A Waystation Keeper's Journal Entry One

Running a Waystation was always something I imagined doing when I was little. The other kids around me always played and pretended to be great adventurers or powerful mages but not me. Even the more reasonable children around me kept their aims closer to reality; preparing to take over their family professions and working towards a much more reasonable goal than I ever had.

My teens and twenties came and went with no significant news. I moved away from my parent’s farmstead to Colorac as soon as I was old enough by stealing rides on any caravan that would take me. As soon as I was there I walked into the first tavern I found and got a job as a server. It was a far cry from the lavish Waystation ownership I had imagined, but I was working hospitality in some way at the very least.

Ten years later I was still waiting tables at that same tavern. Dozens of letters and requests to Waystations went unanswered until eventually I grew complacent. Opportunities never materialized the way that I had hoped, and I grew to be okay with that. The idea of owning a Waystation had never been a realistic goal anyway, I mean, who in their right mind sets up a tavern in the wilderness as a life’s dream. A few people, it turned out, but rarely are those sorts of people in need of someone like me.

That’s not to say life was awful though. I had learned a tremendous amount about the work I loved. I could make a special occasion that much more memorable and turn a terrible day into one that was simply not so bad. The tavern keeper in Colorac taught me to cook, clean, manage accounts, and even defend myself from the more raucous crowds that come during the festival season. Life was alright, if not thrilling.

That boring life I built turned upside down in about five minutes flat in the month of Fallingleaf last year. I received a letter at my lodgings which indicated that I was to report to the Master of Laws and Property in Colorac. Two hours of waiting in line, five minutes of bored meeting pleasantries, and thirty seconds of picking my jaw up off the floor later and I had a deed to a genuine Waystation. I remember standing on the cobblestones outside of the tavern I had made my purpose and imagining my name painted onto the sign as if it were my own. I quit that day and took everything I owned with me.

It took some time and a fair number of letters to estranged family to figure out exactly what had happened. A second cousin once removed had bought a Waystation some years back before falling deathly ill. A plague of sorts swept through the whole family line and an entire lineage was effectively purged within a decade. Apparently, the Lady of Records spent weeks digging up certificates of adoption and relations to find me. Well, not me exactly, but anyone who would be willing to inherit; I was just the only one to agree to take up the mantle.

I found the Waystation in a sorry state of being. Spent nearly every coin I had getting it back in order; fresh paint, restocking the cabinets, and getting myself a big sign to put right out on the front wall.

“... And that leads us to tonight,” I said, putting the newly polished glass back onto the tray above me, “I’ll not bore you with the details of repairing the place. I am certain that you can imagine what it takes to turn a rotten building into a habitable Waystation again.”

“That’s a far-fetched story, Stationkeeper,” said the half-elf who kept insisting that I use a fresh glass every time I poured them a glass of juice, “you don’t look the type to tell a tale that tall.”

“If you want another fresh glass, you’ll bite your tongue! Swear on my Waystation that it’s the truth,” I quipped back as I reached over to pass out pints to the bubalin trio that kept bumping horns at the end of my bar. They had arrived around dinner time, hours before the half-elf had, and they were well on their way to sleeping off their drinks on the floor and tables just behind them.

“Sure thing, Stationkeeper. You’re a damned long way from Srovine’s main holdings is all. Hells, you’re a long way from everyone out here.”

The half-elf wasn’t wrong of course. As far as inheritance went, a building over a week’s ride by horse to the nearest significant town was hardly the most practical. It kept visitors sparse and coin even moreso, but I earned just enough to make a living and more importantly it was all mine.

“So are you ready to order or do you want another juice?” I asked.

“I’m ready. I’ll have the dreench pasta with no garlic. Served in clay, not metal.”

I stared at the patron with a tilt in my head for some time; garlic was the primary ingredient in my version of dreench pasta, I used the sweet and almost nutty flavor of roasted garlic to cover the less than appetizing gaminess of the dreench. When he didn’t respond to my quizzical expression I simply shrugged and told him I would get right on it. Like I said, there weren’t so many guests that I could refuse a relatively simple request. I stocked up the bar with two more rounds of drinks for the three bubalin and a fresh glass for the half-elf and sashayed my way into the kitchen where I could get to work.

I kept a pot of fresh water on to boil over the hearth at all times, so getting the pasta itself started was no issue. Fresh made every morning, I knew it wouldn’t take but a few minutes to get the stuff to the perfect texture. The sauce and dreench meat was an entirely different story. Working quickly, I cleaned off my hands with the rune of cleansing I had traded for a week’s lodging from a novice witch a few months back and tossed two dreench filets onto the hotstone. As soon as they were salted I pulled three bowls and got started on the sauce.

With a dash across the kitchen which always felt too large for me I started by rifling through the walk-in pantry to dig up as many alternatives as I could think of. Options were sparse, weak even for this place, and I just grabbed everything I thought was even close. Half of it ended up back on the shelves just as fast as it left them. When I was done and back at the counter I was holding an onion and a stump of ginger I’d reserved from a trade with a half-ogre just last week.

I poured a healthy dose of oil into the bottom of my pan and started up the heating rune I traded from a dwarven smith headed home to Banrigh. Some simple knife work later and I had the sweet sizzle of veggies and oil wafting all through the kitchen. The scent mixed deeply with the searing meat to create an aroma I hoped would work the bubalins into a feeding frenzy as well. They didn’t eat here often, but when they did the payout was a good one.

A few minutes later I had a clay bowl piled high with tender pasta, thinly sliced dreench, and an oil and ginger sauce coating the whole meal. I brought out the dish and placed it in front of the patron with a wide smile.

“I had to improvise a bit, garlic is normally the leading flavor in this dish, but it should hopefully be to your liking! Let me know if I can get you anything else.” I said before I turned my attention back to the more unusual of my customers. The bubalin trio were distracted arguing with each other so I took the moment to look them over before addressing them. Each had a similar appearance with overlong horns that curved around to the sides atop their wide-snouted faces. Their equipment placed them as something between mercenaries and adventurers while their plans led me to believe they were headed to join the fight in the distant town of Lightwood.

Before I had finished my inspection the most diminutive of the three flared out its nostrils and punched its companion square in the forehead. I stepped back in alarm as the injured party retaliated with a kick to the shin of the offender just before the third grabbed both by the collar and smashed their heads together; a technique that led to both of the angered bubalins’ horns becoming entangled entirely. With a glance I reached up and placed a hand on the blade which I stored just below the bar for the most unruly of guests but the half-elf raised a hand to stop me. Something in his gesture compelled me to listen, and I merely stood and watched as the man rose slowly and approached the three brawling warriors.

“What are your names?” he asked simply. To my surprise all three of them paused almost immediately.

“Thoz,” said the puncher.

“Jak,” said the kicker.

“Khaird,” said the grappler.

“Well Thoz, Jak, and Khaird the three of you owe your Stationkeeper an apology. You have disturbed their peace and spoiled my meal as well. Now, sit down, be quiet, and order enough food to pay for your transgressions.”

By the end of the command my grip on the blade had tightened to the point of turning my knuckles white. Giving orders to a group of mercenaries was a great way for a traveller to get my Waystation destroyed while they beat the absolute hells out of him in the process. I doubted I could do much about the latter, but with some encouragement I might have been able to prevent the former.

That brief moment of worry was replaced with a flash of shock as all three of them immediately stopped, untangled themselves from the brawl and sat politely down at the bar. Jak picked up a menu, reviewed it briefly, and ordered six servings of my most expensive item, one that I knew was not usually to bubalin taste. For his part, the half-elf simply nodded to me slightly and returned to his seat.

I tried to walk away and just make the food, I really did. The man didn’t use a traditional spell, they’re too visible and I certainly hadn’t seen one. His tone wasn’t aggressive or even particularly well worded in a way that I thought would convince three tipsy buffalofolk. Whatever he did to the fighters was something much more powerful, and it was something he could most certainly do to me. I had to know.

“If I ask, is it going to go poorly for me?” I asked as I poured yet another drink for the man in front of me.

“No, I wouldn’t say so. At least, not as long as you’ll still rent me a room for the day from time to time.”

“That’s fine,” I muttered, “as long as you keep your mind out of mine and your coin still stays on the counter.”

“No trouble there, Stationkeeper. My days of compelling friends are long over. Haven’t felt the need to do such a thing since the last Srovinian uprising.”

“When was that? I don’t recall there being any uprising in my lifetime or my parents for that matter.”

“Oh you wouldn’t know it. It’s been a century now, maybe a decade or two more. Now, about that room, you wouldn’t happen to have any without windows would you?”

“In fact I do not,” I said, regretful of the fact, “All of the rooms are equipped with monster resistant shutters which I am happy to fasten for you if that would satisfy your need, though?”

“It probably would, but I’m loath to take a risk. I’ve got a terrible sun allergy you see, and must remain in darkness or I will break out in these terrible lesions.”

“Well, if absolute darkness is a must then I may have an option. I’d suggest the pantry though given your hesitancy with garlic maybe not. I would offer for you to stay in the cellar amongst the casks and storage, but offering that to a guest feels wrong.”

“Not at all! I’m no stranger to sleeping in a cellar or two. It’ll work perfectly for me. I suspect you’ll find a reduction in vermin for the next several weeks as well, they really do not tolerate me. I’ll need the space just for one night this time. I’ve got places to be and people to meet this week!”

I was just about to snap at the man for suggesting I had an infestation of vermin in my Waystation before I realized that he had actually followed me into the kitchen as we discussed. I hadn’t seen him rise nor did I remember preparing the wine and small plates which the buffalofolk had ordered. I merely bit my tongue and went with it, safer that way.

With the matter of his lodgings settled, I handed off the ordered foods to the bubalins and made myself scarce in the kitchen. My patron took stock of the room and quietly watched me as I set about the few remaining tasks I had before he was ready to retire for the evening. As I reached the last of the cooking I planned to do unless another order came the patron disappeared through the cellar door beside the hearth and I found myself alone. With nothing left for me in the kitchen for the moment I waltzed my way back to the front of the Waystation to check on the trio of buffalofolk.

The bubalin barely touched the food after I served it to them, but made a forced effort to at least try a bite of everything offered. After another quiet hour of discussion the conversations in the lounge area died and my guests all made themselves scarce. I completed my normal routine of tidying the place and getting the kitchen back to a pristine condition before I settled down behind the bar. I could have made my way to my own room upstairs, but hesitated just in case I had another late night visitor. I sat myself as comfortably as I could in the corner and waited to see just who or what might turn up next.