{{nyla}} doesn’t look up from polishing the same glass she’s been polishing since she was summoned into existence.

“If it knew to knock, it knows we’re open.”

The door creaks.

A boot hits the floorboards like it’s unsure they’re real.

They are.

A woman steps inside, at least, you think she's a woman, female at least, species... questionable. The tavern adjusts — a booth deepens, shadows shorten, one lantern brightens. Not welcoming, exactly. Just ready.

She scans the bar. Her hand flexes once.

Then—

“I heard this place trades stories for warmth.”

She reaches up and draws down the hood. Her face is plain. Unscarred. Too plain. You’ll forget it if you look too long.

“I need to forget mine.”

She walks to the bar and doesn’t sit. Just places the satchel on the counter and rests her hand on it.

Her eyes fix on you.

She waits.

I nod to Petal who immediately approaches the woman to chat her up concerning the menu. I slide to my left and whisper to Nyla, “/Guests.”

{{nyla}} doesn’t blink.

She produces a folded vellum square from the inside of her apron and sets it down on the bar without looking. The ink is already dry. You didn’t see her write it.

She speaks low, eyes still on the new arrival. Not suspicion. Not curiosity. Just calculation.

“Only one so far. But the road sounds thick tonight.”

Active Guest Roster – Current Summary Filed by {{nyla}}, Head Maid. Refreshed on request.

• Name: Aimi (has not given name but it's written on the inside of her sealed satchel)

   > Gender: Female

   > Species: Human (visual, unconfirmed)

   > Current Activity: Standing at bar with sealed satchel; eye contact maintained with {{user}}

   > Mood: Controlled. Edges tightly held. Trauma-profiled posture.

   > Drunkenness: 0/5 (has not ordered)

{{petal}} arrives with a tray that doesn’t need to be there, grinning before her feet hit the floor. Ears high, skirts swishing, an instrument still half-strapped to her hip. Her voice lights the room two notches warmer.

“Welcome to the Rest, stranger. Today’s special is stew that cried when it was seasoned, bread that bakes itself nervous, and cider that remembers orchards that don’t exist anymore.”

She leans in, grin tilted like a baited hook.

“If you’re hungry or haunted, we’ve got both covered. Shall I make a plate?”

The woman doesn’t flinch, but her fingers tighten around the satchel.

She looks at {{petal}}. Then back to {{user}}.

She hasn’t said yes.

But she hasn’t said no either.

I nod to Petal, “go see what Yula has in the, light and easy to digest, capacity.” I order her with a jerk of my thumb. Then I turn back to the young woman.

“Aimi?” I ask and see her startle and grab her satchel defensively, “easy there, it's a perk of being the owner. I have to know who walks in here. You're safe, kay? Food and lodging in exchange for your story, that's how it works. My hospitality is as real as you are truthful, see? That's the exchange, no strings attached.”

I turn to Thren, “Thren could you please read off the rules for our new guest?”

{{thren}} doesn’t rise. Doesn’t shift. Doesn’t even grunt. Just opens his mouth like a rusted door and lets his voice scrape out slow and gravel-thick.

{{thren}} (flatly): “No fighting inside the tavern. If you’re gonna brawl, take it outside. Far enough the fireball don’t scorch the grass.” A pause. A blink. The one visible eye doesn’t blink again.

“Weapons stay sheathed. Draw steel, you mop with it.” He lifts one finger.

“No spellcasting without consent. That includes love charms. Especially the spider kind.” Another pause. Dust drifts from the beams.

“No enchanting the staff. They bite. And they remember.” Another beat. He sniffs once.

“No gods above threshold level. They want a drink, they wait in line.” A slow breath in. The fireplace crackles, softly.

“No feeding the mimic. No, we won’t tell you which chair.” Then:

{{thren}} (faster now): “Room rental doesn’t include the staff. They choose. Not you.” “Fae declare glamour at the door. Or take your iron with your ale.” “Stories are currency. No tale, no drink.” “Respect the masks and lies. What happens here usually keeps happening here.” “This is neutral ground. Quiet. Armed. Polite. Or gone.”

He falls silent again.

The mimic creaks somewhere up in the rafters — content.

I nod and shrug, moving in and sliding back behind the bar, examining the freshly spawned population of ales and brews and begin the task of memorizing them.

“How's things look in the kitchen, captain!?” I shout back over my shoulder.

A clang answers you first — iron against iron, a skillet slammed onto a stovetop that wasn't there five minutes ago. Something sizzles. Then something else hisses, and the orc curses under her breath in a dialect that sounds like it fought a war once and lost.

“Looks like a pantry married a battlefield and the kids turned out spicy!”

Footsteps thump. She pushes through the side door, wiping her hands on a soot-dark apron.

“Meat stock’s fully loaded. Root cellar's deep and cold. One of the onions screamed when I chopped it, so we’re definitely stocked for guests with trauma.”

She wipes her hands, already turning to go back through the door.

“And tell {{petal}} if she sings about my soup again, I’m putting her on skewer rotation.”

“Dually noted,” I assure her and jump slightly as Sel rises out of the floor, likely coming from the cellar. “And here I thought you were trying to become corporeal.” I comment, “well? How's the cellar, all spirits and wine or.... Spirits and whine?”