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“No scraps or you get scrapped … ARGGG!”
I was pushing on their faces just for fun, then I smacked them on the back of the head before letting them go. I give their sallow throats a little flick, and they both grimace at me. I hold up a finger and threaten them. Hopefully, my hazel eyes look black in the dim.
“Don’t let me catch you eyeing each other again, or I’ll throw you out on your asses, alright?”
Both orcs nod and walk away to their separate tables like scolded children.
I smirk to myself. Despite the sorrow of my upbringing and my current predicament, there are certainly moments when I can say I get a semblance of amusement.
I walk back to the bar and throw a towel over my shoulder. Sheryl stands there, clapping sarcastically in my direction.
“Once again, you’ve shown them who the queen of the tavern is,” she quips.
I scoff at her as I towel-dry the glasses.
“Now, if only their short-term memories weren’t so bad.”
The rest of the night is mostly tame, at least as tame as any Saturday in King’s Field. Around midnight, two hours before official closing, I’m serving ale and notice a towering, looming presence. It gives me a chill that runs up my shirt and settles on the back of my neck.
I peer into the corner of the tavern, having initially not noticed who was sitting there and, likely, was watching me the whole night.
It’s one of the mighty minotaur’s apostates who has close political ties to one of the minotaur senators. He is tall and stocky, quite like a minotaur, but clearly has penetrating blue eyes, unlike the orcs or any other creature of the veil.
No, this is a human, one who may be loyal to the minotaur, Plutarchs. I wonder if that crawling, ominous feeling I’ve had all night had something to do with the ocean-blue eyes that have been focused on me.
I do my best to ignore him, but most of my attempts fail. Unlike the orcs, he has a royal position, and I can’t bash in and threaten the minotaur’s apostate without getting my skull crushed in the process.
Even so, I wouldn’t mind a change of scenery.
The bustling excitement has faded for the night, and the drunken orcs are ushered out. I notice the apostate rise from his table, then come toward me, those glowing orbs unwavering.
I try to keep to myself, seeing to the empty glasses around the tavern and carrying them up to the bar for cleaning.
“You handle yourself well.”
I try to ignore him, moving around the bar and placing the glasses down with a clunk.
“Hmm?”
“Those orcs aren’t creatures to be trifled with,” he whispers. “They can get pretty nasty.”
I look up at him for the briefest of seconds, most of his face concealed by a hooded cloak. I confirm that he is indeed human, with a tangled orange beard dropping below the shadows of his clothing and a tiny sliver of a scar over his top lip.
I shrug, repressing my intrigue.
“Nasty is predictable,” I say, shuffling the glasses into a wash bin. “Though, I appreciate the observation, of course.”
The man chuckles, and I hear the unmistakable sound of coins clinking on the wood surface. I gaze up and notice he has placed a sizable tip onto the bar, fresh gold shining under the bleak lighting.
My heart skips with joy but is peppered by a rare curiosity about the coin sitting in the center of the collection … huge and coal black with a wine-red-shaded horned creature embossed upon it.
Something that makes me shiver passes through me, but I shake it off before smiling at the stranger.
“Now that is something I can understand,” I jest with a grin.
The man does nothing but smirk under his hood. He raps on the hard surface twice with his knuckles. Then he walks away and is swallowed by night.
My eyes return to the one coin that is clearly not like the others. It seems to have a tiny glow emitting from it in the gloom, reflecting, despite the fact that I am standing still. I move closer to it, examining it with fascination and, yes, that sinking sensation of dread.
