Original image credit: Joao Balbino

“Get in here,” a gorilla-sized figure booms while holding the door open for you. “You’ll catch your death out there in the rain!”

Thankful for an escape from the torrential storm, you slide past him into a quiet tavern. You slide your hood off your head to get a better look around, the cloth of your cloak hanging heavily, thoroughly soaked from the downpour outside. The tavern’s tables are drenched in cheery light which dances from lanterns hung around the walls and a simple chandelier in the center of the room.

The hulking man closes the door behind you and slides back behind the bar. “Welcome to Rennick’s Tavern! I’m Bill Rennick, sole proprietor, bartender, bouncer, and provider of the best ales in town!” He winks at you as he cleans a large mug and slides it onto an unseen shelf beneath the bar. “Well, one of the Rennicks… my pops was a Rennick, and his pop was a Rennick… I believe I’m Rennick the Sixth, but no one‘s really tried to keep track.” For a moment, he appears lost in his memories. “What can I get ya?”

You contemplate the row of beverages on the shelf behind the counter for a moment. “Do you have any hot cider?” you ask. Rennick lets out a thunderous laugh.

“Of course I do! Give me just a second.” He heads for the back room, where you imagine there is a hot stove with various simmering pots, whose contents are waiting for weary travelers like yourself. “What brings you all the way out here?” he asks as he returns.

Rennick plops down the thick glass stein of steaming cider in front of you, sloshing a bit onto the bar. He quickly mops up the spill with his towel, looking at you with genuine curiosity. You glance around the room, eyeing the sparse assortment of common folk who have gathered in this tavern to avoid the weather.

You respond in a hushed tone, “I’ve heard whispers of an ancient magic in this place. What can you tell me about that?”

A large grin spreads across the barkeep’s face.

“Ah, you’re here in search of the Rennick Writings!” He claps his hands together like an excited child as his voice shakes the room. A quick glance around shows you the locals are unperturbed by the mention of this magical artifact. In fact, you see a couple of people roll their eyes, as though Rennick’s over-excitement is a regular occurrence, one which they are quite tired of.

Rennick toddles off to the back room again, uttering excited squeals which seem much too high-pitched for a man of his size . You sink a little lower in your seat, embarrassed at the scene your question caused. Around the corner, you hear Rennick rummaging around on shelves, knocking things to the floor, scooting furniture out of his way. You quietly sip at your hot cider, which turns out to be sweeter than you expected. The warm liquid travels down through your body, warming you from the inside.

Rennick stumbles back into view, carrying two large, ornate, leather-bound books. He drops them on the bar in front of you. Dust plumes leap from their aged covers into a frenzied cloud, dancing in the lantern light. One book is labeled with ostentatious gold-leaf calligraphy – TALL TALES – while the other book has a smaller, simpler silver title – RHYMES AND MUSINGS.

“I don’t know what you’ve heard,” Rennick leans back against the bar, “but I’d be happy to tell you the legend of the Rennick Writings, if you’d like! Or you can just go ahead and read them for yourself.”

Show me Short Stories Show me Poetry Tell me more about the Rennick Writings…