Sociable Tavern Novels & Stories

The tavern was called The Cracked Vial, a name that felt too on the nose for a place that smelled of stale hops, expensive perfume and the metallic tang of unwashed blades. It was a supernatural speakeasy tucked into the belly of a converted industrial basement in downtown Los Angeles,a city that had become a sprawling, neon lit graveyard for the veil between worlds. Here, in the flickering amber light of low-hanging lamps, the hierarchy of the old world didn’t matter. An assassin for the remaining Warlock syndicates could sit three stools down from a dryad looking for a tincture to soothe a smog choked spirit. It was neutral ground, but the kind of neutrality that felt like a thin sheet of

For all he knew, or cared, Paul could quit because of his lack of interest in Paul working out in his new position. “Sure Bill. Whatever you say.” Thank heavens he didn’t need to come in first thing in the morning. Paul probably would like to see some of his pack and get to work with them. “I better go. So, I can catch him before he leaves for the day. Anything else?” “Yeah, so what is with the magically returning tavern owner?” Bill couldn’t even get the type of business correct. A tavern was more like a restaurant that served alcohol. A bar was a drinking establishment that might sell snack type foods.

I pulled my helmet on and opened the garage by the remote then I sped up through the busy street like I was high. Hey, that was a good idea. Let's get high. I went to Pierce 'N' Needle of course, it was practically my home, if I wasn't swimming with shark without cages then I must be here. The place felt like home more than anything. The door chimed as I entered the familiar place, it was wide, clean and always this homey feeling to it. I inhaled the smell of a disinfectant and a hint of lavender. Huh, they changed the room spray.

"Okay, pick what you want off the menu. I'll grab you a glass and be right back for your order." She winked at me and I realized I needed to loosen up a bit more; the wine would help. I also needed to remember I had dreams of being a successful journalist. I needed to tough uncomfortable situations out and grow some balls. I took a sip of water, stiffened my spine, and looked around. More pictures of the local rugby teams lined the walls. Trophies and plaques too. The entire tavern paid homage to rugby. Estella set my wine glass down. "What did you decide, hun?"

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.

We headed up a short hill, following the main flow of cars, and the houses began to get more spread out, until they disappeared entirely, replaced by a cute little downtown area. The suburbanites were out in force. Lots of boomers in fancy outfits, a few packs of teenagers, little kids running from bench to bench. I found a halfway decent spot called Parlor Twelve and held the door open for her. We sat at the bar toward the far side, with our backs to the wall, and a good view of the door. I didn’t plan on practicing good defense, but shit, might as well anyway. The place was an upscale gastropub sort of thing, with lots of metal and repurposed wood, the lightbulbs giving off that warm orang

Moss’ grin widened, “this, right here, is my turf.” Then he pushed the door open and stepped inside. The noise hit them almost immediately. The place was packed with people chattering and bantering back and forth between mugs of ale and glasses of wine the kinds of which Kilvic had read of in the stories. A lady walked around the busy tavern carrying two trays of cups and jugs, tactfully fending of grabbing hands with nothing but her wit and her footing, accompanying the noise with the thudding of mugs on tables and glasses on trays. And the smell, Kilvic hadn’t smelled so much alcohol since he’d stumbled upon a group of drunk men at the edge of the trepid forest one winter night while he’d

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-”

There wasn't a tavern in town before, but people decided to turn empty buildings into makeshift taverns to accommodate the onslaught of visitors in recent months and made a hefty sum in the process. This place was called the Robust Spirit Town, but what was robust wasn't the spirit of humans. In fact, vicious beasts would emerge from the Miasma Mountain Range and injure humans and livestock. This prompted any youngster with an ambition to make a name for themselves in the prosperous cities of the East Continent. Those who remained were mostly elderly people whose families had been here for generations or good-for-nothing hooligans that lived every day meaninglessly. The man in the woven rain