Novelas y relatos de Blackbeard Tavern

And now that she was back… she decided to drink with the men before reporting to him? Really? I knew Night would have heard about her arrival by now, so I didn’t bother sending word. Instead, I went straight to the bar. After a few minutes of driving, we arrived at the most notorious bar in all of Blackclaw. Rumor had it that it was popular because one could indulge in any vice of choice here—without judgment and without rules. I entered to the familiar jeering of the overly excited crowd. Those who noticed my presence quickly straightened, offering their respect.

Sarah Lightfoot and her husband Jerry who were sleeping in their bedroom. Sarah and Jerry Lightfoot are the owners of Blackfrost tavern and inn. They usually didn't have too many visitors and most people usually come to their place only to get drunk. Sarah thought that it was probably one of her drunken patrons who refused to leave. So she tried to ignore it at first, besides this wasn't the only time she had a heavily drunk patron banging on her door. But since the knocking kept coming from downstairs, she and her husband decided to walk out of their bed and came downstairs.

The deckhand gets up from his stool and places two of his own coins by the empty bottle and just like that they take their leave. A few hours have passed and through the visage of the darkness that surrounds Port Bel; a shimmering streak of moonlight seeps through. The light is just enough to leer both of the captain’s eyes and her right hand’s view to see the barn that was on the outskirts of the city. The red paint that covers the old and rotting wood looks like the wind could scrape it off. Truly the established showed its age when a draft picks up and part of the barn doors move in tangent with the wind. A chain that keeps the doors closed rattles and since the metal is rusted it hits th

Ethan raised a brow but leaned in anyway, attempting to sip from the straw. It didn’t go as smoothly as expected. The tapioca pearls stubbornly refused to cooperate, making him pause awkwardly mid-attempt. Belle burst into laughter. The great Ethan DelValle—reduced to struggling with a milk tea straw. Even the staff had to quickly look away, some covering their mouths to hide their amusement. “…Hmm,” Ethan finally managed after successfully getting one pearl. “This is good. No wonder you like it.” “Right?” Belle beamed proudly.

Deep wrinkle lines were on his dark skin and his black hair was shaggy extended to his shoulders, which gave him the perfect appearance of a rugged mountain man, who was unused to civilized gatherings. What interested her most was that he was a black Lycaon like most of the bearded men who stared at her earlier She thought the tavern would be run by humans but most of their customers would be Lycoan just like the bar back at her home town. Good day miss, what will you have? He asked, his voice warm and welcoming . She didn't expect a welcoming greeting from him because their kind did not welcome

Black and scaly with a beak full of jagged sharp teeth. In the distance a child cried, the sound cutting through the bleak night, as the moon shone down on quiet streets. I made my way across town to Sapiens, an old tavern that still operated on the outskirts of Briarshire. An establishment that had been passed down through generations and had even withstood the great Lycan wars from two and a half centuries ago. With my enhanced hearing I could make out the lowly chatter of patrons and the giggles coming from the women who worked there. It was a bar, but it also doubled as a bordello house.

Two weeks later, Raven sat in a corner booth at the Black Fang, a dive bar in the heart of Diamondback territory. The establishment reeked of stale beer, cigarette smoke, and the kind of desperation that clung to places where people came to forget their problems rather than solve them. Neon beer signs cast sickly light across scarred wooden tables and a clientele that looked like they'd crawl over broken glass for their next fix.

The other single-story storefronts were closed up for the night, the bright white from the bar's sign the only illumination aside from the orange-ish glow of streetlamps. Her tavern was pretty large in comparison to the other buildings. The gray clapboard siding had no doubt been weathered by salt-infused sunshine and wind off the sea. It resembled a large crab shack with burgundy shutters framing the large lower and small upper window. The front door had a gold plaque indicating Locals Only, along with hours of operation and that they were closed on Sundays and Mondays. Above that was an enormous fishing hook mounted to the frame that could've taken down Moby Dick.

The next turn he took was down Dorset Street, his fingers curled around the handle of his pistol as he approached a tavern called The Black Boar's Head. The scrap of parchment in his pocket he'd received this afternoon had born the name of this tavern and a time for a meeting. Someone had known he needed help in acquiring the Parr girl and had suggested he come here to discuss an alternative to the legal means he had attempted and failed. He was too desperate not to try any method, even if it meant meeting a stranger here. The moment the door swung open the scent of gin and unwashed bodies assailed him. His eyes watered and Blankenship nearly tossed his accounts.

This was a neutral ground for the Sopttyi underworld, a place where the Blackwell enforcers kept the peace with iron fists. He pushed the door open. The scent of stale tobacco, spilled bourbon, and old sweat hit him like a physical blow. The bass from the speakers rattled his teeth. Timothy scanned the room. It was early, but the booths were already filling with the kind of men who carried heat under their tailored jackets. He moved to the bar, sliding onto a stool between two hulking figures. "Whiskey. Neat. The most expensive bottle you’re hiding." The bartender, a bald man with a scar running through his eyebrow, grunted and reached for a bottle. Timothy didn't plan on drinking it. Alcoho