The Last Wish tavern was a squat and dingy building set in the fork of the two roads. With the main road full of merchants and travellers bustling around on their various journeys winding to the left and a small shaded path leading into the woods to the right.
Elara recalled what she knew about Murkwoods and The Last Wish. Along with monster ranging from level 5 to 30 the outskirts of Murkwoods are also suppose to be common places for bandits to hide out I'm pretty sure. She had never actually visited before but recalled that soldiers in training were often sent out here. I imagine thats to try and prevent all the bandits robbing travellers. It would be easy for bandits to hide in the outskirts of the Murkwoods and ambush travellers on the main road around the outside. She mused.
Elara guided her pony to the hitching post outside The Last Wish, the little beast snorting contentedly as she looped the reins around the weathered rail. The tavern hunkered down in the fork of the roads like a forgotten stump, its walls patched with mismatched timber and its sign creaking faintly in the evening breeze—a faded painting of a tankard spilling over with what might have been stars or just poorly rendered foam. The air carried the mingled scents of woodsmoke, stale beer, and roasting something that smelled more like desperation than dinner. She patted the pony's flank once, then pushed through the heavy oak door.
Inside, the heat wrapped around her like a damp blanket. The common room was packed with the usual roadside crowd: merchants nursing their aches, locals dodging chores, a few travelers pretending they had somewhere important to be. Laughter bubbled up from one corner, undercut by the low rumble of complaints from another. Tankards clinked, boots scuffed the sawdust floor, and somewhere in the back, a fiddle scraped out a tune that was more enthusiasm than skill. No one spared her more than a glance—the plain dress and cloak marked her as just another wanderer, not worth the bother.
She made her way to the bar, elbows brushing past a burly man who smelled of horse and hay. The barkeep was a stout fellow with a beard like tangled wire and a scar that zigzagged across his brow like a lightning bolt in retreat.
"Stew and ale," she said, pitching her voice soft and unassuming. "Cheapest on tap."
He grunted, slopped a ladleful of brownish sludge into a cracked bowl, and filled a tankard with something that foamed weakly before settling into a murky amber. "Four coppers."
She slid over a silver coin. "Keep it."
His eyes flicked up, suspicious for a heartbeat, then he pocketed it with a shrug. Elara took her meal to a shadowed table near the back, where the beam overhead sagged low enough to brush her hair if she stood. She sat, spooned up the stew—gods, it was a crime against taste buds, all gristle and overboiled roots—and bit in anyway.
Terrible. Utterly, delightfully terrible.
She chewed methodically, letting the unpleasant textures roll over her tongue, then chased it with a long pull from the tankard. The ale was watered down, flat as yesterday's bread, with a bitter edge that spoke of barrels not cleaned since the last king. She drank deeper, trying to outpace her passive healing skill—the one that mended wounds, flushed poisons, and annoyingly sobered her up before she could feel much of anything. Come on, she thought, give me a buzz at least. But the liquor was too weak, her stats too high. A faint warmth bloomed in her chest, then faded like mist in sunlight. Not even tipsy.
Her perception skill hummed in the background, the room's chatter layering over her like falling leaves. She let it drift at first, catching random snippets as she ate—mundane threads in the tapestry of ordinary lives.
"...rain's been piss-poor this week, fields like mud soup..."
"...told the wife I'd be home by dusk, but one more round..."
"...that miller's charging double for flour now, greedy bastard..."
Nothing worth honing in on. Just the hum of humanity. She finished half the stew, signaled the barkeep for a second tankard. He brought it without a word, and she downed a third of it in one go, pushing against that relentless healing. A slight fuzz at the edges of her thoughts—there, almost—but it slipped away. Damn skill. She'd need a distillery to get properly drunk these days.
The voices swirled again:
"...cat had kittens last night, six of 'em, all striped like bandits..."
"...lost my lucky dice in a game last week, been cursed ever since..."
"...bread's gone moldy again, third loaf this month..."
Elara tuned sharper on a nearby table—two teenage serving girls, trays wobbling as they gossiped between pours.
"...harvest festival's gonna be huge, streets lit up like daylight, tournament wrapping up right in the middle of it all. My cousin says the capital smells like spices and flowers for days."
The other one laughed, wiping her hands on her apron. "Spices? I'll settle for not smelling like this place. And Tomas from the mill—he swore he'd dance with me if we go. Think we'll see actual knights? Like, the shiny ones from the Citadel?"
Elara's spoon paused mid-bite. The festival and tournament—overlapping, drawing crowds from everywhere. She could picture it: throngs of people, no one knowing her face, opportunities for... whatever she fancied. She filed it away, let her hearing drift outward again.
More fragments:
"...horse threw a shoe on the main road, cost me half a day..."
"...neighbor's boy's got the pox, whole family's quarantined..."
"...ale's weaker than my grandma's tea tonight..."
She polished off the stew—every last awful drop—and waved for a third tankard. The barkeep raised an eyebrow this time but brought it anyway. Elara gripped it, chugging half in a breath, willing the alcohol to linger. Her healing perk kicked in almost mockingly, clearing the haze before it could settle. A mild glow in her veins, nothing more. Watered-down swill, she thought with a wry internal grin. Fine. She'd savor the attempt.
The room's noise crested like a wave:
"...fished the river all morning, not a bite..."
"...that peddler's selling fake charms again, mark my words..."
"...kids keep stealing apples from my orchard..."
Then, a table of young adventurers caught her ear—three lads in mismatched armor, faces flushed with excitement and cheap wine.
"...Grand Tournament in a month, open bracket this year. No guild rank needed for the early rounds. Purse is five hundred gold, plus gear from the royal smiths, and a king's boon on top."
One leaned in, eyes wide. "We're level eighteen—could team up, make a run at the prelims. Last year's winner was forty-something, but with the new rules... we place top twenty, we're famous."
The third nodded, slapping the table lightly. "Fame, coin, maybe even a spot in a real guild. Beats grinding quests out here."
Elara sipped slower now, the third tankard half-empty. Tournament sounded like a spectacle—up-and-comers chasing glory. She remembered being that hungry once, before levels blurred into boredom.
Snippets pulled her elsewhere:
"...barrel of pickles soured overnight..."
"...old man's telling tales again, same dragon story every night..."
"...wife wants new curtains, but coin's tight..."
A grimmer tone from two merchants at the bar, voices low but clear to her sharpened senses.
"...Niflheim's pushing north again, took another stretch of border land last season. Burned villages to scare off the locals. My iron shipments are delayed—caravans losing wagons to what they call 'raiders,' but it's scouts, plain as day."
The other grunted. "King's bolstering the forts, or so the criers say. But trade's suffering—spices up thirty percent already. If it escalates to full war, we're ruined."
Elara tilted her head slightly. Niflheim—always probing, always hungry for more. She'd seen the maps in the Citadel; nothing urgent yet, but wars had a way of spilling over.
More idle chatter filtered through:
"...dog chased a squirrel right into the well..."
"...bet on the cockfight tomorrow? My bird's a winner..."
"...rain's coming, feel it in my bones..."
Then, farmers at a corner table, voices rough with dirt and drink.
"...third sheep gone this month. No mess, just vanished. Tracks head into the Murkwoods edge and poof—gone."
"Guard says they'll patrol, but they're lazier than my sow. If it's goblins or wolves, we're on our own."
Elara nodded inwardly. Local troubles—perfect for her plans in the woods.
The voices blurred once more:
"...new boots pinching my toes..."
"...heard the miller's daughter ran off with a tinker..."
"...tankard's got a leak, barkeep!"
A burst of laughter from the guardsmen's table snagged her next—four off-duty types, uniforms rumpled, faces red from ale.
"...swear on my badge, that adventurer with the wyvern skull? S-rank material. Moved like a ghost, skull fresh as if he'd killed it that morning. Shook his hand—solid as steel. And those eyes...I know what I saw"
His mates roared.
"Guild slip said C-rank, you fool."
"Slip's bogus than" He insisted
"Why hide as C if you're S? Thats bloody stupid!"
"I don't know Dodging taxes or somethin'. I know what I saw." Insisted the guard defensively
"Hah, next you'll claim the stew here's gourmet."
Elara hid a chuckle in her tankard. The story was muddled, probably half invention, but intriguing. High-rankers slumming it? Reminded her of her own disguise but she was inclined to agree with the guards laughing comrades- there was no benefit to false ranking and the demand for A ranks these days made them ultra-valuable celebrity like figures-let alone an S rank.
She drained the last of the third ale—still no real buzz, just a fleeting warmth her body dismissed like an old habit. The room spun faintly for a second, then steadied. Close, but no. She stood, coins in hand, and approached the barkeep.
"Room for the night?"
He jerked a thumb upstairs. "Two silvers. Key's on the hook."
She paid, took the iron key, and climbed the creaky stairs to a small chamber—bed sagging, window cracked, blanket threadbare. Perfect.
Elara shut the door, shed her cloak, and flopped onto the mattress. It groaned under her weight. The tavern noise muffled below, a distant hum. Three months ahead. Tomorrow, the woods.
She closed her eyes, sleep pulling her under like a gentle tide.