News: My thoughts are clouds I cannot fathom into pastries.

--1 June 2018--

Quote: Words are pale shadows of forgotten names. As names have power, words have power. Words can light fires in the minds of men. Words can wring tears from the hardest of hearts. --Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind

The Fellowship

January 15, 2014

Of Grub & Drink -- A Small Tale

The Adventures of My Meal:

I was scrounging around the cupboards looking for something that would satisfy my growing hunger...and really, I came up dry. There was nothing except for left-over this and that. I wanted something other than the shepherds pie I'd been having for the last three days. So...I made myself a grilled cheese sandwich (with gluten free bread). Then I sat down at the island armed with a bottle of ketchup, a tall glass, and a 4L jug of milk (I had a bit more than 4 tall glasses of milk! deeelightful!). And this... :P this was the scene that played out in my head (I love my imagination some days).


The door to the tavern swished and shut with a clunk, and a cold draft of air swept through the room. The newcomer was tall and broad-chested. He wore an axe at his side and his clothing was of rough fur adorned with bone. He gave a pull at his beard and shoved his way through the regular crowd, making for a free table near the fire.

The regulars whispered and shot him furtive glances as he passed. It was mostly his broad back that drew their attention; across it was firmly stretched a hauberk of toughened leather. Gouges criss-crossed upon it, indicating previous melees.

He sat himself in the far corner, with his back to the wall and his roguish face to the regulars. A barmaid swept up by his side and gave him a cheerful grin,

"How can I serve you, sir?" she asked.
"Give me whatever is fresh. And mead. Give me mead."
"For certain," she made to leave but then swung back and questioned, "Whereabouts? It's not often we get such men as you at this crossroad. Most are chicken farmers and shepherds from the south-east, and I'm certain you would rather eat a chicken raw than muck out its coop."
The man grunted and tugged his beard, "It wouldn't concern you. The lands I hail from are unknown in these parts."
"Give me my food and maybe I'll share one tale."
The barmaid tossed her long braid over her shoulder and hurried off.
The man looked back at the regulars, his left thumb hitching against the grooves in his axe handle.
It was a delicious meal most certainly, and for it he told the girl of how he had travelled from the far western sea to meet the King of the Eastern Valley - what news he bore, he could not say. He was, however, a stormwarden and he had nearly fought one skirmish too many with bandits and thieves and blackwires before he stumbled upon this little inn. For this, he was entirely grateful.

The stormwarden now sat, brushing the crumbs from his beard with thick, meaty fingers. He grasped his tankard of mead and took a deep draught, after which he stopped only to wipe the foam from his lip.

His gaze softened and the regulars which once seemed dangerous and mysterious now appeared only curious and rather plain.

The fire's soothing heat wrapped tendrils beneath his hauberk and thick animal skins; the continuous background din of the room became melodious and within a few moments, the stormwarden found himself hypnotically lulled to sleep by the tavern's inviting atmosphere.


I hope you enjoyed!

Signed with a whistle,


1 comment:

  1. This is Shaynie stopping by! Just wanted to say I enjoyed this little excerpt; I could envision it really well. Keep writing!


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