James turned, searching for the second pillow. The first was clutched comfortably between his thighs. His hand swept under the bedsheets, grasping at emptiness. The pillow must have tumbled off the bed during the night. He hovered there for a while, at the precipice of waking—torn between the lure of sleep and the pressing call of nature, that made itself known with ever greater urgency as time stretched. The line separating his comfort and need gradually blurring into one.
Finally, after agonizing over it, James untangled himself from the bedsheet and rose. The room was shrouded in darkness but familiarity guided him through the first unbalanced steps with his eyes still sleepily shut. His extended hand found the bathroom door baring his way, yet his brain was still too fogged to warn him that something was amiss. He pushed it open and the darkness around him slowly shifted. With one eye barely open, he navigated his way through the shifting shadows and took an uncertain step forward.
The floor beneath his feet protested with a squeak. The corridor lay barren before him. Another step and the strangeness of his surroundings pierced his half-awake state. Gone were the light teal tiles of his bathroom floor. His bare feet pressed uncomfortably against a rough wooden surface. Behind him, the door chose that moment to snap shut with a bang.
Surprised, he shook his head and his mind was flooded with sudden clarity. With newfound alarm, he turned to confront his surroundings.
A heavy unfamiliar door greeted him as he turned. Its handle was old and rusty. He pushed it down and with a bit of reluctance, yielded to his intention.
Astonishment washed over him as he surveyed the small room illuminated by a lone candle lamp. It was a rudimentary lavatory, more or less an open hole in the middle of an equally simple room. The assault of the stench emerging from the open hole was immediate, an acidic foulness entered his nose before he could stop his inhale. The pang brought tears to his eyes. He slammed the door shut, repelled by the foul odor.
Questions spiraled through his mind. That door—he had passed through it, hadn't he? He had to check once again. His brain was still denying what his eyes had previously seen. Yet reopening the door only confirmed his fears. He was unmistakably not at home. Making everything worse his bladder was about to burst.
"Ah, what the hell," he muttered, venturing into the vacant chamber, recoiling at what his bare feet came into contact with. Peering down the hole, he was met with the expected sight—a few meters below, the earth was marred with refuse.
"Gah, it reeks," he complained, the stench so overpowering he could almost taste it. With a grimace, he quickly attended to his needs, eager to escape the foulness of the privy pit.
Stepping back out into the corridor, he slammed the door shut, inhaling deeply, grateful for the comparatively 'fresher' air. James took a moment to gather himself—He only wore his PJs, comprised of an oversized black t-shirt, and plain boxers. Nothing to be too embarrassed about, yet what he dearly wished for was the comfort of shoes or slippers.
Looking back the other way the corridor offered no alternative but to forge ahead, its barren wooden walls exuded a suffocating, claustrophobic feeling. That didn't scare him as much as the questions that kept repeating in his troubled mind.
Where was he? How had he arrived there? Each answer his brain provided was ridiculous. Sleepwalking? Abduction? Nothing made much sense to him.
Despite his attempts at a silent walk, each step betrayed him with a loud creak from the aged wooden floor planks. Standing over two meters tall and carrying a truckload of bulky weight, he couldn't help but think of his father's words: "Strong as a grizzly yet awkward as a bear on cobblestones." He wasn't built for creeping around.
The passage concluded at a short staircase leading to a door, behind which muffled sounds of activity hinted at an occupied room. After gathering his resolve, James pushed lightly against the door, only to meet resistance. After a moment of frustration, he realized his mistake. Retreating slightly, he tugged at the door, which begrudgingly opened just shy of the final stair.
What a dreadful design. He thought with annoyance. What a dump this place is.
Yet, as he stepped through the doorway, his entrance went largely unnoticed, swallowed by the cacophony within. It gave him pause, however. The room buzzed with life, its dimly lit expanse revealed sets of round tables scattered about, each hosting seated guests engrossed in their meals or conversations. It resembled...
A pub. An old tavern, tired from years and years of use, illuminated by the soft glow of candles and lanterns.
For a moment, James wondered if he had wandered into a themed establishment, the kind that reveled in historical or medieval fashion. But as he racked his brain, no memory of him visiting such a place surfaced. He had never stumbled inside such a place before.
Yet the comforting ambiance of the pub, with its underlying notes of firewood and the hum of light conversation, mixed with the scents of hearty food and robust beer, wove a soothing atmosphere around his tight nerves. Under different circumstances, he might have embraced such familiar comforts—if he hadn't gotten himself adrift, clad only in a t-shirt and boxers. He felt conspicuously out of place.
It didn't take long for James to realize that his presence—marked by his towering stature and bare legs—had begun to stir curiosity among the patrons closest to him. Sidelong glances and outright stares broke the otherwise casual atmosphere of the nearby tables, pausing momentarily the lighthearted conversations. Since he wasn't going to be intimidated by a few simple bar attendees he seized the moment to observe them in return, scanning the hall and taking in the individuals gathered there.
In the subdued glow of the pub, James had overlooked a critical and terrifying detail—what at first glance had looked like props and costumes now appeared to be partly inaccurate. How could those cosplays be so...realistic?
Ah, god, where am I? Is this some sort of bizarre cosplay event? he wondered, grappling with the surreal scene before him.
Upon closer inspection, the diversity of the crowd became apparent. The differences were subtle, and easily dismissed, but as James surveyed the room, a chilling realization dawned on him—these were no cosplayers.
Among the non-human patrons, a few boasted elongated pointed ears and sharp canines that, at a glance, might have passed for expertly crafted prosthetics. Yet, it was their eyes that betrayed their nature—feral, daunting, with pupils slit vertically against backdrops of red, orange, and yellow. Still, those could somehow be explained.
But what about the miniature figures mingling among the other patrons? Men and women barely reaching a foot tall bustled about the tavern, mostly standing on the tables themselves; one particularly bold individual was diving headfirst into a pint nearly half his size with enthusiasm that belied his small statue. Robotics? No technology on earth existed, capable of replicating the lifelike manner these little creatures exhibited.
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On the other part of the spectrum, a behemoth of a figure sat sprawled on the floor, his muscular arms and brutish appearance commanded attention. His face was adorned with tusks and a pig-like snout...
Hideous! A true monster.
...and his body was a mosaic of brown and pink skin visible beneath a tattered leather vest. A long curved knife dangled from his belt, its presence made James gulp down hard.
Weapons—a knife here, a sword there, some sheathed in gleaming scabbards, others in ones worn by time—mingled with pieces of metal armor among the crowd, all appearing real to James eyes. This was no ordinary pub; it was a realm where the mundane and the mythical blended.
Retreating to the corridor was no longer an option, too many eyes—some monstrous, others human and merely curious—had already noticed his presence. James opted for the only strategy left to him: to blend in as best as he could, hoping to figure out where the hell he was while being as inconspicuous as possible.
He swiftly sat at a vacant table nearby, easing into the wooden chair while trying to make his large statue small and uninteresting. Despite his efforts, his head remained conspicuously higher than the other patrons, affording him a clear vantage point. Cautiously, he scanned his surroundings for any signs of danger.
Unfortunately, James didn’t account for an unforeseen hunter. One that hunted for hungry and thirsty guests—a barmaid, or what he presumed to be one, had stealthily approached him, bearing an empty tray. Immobilized by a mix of fear and astonishment, he could only stare as she approached.
He looked down at her. Yes, down. She was barely a meter tall, with her body cloaked in white fur that reminded him of snow. Her ears were long and droopy which framed her face much like those of a rabbit, yet she was garbed in a simple, earthy brown dress. A monster in human clothes.
With a curious twitch of her nose, she spoke. “You’re quite the large fellow, aren’t you? And a newcomer? I don't recognize your scent. Have I taken your order? No, I think not—I'd surely recall that. Mmm, you must be new then. Greetings guest! I'm Martha. What can I fetch for you?” Her words tumbled out in a rapid, jittery jumble while her gaze was flitting about, never settling on one place.
Trying to follow her gaze stirred mild vertigo in James who chose not to focus on her terrifying feral eyes.
He tried to give a reply but a mere guttural sound came out of his throat, a grunt born of his sheer bewilderment. As well, because before him stood a creature of fantasy, stirring feelings he had never experienced, a blend of wonder and fear, that settled heavily in his stomach in tight knots. His then silent, stupefied gaze must have conveyed enough to Martha, for the rabbit-like waitress to cease her expectant waiting.
“Oh, you’re the strong, silent type, well-case then. No matter, I’ll start you off with some ale to wet your tongue,” she declared, bounding with a single leap to the bar's end where a bartender—thankfully human, James noted with a sigh of relief—busied himself with the taps.
The strangeness of his situation left him eager for a strong drink, rendering the returning Martha with a filled pint of ale almost a grounding moment. He tentatively sipped the frothy beverage, its spicy undertone leaving a surprisingly pleasant aftertaste on his tongue.
“Should you need anything else, just call for Martha. I’ll be hopping over,” she said, her ears giving a curious twitch, and her smile revealing a row of teeth in what James interpreted as a friendly smile, though it did little to ease his nerves.
Before she could dart more than a few feet away, he managed to cough out a rough, "Thanks". His voice barely broke through the bustling noise yet her ears flickered in acknowledgment.
Holding his pint, James allowed the smoky ambiance of the pub, the muted drone of conversations, and the anonymity of his presence among these... beings, to comfort him a little. Despite a few inquisitive looks, he was relieved to find he didn't attract undue attention. In this crowd of fantastical entities, he was, for the moment, just another patron.
It was rather curious that he could understand and communicate with the waitress. With that in mind, he listened in to the lingering conversations and he caught snippets of unfamiliar tongues alongside one that, to his astonishment, he could comprehend. The realization struck him as he pondered the effortless "Thanks" he had expressed-- what was clearly a foreign word, now that he could concentrate on it.
How was that possible?
Intrigued, he focused on his internal dialogue which unfolded in neither English nor any other known language. What language was he thinking in then?
If this had been a dream all along, it was a great time to wake up, yet his senses denied that was the case. The discomfort of the wooden chair against his skin, the slight chill nipping at his bare toes pressing on the pub’s floor, burping the excess air from his ale. Everything was undeniably real.
When James finally saw the bottom of the pint, he immediately contemplated having another. The quality of the ale had been a delight. He would have called Martha for a second one without thought, but here he arrived at another complication. He was penniless. Yet even that was not his most urgent priority.
He needed answers. With a gesture of his hand, in what he hoped was a universally understood plea for service, he was intent on catching Martha's attention. Amid the dimly lit tavern and the throng of patrons, he sought the barmaid's distinctive silhouette, her presence occasionally betrayed by fleeting glimpses of her hopping figure.
James immediately saw the problem, it would take an age for her to notice him, and so ventured differently.
“Mmartha?” His voice faltered. It was his first vocal attempt after quite some time.
Instantly, the rabbit woman's ears perked up in recognition. Her small form was well hidden behind a group of lively patrons, yet James saw the two white pointy ears emerge behind a group of seated patrons. Before long she made her way to him.
“Hi, Hello. I remember you! Or do I? What’s your name again? I think... oh. Did you order something? You did, didn't you? Oh no, don't tell me I forgot your order!”
Her sudden pause, prompted by her hand covering her mouth, offered a moment for James to interject.
“No, no, it's fine. I’m James by the way,” he reassured her. Seizing the opportunity he added the real reason he had called her over. "May I ask you a few questions?"
How perilous could a few questions be, especially when directed at a seemingly harmless rabbit?
“That’s a relief. I was worried I’d be scolded again. So, what would you like to ask?” Martha twitched her nose and perked up her ears, focusing for once her attention on him.
“I’m a bit lost. I don’t know how I ended up here,” James admitted slightly uneasy. He found himself caught in the gaze of Martha’s black and blue eyes.
“And, and? Spill it out! What’s the question? I don’t have all night, you know,” she pressed, her curiosity piqued.
“Right. Well, for starters, where am I?” James’s voice was barely above a whisper.
“You’re at the Twin Claw’s Tavern, obviously.” She gestured expansively, showcasing the pub behind her.
“No, I mean, where am I?”
“Oh, come on! You already asked that. These questions are so dull! Ask me something exciting,” she huffed upset, clearly losing interest.
“So, where exactly is the Twin Claw’s Tavern located?” James’s confidence in the conversation waned. Martha seemed somewhat oblivious, which was starting to frustrate him.
She appeared confused, and James braced for a dismissive answer.
“In Avi’Gale? Yes, that’s it! Avi’Gale!” Her spirits lifted from their momentary dip, and she seemed pleased with herself until her ears twitched in a different direction. “Oh, I’m being called. I have to go. This isn’t my kind of game, Mister. If you need anything else to order, just call for Martha!” She said pouting. Her behavior was childlike, leaving him to wonder. Was she a child? He couldn’t tell for certain.
His initial attempt at gathering information had fallen flat. It was clear he needed a new and better strategy.