Ale, Banter, and Bloody Truths

By the time Morgana stepped out of the Adventurer’s Guild, she’d noticed the stares. People weren’t exactly subtle. Wide eyes, quick glances, mothers pulling their children closer. She looked down at herself. Right. Blood. Dirt. Smelling like something a pack of wolves would avoid.

“Yeah… this’ll make me real popular at the bar,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “Bath first, beer later.”

It didn’t take her long to make it home, dump her gear in the entryway, and strip down for a quick soak in the tub. The water turned pink almost immediately, the layer of grime sliding off her skin. 

Her muscles sighed at the heat, and she let herself sink in until only her nose and eyes were above the surface.

Once clean, she dressed in something a little more civilized; black trousers, a fitted blouse with long sleeves. Not intentional, but it covered her magical tattoos nicely. Hair brushed, a touch of shine on her boots, she was ready for the evening.

Willow’s Hearth smelled like roasted meat and warm bread when she stepped through the door. A cozy hum of conversation filled the air. 

She was halfway to the bar when she froze. There, seated near the fire, was a walking headache in shining armor. Avric Greycastle.

Her stomach sank. Of course he’s here. Why wouldn’t the holy boy be in the one bar I pick? 

She pivoted smoothly toward the door, already mapping out her escape route, when his voice cut through the hum of the tavern.

“Excuse me, miss Wildrider? Wait a moment!”

She froze, plastering on a gentle look before turning. Avric was on his feet, waving her over like they were old friends. Crossing the room with that soft, earnest smile heroes seemed to be born with.

“I wanted to apologize for what happened this morning,” he said.

Her brow arched. “Apologize? For what?”

“For… well… the way I looked. I must’ve scared you off, covered in blood and dirt like that.”

For a second, she could only blink at him. Then, laughter burst out of her, sharp and unrestrained. It was so loud that a few heads turned. She doubled over, clutching her side, eyes watering. 

Alric just looked at him, confused, not sure what he should do or say in that situation. He looked adorable. When she finally caught her breath, she grinned at him.

“You thought I bolted because of some measly blood?” she said, voice dripping with amusement. “Honey, we women bleed more than that each month.”

Across the room, two men at Avric’s table were openly watching. One, a lean young man in priest’s robes, beamed like he’d just found a new favorite spectator sport. The other, a thick-armed dwarf with a barrel chest, laughed so hard he nearly tipped his mug.

Avric, meanwhile, flushed crimson. “Ah… I—”

He stared at her, clearly blindsided. Morgana, meanwhile, was having an excellent time realizing he wasn’t about to smite her into oblivion. 

Well, so much for the paladin radar theory. Guess holy boy here couldn’t sense evil if it bit him in the ass.

She leaned in slightly, her smile turning sly. “Tell you what, Mr. Paladin. If you want to apologize, there’s an easy way. Just buy me a drink.”

That earned a cheer from the dwarf, who slapped the priest’s shoulder. “Hah! She’s got some fire, Avric lad. Ye’d best do as the lass says, or I’ll be buyin’ her a pint meself.”

Avric sighed but chuckled. “Alright. Come meet my friends.”

As they reached the table, the priest leaned back with a chuckle. “So this is the mystery woman who left our Avric speechless this morning?”

Borik thumped a fist to his chest. “Name’s Borik Stonefist, lass. And don’t let me size fool ye! I’ve dropped ogres twice me height.”

Morgana shook his hand, grinning. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Both of them seems to be serving this Lady Alvara in the holy order of Everlight’s Radiance Avric mentioned when he introduced himself this morning.

Although Morgana quickly noted they didn’t have quite the saintly glow Avric carried around like an accessory. The priest had the easy look of someone who enjoyed poking at authority, and Borik had all the self-restraint of a boulder rolling downhill.

Considering that he is a dwarf, not so surprising.

“Tomas,” the priest added, tapping his chest in greeting. “Pleasure to meet the woman bold enough to make our golden boy blush.”

Avric groaned. “I don’t blush that easily.”

Borik leaned forward, looking very amused. “Lad, yer face was redder than a forge fire when she made that… er… monthly remark.”

Tomas snorted into his ale, and Morgana gave an exaggerated sigh. “And here I thought I’d be the only one teasing him tonight. Guess I’ll have to work harder to keep up.”

“Oh aye, lass,” Borik chuckled, his accent rolling like gravel in a barrel, “ye’ll fit right in at this table.”

Borik slammed back the rest of his ale and wiped his beard with the back of his hand. “So, lass, what brings ye to Willow’s Hearth? Don’t often see newcomers drinkin’ here unless they’re lookin’ to loosen their coin purse.”

Morgana leaned back, sipping her drink lazily. “I heard the beer was better than the watered-down piss they serve in most inns. Figured I’d see if the rumors were true.”

Tomas chuckled. “Careful, Borik, sounds like she might drink you under the table.”

“Aye,” Borik grinned, “and I’d let her. She’s got the look of a lass who knows how to hold her liquor.” Boris then gazed at Avric. "Unlike someone."

Avric cleared his throat, trying to steer the conversation away from his friends ganging up on him again. “We were just… catching up after returning from the frontlines. It’s been a long few weeks.”

Morgana tilted her head, feigning casual curiosity. “Frontlines? As in the war with demons?”

Tomas nodded, the curl on his lips disappearing. “That’s the one. It’s been… different lately.”

Borik’s jovial tone dimmed as well. “Aye. The bastards’ve been pushin’ harder. Nothin’ like the usual skirmishes. They’re hittin’ us in waves, fast, organized, like they’ve got somethin’ to prove.”

Avric rested his forearms on the table, eyes distant. “They’ve always been aggressive, but this last month… something’s changed. Their morale’s higher. They fight like they can’t afford to lose. I’ve even heard a few of them shout something before dying.”

“What kind of something?” Morgana asked, letting just enough interest creep into her voice to seem like idle conversation.

“For the Dark Lady,” Avric said slowly, “or… the Demon Queen. Depends on the dialect, I suppose. I’m not sure what it means, but the soldiers think it’s some kind of rallying cry.”

'For the Dark Lady?' What is this, Warcraft? And why do I have a bad feeling about this?

Borik grunted. “Bah, sounds like superstitious shite. But whatever it is, it’s workin’. They’re pressin’ our lines harder than I’ve seen in years.”

Tomas swirled his drink. “Rumor among the higher-ups is they’re after some place deep in the contested lands. Old ruins, apparently. No idea why.”

Morgana kept her face neutral, swirling the ale in her tankard. Inside, she was already connecting dots she didn’t even realize were forming. Ruins… morale boost… Demon Queen… sounds like a bad plot hook.

Avric sighed. “The only good news is we’ve been holding the line. But the cost…” His jaw tightened. “We’re losing people faster than we can replace them. Every push we repel leaves us weaker for the next.”

Borik set his mug down with a heavy thunk. “And every bastard we send back ta the abyss seems ta be replaced by two more. It’s like choppin’ weeds with a blunt axe.”

Morgana let a small smirk creep in. “Sounds exhausting. Good thing I’m just a humble adventurer and not on the frontlines, huh?”

That earned her a dry chuckle from Tomas. “Trust me, you’re not missing much. Mud, blood, and nights so cold you start making deals with gods you don’t even believe in.”

The tension at the table eased slightly, but the shadow of the conversation lingered. Morgana sipped her drink, filing every word away.

Borik took a long pull from his mug, then shook his head as if to banish the gloom. “Bah, enough o’ that doom and gloom talk. We’re supposed to be drinkin’, not writin’ bloody obituaries.”

Tomas cracked a smile after so long and leaned toward Morgana. “So, tell us, how does a ‘humble adventurer’ like you end up drinkin’ with the likes of us? Avric must’ve worked some magic.”

Morgana smirked and patted Avric’s arm in mock admiration. “Oh, absolutely. His charm is irresistible. I almost fainted when he said ‘hello.’”

Avric groaned, already seeing the two grinning idiots across the table latch onto the bait.

“Careful, lad,” Borik said with a wink, “sounds like she’s fishin’ for more than drinks.”

“I am,” Morgana said brightly, lifting her tankard. “Another round.”

The table laughed, even Avric, though his cheeks still held a faint blush.

As the night wore on, the talk drifted back to safer topics. Funny stories from the road, minor gripes about city life, and Borik’s rather animated rant about the scandalous price of dwarven ale outside his homeland. 

Morgana chimed in here and there, enjoying the easy banter but keeping her guard up all the same.

When the candles on the wall sconces burned low and the tavern’s noise softened to a low murmur, she stood and stretched. “Well, gentlemen, it’s been enlightening, and mildly entertaining, but I need sleep. Got work tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, Morgana,” Avric said, polite as ever.

Borik raised his mug in farewell. “Sleep tight, lass. Don’t let the bedbugs bite. Or better yet, if they do, bite ‘em back.”

With a last smirk, Morgana turned on her heel and left, the cool night air greeting her as she stepped outside. Inside her mind, the war talk still echoed. But for now, she filed it away. There’d be time to worry about it later.