Doran Terrell had heard many a tale of yore, of heroes past – saving various people and lands; but he’d never expected to be called to be one himself. That sort of thing never happened to simple fieldworkers from Clayshear. Except, he couldn’t say that any more.
Yes, they had a dragon problem.The Count had sent out calls for someone – anyone – to slay the dragon. It was burning its way through the nearby wildlands, drawing ever closer, clearly expanding its domain. It didn’t seem open to any form of appeasement, not that the townsfolk could have scraped together more than a few pitiful golds, at most, to offer the beast.
He was out in the woods, foraging for herbs. When he had his pouch half-full, Doran had found a small clearing. And, somehow, in the center of the clearing there was a sword lying on the ground. A ray of sunlight shone down upon it, making the steel gleam. The lone large yellow gemstone in the hilt was almost hypnotic as it seemed to beckon to him.
Before he’d even realized it, he was grasping the hilt and lifting it from the ground. That was when he heard it … the Voice.
“You are Called. There are evils which walk the lands and fly above it. It is your duty, with this sacred weapon, to put an end to them, cleansing the world and restoring its purity! Go now to your first task!”
No, no! This could not be! He was just an ordinary man, not one of the Heroes the traveling bards spoke of in taverns. There was no way it could be him!
But, clutching the hilt, he could feel energy coursing through him, filling him with a sense of strength and … certainty of purpose. Raising the sword, he deftly swung it through combat maneuvers he’d never seen, nor heard of, but knowing they were precise and deadly to whatever he encountered.
Still holding the sword, he knew it would be impossible to refuse this Call. None of the other Heroes from throughout the ages ever did. All had spoken of hearing a voice. He understood how his destiny had altered – unknown peasant become Hero. Shifting his small dagger to the other side of his waist, he awkwardly tried to slide the sword into a belt loop. It felt profane, as if he were using it to chop wood, but, at the moment, he had no other alternative.
As he returned to the town, the sword awkwardly bumping into every bush and small tree along the path, he was unsure what to do next. He supposed he should travel to the Ducal Keep and present himself. After all, a call had gone out for a hero and here he was.
But – he now was a Hero. He wanted to share the news with someone. This was something to be celebrated. The dragon problem was as good as solved, wasn’t it?
He sighted the door to the local tavern. Or, at least, that’s where the tavern’s door always was … wasn’t it? But it looked different … too perfect – as if the tavern itself was simply … pretending?
Smooth, square-cut panels replaced the familiar rough-cut and warped wood, and the rough iron latch was now a gleaming copper-colored knob.
When had Paulin replaced the door? And where had he found the coin for such fine wood-craft and metalwork?
Never mind. This was too momentous an occasion to be bothered by such trivialities. He grasped the knob and opened the door, stepping inside.
Upon entering, he was shocked to see the interior was nothing like Paulin’s tavern. Instead of the rough wood chairs and wood slab tables with candles, the tables were well-crafted, with chairs fit for nobility. About a hand-span above each table a dim flickering light hung, but with no clear source for it, as if summoned by magic. The ale-filled barrels were nowhere to be seen.
Behind a smooth bar top, a man wearing a crisp white button-down shirt stood, holding a glass that he polished with a clean towel. There were no dirty wooden mugs anywhere to be seen.
Also missing were any of the usual village folk who would typically be sitting around having an ale before heading home to their wives and family.
A lone man sat at the bar, drinking from a glass mug – like the one the … tavern owner? … was polishing. He was at least closer to what he expected to see: dark curly hair, a rough short beard and a shirt of wool similar to his own, dyed unevenly and hanging loose.
As Doran’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, he froze. The man’s left arm ended at the wrist, his hand missing. In its stead was a mechanical hand—unnervingly human in shape and movement, but with no skin or muscle or bone.
The man at the bar called out to him, “Welcome to the Nowhere Pub, young man. Come on in, close the door, and have a seat. Judging by that sword on your hip, and since it’s your first time here, I suspect Norris, here, would be willing to buy you a drink … and bend your ear for a bit.”
This place he’d entered is, as was announced by the Bartender, the Nowhere Pub. It is a multi-dimensional, cross time and space, pub. Try and conjure from the deepest recesses of your mind the darkest, seemingly most unfriendly, not-where-you-belong pub. Now magnify that several times. You might just come close to the interior of the Pub. As you’ve just seen, there are tables scattered across the floor and around the edges of the room — which is barely visible. Just above each table, flickering lights hover. You might think these are candles, but you’d be wrong. Similar lights hover above the bar, hanging higher, giving the room an overall dim and magical glow.
Behind the bar are several taps for beer and ale — all of which are unlabeled, having merely blank wooden pull-levers attached to them. There’s a multitude of bottles against the back wall, either similarly unlabeled or with labels that are impossible to see or read. Of course, the Pub has a Bartender. He’s usually a cheerful sort and, when not serving drinks, spends most of his time polishing the glasses and mugs.
What’s the allure of the Pub? It’s got a few.
For one thing, any drink that exists — somewhere or somewhen — is available to you. Name a beer, and they’ve not only got it, but it’s on tap. Pick any vintage liquor – there’s a bottle, already opened, ready to pour a shot. If you insist on a cocktail, hardly a favorite of the usual clientele, the Bartender will have just the perfect ingredients for the absolutely best version of it you’ve ever tasted.
And the clientele — Ah, you’ll find all sorts here; ranging from barbarians just walked in out of icy tundra, to nomadic priests finally made it out of the desert, all the way to space marine officers who’ve come out of a successful battle. This is where they go to have a drink, or five, and relax.
The Pub is where stories are swapped. Just don’t try to start a fight. You’ll get one warning from the Bartender that behaving that way will require him to call the Bouncer to put an end to it. That always settles the point.
Oh, and the other distinction about the Pub? It’s got two kinds of customers. The Regulars and the One-Timers. You don’t know which one you are until you try and find the Pub again. The Regulars can always find their way back. The door they open to leave the pub will always be the same door they used to enter it — returning them back to wherever they came from.
As for the One-Timers? Well — they get one chance. No one else uses that door? They’re headed back home and never finding it again. They go out through a different door, though, and who knows where they’re headed or if they’re ever coming back.
How do you figure out which type of customer you are? You walk out the door and see what happens. Or, you discover you can find the Pub again.
Sometimes, though, the Pub seems to be good at finding just the right One-Timers. They need a drink. They need to hear some stories. They need … something.
No matter what, the Pub is always an interesting place to visit — if all you’re doing is visiting.
Doran stepped hesitantly over to the bar and sat down. “I … I have no idea what to order.”
“Don’t worry about it, kid. I need another one. Give him the same.” The man sitting next to him nodded to the Bartender, just a quick gesture of his head. Following that, he picked up his mug and quickly chugged what was left in it.
“Of course.” The Bartender examined the mug he’d been polishing and then placed it under one of the taps. He grabbed the handle – a blackened wand, topped with a red eye. The eye … blinked? … just before the lever was pulled, allowing a rich red ale to flow. Returning the lever at just the right moment to leave a bit of foam at the top, the mug was placed in front of Doran.
“One mug of Dire Lord’s Demise, straight from the orcish brewers in the Pits of Damnation. Don’t worry about the name – it’s just part of the branding.” The Bartender winked at him before picking up another clear mug, filling it similarly and placing it in front of the other man.
“Norris Headman. Don’t worry about the ale. It won’t bite, except for the alcohol kicking your arse if you drink too much of it.” Norris lifted his mug, taking a healthy swig.
While the name was concerning, Norris seemed unaffected by it, so Doran took a sip, finding it to be of more than passable quality. Indeed, as he let the taste settle across his tongue, it might just be one of the best he’d ever had.
Tilting his head at the Bartender, he asked Norris, “What did he mean when he mentioned my sword?”
“You’ve got that air about you. Let me guess—you just got Called … to be a Hero, right?”
Doran barely nodded, surprised by the words. “How … how did you know?”
“Takes one to know one. I remember that day myself – long ago, and many, pfeh, adventures past.”
“You–you’re a Hero, sir?”
“No need for any of that ‘sir’ swine-droppings. Yeah, I’m a Hero. Got the lands and the titles to go along with all the nobles saved, beasts slain, kingdoms rescued, and dark lords defeated.
“But I’ve also got far too much lost to go along with those.”
“Lost, s-sir?”
“You just started, so you don’t know yet. For all of my successful adventures, I’ve also got a missing hand…” He held up his left arm, showing off the mechanical replacement. “And a missing leg,” Doran heard the wooden tap sound of a stump on the floor. “Yep, right leg – clean off below the knee. Couldn’t get to the dwarves in time to have them build another one. To go along with that, my right foot has an itch that I can’t scratch because my foot is sitting in the depths of a dungeon somewhere∏—if it hasn’t been eaten already.”
Doran was left speechless, unsure of how to respond.
“And I can also tell how you haven’t met any of your Companions yet.” Doran could somehow hear the capitalization and the … special-ness … that came with it.
“Over time, you’ll gather a few to accompany you. Maybe they’ve been Called as well, or perhaps they’re coming along because they feel it’s their duty. Doesn’t matter, because somewhere along in your travels, you’re going to lose them. You are the Hero, not them. They’re … expendable.
“Every morning, you might wake up, not realizing that day is the last time you’ll see them alive. Alive and unharmed … but that’s the day, maybe, you see them fall—their faces staring at you, open-mouthed and pleading—asking why, despite everything, you couldn’t save them.
“And that’s the brutal part. You won’t be able to. You’ll torment yourself starting with seeing the first of them fall. From then on, in the back of your head, you’ll always be wondering … always trying to think of something you could have done differently … maybe a different entrance, or a different formation? Anything that would have spared them.
“Welcome to being a Hero, kid. For everything that comes after this, you’ll be the one that survives. Because that is your destiny … your very Fate.”
