The Good Old Days

A lifetime of adventuring had led Helga the Fang-Wielder all over the nine kingdoms. She’d climbed the mist-cloaked peaks of the Loathsome Mountains. She’d wandered through the verdant fields of the Eternal Valley. She’d even, on her most daring quest, explored the haunted ruins of Storm Rock.

Yet no matter how far she traveled, she always ended up at Silverwood Hall.

It was a cozy tavern in a small town. Quiet and unassuming, it was not the kind of place Helga had ever expected to grow so attached to. But her memories had tangled themselves throughout the place like untamed ivy. And it was hard to stray too far from those memories, especially as old age began to creep up on her.

She took a seat at her favorite table. It was tucked into the corner of the room. Private enough to discuss plans for the next great journey. But not so secluded as to miss out on whatever story the traveling bard might tell.

“Evening, Helga,” Lorelei said as she set a pint of mead on the table. “Thought you’d head home early tonight, considering the circumstances.”

Helga glanced up at her. Lorelei was an elf. One of the few she’d ever met outside the reclusive elven kingdom of Highbreeze. She’d built Silverwood Hall two hundred years ago, though she still barely looked old enough to drink. She hadn’t aged a day since Helga had first stepped foot into the tavern some fifty years earlier.

She shook her head. “You think I’d let a little thing like a funeral dampen my spirits?”

She smiled, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “I suppose I ought to know better. Drinks are on me tonight, alright?”

Helga raised her mug. “Keep them coming, then.”

The fireplace crackled and the bard plucked away at his lute. Helga’s thoughts drifted back to a long-distant memory. Before she was Helga the Fang-Wielder, she was just Helga. The teenage daughter of a farmer whose crops had been withered by a blight beast. Her father had been too old to hunt the beast himself. So she’d left the farm with nothing but a pitchfork and a burning desire for revenge.

The front door groaned open, pulling Helga from her thoughts. She waved the figure over to her table. An act she knew was unnecessary. If anyone was as attached to that particular spot in that particular tavern as she was, it was Veran.

Veran, still wrapped in his formal black cloak, settled into the seat beside her. “I figured you’d find your way here.”

“I always do,” she said before finishing off her drink. “You gave quite the eulogy today.”

He shrugged. “It wasn’t my best work. It’s hard to do something like that for someone you care about.”

“Yep.”

For a long while, they sat in silence. They drank and listened to the bard weave his tale. Something about a princess falling in love with a dragon. She’d heard so many stories in so many taverns that it was hard to keep them straight. As the years passed, her own adventures had become legends. Helga, the farm girl who’d crafted a mighty spear from a broken pitchfork and the fang of a blight beast.

When the bard finished his story, Helga spoke again. “I really thought Kaz would outlive us all.”

Veran sighed. “He was a stubborn orc. Never did take too well to retirement.”

“Did any of us?”

He pondered for a moment before answering. “Adella went off and founded that clinic up north, remember? I heard she helped a lot of sick people.”

“I always said I was going to visit her. Never did make it that far.” Helga tapped her fingers against the table. “What about Dunlock? He didn’t blow himself up with one of his experiments, did he?”

“No, no. With all his tricks and traps, death had to catch him in his sleep.”

“I guess we’re the last ones left, then,” Helga noted. “You’d better hope I don’t have to deliver your eulogy.”

Veran chuckled. “I’d come back from the dead just to witness that.”

Their conversation fell into silence again. Helga had grown used to many voices chiming in during their visits to Silverwood Hall. Adella would worry herself over every scrape and bruise they’d collected on their journey. Dunlock would brag about the success of his latest contraption (even if it failed spectacularly). Kaz would appraise the loot they’d gathered and make note of which shops would buy what. Veran would string together verses to tell the tale of their escapades. Helga, meanwhile, would eagerly pull out a map and plan their next adventure.

“Do you remember the day we first met?” she asked after a while.

He tilted his head toward the traveling bard. “I remember standing there, spinning my stories to an enraptured crowd, when a fiery-eyed farm girl rudely interrupted me.” A grin teased at his lips. “You were putting together a hunting party.”

“And you were the only one to volunteer,” Helga said. “I never understood why.”

“You’re kidding?” he laughed. “I was a bard who’d left home in search of great stories. And you had every intention of slaying a blight beast with nothing but a rusty pitchfork. I’d have been a fool not to go with you.”

“Why stick with me, though?” she asked. “You had your great story. We both nearly died in the process. Why risk everything to go adventuring with me?”

He scratched his graying beard. “I suppose it’s the same reason we all did. The same reason you never went back to that farm of yours. You kicked open a door that none of us had dared to even knock upon. Once it was open, there was no going back.”

She thought about his words as she finished her drink. She’d never set out to become an adventurer. Certainly not one whose tales would be told across the nine kingdoms. But something had changed in her that day.

For a while, she’d used her father as an excuse. His old age had worn on him and farm work had become too difficult to manage. For years, she sent him nearly every coin she made from dungeon diving and aiding townsfolk. What started as small satchels grew into hefty chests full of treasure. Her father became a very wealthy man thanks to her efforts. After he passed, she sold the farm. She didn’t need the money. But she couldn’t bring herself to go back.

She waited for Lorelei to refill their mugs before speaking again. “I never expected us to get old.”

“Most adventurers don’t,” Veran agreed. “But they live on in stories. That’s why I became a bard, after all. To immortalize the people I care for the most. When I tell those stories - our stories - I feel alive. I feel them speak through me, invigorating me with every verse. Adella, Dunlock, and Kaz may be gone but they won’t be forgotten. Neither will you.”

“And what about you?”

He grinned. “Who, me? The greatest bard the world has ever known? I expect a holiday to be named in my honor any moment now.”

She chuckled. “So what will you do now, legendary bard?”

“Same thing I’ve always done.” He took a long sip from his mug. “I go where you go.”

She looked him over. For a moment, she was back in time. They were huddled around their favorite table, as usual. She was making much-needed repairs to her fang-tipped spear. Kaz and Dunlock were discussing what items should be sold and what could be repurposed. Adella was nose-deep in a book about medicinal herbs.

Without warning, Veran rose from his chair and took to the middle of the tavern. He told stories. Their stories. Ones he’d been working on for weeks if not months. The crowd fell under the spell of his words. A standing ovation filled the room. That was the moment Helga realized she wasn’t just a farm girl with a makeshift weapon. She was an adventurer.

All too quickly, the memory faded away. “I’ve heard Highbreeze is nice this time of year. Good weather for tired bones.” She lifted her mug. “Are you up for another adventure, old friend?”