1 - The Inn
Tariel
Two weeks.
It had been two weeks since Tariel and his pathetic troupe consisting of a horse and a golem had left the comforts of Caelendor, and to say that Tariel had seen enough would be an understatement.
They had been traveling through the outlands for less than twenty-four hours when some neurotic fool tried to rob them by posing as a peasant in distress: a half-elf—because it’s always the half-elves who brought trouble upon themselves—was calling for help by the side of the dirt road, claiming that his horse had run away and that he needed to get home.
Of course, Tariel couldn’t care less about some wretched peasant by the roadside. But Brynjar didn’t see it that way.
“Have mercy, O Master, on a soul in distress! What could a powerful mage such as yourself not do for such a wretch?” he pleaded with the high elf.
The schemer knew flattery was a powerful weapon against his master, and though Tariel had relented, the half-elf wasted no time making another attempt to unseat him.Once the surprise had passed, a simple wave of his hand was enough for the elf to neutralize the attacker, leaving the latter to flee on his scrawny little chicken legs and take advantage of his new form.
Or so he guessed.
“The spell will wear off… eventually…” Tariel had muttered to his familiar, though his own words did not entirely convince him himself.
This unwelcome altercation was only the beginning of a series of misadventures that would test Tariel’s patience: at night, for example, while they were resting, creatures he had never seen before in his life prowled around their camp, letting out shrill cries in the darkness.
While he was almost certain that these “things” were a pack of gnolls, Tariel was absolutely convinced that he had narrowly avoided a forest fire that would not have pleased the Woodland Folk who lived there.
His heart pounding, he didn’t think twice before unleashing a fireball the size of a house onto the hyena hybrids, obliterating them in a single blow.
The smell was abominable, and their screams monstrous… That was all it took for Tariel to begin casting a protective spell every night when the group stopped to rest.
Less than a week after crossing the border into the kingdom of Morgraves, their journey—so short, yet which felt like an eternity to the elf—had already been punctuated by ambushes from orcs and goblins, as well as an unexpected encounter with a young lycan in search of prey.
It would be an understatement to say that elves were not welcome everywhere…
Needless to say, Tariel found this whole situation absurd: a high elf of his caliber—a powerful mage, no less—certainly deserved a larger escort, a warm welcome, and banquets!
“‘Head south,’ they say… ‘Slay the dragon,’ they say… When on earth did I ever mention any need for adventure? Aah, Brynjar… I’d kill to taste Mother’s galadeielith…”
“But Master, you have some in your provisions pouch!”
“Oh, really…?”
Dramatic? That certainly wasn’t Tariel. Well… Brynjar didn’t seem to see things that way, and the expressive tics of his little grayish body gave him away more than once, though most people would found his familiar to be rather… stoic. Stone-cold, some would say—ha.
The incessant ambushes and robberies had only added to their stress and growing fatigue.
Seriously, why were they being attacked so often?
Was it the horse’s mithril harness? Or the dagger firmly strapped to the elf’s thigh, or perhaps his half-armor?
The elves had more than enough mithril to spare—it wasn’t like the special metal was sold everywhere across Caelendor or anything. So why rob them?
Tariel was simply overwhelmed by the absurdity of it all, and he didn’t hesitate to voice his frustration all day long, much to Brynjar’s utmost delight.
One day, as the sun was slowly sinking below the horizon, Tariel hoped he would finally be able to rest in a welcoming inn. The comfort of nature offered little respite from the dangers lurking around every corner, and he longed for a peaceful night, far from the clutches of hardship.
He didn’t even bother entering the villages anymore.
The small group avoided civilization like the plague, but their supplies were running low.
And may a troll take him if Tariel developed those horrible dark circles beneath his handsome, pale eyes!
With that thought in mind, they entered the first decent village, all on their guard, desperately searching for an inn that wouldn’t slam the door in their faces… Or that didn’t reek of ill omen.
No one boasted of having only beings shaped by their own hands as companions.
No one could decently claim the slightest merit when their entourage consisted of nothing but summons…
At least, that was what his father thought.
Tariel, however, did not share this view: his faithful steed and his familiar feared neither hunger nor illness. Not even death.
Brynjar’s case, however, was unique: while all the elf’s other familiars were merely the result of numerous conjuration rituals, the golem had been given to him by his mother when he reached adulthood.
The elf hadn’t given it much thought, and Brynjar had always been an exemplary servant to him—so much so that he had become his everyday companion—though he never spoke of himself or the life he’d lived before meeting the elf.
However, he cared for Tariel as if the elf were his own son, obeyed his every command, and reprimanded him for his carelessness.
But while the two beings summoned by the elf fed on his energy and magic, the elf himself desperately needed a full night’s sleep and a good meal.
Given the number of refusals the group had faced over the past few hours, the task likely wouldn’t be easy.
“Aah, Brynjar… We could turn back and rest in the forest! Seriously, you’re killing me—this is torture! To be honest, I’d feel safer among the wolves than in this ruined village.”
The plaintive tone of the elf—now on foot, since his mount had returned to the ethereal plane—did not seem to shake the golem’s resolve as he placed his fists on his hips, looking stern.
“My Master needs to rest! Look at yourself… Keep this up and you won’t have the strength to keep me by your side! Be kind to yourself, Master. Traveling so far from home must be exhausting, and we still have a long way to go! Trust me, we’ll find a place to stay for the night.”
“May the stars hear me: if we don’t find a room at the next inn, we’ll sleep outside!”
With a sigh, the golem conceded defeat to his stubborn master, who was pushing open the splintering wooden door of an establishment that was most unseemly for a being of his stature.
A single glance inside told him—no, screamed at him—that he was not welcome.
A shiver of unease ran down his spine as the presumably warm conversations fell silent: sweat, sex, and alcohol.
That was what he picked up on… And it was anything but welcoming.
“We’re full. If you want a place to stay for the night, you’ll have to pay for a woman’s bed,” the owner snapped. Ugh, why so harsh?
Loud laughter rang out. However, the elf didn’t have a chance to take offense, as his attention was drawn elsewhere.
With his emerald eyes, the elf scanned the room until his gaze settled on a man sitting at the bar.
A brute—that’s what he seemed to be. A handsome brute, at best. Lost in his thoughts and already considering his exit, the deep voice of what must have been the owner rang out, enough to elicit a look of disgust from the mage.
Seriously, he had never seen anyone as filthy and crude during his brief hours spent wandering through the shabby neighboring town.
Annoyed, the elf hissed through clenched teeth. “Brynjar…”
“Patience, Master. I didn’t know you were such a defeatist. Perhaps I was wrong to think—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, you know full well that—”
The conversations around them were abruptly cut short by a loud shout coming from the other end of the room.
“Cassian, are you going to tell us a little story about the elves? Are they really all up on their high horses, those honey-lickers?”
A boisterous laugh accompanied the taunt. The man who had spoken was leaning back nonchalantly, a mug already raised as if he were celebrating his own insolence. Yuck.
Tariel watched the scene without batting an eye. The stars were indeed cruel to those they endowed with such vulgar charm, he thought with a slight wrinkling of his nose.
“Well…” the handsome brute spoke, raising his drink with an infuriating smirk. “Who would be better suited to talk about it than a honey-licker himself?”
The atmosphere seemed to shift, as if the room were holding its breath, waiting for a reaction.
Outraged, Tariel straightened up, lifting his chin and flinging his long hair over his shoulder in a theatrical, haughty gesture; he wasn’t going to let himself be insulted like that, that much was certain.
Standing tall and with a confident gaze, the elf strode toward the bar, dismissing their words with a wave of his hand, and replied without hesitation:
“Honey is a nectar that only a cultured person is capable of appreciating—not like that low-grade beer that stains your beards and attracts flies.” Tariel paused to take a deep breath, his emotions overwhelming him.
In the same breath, he continued, “My honey is knowledge—knowledge that a thousand boors like you could never imagine even if you joined your minds, and that’s even if you freed yourselves from all those women and their curves by ceasing to think with your crotches! ”
The elf ended his tirade, his eyes locked on those of the insolent brute while his index finger pointed in his direction, just a few steps from the bar. Tariel was on edge and exhausted, which made his magic unstable, so much so that faint sparks of magic crackled from the tip of his raised finger.