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"What’ll ya 'ave?"

The question startled them, drew every eye around to take in she who spoke it.

Before them stood an elderly woman, her shapely-though-sagging body in the white blouse and red skirt of a barmaid. Her gray hair was pulled back into a tight bun, smoothing the outer edge of the web of wrinkles that marred what once was a beautiful face, a gray toothed smile deepening the inner wrinkles. In her bony hands were a pad and writing instrument, and in her cloudy blue eyes the question just asked.

Tarl cringed at the sight of her. Seeing such an old barmaid did not bode well for the other barmaids looking any better…. Though he had to admit there was…something attractive about her despite the ravages of the years. He blinked and shook off the thought. He was not that desperate. Besides, he did not think they would be here long enough for him get any…action going, anyway.

"Ale," Ty the Parson suddenly said flatly in answer to her question.

Thus began a string of "hard" drink orders from the Party. The barmaid scribbled them down as fast as she could. When the ordering came to Chitintiare and Telluspett, the latter ordered a tankard of mead and the former huffed, rose and strode toward the bar. Telluspett looked from his departing brother to his forgotten biscuit on the table. He quietly reached over and slid it over to join his own, eyes to the heavens, silently whistling.

Finally she looked to Orlon, writing instrument poised…

"Um," he said, bringing a finger to his chin. He contemplated what would go well with the biscuit Bretta made them. And his mind turned back to the tasty meal of meat and mush the day before and what went with it. "Tea, please," he said.

"Tea?" she said, eyes darting from her pad, filled with liquor orders, to him and back again and back again.

"Yes, please," he smiled.

Shaking her head, she scribbled it down and hobbled off to fill the orders.

Orlon took the time for the orders to be filled to quench his curiosity about what made up an inn’s clientele. In the front booth across the entrance sat a tall, long limbed man dressed in tattered black shirt, breeches and shoes, a dark blue coat hung on his shoulders. Atop his head was a floppy brimmed hat that hid his face. From the way he sat hunched over his drink the Midget presumed he was snoozing.

His eyes moved to the back corner booth across from the odd man. There sat a well muscled, fair haired man drinking heartily from a tankard. He wore a light mail shirt, leather breeches and high topped boots. About his waist was a wide belt from which hung a saber in black scabbard to the left and iron ring to the right. From the ring a chain ran down through the metal loops around the necks of kindly faced boys huddled at his feet, a big padlock securing the chain to the last boy’s ring.

Orlon frowned, wondering why they were chained so. One of the boys looked up, met him eye to eye—and smiled. A smile touched his face, but the image bothered him so much he looked away…

His eyes came to rest on Chitintiare, who stood at the bar, both arms resting on it, awaiting the bartender’s attention. He looked from the Dork to the bartender in question and frowned. The tubby man, dressed in dirty white shirt, breeches and apron, rocked on his heels at the end of the bar, polishing a glass with a dirty rag, eyes closed.

A loud laugh snapped Orlon’s eyes to the giant, muscle-bound man leaning on the bar next to Chitintiare, talking to a small crowd of men. He was dressed in copper chainmail, a broadsword in scabbard at his hip, and surrounded by six smaller men likewise clad and armed. The giant boasted of his greatness in character and deed to the men, who nervously smiled and nodded in agreement to everything he said.

"Bartender," Chitintiare barked, banging the bar with an open hand.

The giant stopped his boasting, mouth open. He cast an eye on the Dork.

Orlon feared this meant trouble.

A tap on his arm brought Orlon’s attention to his best friend.

"So?" Tarl said, eyebrows bobbing. "This is your first time in an inn. What do you think?"

"It’s…okay," he said. "I’m just glad they have something other than hard drink available."

Tarl rolled his eyes. "Yeah, me, too," he said, then turned to something that had been itching at the back of his mind ever since they sat down, saying, "You don’t think this is where this trip ends, do you?"

"No, Tarl, I don’t think it ends here," he said. "We still have a ways to go, I think."

"I’m glad to hear that," Tarl said. "I have to admit I thought it might be the end, considering how stoic Ty the Parson has become… You know how these things can turn out, after all, traveling to nowhere despite all the fanciful talk beforehand." Into his mind appeared the image of the elderly barmaid and he shivered, adding, "I wouldn’t even want to stop here for the night. I mean, inns can offer prospects for overnight…companionship, if you get me. But this inn…" He shivered again.

Orlon rolled his eye.

"Oh, well," Tarl went on. "No matter where we end up, we’ve seen more of the world than we ever dreamed we would, haven’t we?"

"Yes, we have," Orlon agreed—and he shivered with the thought of what lie ahead of them, what all Ty the Parson’s "fanciful talk" beforehand implied this quest was for.

Just then the barmaid returned, precariously carrying a tray laden with drinks. To their utmost surprise, she was able, through a miraculous shift and balance act, to distribute the drinks as per ordered without spilling a drop. The last order she placed was Orlon’s glass of tea, and as she placed it on the table before him she gave him a curious look.

He smiled at her, took a sip and said, "Mm. Thank you."

She half smiled back and hobbled away.

Now that they had refreshment to go with their biscuits the meal began, and it was a struggle for them not to proclaim the deliciousness of the biscuits. And with each bite, washed down with a sip, they found the biscuits quite filling as well. This fact led them to eat their meals slowly… When the last morels were popped into mouths, chewed and swallowed, and washed down, all wore a smile on their faces.

All, that was, but for Telluspett. One biscuit had proved filling, two—stuffing! He drank the last of his mead, placed the mug on the table and leaned back, hands on bloated belly, misery on his face. He belched.

"The mighty feline crouches, watchful, near its prey! The loving mother warns her children to be careful before sending them out to play! Our quest grows ever nearer its first goal, ever nearer the lair of the evil we seek to stop. I, Ty, the Parson, must warn you the closer we get to our first goal, the evil Tibtarnitallimardarian’s lair, the greater his strength will become. The more danger we will face," Ty the Parson said, flailing limbs banging the seat and table of the booth.

"And the greater the danger the greater our challenge to protect the One," Shing said.

"I shall protect the One with my life," Sharna vowed, placing a hand on Orlon’s shoulder.

Orlon blushed.

Tarl elbowed him, silently smacked him a kiss, thumbing at Sharna.

Orlon rolled his eyes to land on his self proclaimed guardian, and he felt a pang in his heart that confused him. All he knew was he was honored to have someone so dedicated to his safety, but it had been emotionally tough enough to have witnessed the death of those likewise dedicated thus far. The last thing he wanted was more deaths…her death to come because of him. He frowned, lost in a whirlwind of emotional confusion…

"You need me," the man in tattered clothes announced.