Cloaks

Chapter 1: Thistleton

It started at the tavern.

It isn't always a tavern, you know, despite what you must've heard.

It can start in a festival, an inn, on a dark and misty street. It can start in a garden or a guild house, a square or a smithy.

The point is, it doesn't matter where you are or what you're doing–adventure always seems to find a way, for those who can recognize it.

Admittedly, though, it does seem to favor taverns. Maybe because they tend to attract those with little left to lose.

The inside of the establishment in question was cool and dark, contrasting sharply with the hot, bright noon that simmered beyond its heavy stone walls, now bouncing with raucous laughter in the native dialects of a diverse array of patrons.

The door opened, and three guests, apparently misjudging the width of the doorway, collided together as they all tried to enter first.

"Ah," said one—a tiefling in religious robes—"My apologies. After you." He gave a slight bow, while gesturing to the other two.

Another of the three guests—evidently strangers to each other—glanced at the first through slitted eyes, assessing him. She was a tall, blue dragonborn, adorned with leather pouches and belts, holding all kinds of tools for outdoor use. She opened her mouth to say something, but before she could, the third guest spoke up.

"Thanks!" He chirped happily as he pushed his way into the tavern. Standing at only three feet tall, the halfling had some struggle getting into the bustling establishment. Once inside, he paused for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dim lighting. Once he did, however, he saw that every corner of the room was taken, as the tiefling from the door claimed the last vacant seat at a table, already having slipped past him and engaging in conversation with the other members of the table. Well, no matter. The halfling had already seen a troupe of brightly-clad musicians in a corner by the fireplace, and immediately gravitated toward them, pulling his own lute off his back as he went.

On the other side of the fireplace, the dragonborn took a seat on a pile of pillows, her eyes never leaving the tiefling, who was listening politely to the boisterous conversation of the other members of the table over some kind of board game.

"Another round of ciders, Prunella!" One of the players—a large bronze dragonborn—shouted out. "The Lady of Devonshire's paying tonight!"

"Didn't take the Lady of Devonshire for the generous sort, Deruque," a black lizardfolk man with one eye cackled. "What with how her citizens have been paying for her fancy wardrobes."

"Her ladyship's generosity is the sort that she's not aware of," the bronze dragonborn snickered confidentially while tossing a fat bag made of red velvet onto the game board, clinking musically.

The tiefling's eyes widened at the bag, and turned to look around the rest of the inn for another seat—he wasn't sure he wanted to be caught keeping this kind of company.

As he started to rise from his chair, however, a stout waitress with a face like a craggy mountainside appeared with the ciders, clearing her throat with a loud "EEUGHK!"

"And what can I get you, hon?" She croaked in a voice that must have bathed in smoke for five decades at least.

"Ah..." the tiefling said, lowering himself back into the seat. "Um, the stew of the day?"

"Wouldn't do that if I was you," Deruque muttered humorously into his drink. "Ordered that two days ago and just got out of the loo this morning."

"Hey," Prunella glowered. "We had a deal."