Recorded in the quiet hour before dawn, on a morning when the fire crackled more than the tavern stirred.
Not all stories are told aloud. Some are kept safe until the world is ready to hear them.
Among the many parchments I’ve filled in this tavern—records of regions, ruins, and riddles—there is one subject I find myself returning to more often than I admit: people. Specifically, the strange and varied folk who call themselves adventurers.
I’ve watched them arrive through the old oak door, boots muddied, expressions wary or wide-eyed. They travel in packs or wander alone. Some swagger, some drift. All carry weight—seen or unseen.
So, as I often do, I’ve begun to collect a few quiet observations on adventuring folk.
They Are Restless
Even when seated, an adventurer is rarely still. Fingers tap tankards. Eyes scan exits. Weapons never fully leave reach. It is as if their bones remember motion, even in peace.
Restlessness, I’ve come to believe, is not impatience. It is longing. A kind of hunger that no hearth can quite satisfy.
They Speak in Half-Stories
You’ll notice it if you listen carefully. They begin in the middle.
“—and then he rolled a one!”
“The basilisk? That was three towns ago.”
“We never found the real amulet but buried the copy anyway.”
No beginning, rarely an end. Adventurers speak as if the listener already knows the weight of the moment. And perhaps that’s the secret: the people who matter always do.
They Are Contradictions in Boots
Fierce protectors who claim not to care. Stoic warriors who cry when the bard sings. Rogues who leave coins behind. Paladins who question their gods. Magic-users who fear the unknown.
They are walking puzzles. And they rarely notice.
I’ve stopped trying to solve them. I simply write them down, as they are. Sometimes, contradiction is the truest form of humanity.
They Never Stay Long—But They Always Return
Even the ones who say they won’t. Especially them.
Something about the warmth of the tavern, the way the stories cling to the beams, the memory of laughter between old friends—they come back, if only for a night.
The Grim Tavern is not a place on a map. It is a moment between quests. A breath held before battle. A place to remember who you were before the world changed you again.
One Last Thought
If you ever find yourself at a worn table, across from someone with a sword and a thousand-yard stare, ask them—gently—how their last quest ended. Not what happened. How it felt.
If they answer, you’ll know what kind of adventurer they are.
And if they don’t?
Just refill their mug and stay a while.
There are truths that take time to be spoken.
—Jane Whisperquill
Scribe of Realms, Listener of People
