The Ember Tankard
A week has passed since the victory at Rook’s Crag. Thornmere has come alive again. Banners hang from the balconies. The smell of baking bread and iron mingles with pipe smoke and morning rain. The Thornmere Company has taken residence at The Ember Tankard Inn
The tavern is noisy but cozy. Kael sits sharpening his blade, Borin arm-wrestles a farmer, and Garruk argues with the barkeep about whether ale counts as “hydration.”
At the back table:
Elaris quietly reads through an old, soot-stained tome — the Codex Mortem — though occasionally he scribbles margin notes about “possible resurrection lattice improvements.”
Sereth lounges nearby, polishing her bowstring with methodical care. Every so often, she glances toward him.
Sereth (teasing): “You know, for someone who talks to corpses, you spend a suspicious amount of time avoiding conversation with the living.”
Elaris (without looking up): “The dead interrupt less.”
Sereth: “A low bar.”
Elaris (smirks faintly): “And yet, you’ve cleared it.”
Sereth rolls her eyes, hiding a smile.
At the bar, Vexi and Lazlo run a card game.
Vexi: “House rule — you cheat, you drink. You win, I drink. You lose, you still drink.”
Lazlo: “It’s less a game, more an elaborate alcoholism engine.”
The twins have somehow convinced the barkeep to let them rename the bar’s special ale “Legion’s Folly.” It’s awful, but everyone drinks it anyway.
Arden chats with Kael about rebuilding Hollowpoint’s defenses.
Arden: “You could help me recruit some proper guards.”
Kael: “And miss watching Borin drink himself unconscious every night? Unthinkable.”
Borin (from across the room): “I heard that!”
Kael: “You were supposed to.”
Later, the group gathers around a table upstairs, candlelight flickering across tired faces.
There’s no battle tonight — only plans, laughter, and the rare comfort of survival.
Elaris studies the stars from the window; Sereth joins him.
Sereth (quietly): “You ever think about what comes next? When it’s all over?”
Elaris: “If I ever get that far, I’ll tell you.”
Sereth: “That’s not a no.”
Elaris: “No. It’s a… perhaps.”
For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of the hearth below and the faint hum of life continuing in Thornmere.
Thornmere’s forge is a squat stone building with a slate roof and an anvil that has seen three wars and a wedding. Inside, Maela Ironbend—broad-shouldered dwarf with soot on her cheeks—hammers a bent horseshoe straight. Borin greets her like a cousin; she snorts, “Pay your tab first, Stonebeard.”
She explains the problem: the Iron Vultures (a “security” company) fronted coin for ore during the famine and now demand double back—plus “late fees”—or they take her anvil and stock. Their factor arrives at noon with muscle.
You’ve got a few hours. Time to dig.
Sereth - She spots a watermark from a known usurer in Blackwater and a faint altered numeral on the late-fee clause
Vexi - She palms a ledger stub showing the ore was already part-paid in scrap—someone’s double-dipping.
Elaris- He finds a forged surcharge column added later in a different hand; the interest rate jumps mid-line—classic fraud.
Borin - Confirms short-weight delivery on the original shipment—another breach.
A lacquered carriage, three bruisers, and Factor Selvar a thin, oiled mustached, smug looking man exits the carridge. He slaps the contract on the anvil.
Selvar: “Debt’s a chain, Master Ironbend. Pay, or we take the forge.”
Lazlo slides in with charm, Elaris lays down the ledger proofs, Sereth points to the altered marks, Borin thumps the anvil: “Short-weight, you weasels.” Kael steps just close enough that Selvar has to look up.
Selvar blanches. The Vultures agree to a face-saving compromise:
All bogus fees voided.
Remaining balance reduced to 50 gp payable over a month.
As part of “settlement goodwill,” they return a crate of steel blanks they were “holding in trust.”
He leaves fast, pretending it was his idea.
Borin: “Knew he were crooked the second I saw the mustache.”
Garruk: “Can a mustache be crooked?”
Vexi: “Only if it’s compensating.”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
Kael (dry): “Mercenaries who don’t fight. I almost envy them.”
Arden (smile): “Justice without blood. A good day.”
Elaris (to Maela): “Keep the ledger locked. The living cheat more than the dead.”
Sereth (aside to Elaris): “You do realize you’re charming when you’re insufferable.”
Elaris: “I try”
Maela grins, clasps Borin’s forearm, then turns to Elaris.
Maela: “You saved my forge. I can finish a commission for one o’ ye. I’ve also got a salvage from a caravan—arcane like.”
She gestures to a crate at the back of the forge Elaris approaches and opens it to reveal a wand it thrums when he places his hand over it
Elaris: This is ours?
Maela shrugs: If you want it
Elaris Pockets the wand
Garruk and Borin are arguing over who gets the forged weapon
To save face Elaris just tells her they will “Let her know later”
Evening settles over Thornmere again, firelight painting gold across the tavern walls. The forge smoke still lingers faintly in everyone’s clothes, and the whole company is in unusually high spirits after helping Maela Ironbend.
At one end of the long oak table, Borin and Gorruk are already chest-deep in ale mugs and insults. Elaris, meanwhile, sits a little apart, examining the newly earned Wand of the War Mage by candlelight, its polished ironwood shaft etched with faint runes that glimmer blue when tilted.
As Elaris turns the wand over between long, pale fingers, his keen mind feels the hum of arcane resonance ripple through his focus.
Elaris pockets it carefully, as one might an unfinished thought.
Across the room, Borin and Gorruk are roaring with laughter.
They’ve started a “forging wager” — whoever wins gets Maela’s weapon commission. Sereth, rolling her eyes, has been roped in as tiebreaker and judge.
Borin (slamming mug): “Right then, Gorruk, arm-wrestle for the prize — last one standing wins the forge’s blessing!”
Gorruk (snorts): “Arm-wrestle? You’d lose that to a drunk squirrel. Let’s do something with finesse, eh?”
Sereth (smirking): “Finesse? Perfect. My game, my rules.”
She pulls a small throwing dagger from her belt and sets up three empty mugs in a line on the far wall.
Sereth: “Closest to the middle without breaking it wins. Loser buys the next round. I go last.”
Round 1 — Gorruk:
The dagger sticks firmly in the mug handle. The crowd “ooohs.”
Round 2 — Borin:
Perfect throw — splits the handle neatly in half without shattering the mug. The crowd cheers.
Round 3 — Sereth:
Her throw doesn’t just hit — it sings. The dagger cuts a perfect crescent, spinning the mug around before embedding into the wall behind it. Not a drop spilled from the ale inside.
The inn erupts.
Winner: Sereth
Sereth (smiling like a wolf): “Looks like the forge favors archers tonight.”
Gorruk (mock wounded): “Bah! Cheated by beauty again!”
Borin: “Aye, that’s how most of us die.”
“I’ll call it ‘The Shepherd’s Bite,’ in honor of your necromancer there.”
Sereth doesn’t object. Elaris pretends not to hear the affection buried in that grin.
The Thornmere Company has grown comfortable enough that everyone attempts nicknames
Lazlo (to Elaris): “Oi, Bones — you going to smile, or does the wand handle that too?”
Elaris (without missing a beat): “Smiling requires too many muscles. I prefer efficiency.”
Vexi: “I could animate a grin on him.”
Elaris: “You wouldn’t survive the attempt.”
Sereth (smirking): “There it is — the charm again.”
The tavern bursts into laughter. Even Kael, stoic as he is, almost smiles
The Ember Tankard Inn was loud again that evening, but not in the rowdy, half-desperate way it had been after the victory. This was comfortable noise — laughter rolling under beams darkened by smoke and age, the clink of mugs, and the crackle of a great fire big enough to roast an ox and probably had.
Outside, autumn rain whispered against the shutters. Inside, the Thornmere Company occupied their usual table: the long one nearest the fire, cluttered with half-finished plates, cards, dice, and enough empty tankards to start a small foundry.
At one end, Borin and Gorruk were deep into another drinking contest, their laughter booming like war drums.
Borin: “You call that a swallow? I’ve seen birds take deeper draughts!”
Gorruk (grinning): “Aye, but none with tusks this pretty. Watch and learn, lad.”
He tipped back his mug, draining it in one impossible pull, then slammed it down so hard the foam leapt like a startled hare. The twins cheered.
Borin: “That’s cheating. Your gullet’s half a barrel!”
Gorruk: “Complain all ye want, but the barrel’s dry and so’s your pride.”
They roared and clasped hands across the table, laughing until they nearly toppled into the fire.
Across from them, Vex and Laz were making a game of carving new names into the table with a stolen butter knife.
Vex: “I’m thinking this week I’m Vexandra. Queen of Shadows. Sounds regal, eh?”
Laz: “Please, I’m clearly Lazroth the Magnificent. You can be my assistant.”
Vex: “You wish. You’re the jester.”
Laz: “At least the jester gets applause.”
Elaris didn’t look up from his book.
Elaris (dry): “You get applause when you stop breathing.”
The twins grinned at each other.
Vex (stage whisper): “He loves us really.”
Laz: “Aye, in his own skeletal way.”
Arden sat nearby, shawl draped loosely over one shoulder, watching the chaos with a look halfway between fondness and weary amusement.
Arden: “I could swear I joined a band of adventurers, not a travelling circus.”
Kael: “You’d be amazed how often those overlap.”
The cleric smiled at that — a rare sound from Kael.
Arden: “There it is! I’ve finally found your sense of humour.”
Kael (gruff): “Borrowed. I’ll give it back in the morning.”
At the quieter edge of the table, Sereth was busy fletching new arrows by lamplight. Every so often, she glanced toward Elaris, who sat opposite, the flicker of the fire glinting in his pale eyes as he studied the wand Maela had given him.
Sereth (teasing): “You’re going to burn a hole through it if you keep staring like that, Bones.”
Elaris: “If it survives my scrutiny, it deserves to exist.”
Sereth: “That’s what I tell people about myself.”
He allowed the smallest smile. She caught it — and for a heartbeat, looked genuinely surprised.
Sereth: “Careful, smile too much and folk might think you’re happy.”
Elaris: “Perish the thought.”
Her laughter joined the tavern’s din, light and genuine.
Later, as the noise eased and the fire burned lower, the conversation drifted. Borin, ever the storyteller, leaned forward, elbows on knees.
Borin: “Tell me this, lads and lasses. Why do you lot keep at it, eh? The fighting, the bleeding, the running from one mess to another?”
Gorruk was first to answer.
Gorruk: “Because someone’s gotta. Might as well be us. ’Sides — I get to break things.”
Arden: “Because some things are still worth mending.”
Kael: “Because I was good at war once. Now I’d rather fight so others don’t have to.”
Vex: “Because coin spends well and stories last longer.”
Laz: “Because I like the people who share the coin and the stories.”
All eyes turned to Sereth.
Sereth: “Because if I stop, I’ll have to sit still. And that’s not something I’m ready to do yet.”
Finally, Elaris looked up from the wand, turning it once in his fingers.
Elaris: “Because death needs context.”
There was a moment’s pause before he added, softer,
“And sometimes, life does too.”
The fire popped. Somewhere outside, rain whispered against the window. Then Borin lifted his mug and broke the quiet.
Borin: “To context, then.”
Gorruk: “To the Company.”
Sereth: “To the idiots I’d die for.”
Elaris : “To the ones who make it worth not dying yet.” They drank.
The night wore on with music and laughter.
Gorruk snored first, slumped against Borin’s shoulder. Vex and Laz fell asleep at the table, heads together, butter knife still in hand. Kael stayed awake longest, watching the flames with a thoughtful frown.
Sereth, half-drowsing, leaned her chin on her hand and murmured toward Elaris,
“You know, Bones… for a gloomy necromancer, you make this place feel alive.”
He didn’t answer immediately, just closed the tome he’d been reading and let the candle burn low.
Elaris: “Don’t tell anyone.”
Sereth (smiling): “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The fire guttered, throwing lazy shadows across the walls. Outside, Thornmere slept. Inside, the Company breathed easy
And if, somewhere beyond the walls, darker things stirred in the night, the warmth inside kept them at bay a little longer.