Fabled Tavern Novels & Stories

I growled softly, my voice a rough rumble that easily cut through the high-pitched shriek of the grinding machinery across the street. He swallowed hard, slowly pulling his calloused hand away from his wrench as he stepped aside, leaving the heavy timber door completely unguarded. Inside, the tavern was a chaotic maze of stained timber benches, thick tobacco smoke, and the deep-throated laughter of Southern Drift mercenaries celebrating their upcoming deployment. High-output electronic slot terminals lined the far wall, their cheap blue display screens throwing a flickering light across the pale faces of the local information brokers. Aria cut a direct path toward the back booth where an old

The place was dimly lit and filled with smoke, the scent of alcohol lingering in the air. Gasher, Zen, and Furo made their way into a tavern, it was filled with people from all over the town. The air was thick with the scent of ale, smoke and roasting meat. Gasher and Zen found a table in the corner, where they could observe the rest of the room without drawing too much attention to themselves, while Furo went to the bar to order a drink. The tavern was filled with locals, all of them talking and laughing as they enjoyed their drinks. The three men found a table in the corner and sat down, trying to blend in with the locals.

Yet today, in the dimly lit confines of an underground tavern, the tide began to turn. The underground tavern was dim but lively. It was a refuge for the common folk, a place where laborers, merchants, and even the occasional rebel gathered to share whispers of rebellion or simply to drown their woes in ale. Behind the bar stood Johny Eagle, the burly and gruff owner, who had heard it all but rarely believed much of it. On this day, however, the crackling of the tavern’s radio brought news that no one could ignore. The familiar voice of an Aeternum news anchor echoed through the room.

Word was that, young girls were kept in a secret room inside the Tavern before being transported to the brothel in el Paradiso but there was no proof that this room even existed. Lance lingered in his car, surveying the place before he set off, walking into the infamous crowded tavern. He winced, feeling suffocated. The odor was sweaty as people were grooving to the loud music that was playing infinitely. Focusing on his mission, Lance took to the bar and ordered his drinks while eyeing the man he had followed. His name was Calvary. Gabriella had briefed him about the man’s suspicious dealings once. Calvary’s gaze enviously shifted towards Lance as the bar attendant placed a six pack of Hein

Nio was to play the role of a wealthy merchant who set out for Canestor to buy goods. As it was already late afternoon, and the boars were leaving only in the morning, they decided to rest in a tavern near the hub. As travel between Canestor and the rest of Raal became more frequent, small hamlets began to grow around the hubs themselves. Taverns, shops, markets, everything a traveller might need. Nio reserved two rooms, one for himself and the other for Jon and Shieena, but the innkeeper refused to let the goblin inside.

“My folks. As I am their last remaining daughter, I wanted to be there for them. Carol completed her Drink. I’ll be honest with you: I’m not easily convinced. Lelandi received her glass from her. A second Chablis? I apologize, but do you typically consume this much alcohol? Carol grinned lopsidedly at her. “Last year, I didn’t go to the fair. Why celebrate if you can’t have a good time? Give ‘er a fill. Lelandi added the wine to the glass and put the customer’s money in the till. Due to the tavern’s extreme crowding, Silva was running far behind in his duty. Lelandi grabbed the next tray of beverages, hoping she wouldn’t drop it, intending to deliver it to a table of gray males. The five men

For my mate? For now, I swallow that train of thought and focus on tracking Hope. Two males stumble out of a door, and I hear the faint sound of chatter and love music. A tavern. Find our mate, my wolf pushes. I suppose if anyone knows where to find the good healer, a tavern is as good a place as any to start. One of them is bound to have been sent to his clinic a time or two. I walk into the grey pealing building dubbed, The Ragged Fang. The pungent tide of the market starts to thin as I enter, replaced by the dank odor of alcohol, oil, and cheap perfume. The space is low lit, casting the patrons sitting on the edges in shadows.

It needed safety. The tavern was small, and full. It sat on lage timber beams, nestled under a withered Elder tree. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney, and beside the tavern, swinging from rusty old chains, there was a green sign that read—The Tipsy Troll. The scent of spiced meat and stale ale hit my senses as soon as I stepped inside. It was a dimly lit space, with a fire in the hearth that kept the place warm, while murmurs of conversation floated about the room.

But then again, he had saved Lily just now, and he had come to Dark Moon just to help me, so I supposed one drink wouldn’t hurt. The tavern sat beneath the inn at the edge of the square, a pale stucco building with dark wood beams and cheerful light spilling out of its stained-glass windows. I had never been inside it, because I rarely drank, and I never went out. Even from the stoop, the sound of laughter, music, and voices was a little overwhelming. Before entering, I reconsidered going at all. I’d been uncertain all evening, wondering if this was even my scene, or if I wanted to field Damian’s probing questions and that cocky grin again.

The risks of pregnancy and diseases will always be present, but can always be fixed with a spell or two. If they weren’t roaming the streets, the vixens occupied the many pubs and taverns that littered the village. Most favored a particular tavern called Flutther’s Pub. The influx of wealthy men that poured into the tavern nightly was enough to keep a slew of them occupied. From the humblest of knights to the meanest of soldiers, all were the same as the insignia of our kingdom edged onto their sleeves. From the modest lords to the nastiest nobles, a treasure heirloom or fancy gold littering some part of their body.