Brickhouse Tavern Humble Novels & Stories

I say, pressing a wooden cup of hot herbal tea into my sister's hands. We are sitting in the small, cramped back room of a low-ranking tavern near the edge of the Northbridge Heights. The air in here stinks of cheap ale, wet wolf fur, and stale tobacco, but it is private. Outside, the rain pounds heavily against the grimy glass window, masking the sound of our voices from any Hawthorne pack scouts roaming the streets. Brielle doesn't take a sip. She just stares at the dark liquid, her knuckles white as she grips the cup, her face pale and streaked with dried tear tracks.

Abigail was more interested in the tiny minnows darting near the shore than in actual fishing. "Look, Auntie Grace!" she exclaimed, scooping at the water with a small net I helped her hold. "I caught one!" I knelt beside her, amused by her enthusiasm. "Careful now, let's put it back so it can find its family." When hunger began to make itself known, Harrison led us to the humble Lakeside Tavern. The small eatery was busy but cozy, filled with the aroma of home cooking. Steaming bowls of rice and sautéed vegetables appeared before us, along with a platter of grilled venison. Harrison quietly slid dishes toward Abigail and me, giving us the best portions.

Students milled about between cafes. People walked hand-in-hand under strings of pretty decorative lights strung across the streets. Crestfield felt quite different in the evenings. Less academic. More vibrant. The Bell & Brick Bistro was located in the corner of an old red-brick building that overlooked a little town square. It wasn’t fancy. It certainly wasn’t expensive. It just had personality. Glowing lights could be seen through the large windows, boxes of flowers were located under each window. Beautiful jazz music flowed out of the restaurant’s door each time it opened.

Just then, he turned, catching my eye for a brief second before I pushed my vision down, tugging my hood lower. We carefully moved past a block of wooden kiosks before Clifford finally stopped us in front of a tavern. The old signboard read: The Drunken Oak "Errm. Clifford, why are we here? I asked. "To get the map." He jumped of Hero. "This is a tavern. Not a map shop." I stated the obvious. "There's a guy who sells maps inside," Richard said. "Oh ok." I got off Luca to follow them inside, but we hadn't even made it to the entrance when someone yelled, "Clifford!"

I grinned, “It's the least I can do since you're helping me find shoes to match my dress.” Brynn excitedly scrambled from behind the counter, following me out the shop. The streets weren't bustling as much. Only a few wandered about, the rest probably returned home or grabbed lunch in a random pub. “Just down the road.” I pointed, “It’s the one called Humblers Tavern.” “I don’t think I ever ate there.” “It's not much appearance wise, but their food is amazing.” “They could do with a makeover.” Brynn agreed, “Maybe some paint could do. Or-”

"Plus, the room is small but welcoming and we both each have our own separate beds. We even stay in the same room back at home." "Alright." Bryan said, letting it go, before they started unpacking their belongings. He just did not like feeling like they were cheated. That's all. Once settled, they decided to check out what the tavern had to offer, especially in terms of what they would have for dinner, and so they made their way downstairs to the common room. They checked the menu and saw the featured traditional dishes: a rich lamb stew with root vegetables and freshly baked rye bread. "This looks delicious. We should try it," Bryan suggested to Aiden, who already wanted them to try it.

Luc‌ien parked the SUV in a gravel⁠ lot outsid‍e a pl‍ace called The Sal⁠ted Anchor‍, a‍ tavern that looked like it had been held together by nothing but barnacles and⁠ grit‌ for the last‍ fift‍y years. Inside, the tavern w‍as warm and smelled of woodsmoke and hops. Lucien⁠ looked remarkably out of place and yet⁠ st‍ran‌gely at home. He had‍ his dark sweater sleeves pushed up, revealing the silver‍ watch that proba‍bly cost more th⁠an the entire⁠ bui‌lding, but he‌ was look⁠ing at the l‌aminated me⁠nu with the same inte‍nsity⁠ he usuall⁠y reserved for q‍uarterly earnings reports.

It was interesting to see that they had made it all the way to South Dakota on their random journey and now were set to enter the apparently sleepy town of Temperance. Brick smirked at the sign and turned his attention back to relieving himself along the highway making sure to mark his territory as he did before traveling back toward his bike, a very impressive black Harley-Davidson Classic Road King, and climbed back on. "We heading into Temperance huh?" asked Rooster with a strange grimace on his aged face. The thick white beard and equally long white hair that lined his head made him look quite menacing and the expression didn't help any. Brick nodded smirking at the older man.

Asher The tavern smelled like old Rogues and fresh blood. It was the kind of place that never saw daylight, being wedged between crumbling stone deep in the less wealthy edge of the capital. No banners here. No royal colors. Just soot-stained wood, a haze of smoke from cheap cigars, and a bartender who asked no questions so long as the coin was good. It was perfect. I sat in a corner booth shrouded in shadow, one boot braced against the edge of the table, the other foot planted firmly on the sticky floorboards.

"Though I doubt you called me out in the freezing cold just to eat." "There is a small tavern just past the stone bridge," Charles said, gesturing toward a timber building with a glowing rune sign. "The FSB Lodge. They serve marrow-broth buns stuffed with mountain crab. I suspect you haven't had a proper meal since the audit began." We entered the warm, dimly lit tavern. The innkeeper recognized Charles instantly, bowing low before leading us into a private, rune-shielded alcove overlooking the frosted riverbank. Within minutes, a steaming bamboo basket and two clay bowls were set on the low oak table.