Tiny Tavern

A tavern at the edge of the rain

At the edge of a rainy town there's a tavern where the fire burns until midnight. Sooner or later everyone ends up here: chilled travelers, soaked merchants, and a few guests the town only mentions under its breath.

What the town whispers

They say the undead here keep themselves together. Literally: losing a limb in the common room is frowned upon. They say ghosts pay like everyone else, though now and then a coin slips straight through the table and rolls under the floorboards. And the little imp was banned from fanning the hearth fire a long time ago. Rumor has it he's still sulking.

Rules nobody hung up

The tavern has rules, though none of them are on the wall. They travel in whispers from guest to guest, and everyone swears they heard them from someone reliable. They say no one goes down to the cellar after midnight: something down there is counting the barrels, and it's rude to make it lose count. They say if a guest comes in with a shadow and leaves without it, the shadow stays until closing, and it gets a drink too. And the clock above the counter runs exactly one lifetime slow. Nobody has dared to set it.

One innkeeper

And that's you. The whole place rests on your shoulders: warm bread, a sizzling pan, foam in the mug, a stack of dishes after closing, and the fire in the hearth. Truth be told, the hearth doesn't warm anyone. But beside a living fire, even the most impatient guest will wait a little longer. And day by day the tavern becomes a little more yours: a new table by the window, another barrel, a shelf for the mugs.

The cat on the barrel

Is not for sale, and not on the menu. It's the only rule no one has ever broken.

The previous owner

This tavern used to belong to a necromancer. For three hundred years he raised the dead, and the dead served the ale: for free, without complaint, and with permanent grins that unsettled the guests a little. Then his back gave out. He handed over the keys and retired, and the skeletons wandered off. One of them, they say, is still looking for his jaw.
They also say that on nights when the rain falls especially evenly, someone sits by the hearth. The fire beside him burns a little greener than it should. He warms his hands on a mug of chamomile and pretends he just dropped by.