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He doesn’t know how he found himself here.
Emotionally-compromised fool he was, he’d wandered out into the darkness, away from the safety of Last Light Inn, in hopes of rescuing Cal and Lia.
His Cal and Lia.
Those splendid, infuriating idiots.
Perhaps he was the idiot here, though, Rolan thought to himself as he approached a distinctly non-Moonrise Tower-looking building. Squat and square, it appeared to be a tavern.
Wandering from one taproom to the next; of course he’d managed such a spectacular failure.
Lia had always ribbed him about his terrible sense of direction.
Oh, Lia… Thinking about her was like a knife to the gut.
He felt his sense of duty pulling him away from the tavern, compelling him to resume his search for Moonrise…
… And yet… he turned back towards the dilapidated building.
His wounded ego could use another balm.
Who knows, maybe there could be something there; a strong enough alcohol to renew his courage to wander into the wastes.
… Or put him out of his misery entirely.
He’d take either, at this point.
With a determined lack of self-preservation, Rolan stepped through the ramshackle doors, making his way inside the tavern. The few zombified patrons were… disturbing, to say the least, but seemed to pose no threat, keeping to themselves as they shambled about their designated regions of the pub.
If there were patrons… then… was there a…?
“You!” Rolan was startled by a deep, booming voice, calling to him from the bar rail. “Come!”
He looked in the direction of the voice, unable to keep himself from starting at the monstrosity that had spotted him from across the decrepit taproom.
Bloated and filthy, a rotting seam trailing down its swollen belly, sewn together by… gods-knew-what… Rolan was repulsed.
Of course the barkeep of such a tavern would be a nightmare incarnate.
Of course.
“Customer.” the thing was definitely speaking to him. Its coweled face was looking his way, dashing any hopes Rolan had that it was speaking to any of the other ‘patrons’ of the establishment. “Here. Drink.” It produced a tankard from beneath the bar, filling it from the massive keg on its back.
Oddly hospitable for a monstrosity.
“Go on. Drink. Wet your whistle. Tell your story.”
Surely, one drink couldn’t hurt. Rolan approached the bar and hopped onto the stool, wondering when its dusty surface had last seen a patron’s rear end before his own. He looked at the massive tankard before gripping its handle, struggling to raise it single-handedly to his lips.
The acrid, bile-tasting brew nearly knocked him off of his barstool, consuming his senses as it burned its way down his gullet, making his tail curl before going pin-straight.
“Now…” the monstrous barman’s voice rumbled, vaguely menacing, “… Tell me a story, a fable, a saga.”
A story… Rolan fought back the spinning behind his eyes and took a breath.
“I’ve always been a gifted wizard,” he began, “tinkering with things here and there, making something from nothing…” Rolan traced a finger along the filigree ornamentation on the tankard, its surprising delicacy a stark contradiction to its surroundings.
He told the story of putting on little shows for his siblings; silly little pantomimes to make Cal stop crying at night when he missed their mother. He recounted creating coloured lights and tiny illusory figures that flickered in and out of existence as he tried to channel his magic into a sort of controlled puppetry… How they often flailed instead and ended up collapsing all upon each other as Lia heckled him for faltering in his storytelling, interrupting his concentration.
He didn’t use their names, of course, referring to Cal and Lia as “my brother” and “my sister”, feeling a pang in his chest every time he did.
When he finished his tale, he looked up at the massive, ghoulish barkeep.
“Stories of times past…” the monstrous thing appeared… moved? “… Of family…” Rolan watched it raise a hand to its face, wiping at its cheek with an… oddly dainty motion, uncharacteristic of such a beast. “I have them, too.” It set its massive hand down on the bartop once again, taking hold of its drink.
“You… you do?” Rolan didn’t mean to sound incredulous, though the thing didn’t seem to notice. Or, at least, if it had, it showed no sign of taking offense.
“Long gone. No more.” It sounded… melancholy. “Now, I drink.” As if to illustrate, it raised its own tankard, gulping down a mouthful and leaving a wet stain on its muslin cowl. “… More stories. Tell me… of battles won, of foes bested.”
“Another story…” Rolan drummed his fingers on the bar.
“Yes,” the creature said. “But first… Drink.”
Rolan eyed his drink with uncertainty, giving his head a resigned little shake before hefting the tankard to his lips and taking another sip, feeling it burn its way down his throat and settle uncomfortably in his stomach.
“Now tell.”
Swallowing again in an attempt to salve the burning at the base of his gullet, Rolan nodded and began his second story:
“I come from Elturel: A city of eternal sun.” He smoothed his hair back. “And as such, children were out at all hours of the day and night, running around the Dock District in little tribes, like hellions. My ‘tribe’—if it could even be called that, it was so small—was just myself, my brother and my sister. It was just the three of us, against the world.” He felt his lips quirk into a quasi-smile at the recollection.
The thing was silent, listening intently.
“Given that we were so… few in number, we often found ourselves… in conflict with others,” Rolan said. “My poor brother was often the target of… harassment, shall we say.” He cleared his throat. “And one day, I decided enough was enough.” He proceeded to tell a lurid tale of the battlefield of childhood, his valiant efforts to save Cal from a group of bullies: Callous human boys that grabbed at his horns and yanked at his tail, hard enough to bring the boy to tears. Rolan felt his chest swell with pride as he recounted grabbing the ringleader by the back of the shirt and using a rudimentary thunderwave spell to send him and his compatriots tumbling into the Chionthar, smiling to himself at the recollection of justice served at last.
His tale complete, he looked up at the globular bartender to gauge its reaction. It was glowering at him, the wet muslin sucking into its mouth with displeased breaths.
“… Little devil man lies,” it grunted, taking another quaff from its tankard and slamming it down on the bartop with a bang that made Rolan flinch. “I will give one more chance.” It spoke down at him, its voice a growl of warning. “Tell the truth of this tale.”
Caught in his lie, Rolan shrunk in his seat, feeling like a child once again. “Y-you’re right… I lied.”
“Which brother was caught?” He felt its eyes boring through the top of his skull. “Which brother did the saving?”
“I… I was the caught one,” Rolan admitted, “… and my brother did the saving. He grabbed the ringleader and shoved him into the river.”
There was a rumble of approval from above him, and Rolan’s sense of impending doom abated, somewhat. “Truth in all things. No deceit.” It picked up its tankard to drink, but hesitated, placing it back down. “… One more story. True from the start.”
Rolan could think of no more stories, no more fanciful tales of childhood valour.
… No more happy endings.
And so he told the only story on the tip of his tongue: The Fall, the Return, the Exile… the harrowing journey from Elturel. He spoke of the hostility of the Druid’s Grove, the journey into the Shadow-Cursed Lands…
… The ambush. Zevlor’s betrayal. Stepping up to save lives while their leader capitulated and their people were slaughtered like livestock. His ultimate failure in his one true moment of bravery: His inability to save Cal and Lia; running with the survivors in one direction as his siblings were dragged off, screaming, in another.
Rolan was silent for a long while after telling his third tale, taking a large gulp of the astringent spirit and fighting back the urge to immediately retch it back up.
The monstrous barman hummed. “Three stories with ‘brother’, ‘sister’.” Its voice was oddly soft. “Tell me. Names.”
“Cal,” Rolan responded immediately. “… and Lia.” He heard his voice crack at his sister’s name.
“Taken?” Its tone was inquisitive.
“To Moonrise.” Rolan didn’t know why he was answering so readily; had his drink been spiked with some sort of truth serum?
… Or was he just a scared and guilty little boy, so desperately grasping for the barest hints of compassion that he’d take it from such a… beastly creature?
It made a soft noise. “Father’s tower…”
Father’s…?? Rolan scarcely had the time to register what the barkeep had said before it slapped the bartop, shooting a cloud of dust into the air between them.
“South of here.” It turned, pointing to what was assumedly the proper cardinal direction. “Go now. Seek them out.”
Rolan wasted no further time. His belly roiling with drink, he hefted himself off of the stool and dashed for the exit, turning to look at the massive barkeep one last time before running headlong back into the darkness.
“Return again… with a happier tale.”