The Tavern

The evening is a dark and miserable one. Clouds of violet obscure the moon in the night sky, casting darkness on the land. Wind crashes against trees. Rain hammers down upon the grass, pounding it into sticky clay. Somewhere there is light dimmly shining through foggy frames of glass. A sign creaks and sways, a sign that reads 'The Last Crusade' and is decorated with silver engravings portraying elaborate coat of arms in all four corners.

Quiet commotion can be heard in the backdrop of nature's agressive orchestra. Gentle cheers and whistles soothe the evening's bitterness. In this middle of nowhere, on a hill surrounded by only a drenched countryside sits a modest structure. It is a favourite spot for adventurers, preists and tradesmen travelling from north to south. It is a place where stories are told, songs are sung and good talk is had. Many different kinds of people gather there from the world over. It is unique and yet unremarkable. It is The Last Crusade tavern.
 

The road from the North had proved long and tiresome, Jacob, though an experienced merchant and an abled traveller, knew his body longed for some kind of rest. He had not walked this route before, but he knew of it in legends of the old days, where an Empire a thousand years old had built it. It was not showing its age though, for the marble brickwork looked as though it had been put down the day before, and the grass beside the road dared not threaten to grow onto it. It was a road known both for its curses and its fortunes.

There were no end of ghost stories surrounding it. Old women spoke of the Headless Charioteer, who prayed on lonely travellers, whilst boasters bragged on about how they had stumbled upon small fortunes laying beside the road. Such stories however took no interest in Jacob's mind, at 35 he knew the world enough to ignore them. 'Let the children follow these daft novels, but not I' he would often think to himself.

However, no end of wisdom or logical intellect could help him work out where he was. The night was darker than any other, and the rain was almost impenetrable to the eyes. He felt insecure about real threats, such as bandits and highwaymen... after all he was a merchant, and one with a fair few coppers to carry aswell. In the distance, surrounded by nothingness, there were lights. He knew it would be a tavern, no other structure would be this far out into the country without others nearby. It seemed a perfect sanctury from the storm.

After three more hours of walking, Jacob reached the tavern. His furs were soaked and his shoddy leather hood had proved ineffective in keeping out the rain. Freezing and tired, he knew he had made a good choice to head here. Even if he couldn't get a room, just being near a nice warm fire would work wonders on his grazed body. The tavern was a small structure, the size of an ordinary house, and the sign swinging above the doorway read The Last Crusade'. Jacob had never heard the name before, but he assumed it had been here for some time.

Walking upto a large door of solid oak, he pressed on it with a palm, and it swung open. Candle light slowly leaked onto his wearied face and a gust of warm air revived him slightly. As the door creaked to a halt, Jacob look in at what appeared to be a tavern of no specialty. In front of him there was a wooden counter, and behind it a big burly man with no hair. To the left and right there were wooden stalls and tables set up in a disorganised fashion. Large fire places were situated either side of the main area, and both burned eagerly with fresh lumber.

A few people were seated on stalls, but none of them paid attention to Jacob, they instead resolved to nurse their mugs of ale in quiet conversation.

"Can I help ya dear sir?" Asked the man behind the counter, grinning at Jacob with a toothless mouth and reddened cheeks.

Jacob returned the smile and walked forwards to the counter. "Aye barman, a pint of your finest, would you do me the honour."