Sensing that she wasn't wanted (not that the proud Gurrerre had tried to hide the fact), Genevieve spent her childhood and teenage years associating with a “lower” class of people. She made many friends among the commoners of Davillon, and while it took some time to grow accustomed to a life where not everything was provided at whim, she ultimately persevered. She'd struck out on her own, taking with her enough of her family's funds to open her tavern. Her father didn't approve of his daughter working among the lower classes, and certainly wasn't happy with her chosen vocation, but neither could it be said that the old man was sorry to see her depart. He made the occasional attempt, for form's sake, to coax her back into the fold, and otherwise they happily left one another alone.
Today, Genevieve found herself in a jovial mood, no doubt due to the extra sleep in which she'd indulged. Waving cheerily at several market regulars, she climbed the five shallow steps to the door of the Flippant Witch. It was a squat building, fairly plain, nothing more than a large common room, a small storeroom, three tiny private parlors, and a kitchen. It boasted no decoration, save for a tiny blue stone with a white cross: the symbol of Banin, the Marguilles' household deity and one of the few portions of her old life Genevieve hadn't abandoned. But despite its modesty, it was a popular spot for those who couldn't afford the “prestigious” drinking establishments. Her prices were reasonable, the food and drink tasty, the staff friendly.
To Genevieve, it was more than her tavern. More so than the house in which she'd grown up, more so than the small cluster of rooms in which she slept, the Flippant Witch was home.
Which was why, when she stepped into the darkened taproom and spotted a trio of men sitting around the nearest table, her initial reaction was one of anger, rather than fear.
“Who the hell are you?” she demanded angrily, one hand darting to the steel stiletto tucked in her bodice. “How did you get in here?”
All three stood, largely concealed by the ambient shadow, and the biggest stepped toward her. Despite herself, Genevieve retreated until her back struck the wall. She thought briefly of making a run for freedom, but she knew the intruder could easily catch her before she managed to open the door.
“What-what do you want?” she asked, voice shaking. “I don't have much money here. We-we haven't opened for business. If-”
“Shut up.” His voice was as deep and unfriendly as she'd expected. “We don't want your money. And,” he added as Genevieve gasped and went deathly pale, “we don't particularly want to hurt you.” He stepped nearer still, pressing the frightened proprietor tightly against the wall. She was near enough, now, to strike with her small weapon, but she knew better than to try. “All we want,” he continued, “is for you to help us out with something. After that, we'll leave you alone.”
“What do you want?” she asked again, staring up at this mountain in man's clothing.
“Just to find someone we hear is a frequent visitor to your lovely tavern. And it is a lovely tavern, by the way. Do you know a young woman who goes by the name Widdershins?”
Hours later, the sun setting at her back, Widdershins wandered the crowded boulevard, whistling a jaunty tune. She wore a tunic of verdant green and earth-brown breeches topped by a green-trimmed black vest, a combination that made her look vaguely like an ambulatory shrubbery. Her chestnut hair hung in a loose tail, her rapier swung freely at her side (the intricate silver basket now reattached), and her coin purse overflowed with the smallest portion of the baron's liberated gold. All in all, the last couple of days had been magnificent, and she was determined to share her good cheer.
And, Olgun aside, the thief possessed only one close friend in Davillon with whom she might share it.
Widdershins had gone directly home after her escape from the Doumerge Estates, detouring just long enough to retrieve her pack from the filthy alley. The following day-or what remained of it after a well-earned slumber-she'd spent in circumspect travel to several bolt-holes scattered throughout the city, secreting a portion of her gains in each.
Now she fully intended to enjoy a moderate allotment of her newfound wealth. And so, ignoring the aggravated glares of passersby who would now have the melody she was whistling stuck in their heads, she sauntered across the market, up the shallow stairs, and through the front door of the Flippant Witch.
A cheerful fire crackled in the imposing stone hearth. Lanterns hung at irregular intervals, lighting a common room that was crammed near capacity with thirsty market-goers and city-dwellers. The noise level was not much below that of the baron's party two nights past, but it was friendlier, somehow less abrasive.
Several regulars called or waved gaily as she entered, and she happily waved back, teeth bared in a wide grin-a grin that grew even wider as Robin sidled up to her with a shy smile of her own. The slender serving girl-a few years younger than Widdershins herself, with short-cropped black hair and drab wardrobe-was often mistaken for a boy at first glance. It was an effect she cultivated deliberately, due to some truly unpleasant experiences about which she rarely spoke.
The Flippant Witch, Widdershins noted, attracted more than its share of hard-luck cases.
“The usual, Shins?” Robin asked softly.
“Not tonight, kiddo,” Widdershins laughed, ruffling Robin's hair. “Scyllian red, oldest you've got. I want to celebrate.”
“Obviously,” the girl gasped, shaking her head. “Shins, I can't serve anything that expensive without Genevieve's permission, you know that.”
“Fine with me. Where is she, anyway? I wanted to talk to her tonight. I-”
They were interrupted by a raucous call from a nearby table whose inhabitants rather loudly demanded to know where their ales were.
“Gotta go,” Robin apologized, sounding not at all contrite. “Genevieve's working the bar tonight. I'm sure she'd love to talk to you.” With another smile, the girl slipped through the crowded tables, assuring the impatient patrons that she'd be right with them, and could they just give her one more moment….
Still smiling, Widdershins amiably shoved through the intervening space, working her way toward the heavy oaken bar. Other than the fact that it was missing the compulsory large mirror-that would've been far too expensive, especially given the all-too-real danger of it being shattered by flying tableware during some of the Witch's wilder nights-it perfectly fit the popular image of the “typical tavern.” On the left rose several hefty kegs of ale and beer; on the right, rack upon rack of bottled spirits. Between them stood the door to the storeroom. The kitchen was located away from the bar itself, along the left wall. The succulent aroma of roasting venison wafted forth, a benediction from various culinary gods.
And standing in the midst of it all, her face a mask of worry, stood Genevieve Marguilles, owner, proprietor, and one of Widdershins's very few friends.
“Genevieve!” the thief called happily, bellying up to the bar. “I've got to tell you about the other night! You won't believe…”
Her voice petered out, the last trickle of a drought-dried stream, and the grin fell from her lips at the look on her friend's face.
“Genevieve? What's wrong?”
Even as the golden-haired innkeep drew breath to speak, a hulking form rose from the nearest table, an impending avalanche looming ever nearer. Clutching tightly at her rapier, Widdershins turned about, and the last of her good cheer drained away.
In a voice that perfectly matched a body far taller and far broader of shoulder than any human should be, the colossus spoke. “Hello, dear Widdershins. If you think you can spare us a span from your hectic schedule, the Finders' Guild would really like a word with you.”