Turns out it's just got an asshole infestation

The town’s not much to write home about. There’s five buildings stretched along the main road you’ve been walking down, and the only one that seems to have any life in it is the local tavern. It’s set at the crossing of another road that comes into town from the west, and you get the feeling it’s the only reason travelers would even bother stopping in Cleethorpes at all. The whole set up feels like one of those old wild west boomtowns, except for the fact that there’s plenty of lush green grass around. No true high-noon gunslinger would be caught dead outside of a proper desert or scrubland, after all.

And the wild west theme extends to the tavern itself, as it appears to be a two story structure made entirely from wood, complete with classic double saloon door entrance. Even from outside, you can hear the tinkling music of a piano and the singing of drunken men. Despite that, it's not really a "drunken revelry" sort of tune, but rather a slower melancholic piece. While you’re certain you don’t recognize the song, some small part of you feels like you should; you can’t quite hear the slurred lyrics from out here, but something about it makes you… nostalgic? You glance at Trannelis for a moment, who simply shrugs at you, and you both walk into the tavern, still hand in hand.

As you walk in, you can see that despite the exterior looking like a Westworld set, the interior looks like a classic fantasy tavern. There’s a few people sitting at the tables, probably farmers considering their ren faire worthy peasant clothing. They’re enjoying tall mugs of what you’d presume is some alcoholic beverage. Probably mead, if the atmosphere was any indication. There’s a burly gentleman across the room from you, behind the bar, dutifully wiping the countertop with a rag. The only thing here that doesn’t look like it’d belong in a Lord of the Rings knock-off is the overweight mustachioed man wearing a vest and derby playing on one of those old timey pianos in the corner. The anachronisms continue.

As soon as you enter, the signing stops abruptly, and all eyes are on you. Well, except the piano player. He’s really hammering those keys. Almost in response to the stares, Trannelis takes her hand back from yours. When you look over at her, you find her stoic mask of professionalism back on her face, which is disconcerting, but not exactly surprising.

“Let’s see if they have any rooms, Your Highness,” she says plainly. You try to brush off her sudden change in demeanor, and nod. As she gazes over the room, you get the feeling she knows something you don’t, not that that’s a particularly difficult task to accomplish. Regardless, now is probably not the best time to ask about it.

You stride forward confidently to the bar, your coattails dramatically flowing behind you, and lean one arm on the counter to address the bartender. You do your best to put on a friendly smile to put the heavily bearded man at ease. “Howdy,” you begin, immediately regretting it, “we’re passing through on our way to the capital. Any chance you’ve got a room to rent for the night?”

The bartender eyes you up, obviously not taking you for a threat, and smiles a wide grin, which looks friendly despite several missing teeth. “Yup, we got a few rooms. Reckon there ain’t many coming through Cleethorpes ‘til the harvest starts, after all.” His voice is gruff and deep, and his accent sounds… well, American. Which at first strikes you as odd, but then again, with all the cowboy decor you've seen lately, it also kind of fits.

You nod appreciatively. “What are the options?”

He snorts. “Ain’t much for options, friend. Two rooms’ll be four silver.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary, we’re only going to need one room,” you reply.

“…Alright then, one room’s gonna be only two silver,” he says, but you detect a hint of disapproval in his voice. Probably upset to miss out on the up-sell. After fumbling around in your bag for a moment, you find two small silver coins, maybe about the size of a nickel, stamped with a face you don’t recognize, but again you feel like maybe you should. Man, where were those memory flashes from yesterday?

He eyes the coins a little suspiciously, turning them over carefully in his meaty hands, but nonetheless places them under the counter. “I’d be a mite bit more careful if I was you,” he says, his voice lowered a bit. “There been some stories of desperados on the King’s Road lately. Flashing around capital silver is a fine way to ensure you’re made a target.”

Before you can ask him for clarification though, there’s the sound of someone clearing their throat behind you. You turn around to find an eyeful of beefy man chest, only to look up, to find the face of one of the peasant men. He’s scowling down at you, and he’s missing some teeth as well. Charming.

“Lissen ‘ere, fancy boy,” he says eyeing you up much like the bartender did, “Iffin ya want ta stay ‘ere the night, all fine an’ dandy, but yer pointy eared girl’sh gonna hafta sleep ou’sside.”

You step back a step from the man, his breath stinking with cheap ****, and search for what to say. What you eventually settle on is, “What?”

Before the drunk can react though, the bartender slams his hand down on the counter, bringing both of your attention to him. “Don’t you worry none about them, Skeeter, and don’t you be startin’ no more fights in my establishment, or else I’ll have to cut you off.”

But the bartender’s words only seem to make the man, who is apparently named Skeeter, more upset. “Ahm a reg’lar here, Randy, and y’aint gonna take no damn city boy’sh word over mine!”

You look back at the bartender, hoping he could resolve this little incident without you having to light anyone on fire. That might not be a great way to introduce yourself back to the common folk of the land. He looks up at Randy stoically, and simply replies, “They paid for their room already. They’ve paid to be here, same as you. So right now, far as I can see it, ya got two options, Skeeter. You can go back to your table and enjoy your libations, or you can go home sober.”

You briefly consider pointing out that this man is in no way sober, but decide against it. Skeeter, for his part, seems to consider the Randy’s words. He looks at the bartender, then back at you, then back to a table with four other men holding mugs. After a bit more internal deliberation, he throws his hands up in the air, apparently mollified. He turns on his heel, only stumbling slightly, and stomps petulantly back to his table, allowing you to see that Trannelis was behind him the entire time. Tellingly, her whole body seems tense, like she could spring like a pouncing cat, and there's a palpable aura of danger surrounding her. She’s got a look in her eyes, a rage that doesn’t quite fit with her facial features, but there’s something else there too; a soulful sadness, partially hid under a practiced façade.

A sudden screeching of table legs on hardwood brings your attention back to Skeeter, who has slammed himself back into his seat. Sitting around his table, the other drunken peasants are scowling at you in much the same way he did just a moment ago. Which, yeah, that’s probably a bad sign.

The bartender slides a small iron key over the counter top to you, and you pocket it gratefully, but your gaze stays on Skeeter’s table for a moment. “That, uh, happen often?” you ask, trying to sound conversational.

The bartender makes a harrumphing sound in the back of his throat. “Not recently. But with the news of the king…” he lets the words hang in the air, as if that explained everything. And that's when it all starts to click. The song the piano is still playing, now without vocal accompaniment, was a song you remember from your days in the castle. It's an old song, a memorial dirge reserved for the nobility. It was only ever sang at the **** of a monarch, and with every singing, the lyrics changed to tell the life story of the fallen. The last time you heard it...

Was when you lost your mother.

.

.

.

.

.

To your side, you hear someone say, "Crofton?" And just like that, you're broken from your reverie by Trannelis' sweet voice. "Maybe we should retire for the night." All of the tension she had from before has evaporated, and she's got one reassuring hand on your shoulder. The worry on her face is evident.

You stand there for a moment still, as you regain your senses, but eventually nod. "Okay, Nelly," you reply as you begin to walk towards the stairs, feeling suddenly very drained. I mean, sure, you never actually knew Crofton's mother, on account of you not actually being Crofton. And there was no reason for you to be at all attached to a foreign memory.

But right now, you can't deny that you just feel...

Empty.