Sociable Tavern Novels & Stories

It was usually a place various members of the low class came to drink away their sorrows. “I’m here,” I quickly replied to the text. My phone buzzed again and I read the text asking me to come inside. I scoffed in disgust, how did she expect me to enter such a disgusting place? I could smell the harmony of sweat and beer oozing through the windows. “You have to be kidding me,” I sighed and docked into the tavern and I walked in the direction of the booth closest to the west side of the room as she instructed. “Why did you pick this heinous place, Sandra? It smells like poor people and broken dreams,” I wiped my nose hoping I could get the stench off it as well.

It looked like every other building, no signs or obvious indications of what kind of place it was. It turned out to be a tavern. Derren’s Sauce, the one Loran had mentioned. Drinks were being served to unsavoury types crowded around small tables. There was the slightest of pauses in the intense furtiveness as we entered, and then normal furtiveness resumed. It was a dark and dingy establishment, full of shadowy corners and shady characters. Everyone had a weapon of some kind. Blades hung from belts, glinted from the tops of boots or lay within easy reach on the tables. Many of them had missing limbs.

That he hadn't noticed. Something rebellious sparked in my chest. For once in my pathetic life, I was going to do something wild. Something the invisible Natasha Volkov would never do. I was going to get drunk. The Broken Shield was the kind of tavern nice girls from noble families didn't visit. It sat in the lower town, all rough wood and rougher clientele which included soldiers, merchants and working folk who didn't care about proper behavior or bloodlines. The kind of place where you could disappear. It was perfect.

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.

A boy took notice and offered to hold his reins. For one of his coins, the boy led the horse away for a bucket of oats and a trough of water. Ubertus entered the warm crowded tavern and his senses were assaulted by a din of drunken voices and the smells of stale ale, sweating bodies, and piss. He stood before the blazing peat fire, revived his cramped hands and called out in his thick Italian accent fora jug of wine. Since it was a market town, the men of Tisbury were well-used to strangers,

“Come sit with me until it gets here.” I follow Miles back to his table and we both sit down. The chairs are actually very comfortable, soft leather over genuine wood. This is not the sort of thing I would have expected in a place like this. This tavern is full of surprises, likely thanks to the generous patron sitting across from me. “Why here?” I ask him. “Why not? It’s a good place, even if the area has seen some hard times. But it’s coming around.” “How long have you been helping them?” I ask.

Late in the evening, amidst the dim lighting and soft hum of chatter, Martha and Elenora found themselves nestled at “The Lounge”. This upscale pub boasted the finest celebratory cocktails in the city. It was, without a doubt, a fitting choice for their evening, as they had significant reasons to celebrate. Staying true to their reputation, the establishment presented them with some of the most refined drinks they had ever tasted.

They made more small talk as they made their way to the stalwart bar that had been around far longer than they had, and stepped inside of what felt like a time capsule. The inside was dark as one would expect, small lights dotted here and there over some of the tables and the bar itself. Faux candelabra decorated the walls and provided even more soft ambiance. The smell of the ocean air swept into the open windows, keeping the old, scrubbed pine walls coated in the finest layer of salty brine. The place had always been a tavern and dated back to the early 1800s, with the ghost stories and local lore to show for it, along with the photos - some of them ancient-looking - placed haphazardly bet

Bari didn’t ask any further questions and led the group towards the tavern that was written on the scroll ‘Green Serpent Tavern’. Unlike the taverns in the other parts of the kingdom, this one reflected the true lifestyle of the gipsy where drinking was only one of the activities. There were performers, gamblers and even sporting events like blind-folded archery with live targets. “Do we have a name for the one you want to meet?” Bari asked in a low voice as they neared the tavern.

When I felt confident my horse would be well taken care of, I led Sage to the tavern entrance. It smelled like spilled beer and a hot meal, with a little livestock undertone. The tavern was far less bright than the sunny day outside, but it was hardly dim. There were tons of bodies moving like blood through veins inside the tavern, and I squinted as my eyes adjusted to the interior. "Well, you rat bastard, how dare you show your face here?"