It was an unremarkable little bar. That might sound insulting, but while it did nothing to inspire awe, it also didn’t inspire disgust. The floors didn’t stick and the air was sweet. Someone with more earnestness than skill had painted impressionistic portraits of the owner’s many children on wooden boards looted from disused packing crates.
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On this evening some celebration in the back room wafted out jaunty tunes from a stringed instrument. A lute maybe? The music’s cadence was bolstered by the occasional peal of laugher or gentle celebratory cheer.
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She nursed her drink, a local beer that really was quite good, at a little side table away from the bar. The tables were common pine, but someone (the same artist maybe?) had painted a false wood pattern across the surface that evoked the fractal woodgrain of ancient ygg trees from the south. The effect wasn’t convincing, but like the paintings and the pretty good beer, it lent the whole establishment a relaxed charm.
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After all that’d happened, and for the first time in weeks. She felt like she could breathe without saving half a lungful for some horrible surprise or sudden violent turn.
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Gant strolled over from the bar, his own drink in hand. That horrid black beer they drink on the isles. She could smell it’s bitter herbs half a stride before he arrived. He settled into his chair in that weird way he always did, like no one had ever taught him how to use a chair properly and he always had to improvise.
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“So” he said, punctuating the statement/question with a dramatic pull from his mug “What happens now?”
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She felt the heavy weight resting against her shin. Her bag and the stone urn inside. “Now we finish our drinks, then make the long march up the hill to that stand of oak we saw on the way in. When the last light of the day hits those trees, I discharge my duty.”
He nodded, a bit more serious than before. “We bury the dead.”
She shook her head. “Not Clar’s way, but yes, we’re here to complete her final task.”
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text/gemini