Sprouting Keg Tavern ---------- (Indoors) (Cover: Fair) When Gamlon Seamel established the crossroads village of Silkfield nearly six centuries ago, he entered a partnership with Lannak Lomasa to build and manage this tavern: The Sprouting Keg.
With walls of polished shardwood, a riverstone floor strewn with amber rushes and silky husks, the tavern has a V-shaped biinwood serving counter and about two dozen tables beneath angled rafters. The fireplace can be found in the corner common area, where weary travelers can sit in chairs without tables and contemplate the flames while they relax and talk.
"No doubt," Yanarie says politely. She nods her agreement to Ester, and then, rather than leave, she moves with swift and certain steps to the bar near Forrest. "Bring me some food," she calls to the 'tender, "the best you have. I've had a long ride."
Forrest removes a single coin from his pocket, and spins it on the table, staring as the candlelight flickers across the table.
Forrest stops the coin, listening as it clatters to its side.
The Lady waits patiently until a platter arrives, at which point she passes money over across the bar and takes her place on a stool. She smiles at Forrest, openly, her lips a quizzical pink bow. "Good evening, Mister," she says to him. "I've a question for you, if I might?"
Ester Shardwood pulls her cloak around her and follows the nobleman out.
Forrest looks up at her face, and smiles strangely. "I've hardly had the pleasure of acquaintance with one like yourself, my lady. If I can help you in any way, please allow me."
"Of course, goodman," Yanarie Zahir tells the man comfortably, "I would not imagine you'd the opportunity. Tell me, have you heard any rumours of danger on the roads of late?"
Forrest rubs his head, and meets the lady eye to eye. "As I was passing from the Palace District, I saw a quarry. Nothing out of ordinary, save it was all red. I didn't think nothing of it, till this day. You all mentioned something to that nature."
"Red? A stoneman's quarry?" Yanarie says with a puzzled lowering of her brows. Taking her dagger from her belt, she slices off a piece of meat and stabs it with the point. She nibbles, contemplatively, while awaiting her answer.
Forrest frowns. "Eh, well, by the river, near the Lightholder Crossing. Under a bridge, if that helps. I don't like tidings like this. Although in my line of work, it defintely had the scent of blood. Could just be anything though. Some prank."
Forrest looks up with a concerned gaze. "I hope everything is well with you though. I couldn't help overhearing the conversation, if you pardon my listening."
The huntress shrugs easily and freely. "Blood is no matter to me. This," she says, gesturing with her dagger and the meat impaled thereon, "left blood in the woods somewhere when it was slain." When Forrest speaks again, she frowns. "Evesdropping?"
Forrest clears his throat and looks a bit embarrassed. "In my line of work, ma'am. A thousand apologies."
With little warmth, the Zahir noblewoman says, "what is your line of work, pray tell?"
Forrest struggles out a smile, and then folds his hands on the table. "Well, my mother tells me to bring home the meat every night, so I got a bow and some little shafts. But moreso, I take to the pen."
Forrest's voice seems to waver through the silence. "I, uhh, write stories. Fanciful things, stuff to take by the fireside and chat about, more like. My mother tells me it's a useless activity, and the barman here," he whispers, "believes it's a useless art one day." He raises his voice. "I believe I'll be rich and famous one day, Ma'am, so it seems right to me."
"Perhaps," answers Yanarie somewhat neutrally. She slices off another piece of meat and lifts it on her dagger. "For you, however, it is skill that will make you or break you. For all of us that's true, in fact, but it's more evident with you. How is it you make your coin?"
Forrest sighs, and then removes the coin from his pocket. "This, my lady," he says with a certain tasteless quality about his voice, "is through skins and pelts. Been a hunter most of my life. These woods around here, and around my mother's house."
"I am a hunter," Yanarie comes Yanarie's reply, and her voice lifts in pride with boldness and a trace of distaste, "you do not like the art?"
Forrest shakes his head. "No, lady, only wish my coin could be earned in hearts and not skins. I admire the hunt, relish in the shadows of the trees, and can't stand horses by the most of me. The run and the silent waking are a high thrill of being human." He shrugs. "Although I am no hero, and wish to be. The people in my stories are, by the Light, and they deserve to be. Hopefully, one day, I'll rise out of this meager peasanthood with a higher inclined state of affairs, if you know my meaning. Get a nice home by the river, a servant or two. And a nice title, a nice title."
Both of the noblewoman's brows shoot up at once. She leans faintly away from Forrest, perhaps consciously or perhaps not, and leans her dagger against her plate. "You are a peasant?" she asks with distaste in her voice.
Forrest chuckles, and then states in a calm voice, "Nay, only a metaphor, lady. Meaning that I haven't a keep, and that I still earn my coin by that which I cannot help. Name is Forrest Wineburn, lady, citizen of this fair hamlet of a city, Silkfield." Forrest slips the coin back into his pocket, and leans against his fists.
Down come the fair brows of the Zahiress, and down her pink mouth remains. "Grand ambitions," she tells the man, "and it has never happened. And it never will. The Lady Aylora was an example to us all in that regard."
Forrest looks up into the rafters, and then returns his gaze. "Ah, I do doubt that it shall never happen. Either way, I'll spin my stories and see what comes of it. Is that not the beauty of life, lady? That we can aspire beyond ourselves, and achieve what's written on the face of the clouds?"
"That is not the beauty of life. Still, you're wordy enough to make a bad, if I don't miss my guess," the noblewoman says to Forrest in a casual voice. "You might even do well in it."
Forrest smiles darkly, his eyes settling calmly over the tip of his nose. "Surely you have aspirations, lady. More than what's written on your crest."
The pink smile which curls over Yanarie's face is superbly confident and completely serene. "My aspirations are fitted to my skill and station. I've no delusions as to either."
The windows of the tavern shudder in a breeze of wind. Forrest looks down and sighs. "Lady, your station does not make who you are, and your skill could never represent the breadth of your being. It is only the beginning. To think otherwise, you would have sworn off life."
Amusement filters into the spark of Yanarie Zahir's eyes, and she lets forth a ringing chuckle. "You, g'man, are presumptuous in the extreme. You need a bard's leeway, lest your tongue be cut from you someday," she says, and though her tone is light she seems in earnest.
Forrest scratches his head mindfully. "Such distress..." He looks up for a moment, and bursts into a smile. "I have not the touch of a bard's song, but I do wonder... no... it is not in my station, as you say." He pauses. "I do hope I can come to convince you, if you happen in this tavern again. Perhaps not this day, as it is reigning late, and perhaps we are both tired.
"It's wise to have an excuse." The Zahir woman stabs the last slice of roast up from its platter and rises to her feet. "I wish you light, g'man, and wisdom. I believe you will need both," she says in farewell.
Forrest raises his eyes at the noblewoman's leaving. "It was the trick of the gods, that told us that men could be separated by the sand of the earth..." He raises his voice in farewell. "I do hope you have a wonderful ride home, lady! Take care to follow the path. As the Lord Seamel has said, there are dark things afoot."
"Gods?" Yanarie says, echoing the word in sudden alarm. With a glance to see who else might be listening, she turns on her heel and quickly exits the tavern.
With walls of polished shardwood, a riverstone floor strewn with amber rushes and silky husks, the tavern has a V-shaped biinwood serving counter and about two dozen tables beneath angled rafters. The fireplace can be found in the corner common area, where weary travelers can sit in chairs without tables and contemplate the flames while they relax and talk.
"No doubt," Yanarie says politely. She nods her agreement to Ester, and then, rather than leave, she moves with swift and certain steps to the bar near Forrest. "Bring me some food," she calls to the 'tender, "the best you have. I've had a long ride."
Forrest removes a single coin from his pocket, and spins it on the table, staring as the candlelight flickers across the table.
Forrest stops the coin, listening as it clatters to its side.
The Lady waits patiently until a platter arrives, at which point she passes money over across the bar and takes her place on a stool. She smiles at Forrest, openly, her lips a quizzical pink bow. "Good evening, Mister," she says to him. "I've a question for you, if I might?"
Ester Shardwood pulls her cloak around her and follows the nobleman out.
Forrest looks up at her face, and smiles strangely. "I've hardly had the pleasure of acquaintance with one like yourself, my lady. If I can help you in any way, please allow me."
"Of course, goodman," Yanarie Zahir tells the man comfortably, "I would not imagine you'd the opportunity. Tell me, have you heard any rumours of danger on the roads of late?"
Forrest rubs his head, and meets the lady eye to eye. "As I was passing from the Palace District, I saw a quarry. Nothing out of ordinary, save it was all red. I didn't think nothing of it, till this day. You all mentioned something to that nature."
"Red? A stoneman's quarry?" Yanarie says with a puzzled lowering of her brows. Taking her dagger from her belt, she slices off a piece of meat and stabs it with the point. She nibbles, contemplatively, while awaiting her answer.
Forrest frowns. "Eh, well, by the river, near the Lightholder Crossing. Under a bridge, if that helps. I don't like tidings like this. Although in my line of work, it defintely had the scent of blood. Could just be anything though. Some prank."
Forrest looks up with a concerned gaze. "I hope everything is well with you though. I couldn't help overhearing the conversation, if you pardon my listening."
The huntress shrugs easily and freely. "Blood is no matter to me. This," she says, gesturing with her dagger and the meat impaled thereon, "left blood in the woods somewhere when it was slain." When Forrest speaks again, she frowns. "Evesdropping?"
Forrest clears his throat and looks a bit embarrassed. "In my line of work, ma'am. A thousand apologies."
With little warmth, the Zahir noblewoman says, "what is your line of work, pray tell?"
Forrest struggles out a smile, and then folds his hands on the table. "Well, my mother tells me to bring home the meat every night, so I got a bow and some little shafts. But moreso, I take to the pen."
Forrest's voice seems to waver through the silence. "I, uhh, write stories. Fanciful things, stuff to take by the fireside and chat about, more like. My mother tells me it's a useless activity, and the barman here," he whispers, "believes it's a useless art one day." He raises his voice. "I believe I'll be rich and famous one day, Ma'am, so it seems right to me."
"Perhaps," answers Yanarie somewhat neutrally. She slices off another piece of meat and lifts it on her dagger. "For you, however, it is skill that will make you or break you. For all of us that's true, in fact, but it's more evident with you. How is it you make your coin?"
Forrest sighs, and then removes the coin from his pocket. "This, my lady," he says with a certain tasteless quality about his voice, "is through skins and pelts. Been a hunter most of my life. These woods around here, and around my mother's house."
"I am a hunter," Yanarie comes Yanarie's reply, and her voice lifts in pride with boldness and a trace of distaste, "you do not like the art?"
Forrest shakes his head. "No, lady, only wish my coin could be earned in hearts and not skins. I admire the hunt, relish in the shadows of the trees, and can't stand horses by the most of me. The run and the silent waking are a high thrill of being human." He shrugs. "Although I am no hero, and wish to be. The people in my stories are, by the Light, and they deserve to be. Hopefully, one day, I'll rise out of this meager peasanthood with a higher inclined state of affairs, if you know my meaning. Get a nice home by the river, a servant or two. And a nice title, a nice title."
Both of the noblewoman's brows shoot up at once. She leans faintly away from Forrest, perhaps consciously or perhaps not, and leans her dagger against her plate. "You are a peasant?" she asks with distaste in her voice.
Forrest chuckles, and then states in a calm voice, "Nay, only a metaphor, lady. Meaning that I haven't a keep, and that I still earn my coin by that which I cannot help. Name is Forrest Wineburn, lady, citizen of this fair hamlet of a city, Silkfield." Forrest slips the coin back into his pocket, and leans against his fists.
Down come the fair brows of the Zahiress, and down her pink mouth remains. "Grand ambitions," she tells the man, "and it has never happened. And it never will. The Lady Aylora was an example to us all in that regard."
Forrest looks up into the rafters, and then returns his gaze. "Ah, I do doubt that it shall never happen. Either way, I'll spin my stories and see what comes of it. Is that not the beauty of life, lady? That we can aspire beyond ourselves, and achieve what's written on the face of the clouds?"
"That is not the beauty of life. Still, you're wordy enough to make a bad, if I don't miss my guess," the noblewoman says to Forrest in a casual voice. "You might even do well in it."
Forrest smiles darkly, his eyes settling calmly over the tip of his nose. "Surely you have aspirations, lady. More than what's written on your crest."
The pink smile which curls over Yanarie's face is superbly confident and completely serene. "My aspirations are fitted to my skill and station. I've no delusions as to either."
The windows of the tavern shudder in a breeze of wind. Forrest looks down and sighs. "Lady, your station does not make who you are, and your skill could never represent the breadth of your being. It is only the beginning. To think otherwise, you would have sworn off life."
Amusement filters into the spark of Yanarie Zahir's eyes, and she lets forth a ringing chuckle. "You, g'man, are presumptuous in the extreme. You need a bard's leeway, lest your tongue be cut from you someday," she says, and though her tone is light she seems in earnest.
Forrest scratches his head mindfully. "Such distress..." He looks up for a moment, and bursts into a smile. "I have not the touch of a bard's song, but I do wonder... no... it is not in my station, as you say." He pauses. "I do hope I can come to convince you, if you happen in this tavern again. Perhaps not this day, as it is reigning late, and perhaps we are both tired.
"It's wise to have an excuse." The Zahir woman stabs the last slice of roast up from its platter and rises to her feet. "I wish you light, g'man, and wisdom. I believe you will need both," she says in farewell.
Forrest raises his eyes at the noblewoman's leaving. "It was the trick of the gods, that told us that men could be separated by the sand of the earth..." He raises his voice in farewell. "I do hope you have a wonderful ride home, lady! Take care to follow the path. As the Lord Seamel has said, there are dark things afoot."
"Gods?" Yanarie says, echoing the word in sudden alarm. With a glance to see who else might be listening, she turns on her heel and quickly exits the tavern.