The Tavern

Set the Scene

Complication: [5] All is not as it seems - the tavern and its inhabitants are hiding secrets

How Much (does Morgause detect is wrong): [2] Less than expected - while she can tell something is up, she’s not going to catch some crucial details

Altered Scene: [1] Normal

Pacing Move: [5] Advance a Plot - revelations regarding the village and its inhabitants

—

The tavern seems the best place to start. After all, there’s no place more likely to attract both out of towners, and rumours - two things that, given the less than hospitable welcome she’s received, Morgause thinks she could do with finding.

The Whale’s Wail is about as inviting as its name, with a rickety stoop and murky windows. It doesn’t get much better when she steps through the door, but at the very least, there’s a fire, and it’s something approaching warm.

She eyes up the place, treading carefully on dusty old boards, wary of splinters. It’s mostly deserted, with just one or two moody-looking fishermen posted up at the bar, where a surly barkeep glowers at her. His is the only face she can see, and it bears the same sallow, watery cast.

She doesn’t think she’ll be asking for a drink, somehow. She’s on the verge of backing out, giving up on the tavern, when she spies a quick movement. Her eyes track a short, mutton-chopped Halfling, waving her own from a seat in the corner.

He has a fleshy face and a rather weak chin, unfortunately amplified by the split beard on his cheeks. But his complexion is hearty, and he seems entirely un-fishy.

She heads over toward him, drawing out a rickety wooden chair opposite him, with a glance back to the barflies, who continue to ignore her, and the tavern keeper, who continues to glare at her.

“Friendly lot, aren’t they?” The Halfling remarks cheerily, loud enough for the locals to hear him. He wears a faded red waistcoat over a grubby white shirt, and has the look of a raconteur who’s seen better days. Like many Halflings, his features are jolly and soft, but there’s a sly cast and beady eyes that do little to put Morgause at her ease.

He sips from a mucky-looking tankard, and slides a second one towards her. She regards it with a skeptical eyebrow. “Expecting company?” She asks, “Or did they just step out?”

He chuckles in reply, and reaches a stubby hand over the table, which she duly ignores. It doesn’t seem to phase him, and with surprisingly agility and reach, he plucks her hand from the table, bringing it to his lips in a moist kiss. “Hoping, more like. Svartleby is my name; and yours? It’s a joy to see such attractive company: a beautiful face atop such lovely legs.”

She withdraws her hand with a withering expression, already regretting her decision to sit. But the Halfling’s overbearing camaraderie is curious: he seems utterly unphased by their unpleasant, dreary surroundings. “Morgause.” She replies coolly, tucking her legs protectively under the chair, ankles crossed. Unable to help it, she asks the obvious questions. “So what are you doing here, Svartleby? And why are you the only person here who doesn’t look like the child of a Halibut and a Toad.”

He roars with laughter and thumps the table, and she can practically feel the glares of the locals behind her. “Such a wit! I’ll bet that’s a truly talent tongue.” He leers at her suggestively, earning himself an eye-roll and a wrinkled nose. Then he drops his voice, conspiratorially. “In truth, I’m little more than a prisoner here, my dear. Though not in such bondage as some of the other poor unfortunates that pass through. You’re in quite terrible danger I’m afraid; but not to fear, Svartleby will take care of you.”

The cheery tone of theatrical subterfuge does little to endear him any further to her, and she feels a chill around her shoulders at his words. “Prisoner? Are they holding captives here?”

He nods solemnly, and then taps the tankard again. “Pretend to drink, dear. You’ve walked yourself into a trap.” He sighs dramatically, shaking his head, “It’s a sort of cult, Morg - you don’t mind if I call you Morg? - and those that pass through are held prisoner and offered up to the Deep Ones. I’ve escaped that fate only because I’m a merchant by trade, and can get my hands on certain supplies for the locals. I can’t leave, but I enjoy certain privileges…”

Another lascivious smile fosters yet discomfort in Morgause, the various implications of what he’s said threatening to overwhelm her. The Deep Ones - ancient and terrible forces beyond land and sea, and a cult. She really is in over her head.

“What’s to stop me just leaving? They haven’t harmed me yet.”

“Yet being the operative word, my dear. You’ll find those pretty little hands and feet trussed tight if you try to run now. Or else you’ll wander to the beach and run into something entirely worse.” A performative shudder helps to sell his tale, “Pretend to drink. They’ll think I’ve put something in it to make you a little woozy - not that I have! - and we’ll trot upstairs. I’ll see you safely out of the window and give you enough supplies to get clear of here.”

She shakes her head, slowly, though her fingers brush the tankard. “I can’t, I came here for something. Something important.”

“The Sea Shroud, eh?” He grins knowingly, a maddening expression - he seems to have an answer for everything. “A fabrication I’m afraid. A complete myth. Invented to lure hapless souls to their doom. A sirens song, nothing more.”

She has never been to particularly practised at reading people: the trade-off of her preferred seclusion. But whether she’s being lied to or not, the revelation sinks a stone into her gut.

This was a mistake either way. I need to get away and regroup - figure out what to do before I’m jumped by mutant fishermen.

She groans audibly, and flinches at the sound of a heavy foot-fall behind her - one of the fishermen moving, perhaps towards her? She catches Svartleby glance over her shoulder, his teeth set in a rictus grin.

Shit.

She grabs the tankard, raising it to her lips, inhaling the sour note of turning hops - and a strange, unpleasant musk - as she pretends to drink.