The Rusty Tankard

There are roads less traveled and there is the bustling highway between Aigure and Tenai but the mountain pass to Guren is a unique road. The rough adventurers that brave the Mergai Mountains possess but one refuge, the inn on the Mergai road. The road itself is not wayed by more than embassies and supply wagons, and yet, with the end of each winter comes an abundance of capable hands to clear the gathered snow.

For the road is the lifeblood of The Rusty Tankard. For many of those laboring hands this squat edifice is their life, for the rest their repose, and for all a link to the lowland world.

At the door under the sign of the mottled mug enter rogues of every sort. Each of them wrenches the heavy oak portal out upon its hinges, the lesser of build often struggling with its weight. It is made to withstand more than the fierce mountain climate but also the ravenous forces within. Eyes blinded by the thick musk of weed and minds clouded with hard ale, they are an unruly sort. The innkeep’s greatest security is his battle axe leaned against the back of the counter, seconded by the three rowdy companions who ever occupy the table betwixt bar and door.

The stiff furnishings of the common room are the veterans of many a war fought upon this plain. Scarred as they are, these assorted tables and chairs are the ones with strength to survive. They stand the victors of a blood stained field. The walls are a patchwork of closed over windows and frame repairs. They too have grown strong as battle scars have appeared. They too are stained with the blood of combatants.

Always new faces occupy tables and crowd the bar, only the weakest of urchin rogues and the three hired fighters, and I, remain constant. The urchins are the ones I despise most. They strike forth into these mountains and they are defeated by them. But they could not return home, could not admit their pitiful state. And so they reside here, forever leeching and picking pockets, they are the instigators of many a fight and I would see them all ejected if barkeep Geran would allow it.

But he will not, he is all too secure behind his heavily armed bodyguards: Pern, Feldar, and Haynde. They are only urchins of a larger sort. I watched them arrive with another, already sharing a flagon of Aigure wine. The ale was too much for them and they departed with drunken yells that they would conquer these mountains. I was watching still when they returned, their number reduced by one. They have not since departed, they are bound here by their need of spirits, the same demon that killed their friend. Their beer soaked muscle is not nearly sufficient to hold back the strong that come rarely from out of the mountains.

Even they are not what once roamed these mountains. Before this inn could ever have existed, we adventurers strode into this island of wilds in the midst of civilization, driving the orcs back to their holes.

But those days are no more.

The self-proclaimed “mountain men” hunt game more than foes. They grow rich on furs where we once raided the hordes of dragons. I can see on all of their faces the monotony that has replaced exhilaration as they trudge in to await the ale carts that carry their gains back to the lowlands. Those selfsame carts bring with them the only fire they feel within. No longer do they burn with the zeal of conquering. I suppose I pity them, these businessmen of a rougher sort.

But they were never my kin, all of my kind left after we built the inn. The rising generations of my kind rarely enter this range any longer, and those that do are quick to depart. Only I remain, defending the inn, but I cannot bear to stay among the slime much longer. Always my palm rests on the pommel of my long sword, letting its magic calm my buried rage that I draw it not.

Still, amid the sorrowing monotony I can find humor, however rare. For embassies between the mountain-divided nations often stop a night in the tavern when need of haste pushes them this route. They are the finely dressed butterflies over a sea of vicious grunge and have no safe place to land. Their haughty guards in shining armor find their arrogance stiffly humbled.

A fight is inevitable as one drunken rogue or another challenges the foes and every diplomatic group retreats early to bed. Often times Pard yells after them, calling for the cowards to return and answer his challenge.

Pard has long been The Rusty Tankard’s resident champion. His challengers grow fewer and fewer and he has grown grossly obese. Few buy him drinks any longer, for this is no normal tavern, he has no crowd of fans. I predict his life will end very soon, he will not be replaced. No, he will die sleeping in his corner and eventually his stench will rally a group to heave his weighty corpse through the door, if he still fits.

“Ha ha ha, but you have humored an old dog’s ire too long. I have not yet discovered why you are here, invading the small table I have preserved for myself in this corner, or who you are. Your armor is fine, but hidden, and you have a warrior’s manner. I suspect you are one of those who will leave this place very soon.”

You smile at him amusedly, offering a name but too humored to produce much else.

“Well that’s a fine title, I do not recognize it, if that’s what you’re waiting for. Come now, your errand, or let me return to my brooding.”

You explain to him that you have come to garner his blade, swiftly relating the reason before he can explode into his frenzied questions.

“The rumors are true then! Orc hordes are indeed rising beside ogres in the Northern wilds. And you are here to personally guide me to the fight? Then let us immediately depart.”

He springs to his feet, striding eagerly ahead of you to the bar. You follow slowly, glad at his enthusiasm for the cause.

“Geran, twenty gold if you can spare it.”

“Twenty it is,” the barkeep answers with an incredulous look your way. “Going to do some gambling? I owe you hundreds after all this time, more, as you don’t drink.”

“Twenty is fine, and a haunch if you can.”

“There it is,” Geran offers, dropping the greasy shank atop the tarnished coins.

“Thank you, and good luck,” he says, shadowing your steps to the door. Already you are glad for his addition to the mission in the North as his first spell for the effort hastens both your steps down the road out of the mountains and on to adventure.