Then, he's one hundred realms away.

When you've finished speaking, you decide to try and keep Bailey around for a little longer. The cozy atmosphere and the warm drink in your hands have put you in the mood to socialize with good company. To make conversation, you say, "Hey, how about you tell me another story."

Bailey has told you more stories than you can count in the weeks you've been in Veridshire. Some short, some long, some true, some false (and some an inexplicable hodgepodge of all of the above). He mentioned one time that he found stories to be a great fallback when the conversation has run dry. "Everybody loves a good story," he had stated with all the conviction in the world and a content smile on his face.

As Bailey dries some mugs with a dish towel, he says, "Alright. Anything for my favorite newbie in town." The comment makes you smile a little. "I've got a good one for you. It's about a group of old town heroes."

You find yourself leaning forward a little, eager for the story.