Meara, the Tavern Keeper

The big man clenched his jaw, his scarred face twisting with malice. For a heartbeat, it seemed like he might strike—until a voice rang out from behind the bar.

"Hey!" Every head turned toward the bar. A red-haired girl, a little shorter than Sylvanie, stood there with her arms folded. "Grog!" she snapped, stomping forward. Her brown boots thudded across the tavern floor, and her black, white, and navy barmaid uniform swayed with each step as her blue eyes narrowed at the oversized man.

Oreon blinked for a moment. "Lena?" His eyes rose to the sound of her voice as he caught her stomping towards them.

Lena—the barmaid—stopped just short of Grog and planted her hands on her hips, glaring up at him despite the height difference. "Are you deaf, or just stupid today?" she snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Grrr… Nosey kid." Grog turned his head slowly toward her, his expression shifting from anger to annoyance. "Stay outta this, brat. This ain't none of your business—"

"No—but it is mine." A new voice cut in from the back, and the tavern fell still. Every patron turned toward the kitchen door, where an older woman stood beneath the frame. Thick auburn hair, streaked with gray, framed her weathered face, and a tired sharpness lingered in her brown eyes. Though age showed in her posture, the lean muscle in her arms made one thing clear: she was far from helpless. Her gaze swept the room, resting on Oreon for only a moment before shifting to Grog and his men.

The older woman advanced with slow, measured steps. Age clung to her frame, but so did a presence heavy enough to make even Grog retreat half a step.

"Now then..." she said softly, her voice carrying authority without needing volume. "Would someone care to explain why my establishment is on the verge of becoming a brawling pit?" Her gaze swept over Grog and his companions before settling on the large man. "Well? I know I spoke loud enough."

"Meara... I..." Grog's bravado faltered, though he tried to keep his stance firm. "We were just—" he stammered, looking far less intimidating than he had moments ago.

"Just what?" the old woman cut in, her tone deceptively gentle. "Harassing paying customers? Turning my tavern into a spectacle? Or starting a fight that would leave my furniture broken and blood on my floor?"

Grog opened his mouth, then shut it again as red crept across his face. "I... they're elves, Meara," he finally muttered, jerking a rough gesture toward Celestia and Sylvanie. "Slaves, by the look of 'em. It ain't right, them walkin' in here like—"

"Like what?" Meara cut in, her brown eyes narrowing. "Like people? Like paying customers looking for a room and a meal?" She took another step forward, hands clasped loosely behind her back. "This is my establishment. I decide who's welcome here—not you."

Grog's mouth opened and closed a few times, his scarred face reddening. "I—Come on! Ya can't be serious, Meara! This boy here walked in with—"

"I can see exactly who came through my door," Meara cut in, her brown eyes narrowing. "And unless you've somehow become the owner of this establishment, I don't remember asking who you think belongs here."

Grog clenched his jaw, pride struggling against the weight of who stood before him. Even so, his defiance did not fade. "Meara... they're knife-ears. You know they aren't—"

"Say it again," Meara warned, her voice lowering as the air in the room turned heavy. She stepped closer to Grog, craning her neck to glare up at him despite the height between them. "Go on, repeat yourself; I swear I believe with my old age; my hearing isn't what it used to be."

Grog swallowed hard, his bravado collapsing beneath Meara's stare. He shifted uneasily, glancing at his companions—only to find them all suddenly fascinated by the floor.

I... I didn't mean..." He stammered, his voice losing its edge entirely.

"Didn't mean what?" Meara pressed, giving him no room to retreat. "To insult my guests? Threaten violence in my tavern? Make a fool of yourself in front of everyone?" She let the silence stretch for a moment. "Because you managed all three in only a few breaths."

The tavern remained quiet—only the crackling sound from the fireplace could be heard.

Lena stood off to the side, arms crossed and wearing a satisfied smirk as she watched Grog squirm beneath Meara's stare.

Sylvanie felt a flicker of respect for the elderly woman. She glanced at Celestia, who met her eyes briefly—there was surprise there too, as she tried to maintain a neutral composure.

Oreon, still supported between the two elves, let out a slow breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"Now then," Meara continued, her tone returning to normal. "Before you take your poor mannerisms out of my tavern, clean up that spit off my floor."

Grog's face darkened from red to near purple, his humiliation complete. For a moment, he looked ready to argue, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides—but one glance at Meara's unwavering expression crushed whatever protest was forming.

"You...You can't be serious—" he started, but Meara raised an eyebrow, making it abundantly clear that she was, in fact, deadly serious.

"Would you rather I ban you for good?" she asked mildly, as if discussing the weather. "Because I assure you, Grog, I'd do it without hesitation. Your coin spends like anyone else's, but it isn't worth the trouble you bring with it."

Grog's jaw worked in silence, pride warring with common sense. At last, he grunted, bent stiffly, and wiped at the spit with a rag from his pocket—a half-hearted effort, but just enough to meet the bare minimum of Meara's demand.

"There," he muttered through gritted teeth as he straightened. "Happy?"

"Overjoyed," Meara replied flatly, her expression unmoved. "Now leave—and take your friends with you. I have no patience for disrespect in my tavern."

Grog's scarred face twisted with anger and humiliation, but even he knew better than to test Meara further. With a sharp jerk of his head, he signaled his men. They scrambled up at once, eager to escape before things worsened. "...Come on. Let's get out of here before the knife-ears cast a spell on us or something," he spat in disgust.

As they headed for the door, Grog paused just long enough to fix Oreon with a venomous glare. "This ain't over, runt—not by a long shot," he said, his voice low enough for only Oreon and the sisters to hear.

"Looking forward to it," Oreon replied flatly, holding Grog's glare without flinching despite the pain pulsing through his ankle.

The door slammed behind them. For a breath, silence held the tavern—until someone at a corner table let out a low whistle.

"Well then," Lena said brightly, clapping her hands as she broke the tension. "That was fun! Anyone else feeling brave tonight?" She swept the room with a cheeky grin, but no one seemed eager to challenge Meara's patience again.

The other patrons quickly returned to their drinks and conversations, the hum of the tavern gradually returning to its previous rhythm. A few curious glances still drifted toward Oreon and the two elves, but the open hostility had evaporated.

"Mm, noone? Good." She smiled triumphantly.

Meara let out a soft sigh and turned to the trio, her brown eyes softening when they settled on Oreon's pained expression. "Well now," she said, her voice far gentler than before. "Looks like you had a rough time out there."

"That's putting it mildly..." Oreon replied, the exhaustion evident in his voice.

Meara gave a faint nod, her gaze staying fixed on them. "Lena," she called.

"On it!" Lena quickly stepped in for Sylvanie, easing Oreon's arm over her shoulder. "I'll take it from here," she said, briefly meeting the sisters' eyes before looking back down at him. "By the gods, look at you. What did you get yourself into this time?"

"You know, the usual," Oreon let out a weak chuckle, wincing as Lena shifted his weight. "Would you believe me if I said it was just bad luck?"

"Not for a second," Lena shot back, warmth beneath the sarcasm. Her gaze dropped to his boot, then to the careful way he avoided putting weight on his swollen ankle. Her expression tightened. "Come on. Let's go have a look at that ankle of yours." She said as she began to guide him towards the back room. "... how long have you been walking on it?"

"Long enough," Oreon admitted, teeth clenching.

Lena rolled her eyes as she guided Oreon toward the back. "Figures." She breathed. "Let's get you in there before you do something else we told you not to."

Celestia watched Lena guide Oreon away, her blue eyes following them with quiet concern. She took a small step after them, then stopped—unsure whether she should follow, or if she would even be welcome.

Sylvanie, however, had no such hesitation. "Hold on—" she snapped, stepping forward sharply enough to draw Meara's gaze.

"Don't cause a fuss," Meara stated firmly as she turned her back to them. "You two come along as well; I believe you've been gawked at enough," Meara stated calmly, already heading in the same direction as Lena and Oreon.

"But..." Celestia spoke up softly, followed by a shaky sigh. "My apologies, but we don't have anything to give you." She lowered her gaze, causing Meara to stop for a moment, keeping her eyes forward.

"Did I ask for payment?" Meara spoke firmly; her comment was met with silence. "You brought the boy here, believe it or not. That's good enough for me." She said as she continued walking towards the back room. "Now come, you'll need to be patched up as well."

Surprise crossed Celestia's and Sylvanie's faces as they exchanged a glance, both silently wondering whether following the elderly woman was wise.

Meara paused halfway to the door, hands still clasped behind her back, and glanced over her shoulder at the two elves. "Save your suspicions for later. Let's tend to your wounds or continue standing out of place—your choice," she said as she walked through the door in the back of the tavern.

Celestia's fingers twitched at her sides, her urge to follow battling the caution that had carried her through everything she'd endured. Sylvanie, however, gave a quiet scoff, though there was no real malice in it.

"Well..." Sylvanie muttered, casting her sister a sidelong glance. "What's the worst that could happen? We were enslaved already." Her voice was dry, almost bitter, with a faint edge of dark humor.

"Now is not the time, Sylvanie," Celestia replied, but Sylvanie shrugged, already moving toward the door Meara had disappeared through.

Celestia hesitated for only a heartbeat longer before following Sylvanie. As they stepped through the doorway, the tavern's noise faded behind them, softening into a muffled hum.

The back room was larger than expected, its shelves packed with bandages, salves, herb bottles, and other medical supplies. A broad wooden table dominated the center, while nearby, Lena eased Oreon into a sturdy chair and carefully propped his injured ankle on a small stool.

"Alright, now let's get a good look at that ankle," Lena said, staring at it for a semi-long moment before quickly grabbing and snatching Oreon's boot off to see if it was broken, causing Oreon to howl in pain.

"Ah! Lena—What the hell!" Oreon yelped, his hands gripping the sides of the chair. "A little warning would have been nice!"

"Oh, stop acting like a baby!" Lena shot back. "You're lucky it's not broken—just badly sprained." She prodded at it again, more gently this time, though Oreon still winced. "You've really been walking on your ankle like this all the whole time you've been out there?" She glanced at him. "

"No," Oreon answered. "A few hours at best." Oreon winced again through his teeth. "Didn't really have time to stop and rest..."

Lena rolled her eyes. "Stubborn idiot." She turned towards him, crossing her arms. "What were you out there doing this time? Taking on bandits? Stopping Order caravans?"

"Um...Well...No, not exactly." Oreon scratched the back of his head nervously. "I... Um,"

"He broke into the Order's stronghold a few miles from here," Sylvanie said bluntly, arms crossed.

Lena's head whipped toward Sylvanie, her eyes widening as her mouth fell open in disbelief.

"He did WHAT?!" Lena practically shrieked, whirling back to Oreon with fury and disbelief written across her face. "Are you out of your damn mind?! You broke into--You broke into the Order's stronghold?!"

"I—well—" Oreon stammered, his face flushing as he searched for the right words. "You see, I just... I..."

"You just what?!" Lena threw her hands up in the air. "Just thought you'd waltz into one of the most heavily guarded places in the region! Gods above, Oreon, what were you thinking?!"

Oreon turned his gaze aside, eyes dropping to the floor. "I had my reasons..." he said quietly, though everyone in the room still heard him.

"Reasons?!" Lena snapped. "There's nothing reasonable about breaking into the Order's stronghold, Oreon! You're lucky you made it out alive at all." Meara studied him in silence, then glanced toward the two elves before looking back at him with a small sigh.

"You are indeed your mother's child." She said with a light smile as she stepped forward. "Lena, please go grab the herbs from the garden; I'll take care of things from here."

"But Grandmother," Lena whined as she turned her head towards Meara.

"No buts," Meara said firmly, though her tone wasn't unkind. "Go. I'll need fresh Moonbell and Silverleaf—and don't dawdle."

Lena opened her mouth to argue, but Meara's expression shut the protest down before it began. With a huff, she shot Oreon one last exasperated glare, then stomped toward the back door.

"We're not done talking about this..." She called over her shoulder before disappearing outside.

After Lena left, a heavy silence settled in over the room. Meara crossed to a nearby shelf with slow, measured steps and took down a small jar of salve.

"Forgive my granddaughter," Meara said calmly. "She can be emotional—and a little theatrical, especially when this foolish boy is involved."

"...Meara..." Oreon let out in a whisper.

"Oh, hush, boy. Every time you go out there, I pray death doesn't take you," Meara said, taking another jar from the shelf. "And yet here you are again dragging yourself through that door with fresh wounds and new trouble." Her voice stayed steady, though worry softened its edge as she knelt beside his ankle. "Your mother would have my head if she knew half the things you've gotten yourself into. Though, I can't say she was much different."

Oreon shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his gaze remaining on the floor. "I'm sorry..." He muttered quietly. "I didn't mean to worry you."

"And yet you do," Meara replied, her tone softening as she began applying salve to his swollen ankle. Her hands moved with practiced care, pressing gently here and there as if she had done this countless times before. "Every single time." She sighed, then glanced toward the two elves lingering by the door, watching in silence. "And this time, you brought the daughters of Vel'Andria to my doorstep."

Celestia's breath caught in her throat, her eyes widening in shock. Beside her, Sylvanie tensed immediately, her hand instinctively sticking out to her side, ready to summon her scythe.