The Dancing Faun felt drab and cold to Simon. He left his companions at their table, caught in a pointless social encounter, and walked to the bar. The hall echoed with the sound of a stale, off-putting tune while noisy patrons gossiped.
Simon’s mind was wracked with torment. It wasn’t watching a man that was killed in front of him that was causing him grief, he had seen death. It was the children that took the man’s shoes as he lied in the street that pained him. None, not even his companions, showed even the slightest interest in the stewardship or wellbeing of the people of Silverbrook. It was a city where the poor were helpless and the rich grew fatter – little regard for the children in the streets. The city needed a rightful, honorable leader.
Simon wouldn’t be that leader. He knew this – his home in the Misty Peak Mountains, Vethord, still awaited him to reclaim the White Keep and title as Warden of the Caves. It still called to the Bernfall family to return home, rekindle the forges and smelt the most exquisite Aetherium once more. However, Silverbrook was a harsh reminder that without the proper, noble families ruling and guiding their rightful their domain the people would be in the grip of the black gauntlet of a Fallen One. And no doubt, Vethord suffered a similar fate.
The sheep were without a shepherd and they were starving while wolves ate their young.
“Isn’t it something?”
Simon hadn’t noticed the man who was now standing next to him at the bar but he kept his eyes on his drink all the same.
“I tell you what, I come here every time I trade at Silverbrook and this..” the man held his drink up, gesturing at it with admiration. “.. this magnificent Faun’s Froth is the finest ale in perhaps all of Conwyn. No?”
“No.”
The man cocked his head ever so slightly to the side in confusion.
“No?” He scoffed. “Tell me then, what would you consider the finest ale?”
Simon turned, locking eyes with the man.
“No.” his voice low and stern.
“I see.” The man began speaking to himself as he left Simon. “Lovely company you are. May you reach the peak before you fall.”
“What did you say to me?”
“Oh, Gods, nothing, sir.”
“What did you say?”
“I was just saying I wanted to find other company to enjoy my drink with – I meant no offence. I’m not looking for trouble.”
“No, the last thing you said.”
“It’s a saying, its just a saying.. It means that I hope you overcome whatever challenges you face before your opposition gets the better of you.”
“You didn’t finish it. May you reach the peak before you fall and your strength never fail you.” Simon corrected.
“Y-yes, quite right.. from Ironhaven?”
Simon’s face softened and a small grin tugged at the corner of his lips.
“Vethord. You?”
“I’ll be damned, Silverpine myself.” Almost immediately a familial air encompassed the two men. And the warming stranger retook his place next to Simon at the bar. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen another Misty Man outside of our peaks and you’re from Vethord, no less!”
“Oh, I haven’t been home in quite a while, life keeps me on the move.”
“Consider yourself lucky. Vethord isn’t in such a great place these days.” Simon’s heart sunk.
“No?”
“Gods, No.” the man caught himself quickly as if he had insulted Simon. “I mean, it’s in a fine position – most respectable.”
“Relax, I’m not aligned with House Evergreen in any way.”
“Oh… yeah it’s a proper shit show up there.” The man finished of his ale. “Nothing has been the same since the fall of the Bernfall family. Reckon everyone thinks the same. Damn shame.” Simon quickly checked his surroundings, hoping his companions heard this man call out the Bernfall family name with absolutely no prompt of his own to no avail.
“I agree – head anything of them?” Simon decided to keep his linage a secret.
“Heard from House Bernfall? No, no one has. Not in a proper age either. I think maybe one of them lives in the area but she hasn’t done shite. You know, my family are still loyal bannermen to the Bernfalls. I mean, don’t get me wrong, if House Bernfall suddenly called us to take up arms against the Evergreens – we’d be maybe 8 men and 4 pitchforks.” He laughed in his self-deprecation.
“But you’d answer?”
“What? A call to arms from House Bernfall?”
“Yes.” Again, the man cocked his head in confusion as he had done before. But he stalled and thought for a minute as he stared into his empty mug.
“Honestly.. I think we would. They were good stewards, just rulers. I don’t know how well you know your history but the whole of the mountains thrived under the stewardship of Lord Nicolo Bernfall.” Simon’s chest began to warm with the man’s loyalty. “Empty promises I suppose though. They family is scattered like seeds on the wind. They’re not called the House of Broken Banners for nothing.”
“Perhaps for not much longer.”
The two engaged in conversation for a while – Simon answering the questions of his new friend with vague, broad strokes to keep the conversation moving but to avoid revealing any details of himself.
The man soon had to leave to prepare for the next day of trade after swapping stories and gossip of various taverns and leaders in the Misty Peaks region. Simon found himself once more alone at the bar.
“Barkeep? A Faun’s Froth, please.” House Bernfall still had supporters. Poorly equipped and very few in numbers, but loyal supporters. And perhaps there was nothing more valuable than that.
With drink in hand, Simon crossed the lively tavern of laughter and high spirits. The elven melody from the stage moved the patrons of the tavern like a playful breeze dancing with tall wheat. Simon rejoined his companions who had just closed their encounter with a jovial man no taller than the bar stool he sat upon. As Simon sat down, he noted to himself the warmth and vibrant colors of the Dancing Faun.
“What’d I miss?”