[BF24] Midnights

[Mr. President]

Cormac was so busy trying to arrange his beer mugs that he nearly jumped out of his skin when the tavern door rattled.

Fortunately, he managed to catch the one that had slipped before it hit the floor, but that fact did not decrease his tension at all. Decent folk of Aslantaine expected one of only two things when someone knocked at a door late on the eve of Yuletide. One was a messenger of disaster: perhaps a call for a Knight Errant available for a desperate quest made more difficult by the shadows of the darkest nights of the year, perhaps a lookout who had sighted bandits on the road. Perhaps an emissary with word of a new Dark Lord revealing themselves – many elders had been muttering that they were overdue for one.

The other, of course, was wassailers who had accidentally or intentionally stayed out too late, and considering how often such people stumbled into – or created – a desperate quest for a Knight Errant, Cormac wasn’t sure which one he actually wanted to see.

He reached out instinctively to the small table behind the counter, where he knew his trusty cleaver always sat, and closed his fingers around the handle. His knuckles whitened and his lips twisted into a grimace as he slunk to the door. The last few patrons of the evening didn’t react, some because they were anticipating trouble just as much as him, and some because they had fallen asleep slumped on their tables. He peered out the window, saw nothing helpful, turned the door’s handle, and swung it open gingerly. A woman stepped through, shaking raindrops from her elaborately-tied brown hair, and let out a sigh of relief.

“Thank you, innkeeper!” she exclaimed, and the sudden sound drew several pairs of eyes to her. “It’s been drizzling for hours, and I’ve been walking for a lot of that.” Her proper diction and familiar accent were mildly reassuring, but Cormac didn’t put down his cleaver just yet.

The newcomer opened her cloak, shaking off raindrops in the general direction of the open door, and brushed off her leather jerkin. It was plain, but obviously of much finer quality than most people who were out at this hour. “Any ale left?” she asked. She never blinked and never looked at his cleaver.

Before Cormac could answer, the newcomer leaned her head back and took in the walls, the roof, the common room’s tables, in a long sweeping gaze like someone coming home from fighting the Dark Lord. Her eyes lingered on a stain on the floor where someone had stepped on a piece of chicken hours ago. “Now this,” she said, “this is what I like to see.” She brushed off her clothes again, including the finely-crafted hilt of a sword hanging at her side. “Say . . . what’s with the cleaver?”

“Well,” Cormac said, “it’s not often I get someone walking in at this – ”

“What are you playing at?” the woman demanded, her voice rising to cut through his. “What sort of a place is this? Are these real drunks or bandits? You think you can rob me? Me, of all people!” Her hand tightened on the sword hilt. Cormac raised the cleaver above his head.

“I’m not a bandit!” he shouted. “Maybe you’re a bandit!”

“Have at you, bandit!”

“No, you’re a bandit!”

“Stop calling me a bandit!” the woman yelled, unsheathing her sword shockingly fast. Cormac should have struck then, but the sudden glint of steel in the lamplight made him flinch. The patrons who were still awake were watching intently, eager on something more entertaining than wassailers.

“You dare? The impertinence! After all I’ve done – all I do the whole year round! Who do you think keeps the castle running? Who do you think makes sure the watch passes by your run-down tavern’s door now and then? Who do you think makes sure the Knights Errant can get their ripped pants mended?”

Cormac squinted, suddenly less afraid. “Wait . . . you’re Syr Kaye, the queen’s castellan? I didn’t recognize you . . .”

Kaye gritted her teeth, pointing the tip of her sword at Cormac’s nose. Then she relaxed and lowered her arm. “I was hoping for some quiet time on my own,” she said, much more softly. “Just an hour or two, before the work starts again in the morning. Maybe someplace with ale . . .”

“Come over to the bar,” Cormac said. “We still have some.”

The taverngoers turned away again, resigned to seeing no bloodshed tonight. Tossing his cleaver onto the bar, Cormac slipped around and scooped up the mug he’d nearly broken before. The castellan followed, sheathing her sword as she did. “Here,” he began, reaching for a large keg resting on the floor and opening its tap. “First one’s on the house.”

“Even after I drew a sword on you?”

Cormac kept his eyes on the mug, watching the liquid slosh around as she took a sip. “Well, I had the cleaver, too. That’s not what my tavern is like. We don’t actually have knife fights here. Well, not often.”

Kaye shrugged, setting the mug down on the bar. “This is Yuletide eve here? I must say, I thought the place would be busier.”

“You missed all the off-key wassailing and vomiting, I’m afraid.”

“Just as well,” she replied, and drained a long sip in one go. “I get enough of that back at the castle. Any plans for Yuletide, maester . . . ?”

“Cormac,” he supplied. “And I’ll just be here. Used to go to the reception at Castle Square when I was younger, but the crowds are too big nowadays.”

“And it’ll probably still be raining,” Kaye added. “I’ll just watch from the window, I think. I’ll be co-ordinating the pages running new barrels out, anyway.”

The innkeeper picked up a plate and wiped it with a cloth. “You don’t miss it either?”

“When I was younger,” she replied, “I used to sometimes. But there’s something kind of nice about being behind the scenes, and making sure everyone has a good time. When it all goes right, you feel like just as much of a hero as anyone else. And without having goblins try to set you on fire.”

“Our jobs are a lot alike,” Cormac observed. He stacked the plate with the others and scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Though you might feel differently about it if you had to mop the floors as much as I do,” he added.

“Who says I don’t?” Kaye kept her face deadpan for a long moment, but neither of them could suppress a chuckle for more than that. “Besides,” she continued, turning her mug in place, “when it’s time to march off to battle, I have even more work to do – and if I have to be busy, I’d rather be sending people off to dance than sending them off to . . .”

“Me too,” said Cormac.

“The elders say we’re overdue . . .” Kaye’s voice dropped nearly to a whisper.

Both of them avoided meeting each other’s gaze. The rain pattered on the roof, and the suds popped impatiently on the surface of her ale. “But nothing’s happened yet,” said Cormac, “so I think it’s time for a refill. Here, let me have that for a moment.”

The castellan turned away, watching the late drinkers drowse contentedly at their tables. She turned at the mug’s thunk on the bar and smiled. She grabbed the mug and raised it up above her head, and Cormac cast around for a moment before grabbing a half-empty bottle of wine and touching its neck to the mug’s lip.

“Happy Yuletide, Cormac.”

“Happy Yuletide, Kaye.”

[Scribonius]

Well that's different.

Concept: 8 As story ideas go, this is different. Feels like the start to an Isekai Manga, where the background characters are waiting for the big bad to appear and the hero to get hit by truck-kun.

Form: 5 Flow is okay, framework is there, but it really needs to be fleshed out more, dialogue-wise. The scene where she draws her sword is forced, as is the surrounding action/inaction. Right now it is okay, with some work it could be better.

Voice: 7 Narration is mostly sound, but again, the bit with the cleaver/sword feels forced.

Style: 16 Overall, this is a good start to a possibly epic tale. Castellan sneaking out late at night to get a drink? Could relate. Anyone with that kind of job would NEED a stiff drink once in a while. Narration is a little stilted at times and needs a hand, but with a bit of work this could form the basis for a good story.

[MadMario]

CONCEPT: 7
FORM: 7
VOICE: 8
STYLE: 14
PRESENTATION: 8

Good to be back in Aslantaine once more. The overall appeal is nice, a good described location and recognizable characters. The dialogue feels a bit stiff, making the text a little less compelling.
I hope this is the prelude to a new soap / battle!

[FEEB]

Concept 7. Comfy fantasy fun

Form 7. Simple, serviceable

Voice 9. Likewise. Pleasant and straightforward. Probably my favorite writing style out of all the entries.

Style 15. I like that it's a slice of life without concerning itself with lore or plot, but also making sure characters have something to do and the story has a start, middle, end.