Village life awoke that morning as it ever had, labourers about their trade and children playing and housewives gossiping, the small market within Towerglan lively enough considering. Beneath the sign of a White Wolf, within the confines of the village inn a stern middle-aged woman barkeep supervised two pretty serving girls who would be in the process of serving the few traveller's who boarded there their breakfast. The White Wolf Inn was no Prancing Pony. Situated as it would be in the heart of Bree under the stewardship of the Butterbur family at the crossroads of the Greenway, but it was a thriving enterprise in itself. Tempting the stray merchant or wanderer with cut-price rooms. The Inn itself was a hidden gem, kept meticulously clean and though not lavish, it was certainly well kept and well stocked with an excellent choice of drink.
The barkeep leaned on the counter as she watched the two serving girls hard at work, her countenance had seen better years. There were far more grays in her hair than she cared to count. Yet she still possessed all her faculties. Life was not perfect yet it was better than she could have hoped for. She did not own the Inn which she tended. No, she had long given up such hopes. This was the best she could hope for. Mister Seaver had been kind to her since the passing of her profligate husband.
Years had gone by and she had abandoned their hopes of one day owning their own establishment. If only her husband had better business sense. If only he hadn't squandered their coin like it was going out of fashion. Despite her best efforts to keep their Inn afloat. If only the lease were not so extortionate. If only she could have taken the reigns herself she would be enjoying her retirement by now. The one child she bore to the man a drunken wastrel himself who had long since passed from memory. She knew not where he was. Was he a beggar in the Alley? She wished that she knew where he was, that she could herself roll back the sands of time and perhaps things would be different. She would be a better mother, not having to baby-sit her husband and run all of his day-to-day affairs whilst he ruined them. That she had left him instead of taking her vows so seriously no matter what the gossips would make of the situation. For she was a woman conscious of reputation and propriety, a conservative Bree-land woman if there ever was one and she herself thought divorce to be beyond the pale.
When her husband had passed she had not known where to turn. There was no way she could afford to keep up the lease when she could barely fund the cost of repairs and maintenance no thanks to that man. She had not known where to go, or where to turn. Until one strange day Mister Seaver had shown up at the tavern door.
He was so kind to her, a polite and smiling young man. Attractive. She had caught sight of his flaxen hair though he did not seem to be a foreigner by manner, only appearance. He had remarked that it was a pity she had to close. She gave no sob story, she was a proud woman if naught else. She'd had to have a hard-head over the years as someone had to have been strong in her marriage. She could not have depended on her husband. She would not cry, she would not shed a tear. She would soldier on. Though she would have been lying to herself if she said that she did not fear the unknown and what would happen to her. She had been suspicious of his motives at first. Of course she had heard tales as a girl designed to frighten her, beware the handsome foreigners. Her father had told her. With their honeyed words and false promises. Before you know it your belly will swell and you'll be raising a bastard alone. She had always heeded her father's words but she must confess to herself, that were she thirty years younger she might have had time for him. She was pretty as a girl but now she was marred with wrinkles and no longer so blessed. Ginger hair which once flowed so freely tied up in a bun conservatively.
Misconceptions and an instinctive distrust she harboured for him at first. Yet despite the feeling within her gut she could pick no fault with his behaviour, he readily offered to aid her in closing up shop. Though she declined him he had made her another offer. The man it seems was a budding young entrepeneur and he was quite frank in the fact that he was scouting out the competition as he himself had made purchase of an old Leatherworks in a neighbouring village and was thinking of transforming it into an Inn to serve the locals. And upon hearing her plight he had brazenly made her an offer plain as day. Not beating around the bush. She had frowned at him then suddenly, doubting his story now of having simply passed by out of chance and immaculate behaviour. Indeed, suspecting that the purpose of his visit was very much contrived and deliberate. The gossips had been whispering, doubting her ability to go on alone and of course they were quite right, much to her shame.
She had said that she would consider it, reluctantly. For her uncertainty with regards to her future was much stronger than her suspicions. She had watched him depart. That man, so friendly and seemingly empathetic on the surface. That sly opportunist. She had spent the last remainder of her savings on ensuring that her husband had a decent burial, his body was only just cold to all intents and purposes and she was in mourning. For all her long-suffering she still loved him deep down for all his incompetence. Yet here this man came to her. So full of charms and guile likely knowing her precarious position no thanks to the gossips.
No, she would not give this man the time of day. This foreigner practically oozing concern and sympathy and knowing all the right words to say, and when to say it. She would not be his skivvy whilst he went off gallivanting and getting up to goodness knows what whilst she merely ran his affairs for pittance. He knew she could not afford a lease, he must have. She would never accept this offer. She knew not the first thing about this man and she had distinctly smelled rum upon his breath. How was this any more financial security than she'd had working under the terms of the oppressive lease? No, she was Elizabeth Thorntree and she suffered no fools gladly. She had suffered her husband for a lifetime she would never suffer another fool or be made a fool of.
That was nearly a year ago now.
From behind the counter, she sighed quietly. Grateful for her lot even as she mused upon old memories. She had been wrong about the man. Over time she realised that yes, there was likely an underlying motive and an opportunism to the man's actions and behaviour. Though it had been to their mutual benefit. One evening early on she had plucked up the courage to confront him with her initial thoughts and he had done much to assuage her fears. The wage she was paid was not a pittance but fairly substantial given the workload she bears day to day. Despite having no stake in the Inn the man had been generous, providing her bed and board and meals free of charge. It was a far cry from the insecurity she faced not so long ago.
Facing the Alley or work too strenuous for a woman of her age with no living relatives to speak of. Looks having long deserted her she could not find a husband or Valar forbid turn to prostitution. Though she would never have seriously considered that even in her younger years.
And yet he had given her a new lease of life in the fact that she now had the independence she craved for the most part. Her surroundings were fastidiously maintained, everything was ordered and ran smoothly. The patrons could be a little rowdy that's for sure. Yet in what tavern are they not? Her stern countenance kept order. Well-assisted as she was by the guardsmen Mister Seaver had hired. They came to know that within those walls. Her word would be law. And by heck would the patrons come to know it and would-be troublemakers. She only tolerated so much.
Nancy and Edith were beauties, the girls under her charge. Mister Seaver had given them bed and board too. Wayward lasses who were always eyeing up the landlord. Always gossiping lest she intervenes and shirking of their work and yet she found within her heart a strange admiration for them. The way they worked the room!
She was soon to learn that they themselves had fallen on hard times before Mister Seaver had given them purpose not long before taking post with him. She would have her work cut out with them. They were so confident in working the room if she did not watch them before long the wives of local husband's would rise up in anger against them. What was any halfway socially decent and respectable Bree-lander to think of these two?
They were once whores, her new employer it seems has encouraged these wayward tendencies and she is at a loss as to how to fully contain them. Though she would not be able to deny their success and appeal at drawing in the punters. She had one law, and one law only however. Not on my watch and if you get caught with a man after hours who turns out to be married then you are gone. She merely tolerated them at first, barely able to mask her dissapproval or disdain for their activities but over the months given repeated interaction her demeanour softened, as she learnt more of them and their tales she became more nurturing and sympathetic, she watched them smiling and laughing together by the firepit and the sight warmed her heart. Her lips smiling, they were good girls really. Victims of circumstance. Mister Seaver had chosen them carefully also, doubtless from the goodness of his heart as much as for their personal qualities. Fortunately for them they had finished their duties this time and so would avoid a telling off this time.
As she snapped out of her reverie only a moment to serve a customer who had come to the bar, as the ale flowed into the tankard she held her mind drifted to Mister Seaver. Mister Seaver who had been so good to her, so kind to her. Yet so distant. He remains distant from all those under his employ whether they be involved in his merchant business or work in the tavern. She wondered of his story and the little he had told her. Here was a hard-drinker, much like her husband was. Much like her son. Yet he was more responsible and kept it all together better than they ever had. He could almost be said to function.
As often when she thinks of him a flicker of worry crossed her eyes. The man was so brooding, she's seen him alone often enough nursing the rum he often procures from behind her own counter and she pondered upon the strains and stresses he must be subject to. What answers he think lay at the bottom of each bottle. Of course. She had never seen him worse for wear unlike those two but he really does drink too much. She found herself worrying of whether he was working himself too hard. Worrying whether he was not working enough, distracted by that foreign woman who keeps on visiting him. Irked more than once by the mercenaries that he calls friends. She often wondered. Yet he was not her son. He was not her friend. He was her employer and she felt protective of him not just on a professional level but a personal also. Few in the village knew anything about him and she oft contemplated of the reasons behind his privacy and whether she could do anything to help. She wagered he must have his reasons, and it was not her place to inquire. Mister Seaver was very professional and had laid clear boundaries in spite of her motherly instincts and that was that.
She shook her head to snap herself out of it, by now the tankard she had been pouring would have been over-filled and she cursed softly, apologising to the balding gentleman who awaited his drink and swiftly she rushed to attend him and correct her error. Calling Nancy over to mop up the mess whilst she continued to serve the man. Rare, uncharacteristic clumsiness for her.
Patrons streamed in and put an end to her thoughts, no time for distractions.
Elizabeth Thorntree would be right to be concerned for her enigmatic employer, for little did she know that next door but one he slowly awoke, a hangover from the night before, parchment scrunched up into a ball upon the floor. A sorry sight. Stiff from the position with which he slept in. Loudly he groaned as he sat up, shaking. Recalling the words written upon parchment, by Neyaa. The sunlight near blinding him as it streamed through the window, no journal entry written that night. He rolled over upon the bench and closed his eyes, he had no will to face the coming day...
