Undeterred, he continued along his path toward his destination, a quaint little bar run by an old goblin called The Tanner Shoal Tavern. Although the town had few non-human residents, he still had to dodge around the more colorful inhabitants. A haughty fae-elvish aristocrat in her fancy carriage pulled by an expensive white feather-and-scale pony barely spared him a glance. A gigantic stone-skinned orc with a heavy Jamaican accent and massive tusks jutting from his mouth was busily complaining while repairing a wagon on the side of the road. Lastly, a Scandinavian huldrefolk (distinct from their cousins, the Jotnar, also a classification of 'troll'), with his bouncy accent, swishy tail, and lop-hare ears, was attempting to hawk his cartful of purported curious concoctions and supposed cure-alls. While there weren't as many of them as humans anymore, they certainly stood out more than the overwhelming majority who milled about or puttered along the street.
As the light faded ever faster, the town's lighters came out of the woodwork, with their long metal poles bearing a hook on one end and a burning wick just behind it. They would pause at every glass-encased lamp, use the hook to pry open a little door, and then press their flame inside so that it set the oil-slick wick of the lamp alight. Two would work down each side of a single street, steadily collaborating to contain the warm glow of twilight between the buildings for the folks still rushing from place to place. The lamp near the tavern had just been lit, the lamplighter just closing its little glass case, as he arrived. Garrick pushed open the door to a jaunty gold bell that announced his presence.
The tavern, while not small, paled in comparison to Betty Bartle's Tavern and Inn on the other side of town (in all fairness, BB's also had a full-service kitchen for serving food morning, noon, and night, and the grub at the Tanner Shoal, while passable, could hardly be compared). Everything inside was made of wood, and heavily polished from years of use and wax. In the light from the fireplace, "candles", and glass lanterns that dotted the interior, everything took on a warm ochre hue, with flickering spots and seams that reflected the bright orange of the dancing flames. Heady clouds of apple tobacco hung in the air – prepared and smoked by the bar's patron, Yoozaad Klapp – and the sweet, warm, pie-like scent filled Garrick's nose and lungs, bringing a sense of home with every whiff.
Yoozaad was a goblin of considerable age, and probably the oldest of his race. He had once been tall for a gobby, but age had brought him down to a more modest height. His once forest-green skin had paled and browned and was now a drab olive speckled with dark sunspots and pale scars in roughly equal measure. The most prominent scar ran from the top of his nearly bald head, crossed over one of his bulging, frog-like eyes, down the side of his cheek, and onto his neck, which had disappeared between his shoulders and his head a long time ago, lending to his vividly amphibious appearance. Were it not for the long, crooked nose that sprouted from the middle of his face like some sort of lumpy, upside-down carrot, and his once-proud leporine ears – one of which was missing a piece – he would so closely resemble a frog, he would have had to re-register as such with the American Commission for Non-Humans.
Meanwhile, his spindly arms and legs, along with knobby knuckles and puffy feet, overall created the effect of giving stick arms to a pickle and was quite cartoonish and comical, indeed. The fact remained that most goblins were built much like toys, as if constructed by someone who didn't quite understand properly functional anatomy, and, in essence, (save for the wicked scar on his face) the half-halo of fluffy white curls that swept his head presented a typical appearance that every other goblin would at his age and was quite average for it.
In his youth, Yoozaad had also been a pirate and, as the tales went, had supposedly established the tavern almost 150 years prior after a big hit on a small Tribannian fleet of merchant galleys, filled to the deck with tax gold from the new colonies in the Americas. Needless to say, it was an impressive windfall back then, even if you were splitting the spoils with almost a hundred other souls (although the numbers changed with Yoozaad's every re-telling of the story). He often quipped that he could have bought the whole town if he had truly desired, but the thought never seemed as appealing to him. 'No one would want to live in a town run by a gobby, anyway,' he would say, adding, 'Aside from other penny-pinchy gobbies, that is.'
Yoozaad was engaged in conversation with someone at one end of his bar, while meticulously polishing an already clean and dry beer mug. The man was massively monstrous in his proportions and exuded an indescribable aura that left everyone feeling uneasy.
A memory flashed through his mind of the week prior when he'd stared down a massive tiger shark in the water with only his knife to defend himself. Yes, he'd say that man gave off a similar predatory feeling as that shark had. He was neither Giant, nor Mountain Troll, but something about him was undeniably dangerous. It was impossible not to feel intimidated. Cloaked in dark leathers, with a worn tricorne pulled low to conceal his face, he seemed straight out of a villainous tale. A mane of long black hair ran down his back, possessing an unnatural depth and iridescent shine, as if woven from crow feathers or strands of tar, and further cementing the title Garrick had given him mentally.