Something Lost, Something Gained

In the distant, magical land of The Feathered Keys, where shimmering waves of crystal waters slosh against shores beneath the rainbow-washed sky, in a town called Harpy’s Haven stood a quaint tavern known as The Plunge. Its wooden beams glowed warmly, the evening sun revealing the reddish tint living beneath the weathered surface. The sign, creaking as it rocked in the gentle breeze, was a beautiful carving of a tankard dropping into water. It was a place where adventures began. 

Behind the polished mahogany bar, an old bartender named Drogo poured drinks with shaky hands. A thick, curly white beard stuck firm to his face and his back was hunched from the heavy weight of time. The man wore a simple knit hat that covered the shiny, slick portion of his scalp, letting wispy hairs dangle from the sides. The man's skin was once elastic and soft but, over the years, has grown weathered and creased. The hard lines that covered Drogo's face resembled the maps of the islands he sold to adventurers. 

Drogo had traveled far and wide in his youth, from the peak of Eagles Rest to the caves of Crane’s Cove, a place where whispered secrets remained. He had danced with deadly demons, keeping his blood within. He had conversed with the Witch of the Wimbrel Isle, returning with his soul and her staff. Drogo, once known as Drogo, The Daunting, had battled tempestuous waters, scaled precipitous cliffs, and even shared a cup of mead with an aracokra named Qas, who loved the telling stories even more than the splitting of clouds. 

To Diogo, The Plunge felt both comforting and confining. Each night, as he scrubbed mugs and welcomed eager adventurers with a warm smile and hearty laugh, Drogo’s heart ached for the thrill of the life he once led. The clattering of mugs and the fragrance of sweet mead brought back echoes of laughter, camaraderie, and, the most elusive for the man, energy. Of course, the latter never lasted. Once the adventurers had set off and The Plunge had grown quiet, old Drogo would, once again, feel the heavy, blanketing weight of the years. 

One fateful evening, as he dragged a moistened rag over the bar, the door swung open, heralding the arrival of a group of young adventurers, their faces alight with the thrill of the unknown. They boasted of their recent quest to retrieve The Void Bloosom— a fabled flower said to be the only one of its kind as it grows in caves, and if any piece is touched by sunlight, the entirety of the flower falls to dust. Drogo’s heart leaped, his energy growing with each elated step of excitement the adventurers took. 

“Tell us, old man,” one young adventurer queried, their eyes gleaming with respect and curiosity. “What grand adventures did you have in your youth?”

The question hung in the air, wrapping Drogo in a warm embrace as the old bartender filled a pitcher with ale. Quietly and sloshingly, he let the liquid fall into the three mugs he had placed in front of the group. The bartender wearily moved to sit atop a creaking stool and stared into their eager faces, the flickering light of the fire casting shadows of his past on the wall behind the trio. 

“Oh, dear children,” Drogo said, his voice thick with nostalgia. “I have seen things that twinkle upon the edge of dreams. I scaled mountains so high they brushed the stars, and I sailed ships through storms so furious it felt as though the sky and sea were at war.”

As Drogo spoke, the tavern faded around him. The walls began to form into the lush greenery of Ravenwood Forest. He could feel the rush of thin mountain winds against his face, feel the pulse of adventure resounding in the center of his bones. Taking a short journey through the eyes of the young adventurers before him, he saw the wonder they held. It was the same he had long ago. It was a wonder for the life that he once knew and loved.

As he recounted a tale of a daring escape from a cave guarded by animated stone griffins, gasps, followed by laughter, erupted, echoing in the tavern like the music of minstrels. As the stories flowed freely from the man, he felt the familiar weight of his age lift, each tale holding a droplet of youth hidden within. Drogo watched their faces light up with imagination, their minds igniting with possibilities, just as they once had in his own heart. 

After the last story had been told, and the young adventurers had departed into the night, Drogo stood alone. The tavern had quieted except for the soft cracks and pops of a dying fire and the crickets outside. In that stillness, he realized that perhaps adventure did not reside solely in distant lands or spectacular feats. It thrived in the tales shared, the laughter echoing against walls, and the connections made in those moments. 

With a back straighter than it began that morning, Drogo picked up his rag and began to prepare for the next group of adventurers. Though he would remain the venerable bartender of The Plunge, he had discovered a way to relight the flame of life deep in his heart that had nearly been snuffed away. Though he had no youth and no new adventures lay in his path, for the first time, with no patrons in the bar, Drogo felt excited. In the back of his mind, where before he only thought about the lack of adventure and the pains of his age, Drogo began to search through his memories, grouping together events and working out the details of more stories to tell. 

And so, in the distant, magical archipelago known as The Feathered Keys, the once adventurer and old bartender became Drogo, Teller of Tales, a guardian of adventure. For those who set foot in The Plunge, there was more than ale that waited. 

If you listened to the people of Harpy’s Haven, you would hear mentionings of how old Drogo seemed to be getting younger. 

-The End-