Hunter

It’s a dark and stormy night. I wouldn’t be in here if it wasn’t. The warm, still evenings don’t rile up the patrons. And if there’s less tension in the air, there’s less chance of me getting a free feed. Because you see, at the Dancing Pig Inn you always get dinner and a show. Who could ask for more? Well, I could. I could ask for the show to hurry up and start. 

The view from the mezzanine railing is the best for when the tavern brawls begin. Here, I can curl up on the old oak wood, tuck my tail under my chin and survey the tables for the best—or at least most unguarded—meal. Then under the cover of chaos, I can slip down, take what I like and saunter back up. 

The thick logs in the hearth crackle and pop, and the fire’s heat fills the air. Barfly murmuring mixes with Domhnull MacNill’s dolcett plucking. His lute is missing a string, though you’d hardly notice. If anything, you’d notice the deep gouge across its body (from Bonegrinder Grim’s axe) or the scorch marks along the neck from Varla the Diamond’s fireball. That’s fair. I’m not a fan of the lute either. 

The strings are made from catgut, don’t you know? Awful business.

The tavern door opens. Everyone goes quiet. All eyes flicker to the darkened doorway, this gaping maw that, by its opening, preempts more threats than opportunities. Lightning crackles over the hill past the edge of town. I yawn, stretch out my back, and begin licking my paw so I can keep one eye on the action. I can’t do that when grooming other things. And some folks seem to get offended if I’m grooming anything else. That’s jealousy for you.

What will come through the door tonight? A warrior clad in armour, mud and blood? A black-haired woman in silken robes with a plunging neckline? Perhaps a party of gnomes, all stacked on top of each other, trying to pass for a human? That’s one of my favourites (because they order more food). But it’s none of those. It’s a hunter. He’s got the green cloak, pointed hood, bow across his back. My interest is piqued; men with bows and clad in green either order a lot of meat, or none at all. 

I swish along the bannister, getting closer to the innkeeper, and listen to Green man’s order. He’s gone for the special: lamb shanks. What a blessing! 

Green man will sit in a corner, somewhere inconspicuous. But he’ll keep his eyes squarely on the door, maybe he’ll light up a pipe. Soon, someone will recognise him. He’ll say he’s not looking for trouble, and they’ll say ‘too bad’. I hope it’s Boffin, the Blacksmith—he’s got a fair skinful in him, since he found out Leyla’s been getting her beef from the butcher. Or maybe it’ll be Aa’darm the Brand—he’s got a thing against eating meat generally. And hunters specifically. Maybe it’ll be the Company of Stones; they’re a young adventuring crew, and nothing helps to build a reputation like levelling a drinking hole. As long as they wait until after Green man’s meal is ready.

Green man’s meal is brought out, two chunky shanks on a bed of mashed potatoes and dribbling with red wine and mushrooms (I could care less for the sides, just give me the meat!) But no one has noticed him yet. He’s halfway through the first shank and still no one cares about him. This simply will not do. I must intervene.

I drop down from the mezzanine onto the cupboards above the bar. Then prowl along until I reach the window nearest Green man. My whiskers cut lines through the fog on the glass as I sidle up to the window latch and force it open. The wind catches it and it swings wide with a loud bang. People are paying attention now. Not just because of the noise, but the wind whipped off Green man’s hood.

It’s a big burly fella from the opposite corner that gets things rolling. He leaps to his feet and shouts, “Thatcher Rosefinger … you bastard!” 

“Banous Hound, I thought I’d find you here!” Green man replies. “Cassia and Her Eternal Gang send their regards!”

In the next second, Greenman is on his feet, he’s got an arrow nocked, but big Burly man is barrelling across the tavern floor. The arrow flies true but Burly man batters it aside with his dinner plate. He’s too close for a second shot, so Green man tosses his bow to the ground and leaps forward to meet the man blade-on-blade. Men and women across the tavern all pick up their weapons and the fray begins.

I’m sure it’ll be a bloodbath. I’m sure there will be busted tables and broken chairs. I’m sure it will be a tale that will echo through the ages, and Domhnull MacNill will pen quite the ballad—assuming his lute survives the incoming vortex of violence. But more importantly, there is an unguarded shank fast losing heat. 

I hop up onto Green man’s plate, sink my teeth into the meat and stealth back to the bottom of the stairs, brushing up against Domhnull’s shins on the way. Then it’s back up the stairs to the mezzanine.

Delicious.