Telra, a human woman with black hair and sharp features, sat nursing an ale and thinking of lost friends. A short man with a long gray beard sat at the table with her.
“I’m not looking for company, old dwarf,” she said, and took a mouthful of ale.
“Nor I, lassie. Just not wanting to drink alone.”
“One finger out of place and you lose your arm,” she warned him. He nodded and sat quietly.
There was silence in the tavern for a moment, except for occasional sips and the clink of glasses on the table. The bard began plucking at his lute again, but with a more definite tune. It was a quiet and wordless tune which called the memory of old days, when heroes stood against monsters and villains were easy to identify.
The bartender approached the bard, and said something quietly to him.
“You think he’s telling him to go away?” The dwarf asked.
“Can’t imagine that working,” Telra answered.
New drinks came around, and the tune changed to one with more energy. The bard began to sing now, an old tavern song about a farmer going to war. His singing was a little better than his playing, and his voice had a deep tone. At a table near Telra’s, she overheard three grizzled guards talking.
“There’s a little talent,” the first one said.
“Where?” asked the second. The other two grunted and drank to that.
They were quiet only as long as their tankards met their mouths before the third one spoke.
“I’m going for it tomorrow, boys.”
“Sure,” said the first, “just like yesterday and last week and last month.”
“You’ll never ask her; too scared she’ll say no,” said the second guard.
“No, no, she’s going to say yes. I can feel it.” He wiggled his eyebrows and raised his glass.
“To false hope!” said the first guard. The other two echoed the words and clanked their tankards together.
The bard started on the second verse of his song. The guards joined in; this verse was full of innuendo, making it a favorite for drinking. As they sang, the bard walked by their table, encouraging their sing along. He stopped playing for a minute to clap his hands for the rhythm and get them clapping along. When they started clapping to the song, he began playing again.
As the third verse began, the bard moved toward Telra’s table. She glowered at him, because the third verse was less about innuendo and more about love. He tried to catch her eye, but a growl from her sent him moving back to his spot. When the song finished, he said,
“Someday I’ll warm her heart, gentlemen. Have no worries on that.”
The old dwarf looked at the bard and back to her. Her eyes were narrow and her mouth tight.
“Why do you come here, if you don’t like the attention from him?” The dwarf asked.
“I get attention everywhere. At least he doesn’t push his luck...much,” Telra answered.
A group of people entered the tavern, men and women of several races. They wore armor and carried weapons, except for one woman in a wizard’s robe, who held a staff. Some had several weapon; all were cheering and in good spirit. The guards looked up and reached for their weapons. The one in the heaviest armor removed his helmet and put it under his arm. He waved at the guards. They relaxed and waved back.
“Who’s that?” the dwarf asked.
“The prince’s cousin. And friends. Fancy themselves heroes, but they’ve sliced through a few innocent people,” Telra grumbled, reaching the end of her drink.
“Someone you know?” The dwarf asked.
Telra watched the bartender running around, grabbing pitchers and grabbing beer.
“Childhood friend. His name was Jalor. They never should have let him along.”
After serving the group, the bartender brought Telra and the dwarf a pitcher of beer.
“This is on them,” he said, and rushed off again to serve the adventurers.
“Nice enough,” the dwarf said.
Telra grabbed the pitcher and filled her glass, then pushed the pitcher to her drinking friend, who topped off his own.
“They burned down a village,” she said.
“What?”
“Yeah. Claimed there was a goblin - one goblin - that they were after.”
A voice came up from behind her.
“It was carrying a cursed blade. And we didn’t start the fire,” the prince’s cousin said.
“Well, not directly,” said a nearby elf almost as tall as the dwarf, “Or not intentionally, in any case.”
The prince’s cousin shot a quick glare at the elf, then said to Telra, “So you’re a friend of Jalor? We’re very grateful to him. Jalor!”
The prince’s cousin and all his friends raised their glasses and shouted Jalor’s name again. The bard had given up on trying to sing over the new crowd, and was just playing a simple tune.
Telra’s face went red. She clenched her teeth, and hunched over her glass.
“We are truly sorry about your friend. He died heroically.” The prince’s cousin patted Telra on the back. He walked off toward his group, and started them up on another tavern song.
The elf stayed a moment, but a harsh look from Telra sent him scampering away.
“When friends die a hero’s death, in sorrow or pride, there’s reason for a beer,” the dwarf repeated the old saying and emptied his glass, then reached for the pitcher and refilled. “It sounds much better in my language.”
Telra frowned and examined the bottom of her glass. Tomorrow, she worked in the shop again. Then she’d be back here to drink. No day off for a good while yet. Maybe someday that cycle would change.
“I’m going home,” Telra said, and stood.
“See you tomorrow?” the dwarf asked.
“If this lot’s gone,” she replied and walked out.
The bard smiled at her. The newcomers ignored her. As she left, she heard the Guard’s, and shouted,
“Jalor!”
Every glass in the room lifted.
“Jalor!” Everyone shouted and took a drink.
A half-smile flashed briefly across her face. As she began her walk home, her thoughts turned to long ago, to Jalor. A man who had no business travelling, but who had gone anyway. A person who would be a hero.
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