Dead Plate oneshots

The Butcher of Blackstone Tavern

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The small town of Blackstone was a place where secrets festered in the shadows. Tucked away from the bustling trade routes, it thrived quietly, its cobbled streets winding through thick forests and beneath towering mountain peaks. Yet, among the townsfolk, the Blackstone Tavern stood out like a beacon-its wooden beams worn smooth by time, its hearth ever-warm, and its food unmatched in all the land.

The tavern's success was owed entirely to its mysterious owner, Vincent Charbonneau. Vincent was a man of few words and even fewer smiles. He was tall and gaunt, his black eyes ever watchful, as if he could see straight into a person's soul. His reputation was as cold as his demeanor, but his skill in the kitchen was unparalleled. No one knew what made his meat pies so delectable, but everyone who tasted them was left craving more.

However, there was one person in Blackstone who seemed to melt the icy exterior of the tavern owner-Rody Lamoree, the tavern's waiter. Rody was everything Vincent was not. He was warm, lively, and friendly, with a broad smile that could make even the most hardened traveler feel welcome. His auburn hair, slightly disheveled, framed a face that always bore a touch of sun, and his green eyes gleamed with an earnestness that endeared him to all who met him.

But no one was more enchanted by Rody than Vincent. The way Rody moved through the tavern, effortlessly charming the patrons, filled Vincent with a quiet, simmering passion that he kept buried deep inside. It was an obsession that consumed him, one he was determined to keep hidden from everyone, especially Rody.

The tavern was bustling one evening when a group of rough-looking travelers sauntered in. They were rowdy, with coarse laughter and crude jokes, but Rody, ever the professional, greeted them with his usual cheer. Vincent watched from the shadows of the kitchen, his dark eyes narrowed as he observed the newcomers.

As Rody took their orders, one of the men-a burly brute with a scarred face-made a snide comment about the way Rody's shirt clung to his muscular frame. His companions laughed, adding their own lewd remarks, their eyes raking over Rody like wolves sizing up prey. Rody's smile faltered, but he brushed it off with a nervous laugh and turned to head back to the kitchen.

Vincent's grip on the kitchen knife tightened until his knuckles turned white. The sight of Rody's forced smile, the faint redness creeping up his neck, ignited something dark within him. He had seen enough.

"Rody," Vincent's voice was soft, but it cut through the din of the tavern like a blade. Rody looked up, surprised to see his employer standing so close. "I'll handle their food."

Rody blinked, a small frown creasing his brow. "Are you sure? I can-"

"Go take a break," Vincent interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You've done enough."

Rody hesitated but eventually nodded, grateful for the reprieve. "Thank you, Vincent," he said with a small, tired smile before heading upstairs to his room.

Vincent waited until Rody was out of sight before turning his attention back to the travelers. His expression was as cold and unreadable as ever, but inside, a storm was brewing. The kitchen became a blur of motion as he prepared the meal, his hands moving with precise, almost mechanical efficiency.

But there was no love in the dishes he made for the rude travelers. No care in the seasoning, no passion in the presentation-only cold, calculated malice.

When the food was ready, Vincent himself brought it to the table, setting the plates down with an eerily calm demeanor. The men barely noticed him, too engrossed in their revelry and crude jokes. They dug into the meal with gusto, not noticing the slight smirk that tugged at the corner of Vincent's lips.