The Glass Dagger Corner Club stood at the intersection of hither and thither, between lost and not-quite-there-yet. It served travellers of modest wealth and repute, tolerated the boasting adventurers, but specialised in sheltering those who stumbled over the threshold. 

Eight of whom were currently seated at separate tables, some near the windows as though they couldn’t bear to be far from the road. The rest had scattered to the darkest corners the tavern had to offer. The bartender lifted their head, catching the usual scents—despair, sorrow, unsurety. But the eight patrons who sat without drinking were also burdened by other traits.

Guilt. Resignation. Revenge.

There was a clink as the bartender collected the small glasses. The bottle was withdrawn from its hiding place amongst the deepest depths of the rack, lest it be served accidentally. Their fingers lingered on the label, torn and peeling after a century, considering. 

The female dwarf near the window shifted, her fingers going to the golden flower in her hair, as her foot tapped to an unheard tune. Curiosity burned, and hers was the first glass delivered. 

She jumped when they approached, eyeing the drink.

“On the house,” they explained.

The human by the windows, his eyes on the distant mountains, accepted the shot without question, downing it with well-seasoned practice. They grinned. 

The skinny, dark haired human watched them place the glass warily, their eyes shifting to the trembling amber liquid as though it were a loaded crossbow. The bartender left; they would drink it. They always did. 

The fisherman had placed himself in the darkest corner, his hand resting atop a cloth-wrapped bundle. He accepted the drink feverishly, like a shipwrecked sailor finding a freshwater spring, but the dwarf at the next table murmured his thanks, the first to do so. The two humans near the fire were also served, the man taking his without a word. The woman was stately in her posture, holding her hands out to the flames crackling in the hearth. 

And finally, the tiny gnome at the large centre table, his feet swinging above the alestrewn floorboards. The glass was set before him, and the bartender offered no explanation. The gnome apparently didn’t need one, peering into his waistcoat.

Seconds ticked by. The bartender returned to their kegs. 

The gnome nodded, as though to himself, and picked up the liquor. One by one, the patrons drank. Looks were exchanged. And like migratory birds in the fall, they approached the gnome at the table, finding seats beside each other and comfort in the woodgrain of the well-worn tabletop. 

Silence wrapped itself around the Glass Dagger Corner Club. But the bartender grinned and turned away, allowing the pretence of privacy. The words would soon follow. 

The polite dwarf began, his words emanating in the stillness like a hymn.

“The Sweeping Vista had just docked in Kettleheim…”