Chapter 108: 108
If audio player doesn't work, press Stop then Play button again
The Siren's Tavern is a place notoriously famed for its large residency of criminals and outcasts, prostitutes and sinners, making a rather unpopular name for itself over the years as the 'pub from hell'. Most Faey Folk have the fortune of never stumbling across such a place, and those who do know of its whereabouts avoid it like the plague. I suppose that is all the better considering who, or more precisely, what I hope to find there.
Regardless of whether the place is signposted or not, it wouldn't have matter anyway, it would be most unlikely that anyone would find anything here even if they searched for a millennia, you see, the thing about the Siren's Tavern, is you have to know where to look.
"Stay close," I whisper again, dipping my head to the side in an effort to keep my voice as low as possible, the silence of the woods rocking me with twinges of unease. "If you stray from this trail you may never find your way back."
I always thought I liked the sound of silence, that I was one to enjoy my own company and be contented to sit in the tranquil nothingness of my own thoughts. Perhaps I was wrong on that count, as the current soundlessness of our surroundings does little more than to prickle me with discomfort. Or perhaps, I add to myself, frowning inwardly, it is because there is something missing.
The fox says nothing except an inclination of his head in unspoken understanding, and I swear I could have seen him lean closer in towards me under the ethereal blue glow of faded blue lanterns. I suppose even a magical wood fox can be afraid to get lost in the woods.
The tavern itself is quick to arise from the murky gloom that surrounds us, boasting a the characteristically warm yellow light of blazing fireplaces, and the familiar clash and clang of cups being chimed against each other in hearty unison, the air alive with the low gurgling laughs of folk who have had their life on the line almost as long as the tavern has been standing. It is a unique place, a slice of life amongst a forest that has been lulled into a noiseless slumber, rowdy and teeming with the rich smell of finely aged cider and ale, a place that has seen as many heathens as it has barrels of alcohol, and even then some.
This is the place for a vampire outcast, if there ever was one.
Wordlessly we trail up the stone steps and crack open the wooden door with a hefty creak, allowing a small sliver of light to slip through into the darkness before we hurriedly bustle ourselves in.
If the outside is a statement, then the inside is something else entirely.
The atmosphere is low and brooding, thick with the unsavoury stench of ail and baked goods, yet despite the fanfare of laughs and sombre tuning of instruments, no one so much as blinks an eyes as the hooded figure and his white furred companion snake their way inside. In one corner, gaggles of woman slide drunkenly over each other, words slurred, heart quickened by the tainted influence of drugs and strong alcohol. I try not to let my grimace of disgust escape the shadows of my face. I am sure if Azrael had known about this, he would certainly enjoy himself.
Carefully, we pick our way over to the counter.
"I'm looking for a man named Fangorn," I say lowly, sidling up the counter as I rest a hand against the top, shielding myself bluntly to avoid the drunken hands that attempt to catch my silken cloak between their grimy finger tips. I sigh heavily to myself. It is to be expected that this place is likely full of thieves- in fact I am almost positive of it, but that doesn't make their actions any less tolerable. Quite fortunately, the hands are quick to withdraw once their owners spot the disgruntled swirls of darkness whirling from my form, lashing out into the pungent air like the claws of a wolf. I am in no mood for games. Not today.
A stocky man brings himself over to the counter, face flecked with freckles, wrinkled eyes piercing through me with an ageless icy grey that no doubt have been hundreds of faces pass through these walls in the past century. He looks down at me from his slightly swollen nose before taking a hearty swig of an unknown substance from a leathery, black cased flask and wiping his mouth crudely with the back of his stained sleeve. He gives a long sniff.
"We don't do names here, boy. You buy a drink, or you leave. I don't care who you are."
Slowly I hook my fingers around my hood, raising it to reveal my face.
"Oh, I really think you do, though."
The tavern keeper stills to a halt. Something flickers across his face, a look too prominent to pass up as a mere flickering of the shadows.
"Look," I say at last, pressing a handful of gold coins up against the counter as I draw my hood back down over the sharp planes of my face to let it drape low over my ram's horns. "I'm not here for trouble, I just need to talk to him. I'm here on urgent business, now if you please, have you seen him?"
The tavern keepers eyes flicker down to the stack of coins gleaming on the counter, lingering there for a moment, his mind turning in silent deliberation- the coins alone would be enough to pay a few months wages and then some, a handsome offer to say the least. The only other factors stopping him from telling me would be his morality, or his trust in me. But even in these parts of the forest, there is enough respect for a tyrant Prince of Sezeria to act graciously upon his wishes.
After long last, the man speaks.
"He is round the back," he sniffs, pointing a bony, calloused finger to a hatchet across the room, one upon entering I presumed must have led somewhere down to the cellars from the grim smell of aged wine and blood that was wafting out from the cracks. It is a smart place to hide, really: any scent of your existence would be all but eliminated by the pungent smell of alcohol. The man at the counter takes another long swig from his flask, coughing a little.
"He is down there with one other. A slender boy, got a big pair of wings-" the white fox stiffens beside me "-Not sure why he's here really, looks like he should be up in a palace really, not flung in this shithole." Another swig.
I incline my head, drawing up another gold coin from the black pouch at my hip, pressing it firmly against the counter as I slide it across to him. It's hard to miss the eyes that follow the path of my slender fingers across the counter top, or the way their hearts quicken, their eyes shine under the influence of such a precious object, a golden rarity I doubt many of them had ever seen in their lifetimes aside from the ones they have stolen.
"Two blood wines and a glass of sparkling elderflower, bring them around the back if you please. And keep the change, consider it a gift of my good will."
The old man snatches up the coin quicker than a beggar to some food. The tavern keeper cradles the gold coins in his hands and then quickly stashes them away in his pockets as he hurriedly makes to getting drinks prepared, a newfound spring in his step. The fox and I trail our way past round tables of gaggling women (clearly drunk), draped in feathers and netting, face caked in makeup and fake beauty spots etched above their lip, as if the symbol is somehow a display of power for them. Some of them call me over, tapping a spare seat beside them, thrusting out their bodies in a stance that makes their breasts swell against the firelight, beckoning me again with a sly curl of their finger. Of course, they have seen I have money, they want me to buy their services. But that is the sort of foul vulgarity that my brother would pull, not me. I continue walking without a second glance.
Other tables, ones of hardened men and fighters, each of them beady eyed and laden with scars across various assets of my body, watch me in silent dissent as I pass, likely knowing who I am, but too fearful to call out my name all the same. So instead they sip their beers, lager and wine, trying not to shudder as a cold shadow sweeps up the room to snuff out the light.
The white fox reached the hatchet before I do, pushing it open as he leans his paws up against it, opening us up to the dull greyness of the room beyond. I close the door behind us. Ignoring the steps immediately to my right that lead down into the cellar, I stride out into the quaint little room, lit only by a few oil lamps on the walls and welling with eerie shadows that fade in and out of existence. Two figures huddle morosely at a table, mulling over half drunk beers and a plate of barely finished meat.
I pull up a seat at the round oak table and brace my arms against the wood.
"You won't be finding any missing people tonight, Fangorn."
Please report us if you find any errors so we can fix it asap!
The Siren's Tavern is a place notoriously famed for its large residency of criminals and outcasts, prostitutes and sinners, making a rather unpopular name for itself over the years as the 'pub from hell'. Most Faey Folk have the fortune of never stumbling across such a place, and those who do know of its whereabouts avoid it like the plague. I suppose that is all the better considering who, or more precisely, what I hope to find there.
Regardless of whether the place is signposted or not, it wouldn't have matter anyway, it would be most unlikely that anyone would find anything here even if they searched for a millennia, you see, the thing about the Siren's Tavern, is you have to know where to look.
"Stay close," I whisper again, dipping my head to the side in an effort to keep my voice as low as possible, the silence of the woods rocking me with twinges of unease. "If you stray from this trail you may never find your way back."
I always thought I liked the sound of silence, that I was one to enjoy my own company and be contented to sit in the tranquil nothingness of my own thoughts. Perhaps I was wrong on that count, as the current soundlessness of our surroundings does little more than to prickle me with discomfort. Or perhaps, I add to myself, frowning inwardly, it is because there is something missing.
The fox says nothing except an inclination of his head in unspoken understanding, and I swear I could have seen him lean closer in towards me under the ethereal blue glow of faded blue lanterns. I suppose even a magical wood fox can be afraid to get lost in the woods.
The tavern itself is quick to arise from the murky gloom that surrounds us, boasting a the characteristically warm yellow light of blazing fireplaces, and the familiar clash and clang of cups being chimed against each other in hearty unison, the air alive with the low gurgling laughs of folk who have had their life on the line almost as long as the tavern has been standing. It is a unique place, a slice of life amongst a forest that has been lulled into a noiseless slumber, rowdy and teeming with the rich smell of finely aged cider and ale, a place that has seen as many heathens as it has barrels of alcohol, and even then some.
This is the place for a vampire outcast, if there ever was one.
Wordlessly we trail up the stone steps and crack open the wooden door with a hefty creak, allowing a small sliver of light to slip through into the darkness before we hurriedly bustle ourselves in.
If the outside is a statement, then the inside is something else entirely.
The atmosphere is low and brooding, thick with the unsavoury stench of ail and baked goods, yet despite the fanfare of laughs and sombre tuning of instruments, no one so much as blinks an eyes as the hooded figure and his white furred companion snake their way inside. In one corner, gaggles of woman slide drunkenly over each other, words slurred, heart quickened by the tainted influence of drugs and strong alcohol. I try not to let my grimace of disgust escape the shadows of my face. I am sure if Azrael had known about this, he would certainly enjoy himself.
Carefully, we pick our way over to the counter.
"I'm looking for a man named Fangorn," I say lowly, sidling up the counter as I rest a hand against the top, shielding myself bluntly to avoid the drunken hands that attempt to catch my silken cloak between their grimy finger tips. I sigh heavily to myself. It is to be expected that this place is likely full of thieves- in fact I am almost positive of it, but that doesn't make their actions any less tolerable. Quite fortunately, the hands are quick to withdraw once their owners spot the disgruntled swirls of darkness whirling from my form, lashing out into the pungent air like the claws of a wolf. I am in no mood for games. Not today.
A stocky man brings himself over to the counter, face flecked with freckles, wrinkled eyes piercing through me with an ageless icy grey that no doubt have been hundreds of faces pass through these walls in the past century. He looks down at me from his slightly swollen nose before taking a hearty swig of an unknown substance from a leathery, black cased flask and wiping his mouth crudely with the back of his stained sleeve. He gives a long sniff.
"We don't do names here, boy. You buy a drink, or you leave. I don't care who you are."
Slowly I hook my fingers around my hood, raising it to reveal my face.
"Oh, I really think you do, though."
The tavern keeper stills to a halt. Something flickers across his face, a look too prominent to pass up as a mere flickering of the shadows.
"Look," I say at last, pressing a handful of gold coins up against the counter as I draw my hood back down over the sharp planes of my face to let it drape low over my ram's horns. "I'm not here for trouble, I just need to talk to him. I'm here on urgent business, now if you please, have you seen him?"
The tavern keepers eyes flicker down to the stack of coins gleaming on the counter, lingering there for a moment, his mind turning in silent deliberation- the coins alone would be enough to pay a few months wages and then some, a handsome offer to say the least. The only other factors stopping him from telling me would be his morality, or his trust in me. But even in these parts of the forest, there is enough respect for a tyrant Prince of Sezeria to act graciously upon his wishes.
After long last, the man speaks.
"He is round the back," he sniffs, pointing a bony, calloused finger to a hatchet across the room, one upon entering I presumed must have led somewhere down to the cellars from the grim smell of aged wine and blood that was wafting out from the cracks. It is a smart place to hide, really: any scent of your existence would be all but eliminated by the pungent smell of alcohol. The man at the counter takes another long swig from his flask, coughing a little.
"He is down there with one other. A slender boy, got a big pair of wings-" the white fox stiffens beside me "-Not sure why he's here really, looks like he should be up in a palace really, not flung in this shithole." Another swig.
I incline my head, drawing up another gold coin from the black pouch at my hip, pressing it firmly against the counter as I slide it across to him. It's hard to miss the eyes that follow the path of my slender fingers across the counter top, or the way their hearts quicken, their eyes shine under the influence of such a precious object, a golden rarity I doubt many of them had ever seen in their lifetimes aside from the ones they have stolen.
"Two blood wines and a glass of sparkling elderflower, bring them around the back if you please. And keep the change, consider it a gift of my good will."
The old man snatches up the coin quicker than a beggar to some food. The tavern keeper cradles the gold coins in his hands and then quickly stashes them away in his pockets as he hurriedly makes to getting drinks prepared, a newfound spring in his step. The fox and I trail our way past round tables of gaggling women (clearly drunk), draped in feathers and netting, face caked in makeup and fake beauty spots etched above their lip, as if the symbol is somehow a display of power for them. Some of them call me over, tapping a spare seat beside them, thrusting out their bodies in a stance that makes their breasts swell against the firelight, beckoning me again with a sly curl of their finger. Of course, they have seen I have money, they want me to buy their services. But that is the sort of foul vulgarity that my brother would pull, not me. I continue walking without a second glance.
Other tables, ones of hardened men and fighters, each of them beady eyed and laden with scars across various assets of my body, watch me in silent dissent as I pass, likely knowing who I am, but too fearful to call out my name all the same. So instead they sip their beers, lager and wine, trying not to shudder as a cold shadow sweeps up the room to snuff out the light.
The white fox reached the hatchet before I do, pushing it open as he leans his paws up against it, opening us up to the dull greyness of the room beyond. I close the door behind us. Ignoring the steps immediately to my right that lead down into the cellar, I stride out into the quaint little room, lit only by a few oil lamps on the walls and welling with eerie shadows that fade in and out of existence. Two figures huddle morosely at a table, mulling over half drunk beers and a plate of barely finished meat.
I pull up a seat at the round oak table and brace my arms against the wood.
"You won't be finding any missing people tonight, Fangorn."
The Siren's Tavern is a place notoriously famed for its large residency of criminals and outcasts, prostitutes and sinners, making a rather unpopular name for itself over the years as the 'pub from hell'. Most Faey Folk have the fortune of never stumbling across such a place, and those who do know of its whereabouts avoid it like the plague. I suppose that is all the better considering who, or more precisely, what I hope to find there. Regardless of whether the place is signposted or not, it wouldn't have matter anyway, it would be most unlikely that anyone would find anything here even if they searched for a millennia, you see, the thing about the Siren's Tavern, is you have to know where to look. "Stay close," I whisper again, dipping my head to the side in an effort to keep my voice as low as possible, the silence of the woods rocking me with twinges of unease. "If you stray from this trail you may never find your way back." I always thought I liked the sound of silence, that I was one to enjoy my own company and be contented to sit in the tranquil nothingness of my own thoughts. Perhaps I was wrong on that count, as the current soundlessness of our surroundings does little more than to prickle me with discomfort. Or perhaps, I add to myself, frowning inwardly, it is because there is something missing. The fox says nothing except an inclination of his head in unspoken understanding, and I swear I could have seen him lean closer in towards me under the ethereal blue glow of faded blue lanterns. I suppose even a magical wood fox can be afraid to get lost in the woods.The tavern itself is quick to arise from the murky gloom that surrounds us, boasting a the characteristically warm yellow light of blazing fireplaces, and the familiar clash and clang of cups being chimed against each other in hearty unison, the air alive with the low gurgling laughs of folk who have had their life on the line almost as long as the tavern has been standing. It is a unique place, a slice of life amongst a forest that has been lulled into a noiseless slumber, rowdy and teeming with the rich smell of finely aged cider and ale, a place that has seen as many heathens as it has barrels of alcohol, and even then some.This is the place for a vampire outcast, if there ever was one.Wordlessly we trail up the stone steps and crack open the wooden door with a hefty creak, allowing a small sliver of light to slip through into the darkness before we hurriedly bustle ourselves in. If the outside is a statement, then the inside is something else entirely.The atmosphere is low and brooding, thick with the unsavoury stench of ail and baked goods, yet despite the fanfare of laughs and sombre tuning of instruments, no one so much as blinks an eyes as the hooded figure and his white furred companion snake their way inside. In one corner, gaggles of woman slide drunkenly over each other, words slurred, heart quickened by the tainted influence of drugs and strong alcohol. I try not to let my grimace of disgust escape the shadows of my face. I am sure if Azrael had known about this, he would certainly enjoy himself.Carefully, we pick our way over to the counter."I'm looking for a man named Fangorn," I say lowly, sidling up the counter as I rest a hand against the top, shielding myself bluntly to avoid the drunken hands that attempt to catch my silken cloak between their grimy finger tips. I sigh heavily to myself. It is to be expected that this place is likely full of thieves- in fact I am almost positive of it, but that doesn't make their actions any less tolerable. Quite fortunately, the hands are quick to withdraw once their owners spot the disgruntled swirls of darkness whirling from my form, lashing out into the pungent air like the claws of a wolf. I am in no mood for games. Not today. A stocky man brings himself over to the counter, face flecked with freckles, wrinkled eyes piercing through me with an ageless icy grey that no doubt have been hundreds of faces pass through these walls in the past century. He looks down at me from his slightly swollen nose before taking a hearty swig of an unknown substance from a leathery, black cased flask and wiping his mouth crudely with the back of his stained sleeve. He gives a long sniff."We don't do names here, boy. You buy a drink, or you leave. I don't care who you are."Slowly I hook my fingers around my hood, raising it to reveal my face."Oh, I really think you do, though."The tavern keeper stills to a halt. Something flickers across his face, a look too prominent to pass up as a mere flickering of the shadows."Look," I say at last, pressing a handful of gold coins up against the counter as I draw my hood back down over the sharp planes of my face to let it drape low over my ram's horns. "I'm not here for trouble, I just need to talk to him. I'm here on urgent business, now if you please, have you seen him?"The tavern keepers eyes flicker down to the stack of coins gleaming on the counter, lingering there for a moment, his mind turning in silent deliberation- the coins alone would be enough to pay a few months wages and then some, a handsome offer to say the least. The only other factors stopping him from telling me would be his morality, or his trust in me. But even in these parts of the forest, there is enough respect for a tyrant Prince of Sezeria to act graciously upon his wishes.After long last, the man speaks."He is round the back," he sniffs, pointing a bony, calloused finger to a hatchet across the room, one upon entering I presumed must have led somewhere down to the cellars from the grim smell of aged wine and blood that was wafting out from the cracks. It is a smart place to hide, really: any scent of your existence would be all but eliminated by the pungent smell of alcohol. The man at the counter takes another long swig from his flask, coughing a little."He is down there with one other. A slender boy, got a big pair of wings-" the white fox stiffens beside me "-Not sure why he's here really, looks like he should be up in a palace really, not flung in this shithole." Another swig.I incline my head, drawing up another gold coin from the black pouch at my hip, pressing it firmly against the counter as I slide it across to him. It's hard to miss the eyes that follow the path of my slender fingers across the counter top, or the way their hearts quicken, their eyes shine under the influence of such a precious object, a golden rarity I doubt many of them had ever seen in their lifetimes aside from the ones they have stolen."Two blood wines and a glass of sparkling elderflower, bring them around the back if you please. And keep the change, consider it a gift of my good will."The old man snatches up the coin quicker than a beggar to some food. The tavern keeper cradles the gold coins in his hands and then quickly stashes them away in his pockets as he hurriedly makes to getting drinks prepared, a newfound spring in his step. The fox and I trail our way past round tables of gaggling women clearly drunk, draped in feathers and netting, face caked in makeup and fake beauty spots etched above their lip, as if the symbol is somehow a display of power for them. Some of them call me over, tapping a spare seat beside them, thrusting out their bodies in a stance that makes their breasts swell against the firelight, beckoning me again with a sly curl of their finger. Of course, they have seen I have money, they want me to buy their services. But that is the sort of foul vulgarity that my brother would pull, not me. I continue walking without a second glance. Other tables, ones of hardened men and fighters, each of them beady eyed and laden with scars across various assets of my body, watch me in silent dissent as I pass, likely knowing who I am, but too fearful to call out my name all the same. So instead they sip their beers, lager and wine, trying not to shudder as a cold shadow sweeps up the room to snuff out the light. The white fox reached the hatchet before I do, pushing it open as he leans his paws up against it, opening us up to the dull greyness of the room beyond. I close the door behind us. Ignoring the steps immediately to my right that lead down into the cellar, I stride out into the quaint little room, lit only by a few oil lamps on the walls and welling with eerie shadows that fade in and out of existence. Two figures huddle morosely at a table, mulling over half drunk beers and a plate of barely finished meat.I pull up a seat at the round oak table and brace my arms against the wood."You won't be finding any missing people tonight, Fangorn."
