The last five days had been long and hard on the trio. Chagrin and Morag worked on rebuilding the lost furniture, reattaching the lights and fitting fresh windows while Tyth repainted and organised.
There had scarcely been time to train Chagrin on correct bar service, or floor service, or anything else required of him during the short servitude required of him.
The deliveries had been coming in for days - replacing everything that had been stolen, destroyed, gone out of date or had been victim to Chagrin's insatiable thirst.
"One last touch." Keith smiled proudly as he set the milk crate down on the floor in front of Chagrin and held out the apron.
"That's fucking humiliating." Chagrin looked down at the crate, then up at the apron. He eyed the fire.
"Come on, Chagrin, you agreed to help me out. It's just for a few days until I can get a replacement sent over. One of Brian's brothers agreed to come out and help, we just have to wait for him to get from Mithra. Take out your frustrations on me later, my love."
Chagrin wasn't sure he would be able to - he'd had a lot of frustration to take out over the last few nights. And mornings. And afternoons, evenings - pretty much all the time. This was hateful to him. At least he could get Keith to do most of the work.
But Keith had already opened the doors, and the first customer was already beelining for the bar.
From his place at the end of the bar, signing invoices between mountains of other paperwork, Keith's eyes followed Chagrin's every move.
"Welcome to the Lyre of Orpheus. What can I get for you?" Chagrin's eyes could barely be seen over the oak bar top, even on his tiptoes.
Keith had, at least, had time to teach him the preferred greeting during Chagrin's many visits to the pub.
"Alright, mate? I'm just deciding." He walked up and down the bar, taking his time to read the label of each bottle on display. Chagrin followed.
"Can I have-"
"We've got mead, stout, ale, wine, elfin wine, cherry wine, cherry beer, wheat beer, pilsners, apple cider, raspberry cider, blackberry cider, cherry cider, pear cider-"
"Great! Can I have-"
"Excuse you, I haven't finished. We've got whiskey, honeyed whiskey, cinnamon whiskey, moonshine, gin, spiced gin, fruit juice, schnapps and a large selection of herbal teas."
Chagrin blinked up at him. Waited for him to open his mouth to order.
"We've also got nuts."
"I'll just have two of the ales, thanks." The man leaned on the bar. Chagrin's eyes narrowed.
"Which one? We've got like five."
"That one." The man pointed at one of the badges attached to the pumps.
"Do I look like one of those x-ray vision, magic using twats?"
"Two pints of the Morningstar IPA." The customer bristled.
Chagrin blinked.
"Please." He added on, subdued by the threat of service being refused.
Chagrin's narrow eyes seemed to sink as he returned to the balls of his feet, fetched the milk crate, positioned it, and reappeared as he climbed on top.
He grabbed the nearest pint glass, wrapped his left hand around the pump marked Morningstar IPA, 6.9%, 2 silver and pulled down sharply. Ale covered the front of his apron.
"Push it back slowly so the box fills up, then tilt the glass at a forty-five degree angle underneath the tap and pull slowly. Just like that."
Taking care not to pull too sharply, he over-poured both pints and left no trace of bubbles on top. Puddles formed beneath them as the beer broke free. He took no care in how carefully he put them down.
"That'll be four…ten silver pieces please."
"That's extortionate!"
"It's Morningstar IPA. It's 6.9%, made with cascade, target and golden hops and has a well balanced, citrus aroma and a smooth malty base made to balance perfectly with the sharpness from the citrus. Ten. Silver. Pieces."
"Fine, can I have a portion of orc scratchings as well? I'll just sell an arm, or a kidney, shall I?"
"What the fuck is an orc scratching?"
"Like pork scratchings, but orc. It's literally right there in the name."
Chagrin turned on his milk crate to look at Keith with eyes widened in horror.
"Tell me you didn't."
"What else was I meant to do? They're a delicacy in some parts. That's pretty much all that survived The Bucket of Blood. They're already so salty that they didn't need much work - and they last for ages. I don't know what I'll do when they run out, people come from all over for those. They're kind of a secret menu thing, though. I've got a couple of orc patrons and I don't know how they'd feel about me selling orc scratchings…"
"Call them what they are, man. They're the charred flesh of your friends! Have you no shame?"
"I once watched you minesweep for three days straight!"
"Yes, Morag stole my money. I had shame, I just had no money. Or alcohol."
"Can I get the orc scratchings or not?"
"Why don't you have a portion of fuck off and do one?"
Huffing, the man took the pints from the bar and made to leave. Clearing his throat, loudly so his anger would truly be expressed, Chagrin asked the first patron if he'd forgotten anything.
Reaching into his pockets, the man counted ten silver pieces before returning to the bar.
Then placed them on the tops of the pumps, just out of Chagrin's reach - even with the help of the milk crate.
"Since the prices are so steep."
"You're barred. Dickhead."
"What did you say to me?"
"I killed a dragon. Keep walking, mate."
"Chagrin -"
"He made a short joke! What do you expect me to do? You're going to allow that?"
"Chagrin, they're the source of my entire income. When they say something truly bad - then you can bar them. Not before. And only with my approval."
Chagrin narrowed his eyes. More customers through the door signalled his escape. Two adults and a child. Keith berating him was tuned out. This was perfect. Chagrin watched them over the bar, as they walked in, sat down, picked up menus and remove their coats. They expected table service. They stared, right at where Keith stood. Seemingly talking to himself. Perfect.
"Do you think we should help?"
Sitting on the bank of the nearby river, Morag and Tyth had unpacked a miniature feast. They weren't needed at the pub and couldn't have handled any more of Chagrin's bitching and shenanigans and hare-brained schemes even if they'd been paid.
"We could do that…Or we could stay here and not do that." Morag kicked off her shoes to make a point of which way she had cast her vote.
Tyth pushed his spectacles a little further up his nose, and shooed a butterfly away from himself.
"Yeah, go on. Pass the cheese."
For them, late morning passed into late afternoon, the sun forging their path from the open air of the river bank to the shade of a nearby tree. Bickering, laughing, accompanied by the languid water, the occasional surfacing of a fish.
The day passed almost as smoothly for Chagrin, and infinitely less so for Keith.
Chagrin had thrown all of his energy into every customer that passed the threshold of the Lyre of Orpheus. He had only dropped the first four bottles of wine. Three plates of food in the first four hours. Hell, it had taken almost six hours spilling moonshine and whiskey on himself before his apron accidentally caught fire.
All Keith had had to say for it was that maybe Chagrin was a little bit nervous, maybe he should take the rest of the day off. It was only five p.m.
"Seriously, I can't go back yet. He's driving me crazy!" The sun was almost down, and insects had started singing for the moon. Blissful, that was the only way Tyth could describe that moment.
"You're already crazy, Tyth."
"Rude."
"Can't I have one more day of peace without Chagrin?
"Rude." Crashing through the bushes, Chagrin stomped across the grass to their groans as he settled beside them. "I'm a delight to be around, I'll have you know."
"Aren't you meant to be working? Why do you smell like…is that smoke? What did you do?"
"My original plan didn't work."
"Get fired on the first day?"
"If anyone could get themselves fired on the first day, it's definitely you. Seriously, why do you smell like smoke?" Tyth chimed in, reaching into the basket and pulling out an apple. Juice ran down his chin.
"See! Thank you Tyth! I knew it was a good plan. But it didn't work. So I planned to do something else. We're leaving."
"What did you do? We have to go back!"
"Nothing, yet. But tonight, we're leaving."
Tyth's hands flexed in the grass. One day, that was all he asked for. The lush greens of the river bank, growing red in the sunset, melted with his dreams.
"I won't even ask about the secret you're keeping from me if we go tonight. Because all offence to you, Tyth, but let's face it. You two definitely aren't shagging. So let's go and deal with whatever stupid quest the world throws at us next. I'm sure we'll find one."
Morag spluttered, tried to convince Chagrin that they were knocking boots, and there was no other secret. Tyth swallowed the last of his apple.
"Morag's half sister is getting married and refuses to go because her father hates her."
"You traitor!" She aimed several sharp blows at Tyth's shoulder and torso, wherever she could reach. "Actually all of them hate me, and I hate them too! That's a perfectly acceptable reason to not go!"
Chagrin's face brightened. The grin spread slowly, and neither Morag or Tyth believed it was a good thing.
"That is perfect! Free booze, free food, hopefully a free show too - perfect!"
"I'm not going."
"Then we'll go as your envoys. Come along, Tyth."
Jumping up, brushing the grass and crumbs from his trousers, Tyth took one last look at the river. He pulled his boots on. Morag threw herself down onto her back and, sighing loudly, she rubbed her face.
"Can we at least send help for Keith? God knows what state you're going to leave him in." She wouldn't have to be the only one that suffered.
"Satisfied. I will leave him satisfied."
"Oh, I was having such a lovely day."
Chagrin crashed into the room, breathing heavily and buckling his belt.
"Come on, hurry up. Can't you pack any quieter? I don't want him to hear us and try to break free! Pack all of it. I have a plan." He whispered as loudly as he could, considering simply shouting at them instead for all the good it was doing. Hurrying over to the basin, he rinsed his arms and face, and dabbed at a suspicious stain on his left knee.
Tyth and Morag rushed round, the latter still weighing up her desire to leave this place and her desire to stay and help with the absolute nightmare of going home.
Throwing their bags together was difficult, they had picked up so many new things while looting the unconscious patrons.
"Your plans always end horribly. You're the reason we're in this mess, don't think that getting us out if it is going to be just as easy."
"What makes you think stealing horses is easy? It took so long to get one horse, I was sure I'd get caught taking the second. Don't even get me started on the cart, those things weigh a tonne with or without wheels!"
Tyth and Morag stopped packing. Blinked at each other. Both shook their heads - it wasn't worth it, not today. They ended up wrapping their things in pillow sheets, towels, whatever they could find, and heaving it all out in a bed sheet each.
Chagrin took Morag to the woods with him to retrieve the cart. She could see better in the dark than Tyth could, and it was a tricky path to the cart. It took them twenty minutes to get back to the pub, and Tyth was nowhere to be seen. The front door was wide open. Chagrin drew his crossbow and stole silently up the steps, Morag at his heels. They peered through the door. A single figure, rushing quietly about the pub. Chagrin aimed. Morag pushed the crossbow down and stepped in.
"Tyth? What are you doing?"
"We can't just leave. If we let Chagrin piss off everyone, we won't get any more quests and I happen to like this pub. We'll make it look like there was a fight. Morag, you and I will pretend to kidnap Chagrin. It will explain the horse theft, the cart, and our disappearance."
Chagrin puffed himself up.
"Well, I am very kidnappable. We might as well turn the lights on."
Lighting a candle, Chagrin and Morag stepped back in awe.
Blood pooled on the floor, scattered off in some places. Tables and chairs had been flipped, and one of Tyth's old cloaks ripped to shreds. The charred remains of an apron melted onto the grate of the fire. A bottle, with some sort of clear spirit, in Tyth's hand as he aimed at a wall. While his grin was gleeful, it was menacing in the light of a single candle.
"Is this a massacre or a kidnapping?"
"Owlbear blood. I had to use two vials! Get ready to start shouting, and bang your weapons about."
"If we're going to do this, we'd better do it right." Morag wore a grim smile. She pulled her arm back, made a fist, and let it fly.