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In this Discussion
The Tavern
Links121995
Beta Tester, Authorized Creator
From the wizard who brought you the award-winning This Huscarl (100% of one reviews were positive) comes another story inspired by Pirates Vikings and Knights!
Normally, a day behind the bar of a tavern involved serving drinks and collecting money. Sometimes a patron would drink too much, and attempt to buy more ale. Knowing what happens when somebody drinks too much, a responsible bartender is obligated to turn the drunken fool away. On the first day, this is almost what happened...
It had been a quiet day, what with the unexplained and sudden appearance of dark clouds and light rain. Most people had decided to quickly return to their homes, as the rain showed no signs of letting up or going away. There were still a few people in the tavern, quietly drinking away, when suddenly...
The tavern door opened to reveal an old man in a green shirt and an iron helmet with a spear on his back. He looked... Tired. He walked up to the apron-wearing bartender, and asked for some ale.
The bartender gave him some, and accepted a few gold coins in exchange. Nothing unusual so far. Warriors came in all the time. Loud, obnoxious, and eager to part with their... Earnings...
Although, they weren't usually so old. Nor did they usually go to an empty table and sulk. This is what caught the attention of the bartender.
After the man's third mug, the bartender casually overheard the man mumble something about "Valhalla" and something else about "Odin."
Now, loud and obnoxious warriors were always coming in, and it wasn't hard to overhear various stories that sometimes involved those exact names. The stories that did involve things like Odin and Valhalla invariably involved hordes of blood-thirsty Vikings.
Then it hit the bartender. An obvious weapon. Foreign words. A strange accent. He quickly checked the coins that he'd been given, and found that they were from all over the place. That was it then. This old man was a Viking.
What was he going to do? What was the Viking going to do?! He couldn't simply ask him to leave, he might burn the place down! But he could have done that first... He might burn it down in a drunken rage! Something had to be done! But what?
The bartender subtly retreated as far away from the old man as possible, hiding behind the the decorative beer keg on the counter. This didn't help him for long, however.
"Innkeeper! Bring me more ale!"
If there was one thing the bartender knew, it was that you didn't keep drunken warriors waiting when they asked you to bring them more ale. So he filled up another mug, and brought it to the Viking's table.
The Viking accepted the ale, and gave the bartender some more of those mis-matched coins. Just as the bartender was turning around to beat a hasty retreat, one of the tavern's more average patrons spoke up:
"Oi, you're not from around 'ere, are you?"
The bartender rapidly picked up speed as he nonchalantly sped behind the bar once more.
Things did not look good back at the tables. The Viking had decided to stand upon his none-too-stable legs, instead of simply turn around.
"I come from the land of ice and snow." he said in his deep old-man voice.
Taking this as a kind of challenge, the other man stood up.
"What, you're from Iceland? You one of those Vikings?"
Taking this as yet another challenge, the old man took a shaky step forward and said:
"No, I am not a Viking. For Vikings die in glorious battle, and I have not died yet!"
The Viking was quite obviously annoyed at this foolish young man, who was only just beginning to see how stupid angering a drunken Viking really was.
He began to stammer, but failed to speak as the reality of his terrible idea caught up to him. His eyes darted around, looking for... ANYTHING. He eventually located the front door.
The Viking was not caught off guard when the man charged at him, but he was drunk, and old, and he was also expecting a punch, rather than a push. His partial dodge worked against him as he went down to the floor.
The door slammed into it's frame, and was left swaying in the wind as the slightly-drunk man dashed off into the night. The bartender hesitated for only a moment, before hurrying over to the fallen Viking, and helping the old man back to his still shaky feet.
He didn't get a chance to do or say anything before the Viking grabbed his spear, and charged out after the other man, shouting to him:
"Face me! I'm just a harmless old man! Come on, you veakling!"
The bartender was glad to have the Viking out of his establishment, but he couldn't shake off the feeling that this wasn't over.
He had no idea of just what was coming next.
On the second day, a cold wind was blowing, in addition to the already excruciatingly mind-numbing grey skies and drizzle.
Everything was normal. Until the flaming arrow flew through the front window.
Being a man of many drinks, the bartender had some water on hand to douse the flames. No sooner had a calamitous inferno been averted than a man carrying a bow rushed in.
He looked around frantically for a moment, before addressing the bartender:
"Hark! Has thou perchance witnessed any a- oh there it is..." he cut himself off when he noticed the arrow that was lodged firmly in the wall. He pried it loose, and placed it back in his quiver.
"Bit of a close call eh what? Ta ta!" Said the strangely high-pitched Archer as he made a move for the door. He didn't quite make it, however, because another man clad in a full suit of armor pushed it open and exclaimed to the room at large that:
"We have prevailed!" He thrust his sword skyward. "Huzzah!"
The Archer seemed inspired by this turn of events. "Huzzah indeed my friend! I believe this calls for a drink! Bar-keep! A round of ale, for everyone!"
It wasn't too long before they were merrily singing away.
What with all the drinks they were buying for everybody, it wasn't much longer before the other few people present had joined in.
All in all, despite the flaming arrow, it had been a good day. The two warriors had left shortly after everyone else, slurring something about seeking the REAL Holy Grail.
As he locked his doors and settled in to sleep, the bartender didn't notice the wind getting a little stronger, or the rain getting a little harder.
As a tavern owner, he sometimes found a person that was in need of a room for a night. Or a day. On the third day, somebody was looking for a room, but not necessarily to sleep in it.
Almost nobody except his nearest customers had turned up that day. The weather was just too bad. This didn't stop one man from turning up though.
He was wearing a deep red waistcoat, and he sported a moustache. He also had the most charming smile...
"Ah, senor. Is there a room for rent here?"
The bartender was caught off-guard by the man's deep voice and apparently-Spanish nationality, but he was only stunned for a moment before replying:
"Y-yes. But it's not free."
The Spaniard rolled his mesmerizing eyes and procured a single solid-gold coin. It was larger than average.
"Er... That should do." He said, taking the coin. "It's the room at the end of the hall upstairs."
The man-with-a-tan nodded and casually took to the stairs. The bartender was completely oblivious to the man's guns. Must have been that dashing smile...
Of course, without the man's face to distract him, it was easy enough to hear the periodic bangs that kept coming down through the ceiling. Being a man of drinks, rather than violence, he wasn't very happy that a paying customer was using his tavern as a sniper's perch. He resolved to go up there and give him a piece of his mind.
Not once as he climbed the stairs, did he doubt that his idea was a good one.
"Hey! I didn't sell you this room so you could shoot people from it! Either put the gun down, or... Or..."
That is, until he actually tried to speak to the gunner, who simply glared at him from his comfortable spot by the window. THEN he had a doubt or two.
"... How about... I just shoot Y-"
Thus, the second arrow in as many days entered the tavern. The dashingly-handsome man was now as dead as a dead man. The bartender shoved him out of the window after he got over the initial shock of being threatened in his own bar. Wait a moment...
He forgot to take the man's gold coins! Tsk. At least he didn't get shot.
After something good happens to somebody, they might decide to celebrate with a pint. Or a mug. Or two. Or, in some cases, become a one-man party. This is what happened on the fourth day.
Thunder could now be heard in the distance. The bartender had decided to clean up his cellar. Just in case things got even worse. It's not like he was going to miss any customers, seeing as there weren't any.
"OI! Where's the rum 'round 'ere?!"
Except that one.
He jogged up the stairs in an orderly manner and greeted his new customer. A short man in a red and white stripey shirt, dirty trousers and a keg on his back.
"Yes? Can I get you something to drink?"
"Aye! Fill this up, would ya?"
The man tossed a two-handled cup to the bartender. It didn't look all that special, but he filled it up anyway.
Big mistake.
Not only did the filthy bare-foot man not pay him, but he got progressively more drunk as time went on. He got louder, crazier, more active and more jovial with each increasingly-inaccurate swig.
Just before the bartender ran out of patience, the red-capped man sat bolt upright from his position on the floor, looked directly through the front door, grabbed a pistol from seemingly no-where, and charged out the door with a cry of:
"LADS, REGROUP!"
The bartender's mood picked up considerably, even if he was slightly befuddled. He became even more befuddled when he noticed the cup that had been left behind by that crazy man.
You see, it was still full.
Intrigued, the bartender approached the cup. Far from it's uninteresting appearance earlier, it was now literally GLOWING... He reached out to it...
*BARTENDER HAS GAINED THE GROG CUP FOR THE PIRATES*
He didn't know what just happened, what it meant, or why it happened at all, but he DID know that it wasn't good. No matter how much healthier he felt. All too soon he was proved right by a voice outside:
"Ah ha! The salty scum is hiding in the tavern! Men! To me!"
They were coming for him! Without hesitation, he fled down to his cellar and locked it's door. There he waited.
"Face me coward, or else I shall rend this door with mine sword!"
He didn't budge.
"Very well."
With that, the cellar's door was unceremoniously ruined by a large two-handed sword.
"I have you now, filthy pira-... What's this? Bar keep? Why do you have the Pirate's Trinket?"
"I-I-I-I don't know! That man just left it here! I don't want it! What do I do!?"
"You unhand the wretched thing, and leave it be!"
He dropped it immediately.
*PIRATES HAVE LOST THE GROG CUP*
"Th-that's it? Really? I just had to drop it?"
"Aye, now try not to let me catch you holding the weapons of the enemy again."
"Y-yes si-AAH!"
The cup had disappeared, right in front of his eyes!
"Oh, it's always vanishing. Black magic no doubt. Worry not my good fellow, for I shall seek it out in God's name. Farewell!"
The Knight turned smartly on his well-armored foot, and left.
The bartender felt that he needed a strong drink...
On the fifth day, the rain had become significantly stronger, as had the wind. Far from a dark night, lightning was crashing around the town like a drunkard in a cart drawn by none-too sober horses.
The bartender was not the least bit startled when the Archer and Knight came rushing into his tavern, again.
"Hail! Might we evade the storm awhile?"
He wasn't too keen on letting them stay, but it WAS a tavern.
"Very well. There are rooms upstairs and a cellar through that door. If you want a drink, then you'll have to stay in here."
"Excellent! I am most surely deserving of a bed after this dreadful business. This should pay for it."
He gave the bartender some coins. They were the usual currency. A refreshing change.
Just as the Knights reached the top of the stairs and started planning how to best defend the area, the door opened again.
"Brothers, this way! We can take refuge in this place!"
That voice... That BEARD! It was the old man from a few days ago!
"We should be FIGHTING! Not RUNNING AWAY!"
"We cannot fight in such a storm, those damned Pirates would only fool us into striking each other."
Another one!? Between the increasing sound of the storm and the three Vikings, the bartender was almost overwhelmed!
"At least Thor is lending us a hand! Ah haa!"
"Aye. I want to be far, FAR away from those amateurs when they are struck down."
"Quickly, inside here!"
The eldest was beckoning the other two down into the cellar.
"Running away AND hiding... This makes me MAD!"
He certainly looked mad, but he still followed his companions.
No sooner had the door to the cellar shut than the door to the outside opened once more, and revealed another old man, this time in a red coat and a tricorne. He didn't look happy, or the slightest bit out of place. He was closely followed by the short man from yesterday, and the Spanish man from the day before.
"Are ye sure they came in here, boy?"
"Yes, and- OI! You stole our grog!"
"Oh ho, it's you! I forgot to pay you for the room..."
Just as the devilishly-handsome sniper pulled out his pistol, a creak was heard from the stairs.
"Ah ha! We meet again, pirates! Only ones such as yourselves would care to threaten defenseless barkeepers!"
Before the Pirates could formulate a cutting-edge retort, the cellar door opened to reveal the largest of the three Vikings.
"I thought I heard you, and now I have you! VALHALLA!"
The Berserker charged, the Archer shot, the Pirates dived, the Heavy Knight fell down the stairs, and the bartender hid behind the counter.
Thus began the battle, of the breakable tavern.
Normally, a day behind the bar of a tavern involved serving drinks and collecting money. Sometimes a patron would drink too much, and attempt to buy more ale. Knowing what happens when somebody drinks too much, a responsible bartender is obligated to turn the drunken fool away. On the first day, this is almost what happened...
It had been a quiet day, what with the unexplained and sudden appearance of dark clouds and light rain. Most people had decided to quickly return to their homes, as the rain showed no signs of letting up or going away. There were still a few people in the tavern, quietly drinking away, when suddenly...
The tavern door opened to reveal an old man in a green shirt and an iron helmet with a spear on his back. He looked... Tired. He walked up to the apron-wearing bartender, and asked for some ale.
The bartender gave him some, and accepted a few gold coins in exchange. Nothing unusual so far. Warriors came in all the time. Loud, obnoxious, and eager to part with their... Earnings...
Although, they weren't usually so old. Nor did they usually go to an empty table and sulk. This is what caught the attention of the bartender.
After the man's third mug, the bartender casually overheard the man mumble something about "Valhalla" and something else about "Odin."
Now, loud and obnoxious warriors were always coming in, and it wasn't hard to overhear various stories that sometimes involved those exact names. The stories that did involve things like Odin and Valhalla invariably involved hordes of blood-thirsty Vikings.
Then it hit the bartender. An obvious weapon. Foreign words. A strange accent. He quickly checked the coins that he'd been given, and found that they were from all over the place. That was it then. This old man was a Viking.
What was he going to do? What was the Viking going to do?! He couldn't simply ask him to leave, he might burn the place down! But he could have done that first... He might burn it down in a drunken rage! Something had to be done! But what?
The bartender subtly retreated as far away from the old man as possible, hiding behind the the decorative beer keg on the counter. This didn't help him for long, however.
"Innkeeper! Bring me more ale!"
If there was one thing the bartender knew, it was that you didn't keep drunken warriors waiting when they asked you to bring them more ale. So he filled up another mug, and brought it to the Viking's table.
The Viking accepted the ale, and gave the bartender some more of those mis-matched coins. Just as the bartender was turning around to beat a hasty retreat, one of the tavern's more average patrons spoke up:
"Oi, you're not from around 'ere, are you?"
The bartender rapidly picked up speed as he nonchalantly sped behind the bar once more.
Things did not look good back at the tables. The Viking had decided to stand upon his none-too-stable legs, instead of simply turn around.
"I come from the land of ice and snow." he said in his deep old-man voice.
Taking this as a kind of challenge, the other man stood up.
"What, you're from Iceland? You one of those Vikings?"
Taking this as yet another challenge, the old man took a shaky step forward and said:
"No, I am not a Viking. For Vikings die in glorious battle, and I have not died yet!"
The Viking was quite obviously annoyed at this foolish young man, who was only just beginning to see how stupid angering a drunken Viking really was.
He began to stammer, but failed to speak as the reality of his terrible idea caught up to him. His eyes darted around, looking for... ANYTHING. He eventually located the front door.
The Viking was not caught off guard when the man charged at him, but he was drunk, and old, and he was also expecting a punch, rather than a push. His partial dodge worked against him as he went down to the floor.
The door slammed into it's frame, and was left swaying in the wind as the slightly-drunk man dashed off into the night. The bartender hesitated for only a moment, before hurrying over to the fallen Viking, and helping the old man back to his still shaky feet.
He didn't get a chance to do or say anything before the Viking grabbed his spear, and charged out after the other man, shouting to him:
"Face me! I'm just a harmless old man! Come on, you veakling!"
The bartender was glad to have the Viking out of his establishment, but he couldn't shake off the feeling that this wasn't over.
He had no idea of just what was coming next.
On the second day, a cold wind was blowing, in addition to the already excruciatingly mind-numbing grey skies and drizzle.
Everything was normal. Until the flaming arrow flew through the front window.
Being a man of many drinks, the bartender had some water on hand to douse the flames. No sooner had a calamitous inferno been averted than a man carrying a bow rushed in.
He looked around frantically for a moment, before addressing the bartender:
"Hark! Has thou perchance witnessed any a- oh there it is..." he cut himself off when he noticed the arrow that was lodged firmly in the wall. He pried it loose, and placed it back in his quiver.
"Bit of a close call eh what? Ta ta!" Said the strangely high-pitched Archer as he made a move for the door. He didn't quite make it, however, because another man clad in a full suit of armor pushed it open and exclaimed to the room at large that:
"We have prevailed!" He thrust his sword skyward. "Huzzah!"
The Archer seemed inspired by this turn of events. "Huzzah indeed my friend! I believe this calls for a drink! Bar-keep! A round of ale, for everyone!"
It wasn't too long before they were merrily singing away.
What with all the drinks they were buying for everybody, it wasn't much longer before the other few people present had joined in.
All in all, despite the flaming arrow, it had been a good day. The two warriors had left shortly after everyone else, slurring something about seeking the REAL Holy Grail.
As he locked his doors and settled in to sleep, the bartender didn't notice the wind getting a little stronger, or the rain getting a little harder.
As a tavern owner, he sometimes found a person that was in need of a room for a night. Or a day. On the third day, somebody was looking for a room, but not necessarily to sleep in it.
Almost nobody except his nearest customers had turned up that day. The weather was just too bad. This didn't stop one man from turning up though.
He was wearing a deep red waistcoat, and he sported a moustache. He also had the most charming smile...
"Ah, senor. Is there a room for rent here?"
The bartender was caught off-guard by the man's deep voice and apparently-Spanish nationality, but he was only stunned for a moment before replying:
"Y-yes. But it's not free."
The Spaniard rolled his mesmerizing eyes and procured a single solid-gold coin. It was larger than average.
"Er... That should do." He said, taking the coin. "It's the room at the end of the hall upstairs."
The man-with-a-tan nodded and casually took to the stairs. The bartender was completely oblivious to the man's guns. Must have been that dashing smile...
Of course, without the man's face to distract him, it was easy enough to hear the periodic bangs that kept coming down through the ceiling. Being a man of drinks, rather than violence, he wasn't very happy that a paying customer was using his tavern as a sniper's perch. He resolved to go up there and give him a piece of his mind.
Not once as he climbed the stairs, did he doubt that his idea was a good one.
"Hey! I didn't sell you this room so you could shoot people from it! Either put the gun down, or... Or..."
That is, until he actually tried to speak to the gunner, who simply glared at him from his comfortable spot by the window. THEN he had a doubt or two.
"... How about... I just shoot Y-"
Thus, the second arrow in as many days entered the tavern. The dashingly-handsome man was now as dead as a dead man. The bartender shoved him out of the window after he got over the initial shock of being threatened in his own bar. Wait a moment...
He forgot to take the man's gold coins! Tsk. At least he didn't get shot.
After something good happens to somebody, they might decide to celebrate with a pint. Or a mug. Or two. Or, in some cases, become a one-man party. This is what happened on the fourth day.
Thunder could now be heard in the distance. The bartender had decided to clean up his cellar. Just in case things got even worse. It's not like he was going to miss any customers, seeing as there weren't any.
"OI! Where's the rum 'round 'ere?!"
Except that one.
He jogged up the stairs in an orderly manner and greeted his new customer. A short man in a red and white stripey shirt, dirty trousers and a keg on his back.
"Yes? Can I get you something to drink?"
"Aye! Fill this up, would ya?"
The man tossed a two-handled cup to the bartender. It didn't look all that special, but he filled it up anyway.
Big mistake.
Not only did the filthy bare-foot man not pay him, but he got progressively more drunk as time went on. He got louder, crazier, more active and more jovial with each increasingly-inaccurate swig.
Just before the bartender ran out of patience, the red-capped man sat bolt upright from his position on the floor, looked directly through the front door, grabbed a pistol from seemingly no-where, and charged out the door with a cry of:
"LADS, REGROUP!"
The bartender's mood picked up considerably, even if he was slightly befuddled. He became even more befuddled when he noticed the cup that had been left behind by that crazy man.
You see, it was still full.
Intrigued, the bartender approached the cup. Far from it's uninteresting appearance earlier, it was now literally GLOWING... He reached out to it...
*BARTENDER HAS GAINED THE GROG CUP FOR THE PIRATES*
He didn't know what just happened, what it meant, or why it happened at all, but he DID know that it wasn't good. No matter how much healthier he felt. All too soon he was proved right by a voice outside:
"Ah ha! The salty scum is hiding in the tavern! Men! To me!"
They were coming for him! Without hesitation, he fled down to his cellar and locked it's door. There he waited.
"Face me coward, or else I shall rend this door with mine sword!"
He didn't budge.
"Very well."
With that, the cellar's door was unceremoniously ruined by a large two-handed sword.
"I have you now, filthy pira-... What's this? Bar keep? Why do you have the Pirate's Trinket?"
"I-I-I-I don't know! That man just left it here! I don't want it! What do I do!?"
"You unhand the wretched thing, and leave it be!"
He dropped it immediately.
*PIRATES HAVE LOST THE GROG CUP*
"Th-that's it? Really? I just had to drop it?"
"Aye, now try not to let me catch you holding the weapons of the enemy again."
"Y-yes si-AAH!"
The cup had disappeared, right in front of his eyes!
"Oh, it's always vanishing. Black magic no doubt. Worry not my good fellow, for I shall seek it out in God's name. Farewell!"
The Knight turned smartly on his well-armored foot, and left.
The bartender felt that he needed a strong drink...
On the fifth day, the rain had become significantly stronger, as had the wind. Far from a dark night, lightning was crashing around the town like a drunkard in a cart drawn by none-too sober horses.
The bartender was not the least bit startled when the Archer and Knight came rushing into his tavern, again.
"Hail! Might we evade the storm awhile?"
He wasn't too keen on letting them stay, but it WAS a tavern.
"Very well. There are rooms upstairs and a cellar through that door. If you want a drink, then you'll have to stay in here."
"Excellent! I am most surely deserving of a bed after this dreadful business. This should pay for it."
He gave the bartender some coins. They were the usual currency. A refreshing change.
Just as the Knights reached the top of the stairs and started planning how to best defend the area, the door opened again.
"Brothers, this way! We can take refuge in this place!"
That voice... That BEARD! It was the old man from a few days ago!
"We should be FIGHTING! Not RUNNING AWAY!"
"We cannot fight in such a storm, those damned Pirates would only fool us into striking each other."
Another one!? Between the increasing sound of the storm and the three Vikings, the bartender was almost overwhelmed!
"At least Thor is lending us a hand! Ah haa!"
"Aye. I want to be far, FAR away from those amateurs when they are struck down."
"Quickly, inside here!"
The eldest was beckoning the other two down into the cellar.
"Running away AND hiding... This makes me MAD!"
He certainly looked mad, but he still followed his companions.
No sooner had the door to the cellar shut than the door to the outside opened once more, and revealed another old man, this time in a red coat and a tricorne. He didn't look happy, or the slightest bit out of place. He was closely followed by the short man from yesterday, and the Spanish man from the day before.
"Are ye sure they came in here, boy?"
"Yes, and- OI! You stole our grog!"
"Oh ho, it's you! I forgot to pay you for the room..."
Just as the devilishly-handsome sniper pulled out his pistol, a creak was heard from the stairs.
"Ah ha! We meet again, pirates! Only ones such as yourselves would care to threaten defenseless barkeepers!"
Before the Pirates could formulate a cutting-edge retort, the cellar door opened to reveal the largest of the three Vikings.
"I thought I heard you, and now I have you! VALHALLA!"
The Berserker charged, the Archer shot, the Pirates dived, the Heavy Knight fell down the stairs, and the bartender hid behind the counter.
Thus began the battle, of the breakable tavern.
Comments
Agsma is me from the future
_________________________________________
With nothing but alcohol to keep him alive during the sleepless five minutes that he spent under the counter of his own bar, the bartender found himself slightly drunk. If there's one thing a drunken state grants a person, it's stupidity.
With a grossly-misplaced, yet still somewhat dramatic gesture, the bartender unfolded himself upwards, held his right hand aloft, and exclaimed to the fighting factions:
"This 's MY bar. I've given ya'll DRINKS an' ROOMS and I've taken yer WEIRD MONEY and I've 'ad JUS'. ABOUT. ENOUGH. Now GET OUT OF MY BAR!"
The assorted warriors temporarily stopped fighting, to consider the man's proposal.
Most of them had indeed experienced a fine drink in this place, only to come back and tear it apart, and for what? The same rivalry that they've always had in desolate, unpopulated areas. Places where nobody really cared about what was going on in terms of military skirmishes. Yet here they were, ruining a perfectly fine public-drinking house. One that they had all managed to appreciate.
They all felt obligated to respect this man's property, and one by one, left through the front door. The Pirates didn't really feel all that guilty, but the people they were fighting with were leaving.They didn't have much choice.
When the last Pirate had left after giving one last scowl and unknowingly activating LTS_Town, the bartender decided to go to sleep.
But first he'd have to get to the stairs. Not an easy task, considering that the floor looked like some kind of half-finished stone building with all the scaffolding removed.
There were flagpoles and tunnels and doors and lights down there that he'd never known about. Surely it wouldn't hurt to poke around a bit?
He jumped down a few blocks worth of tavern-matter (the base material of all taverns) and suddenly realized that he was too old to be jumping around in strangely-blocky environments. Thus, he climbed down the last few cubes.
He wanted to look around, he really did, but that fact that his tavern was almost completely disconnected from the ground caused him to faint, as a kind of defense mechanism against the shattering of all his beliefs.
He woke up the next day, in his bed, with a headache. Drinking under pressure will do that to a man. He vaguely remembered something about a vast space underneath his tavern, but that could never have happened. When he went to check, the floor was in an acceptable condition, and a chest of coins had been placed by the counter.
Hmm. The Knights must have been victorious. Again.
The sky was clear, he had a nice little retirement fund, his bar was fixed, and he was still alive. But just as the bartender was about to enjoy a Pirates, Vikings, and Knights-free existance, another man burst through his front door. He seemed quite out of breath.
Weidling a halberd, and dressed in blue clothes with additional leather armor, the new arrival had a very frustrated look on his face. He looked left, he looked right, and his expression softened slightly.
"Mon dieu, again? I missed zem again!? Tell me mousoiur, is it zat any knights passed zis way?"
The bartender braced himself for another day of weapon-based silliness.
"Yes, you've just missed them. You can ask somebody else for where they went, because right now, I don't care anymore..."
With that, he went back upstairs to try and sleep-off his headache before people came to his tavern for an actual drink.
The latest arrival was feeling extremely irritated. He'd been trying to catch up to that accursed Spaniard for months, and each time he thought he had him, the greasy Pirate had slipped away.
Regardless, he'd just have to press on... Wait... Was that, the Knight's seal on that chest? By the Lord, it was! They must have won this area's skirmish before moving on... Now where would they go? The winning faction always started making headway towards their own goals after a victory, so the Knights must have been heading towards... He pulled out a map and saw that yes! They were heading to a nearby church! Although, it was a considerable way up the side of a mountain...
But they'd get there somehow, and by God, he'd be there to meet them!
The End.
I'm glad that you think it's fun. That's what I was going for. I can't imagine that the people making all that chattering in LTS_Town are very happy about the factions duking it out in their square, and what better place to draw attention to this than the breakable tavern?
Also, that's THIS Huscarl to you, mate.
By 'simple' I didn't mean it should be more complex, my intention was to point it as a positive. Maybe 'yet' word made a little confusion. As you said, by being simple there is no problem in understanding what's going on. I, honestly, do not like to force brain to do any other 'hard' work (like thinking too much) while reading. It should be relaxing and enjoyable activity.
Y'know, I meant it as a positive too. Making up more than can be put down would, cause the story to be about the tavern, the town, and the bartender. Not quite what I would have wanted at all. It's those exaggerated and dramatic character personalities that make the story and the game interesting! (the gameplay just makes it fun.)
The bartender, while technically the main character, doesn't get too much spotlight. He's not dramatic, or over the top. In fact, in his most courageous scene, he's not even brave. He's just drunk.