The rain came down slowly in heavy drops, filling the still evening air with the night's chill early. Murphy made his way through the fields and towards the pub. The town was quieter than usual, so he figured the people must have filled the pub early. Dalley had promised to tell the story of the Silver Swordsman and the city of Tay-Danmoor. He'd teased the tale the night before, setting the scene of a hero trapped behind enemy lines.
Murphy left Cardic with a set of letters and symbols to practise, after teaching him the basic principles of rendering inks. If the boy could manage to replicate the symbols cleanly enough, he was going to move onto the next step of the fireball rune he intended to teach. The design he decided on was a lesser version of the fireball rune Callus had shown him. Uundah had expressed doubts about the modifications, but Murphy’s blind confidence in his own abilities had won over the decision in the end.
He slowed his pace as he neared the pub, noticing an eerie lack of the usual sound of laughter and argument. A foreboding rumble of thunder rolled through the sky, mirroring the churning in his gut as he reached for the door.
"Something's off here," Uundah thought to him suspiciously, resonating with his Warlock's discomfort.
The door creaked open to reveal the large room on the other side. The place was lit as well as always, though it lacked its usual patrons almost entirely. Inside was the smith, sitting alone at a table with a bottle of spirits clasped firmly in his hand. The only other person Inside was Daisy, the carpenter's wife. It was her night to tend the bar, and she was leaning on the bar, staring mournfully into a glass of her own. Dalley didn't budge when the door opened. He had his back to the entrance, and stayed silently hunched over his table.
"Is everyone out trying to pull magic swords from the well again?" Murphy asked, stepping inside and removing his cloak. He was referring to a story the smith was telling a few days prior. It had the town in stitches with laughter, and he thought it might help lighten the sombre mood in the place.
Dalley sniffed, and slowly shook his head. "It was a magic bow," he said softly. He took a long drink from his bottle, then gestured for Murphy to join him, still not turning around.
"I can't help but feel like I've missed something," Murphy said, sitting across from the smith. Daisy put a glass in front of him almost right away, startling him to a jump.
"Sorry," she said sweetly. "But I think you'll be needing this."
She poured a generous portion of amber syrup into his glass, filling it nearly to the top. "Fendrik's tree blood," she said, gesturing at the glass. "Usually more of a sipper, but tonight's a dark one. Those are often best forgotten is how I think."
She sat the bottle on the table before leaving back to stare at the bar.
Dalley never looked up while they talked. The man sat with a blank look in his eyes, lost somewhere in his thoughts. Murphy took a gulp of the tree blood. The syrup burned in his mouth and throat. What would have usually been a sweet tasting silver lining, was instead bitter, encouraging a sharp cough to escape his control. In Malnir they called the drink 'Sweytah Sapahn', named from the sweet taste of the sap. He and Coil would harvest buckets of the stuff from the lumber yard barrels. If you let the sap spoil, it would become fantastically intoxicating. It wasn’t like beer or wine, it was a different kind of drunk that left less of a sorry ache in the head the next day. It was boiled into a syrup to remove any nasty passengers that made a home in the sap while it sat, though if you boiled it for too long it'd turn bitter and sour. The Sapahn he sipped now had suffered such a fate.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Dalley finally looked up, just in time to see the red faced wizard struggling against another cough. The older man smiled a little at the sight, and let out a long and tired breath.
"Put a few more hairs on your chest that," he said quietly, taking hold of the bottle of Sapahn. He pulled the cork, and took a deep swig. He let out a cough of his own when he slammed the bottle down.
"The burn feels fitting I reckon," he sputtered, wiping the water from his eyes.
Murphy watched the smith closely, deciding how to ask the questions he had building.
"Where is everyone tonight?" He probed, an obvious hint of hesitation in his tone. The atmosphere of the town that evening gave him a few ideas, but he still thought it best to get a proper answer before slinging spells into the night sky.
"In somewhere warm with their favourites, be my guess."
His voice was coarser than usual. Deep and leaving no room for misunderstanding, as opposed to his usual and nearly bard like presence in a room.
"Thought I might do the same," he said, holding his own bottle up to emphasise.
"Nobody ever loved ol' Dalley like warm whisky and fresh herb."
He downed another few mouthfuls of whisky, then pulled out his pipe.
Murphy smiled, and summoned a small amount of fire aspect at his fingertip with the help of Uundah. He empowered it, and offered the flame to the smith, encouraging a laugh from the sullen man.
"So what's got everyone feeling so sentimental then?" He asked, lighting the smith's pipe.
Dalley took a long drag before responding.
"No rain due for a good few days yet," he said, pointing at the ceiling. "Still the rain comes though… only mean one thing that."
He finished his statement with another gulp of whiskey. The hint of a slur veiled his speech, letting the young wizard know the man was already well into his cups.
"Our wyvern friend then?" Murphy asked cautiously.
Dalley tapped his nose and pointed at him.
"Got it in one, must be quite the clever bastard you." He took a drink. "Can't be more than ten days out now I reckon. Usually starts like this, big heavy rain and all. Never more'n ten day though, always true that."
The wind tore a chilled air through the room as the door swung open. The fading light of outside was blocked entirely by the massive frame of Serril as he stepped into the pub. Wordlessly, he scanned the room, leaving only the sound of the wooden door clapping in the wind. He settled his stare on Murphy eventually, setting the Warlock's nerves on edge.
"Eseyfirr," Serril demanded. "Come earn your name."
He stayed stoic and still for a moment longer, before ducking back through the doorway, leaving it open to ravage the building's insides with the elements.
"I don't know what you did to piss that big feller off, bit I'd get to what he says needs gotten to if I were you. Gives me the shivers just thinking about what he could get done with that sword of his," Dalley rambled.
Murphy took another gulp of Sapahn from his glass, and slid the bottle to Dalley.
"Have a few for me would you. I'm sure he has a stick he'd like to show me."
Exiting the pub, he wrapped his cloak tightly around himself and stepped into the rain. Serril and May were already gone, but their tracks in the mud were yet to be washed away. Sighing, he pulled his hood over his head, and set to tracking the giant's footprints through the stormy night. Passing unseen through the village, Murphy took a moment to stare at the lights which shone through the people's windows. He could hardly see them through the downpour, glimmering like stars in the gloom. The rain was almost torrential now, and Murphy hoped it would not drown those little homes, and snuff out those lights.