Masses to the Fire

The tavern hardly felt like a tavern. Even Rose, who will one day inherit it, could see that. The building barely kept itself together. Then again, most buildings in the town of Shepeste are like that.

The windows' shutters rattled against their frames, battered by the merciless wind. Thin brick walls offered little protection from the weather. The cold seeped through the seams and crevices of the bricks, carrying with them a damp evening air that seemed to infest every corner of the building.

The patrons' only respite was the fire pit at the centre of the room. They gravitated towards it, picking tables close to it, and abandoning the ones out of its sphere of warmth and dry. They kept their heads low and remained quiet, like masses to holy men. It was as if they feared they'd offend the meagre flame if they were too loud, and it would leave them.

There was no revelry. These were quiet men who kept to their own meals, uncaring to the business of his neighbouring tables. When they did chat, it was only in low voices, almost whispers. And they carry no good news, only of their sick livestock or failing crops, of raided caravans or the lord's taxes.

But Rose knew what her father would say if she'd complain. 'Still better than the war', he'd say. 'A night of running from the Sorcerer King's monsters will make you miss sleeping with an empty stomach.' So she kept her thoughts to herself and busied her hands with work.

Busy hands mean a busy mind, and a busy mind keeps the sorrow away. That's what her father taught her, after all.

Rose weaved between the tables, carrying bowls of soup and mugs of ale. Though her gait was ungraceful, her thin frame and short stature of a young girl grant her easy access through the hectic traffic of tables.

She smiled whenever a patron lifted their gaze to meet her eyes, which was rare. Even rarer were return smiles, and they were either quick to disappear or seemed forced.

It was worth the effort, she thought. His father taught her that a smile was the cheapest thing they could offer.

Rose retreated to the bar where her father greeted her with a grunt. His father, Jobb, has warm, auburn hair, which Rose inherited. What she didn't inherit was his father's round, but muscular body. The mug he's cleaning seemed tiny between his thick meaty fingers. His full beard had some strands of white to them, and his thick brows arched when he saw Rose rubbing her thin arms.

"It's cold," she said.

"More than usual, yes," Jobb replied. "It'll rain. Soon."

She frowned at the unlit hearth beside the bartender's station and then at the fire pit. Her brown eyes narrowed with jealousy. "I'm confused why we can't get a bit of that firewood for ourselves."

"Firewood is hard to come by these days." Jobb paused. "Everything is hard to come by these days. And I prefer to give the patrons some warmth rather than keep it for myself."

"Well, if I'm replacing you, that's the first thing I'll change."

"You'll get used to it."

"I don't have your thick, fat body to keep my bones warm, father."

Jobb laughed heartily, and Rose grinned. For a second, the tavern felt warmer for him. There was something comforting in the way his daughter's freckled nose wrinkled as she held back a laugh.

But like some odd punishment to their joy, the rusted door swung open, bringing cold air inside.

The patrons cringed as the pit's flame wavered under the sudden cold.

Jobb squinted his eyes at the visitors. Rose saw the lines on her father's face hardening.

Trouble.