At the Withershins Inn and Tavern, the last member of the Local League of Honorable Fairy Godmothers wavers on her bar stool, her giant pixie wings clipping a passing dwarf on the head as they flutter, trying desperately to counterbalance her bulk. Her fellow LLHFG members have long since toddled off into the night, intent on christenings and curses and tower-trapped maidens with abnormally long hair who all need a little pixie dust in their lives. Preferably after the hangovers have abated. But our godmother, the one who is currently being cursed by the pate-bruised dwarf, has remained behind to drown the last of her sorrows.

What sorrows might a fairy have? Well, seeing as hers seem likely to have learnt to swim—given the amount of liquor they’ve had to practice in—I think we may soon find out.  

“Blue Hedge—*hic*—shedgehog!” Our godmother’s cocktail glass topples over and rolls toward the bar’s edge, spattering a trail of glowing cerulean drops in its wake.

“Madame Sarsenet.” Ah, and this is Billy, our friendly barkeep, catching the glass just as it makes its final dive toward freedom and shattered oblivion on the tavern floor. “Had enough, don’t ya think?”

Well, perhaps he’s not so friendly as usual. Though we shouldn’t hold that against him. His best tavern wench did run off last night to trolls only know where, and he’s had to work the taps himself all evening. Fates, he might even have to do the cleaning up on his own. It’s enough to make any man tetchy.

“Blue. Hedge. Shog,” Madame Sarsenet enunciates loudly, making the wart on her second chin dance.

Well, no one ever said fairies weren’t determined. Even inebriated ones. Stubborn as a pack of goblins on a toadstool high, they are. So our poor overworked Billy fetches another bubbly blue refill for Madame and bustles away to peel the gnomes off the table legs again. The damn things gnaw wood worse than enchanted rats.

Now, we might expect our—er—lovely fairy to guzzle her drink straight away. But no. What is this?

Ah, told you we’d get here. She’s begun to mutter, pouring out her woes to the drink in her pudgy hand. Or possibly the puddles on the bar. It’s hard to say which.

“Made her prinzess. All had do waz danz wi’ prinz.” She lets out an off-key giggle. “Hehe. Prinz danzes like hedgeshog! Hahaha!”

Okay, that last one was more of a cackle. Just bear with me. She’ll get back to the point in a minu—Ah! Here we go.

“But noooo.” Madame scowls at the drink, sending her bloodshot eyes nearly tripping over each other as they attempt to cross. “Didn’t even *hic* show at ball. Shparkly dress and shoes and didn’t *hic* even *hic* wanna *hic* danz.”

Hmm. Right.

Perhaps I’d better summarize just a tad for the sake of everyone’s sanity. Particularly mine. We’ll just let her maunder on for a bit, shall we, while I translate.

You see, Billy’s missing barmaid was the hapless victim of Madame’s drunken generosity during the previous evening’s bender. Well, victim might be a bit strong. Unwilling and highly irritated recipient perhaps? In any case, there was a fair amount of confusion, aided by a generous supply of Blue Hedgehogs. The unfortunate result being Ms. Sarsenet’s intended target was still scrubbing her stepmother’s floors three doors down.

The barmaid on the other hand—lets call her Elaine—found herself decked in a fairly garish ball gown and diamond slippers with some rather slurred orders to attend the ball and marry the prince. An hour or two of treading on each other’s toes being the obvious method for achieving marital bliss. Though, having met the prince, any girl who’s that desperate for a crown and doesn’t wish to run screaming for the gates before the proposal is even broached… well… Let’s just say the less time spent contemplating life choices the better.

Being a sensible young woman with more wits in her head than the average fairytale aristocrat, Elaine immediately pawned the conjured goods and hightailed it out of town. This of course neatly upset Madame Sarsenet’s ale-fuddled plans for gaining a foothold in the royal court. It also put her campaign to become president of the LLHFG in some jeopardy.

Hence, the Blue Hedgehogs.

So now, with plans gone all awry—one might even say they’ve gone withershins! Hehe! … Hm. Sorry. Bad joke. Where was I? Oh yes—our poor inebriated godmother has nothing left to do but stare into the depths of her drink, mourning her lost hopes and—

Oh shit. The wand’s out.

Madame? Madame, can you hear me? I don’t think—

*Blurp!*

Agh! Billy’s gonna love cleaning that up and—Oh for fates sake! There’s Blue Hedgehog in my hair! Was that really necessary? A bit petulant, don’t you…

Oh. Oh, I see.

Our fair fairy has turned a rather sticky splatter of Blue Hedgehog into a bar-top scrying bowl. Or… puddle. A bar-top scrying puddle.

Poor Billy. That’s not gonna scrub off anytime soon.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Oh, well. Let’s take a peek shall we?

Ah. Now that’s interesting. Another bar room in another inn and… Is that…?

It is.

Our erstwhile barmaid and unintended fairy victim Elaine has just entered that hazy blue room.

***

Elaine.

Bright girl, this one. No imbecilic princes and abysmally uncomfortable shoes for her. Oh no. She has better things in mind. Like starting her own business, for example. A tavern. Or an inn, perhaps. Preferably somewhere far removed from any winged busybodies with more elf lager than wits in their head.

Hence, she’s spent the better part of last night and a good portion of today—after a discrete nap in a convenient haystack—on the road toward a fortune of her own choosing. And that fortune has led her here to this, um, interesting little backroads inn.

Okay, fine. It’s a hovel.

The landlord has clearly been spending more time sampling his sub-par wares than—oh, I don’t know—scraping a decade’s worth of beer and gristle off the tables? With a chisel.

“Mother of ghouls, this is a dump,” Elaine mutters as she picks her way through the drunks and brawling dwarves.

We couldn’t agree more. But here is where she is. And here is where she’ll stay. For one night at least. It’s not as though there’s a lot of options on this particular stretch of the road to adventure. Though I suspect that damp haystack is starting to look pretty good right about now.

But our Elaine has dealt with everything from hungover pookas to a herd of hallucinating redcaps high on pixie dust. A little filth is hardly going to deter her. Filth and… fates and all the hells, what is that smell? And what is— You know what, no. I don’t want to know. Where was I? Ah, yes.

Our determined adventuress marches up to the bar and its keeper. A keeper who, incidentally, looks like a bad mating between a ginger-haired werewolf and an angry troll with a legendary case of acne. Ugh. But Elaine pastes on her brightest don’t-screw-with-me smile and places her order.

“A pint and a room for the night.”

Good choice. I wouldn’t trust the food in here either. At least the alcohol might have killed whatever fell in and died. And I— Yes, yes. I know you can’t kill something that’s already dead. It’s just a turn of phrase and— You know what? Hush. I’m telling this story.

Ahem. As I was saying.

The landlord squints at her from beneath ginger brows the size of raspberry bushes and grunts the one word all tavern keepers speak fluently in every language of the eight realms.

“Coin.”

Well, that Elaine has in abundance, thanks to her pawned fairy duds. Honestly, it's a wonder she doesn’t jingle with every step. Not that our sensible girl is about to part with any more of it than necessary. She has a new life to purchase after all. But she slips one of the smallest coins from her purse and pins it to the sticky bar with one finger.

“I’m not paying for the room until I’ve seen it.”

The landlord grunts and peels the coin from the counter.

“Wise choice,” murmurs a deep, smooth as butter voice beside her ear.

Ah, someone new has entered the scene, a tall dark someone with overly coiffed hair and more black leather than a bondage chamber. This should be interesting. Ten gold pieces says she knees him in the fork before this is over.

Elaine turns toward the buttered voice and is nearly blinded by a smile that’s twice as oily. Seriously. The warts on a goblin’s backside could take lessons in “ooze” from this one.

“Even the rats are afraid of the fleas in those beds,” tall, dark and smiley continues. “The last witch to pass through had something of a grudge against Gary here. Something about the quality of service and lack of silverware.”

Gary, whose troll ancestry is looking a bit more pronounced at the moment, slaps a grimy tankard down on the counter with a glare. The ale—at least I think it’s ale; it’s certainly pretending to be ale—slops over the side and looks decidedly… um… chunky.

The newcomer oozes on. “So she put a hex on every flea in this dump. Little buggers are the size of terriers.” He leans into her space, washing her face with the scent of his perfumed hair oil. “They’d think it’s a feast day with such soft…” he oozes the word, “succulent…” more oozing, “flesh.”

Right. Now the entire bar room needs a shower more than they did before. This is just gross.

And he’s still oozing.

“A maiden needs a strong hand to protect her from the little beasts. As well as all the other unsavory and unscrupulous characters in here.”

Elaine, whose brows appear to have come unhinged from each other—one’s shot halfway up her hairline and the other’s plummeted in a truly impressive grimace—looks about ready to choke. Or throw up. Either response seems valid at this point. But our girl is made of sterner stuff.

“Yes, I think you’re right,” her hand slides toward the tankard as she smiles back, the sort of smile that should have any intelligent male fleeing for the back door. Possibly looking for a convenient cave to barricade themselves into for the next century or so.

And then she flings the entire chunky contents in his face.

“Gary?” she slaps the tankard back down and drops a second coin beside it. “Another, please.”

Elaine’s new friend has staggered back, sputtering and cursing, both leather and ooze a bit worse for wear, but he holds up his hand.

“No, please.” Yeah. Far less ooze now. “Allow me.”

He drops his own slightly sticky coin beside hers and nods at the barkeep. “Give her the good stuff. My lady.” And with a stiff bow our somewhat less buttery and smiley friend is off to nurse his pride in the corner.

Well, done Elaine.

And now our ginger half-troll, having already confiscated both coins, is refilling Elaine’s tankard with more of the… um… ale. And our fearless adventurer is settling into her own corner to view the room and enjoy her well earned… uh… I suppose you could call it a drink?

In any case, it’s—

Hmm. That’s odd.

Uh, Elaine? Are you quite sure you want to drink that, dear? It’s just… the landlord keeps throwing an odd look from you to your oily friend in the corner and—

And you can’t hear me.

Ugh. Yeah. Tastes about how it smells, does it?

As I was saying, I’m not sure about the landlor—Elaine? What—

Oh dear.

Our fearless heroine has just passed out on the table.

…

…

… Well, damn.  

***

Meanwhile, at the Withershins Inn…