In a shadowy alcove in a darkened and dimly lit pub, a humanoid figure sits at a small table and holds his wineglass by the stem. He tips the empty glass first one way and then the other as he contemplates the small flickering light which rests in the center of the table. This light, as with all the others in the pub is not a candle and he has never understood what it is, nor has he inquired as to its nature. It simply exists, as does the table he sits at, the chair he rests upon, the wineglass he holds and even the pub itself.
As too, does he — simply existing. He acknowledges he is an anomaly. By all that is “right” in his world, he should not exist and, indeed, many of his fellows have had their existence terminated by those who hunt them.
Leaning forward, he places the wineglass on the table and grasps the dark bottle resting next to it. He attempts to pour from the bottle, but only the final few drops of the dark red liquid inside drip into the glass, barely splashing as they strike the bottom. In a vain attempt to extract the last few whispers of what remained, he upends the bottle, suspending it above his wineglass. This produces nothing further, so he returns it to the table, pondering if he must continue to stay hidden away here in this pub, or if it is again safe for him to return home.
There are no displayed keepers of time anywhere in the darkened interior, not that they would be visible even if they were. He has a vaguely uneasy sense that time perhaps does not pass equally for all patrons of this place, but, as with the flickering light, has never asked.
With a small sigh, his fingers trace along the fine gold chain which secures his pocket watch to his vest, where it sits nestled inside his left pocket. His cloak remains clasped around his neck and his hand brushes it aside as he does. With a practiced gesture, he tugs it out and flips the lid open, staring at it as if in disbelief.
Another small sigh, followed by him murmuring, “Still four hours until sundown. Guess it’s another bottle, then.”
Before rising, he unclasps his cloak, shrugging it off and letting it fall to rest on the back of his chair. As he stands, he gazes around, looking at the rest of the pub beyond the bare walls of this lonely alcove. He’s seen it over and over again, repeatedly and unchanging through … has it been enough decades to be over a century now? More? The years come and go and eventually pass even beyond memory. The only features which ever change here are those of the clientele.
The Bartender, too, in his own way, seems to be unchanging. Occasionally, the face and the voice of the man standing behind the bar changes, but the personality remains. So, too, do the habitual actions of that person — the towel either tossed nonchalantly over one shoulder or tucked into a belt of some sort — and the semi-continuous polishing of the various glassware. Through his years (decades? centuries?) of patronage, he can’t recall that many glasses or mugs ever being used, but he assumes, as with many other aspects of this pub, it must be so at some time or another, else why the effort?
He stands, taking the bottle with him, and walks the short distance to the bar. As he does, the Bartender looks up from his task of polishing what must be a particularly troublesome spot on another wineglass and sets the glass down in anticipation of needing to attend to a request.
Placing the bottle on the bar, he smiles politely at the Bartender. This pub is one of the few places where he is allowed to smile without the typical response of shrieks of horror, combined, of course, with everyone around him recoiling in terror at what he is. The fangs, while compact, are too distinctive of he and his kind, if any others like him even still remain.
“Another bottle, Lord Carven? I believe I still have several of that vintage if you’d like? Or, perhaps, I think there is a sanguine sherry, Lantegloss ‘210, which you might also enjoy? The grapes are crushed in tubs by nubile females with barbs strewn on the floor of the tub — it is part of some sacred ritualistic process they’ve used for centuries. I suspect that may also appeal to you?”
No matter how many times he had been here, nor his declaration that he could be addressed informally, the Bartender was always most proper in speaking to him, calling him “Marquess” when he would enter and then “Lord” for the rest of his visit. Over time, he had come to accept that this, too, was a common quirk among the changing faces.
“That sounds pleasant. Shall I fetch my glass to replace it for the new bottle?”
“No need, sir. I’ll provide a new one and I can handle cleaning it all up when I close.”
To the best of the man’s knowledge, he had never known the pub to be closed at any time for any reason, but, again, it was something never to be explained or enquired about.
=====
The Bartender turned and reached under the bar to open a cabinet, extracting the suggested bottle. He held it up for a thorough examination, turning it first one way and then another, peering deeply inside. “Good, good… it’s remained thoroughly blended. Have to be certain. If there’s any separation or sediment, it means the bottle has been defiled and gone bad. Then I’ve got to fill out a stack of forms and send it back to the vineyard for repurification prior to the proper burial rituals.” This was said with the barest hint of a smile touching the corners of his eyes.
With the explanation and his inspection complete, he extracted a cork puller from the pocket of his half-apron and pushed the cover off with his thumb. The two prongs caught a flicker of light and gleamed for just a moment, as if ready to bite into the neck of the bottle and remove the cork, almost as a gentle reminder to Carven of his own fangs. “And, of course, it would be an insult to a bottle of wine, any bottle of wine,” continued the Bartender, “to use something as disrespectful and sacrilegious as some sort of corkscrew. I find these work so much better in helping to … extract … the contents of a bottle. Wouldn’t you agree, m’lord?”
Scarcely pausing a moment, he plunged the prongs into the neck, at the sides of the cork. Carven felt a shiver run up and down along his spine … the same one he felt in similar situations when it was he doing the … no, no. This was a time to hide and contemplate, not for his own personal hunting, and such was not permitted within the pub in any event.
The cork slid deftly out with barely the hint of a “pop” as it was released by the bottle. Resting the bottle on the countertop in front of him, the Bartender removed it from the puller and waved it gently in front of his own nose. “Mmm… Such a wonderful aroma. I believe this was crafted and aged perfectly.” He offered the cork to Carven, but the slightest twist of the man’s head was sufficient to be understood as rejection.
“I have never had you offer nor serve me anything repellant. Given the length of my patronage, I believe I shall simply trust you on this one.”
“Very good, m’lord. Would you care to taste a small sample before returning to your table?”
By this point, the faint fumes from the bottle had already reached his nostrils and he could feel just the hint of a flush begin to touch his cheeks. He wanted nothing more than to sit with this bottle and pour himself a full glass, so he again twitched his head to decline.
The bottle was placed atop the bar and the Bartender retrieved a fresh glass, giving it a quick swipe with his ever-present towel. “Then here is a fresh glass. Please enjoy the bottle. If you are particularly fond of it, I am certain we will have it in stock for quite some time.”
Since Carven could not recall any circumstance under which the pub had not had any particular beverage in stock, this, again, was of no surprise to him. It was, after all, just one more of those peculiar idiosyncrasies of the Nowhere Pub.
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What is the Nowhere Pub? It is a multi-dimensional, cross time and space, pub. To visualize it, first attempt to conjure from the deepest recesses of your mind the darkest, seemingly most unfriendly, pub which exudes a sense that you do not belong here. Now magnify that several times. You might just begin to come close to the interior of the Pub. There are tables scattered across the floor and around the edges of the room — which is barely visible. Centered on each table is a small flickering light which, at a cursory glance, might seem to be a candle — but is not.
Similarly, there are lights suspended over the bar. Behind the bar are several taps for beer and ale — all unlabeled and having merely blank pull-levers, made of wood or some other odd material, attached to them. There’s a multitude of bottles against the back wall, either similarly unlabeled or with labels that are impossible to see or read. Of course, the Pub has a bartender. He’s usually a cheerful sort and, when not serving drinks, spends most of his time polishing the glasses and mugs.
What’s the allure of the Pub? It has quite a few.
For one thing, any drink that exists — somewhere or somewhen — is available to you. Name a beer, and they’ve not only got it, but it’s on tap. Care for some wine instead? There’s a multitude of bottles available — only the very best years, of course. Pick a vintage liquor, and they’ll have a bottle — open and waiting to serve you a shot. If you insist on a cocktail, hardly a favorite of the usual clientele, the bartender will have just the perfect ingredients for the absolutely best version of it you’ve ever tasted.
And the clientele — Ah, you’ll find all sorts here, ranging from barbarians who just walked in out of icy tundra to nomadic priests who finally made it out of the desert, all the way to space marine officers who’ve come out of a successful battle. This is where they go to have a drink, or five, and relax.
The Pub is where a wide variety of customers meet and stories are swapped. Just don’t try to start a fight. You’ll get one warning from the Bartender that behaving in such a manner will require him to call the Bouncer to put an end to it. That always settles the point.
Oh, and the other distinction about the Pub? It’s got two kinds of customers. The Regulars and the One-Timers. You don’t know which one you are until you try and find the Pub again. The Regulars can always find their way back. The door they open to leave the pub will always be the same door they used to enter it — returning them back to wherever, and whenever, they came from.
As for the One-Timers? Well — they get one chance. No one else uses that door? They’re headed back home and never finding it again. They go out through a door someone else has opened, though, and who knows where they’re headed or if they’re ever coming back.
How do you figure out which type of customer you are? You walk out the door and see what happens. Or, you discover you can find the Pub again.
Somehow, though, the Pub is always good at bringing the right people together, sometimes over and over again. Because, after all, when what you really need is a fellow traveller in the midst of their own personal darkness to have a shared drink with, there’s no better place for that than your favorite pub, right?
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The man took the offered glass and the bottle and returned to his alcove, placing both on the table before seating himself once again. With an almost innocent hesitation, he slowly began to pour. The dark red liquid was slightly thicker than a typical wine, most likely due to the “enhancement” during the crushing process. The scent wafting from the surface of the wine in his glass was alluring, reminding him of so many of those he had wooed, and won, throughout his long existence.
Lifting the glass by its stem, he brought it to his lips and took the tiniest of sips, the wine barely touching his lips. Feeling the wine brush past his fangs and linger on his tongue, he suddenly recalled a memory from shortly after he had first been turned. “Ahhh… Rebecca, my darling,” escaped in a whisper.
Mentally catching himself at the unexpected recollection, he took a heartier mouthful from the glass and returned it to the table. He discovered, much to his surprise, that a tear had formed just at the corner of one eye. This, too, was unexpected, as it had been at least several decades since he’d felt he had anything to feel grief about. He tugged his small kerchief from the other vest pocket opposite his watch and touched it to the tear, letting it be absorbed and vanish.
He stared for a moment at the invisible spot of moistened fabric. The piece of cloth was more typically used for dabbing at the edges of his mouth following when he dined, so it was quite rare for it to see any liquid which was not red.
Tucking the kerchief away, he filled his glass once more and decided to drink more leisurely so he could fully savor the taste of the wine. He had, after all, quite some time to occupy until it was safe to return home, and he wanted neither a third bottle nor to waste the one sitting in front of him
Thus he sat for quite some time … contemplating the flickering light, the slowly draining wine bottle, his glass, and, of course, his own continued existence.
=====
A bit over half of this second bottle had been poured and consumed when he heard the soft sound of the door to the outside of the Pub opening. While he knew there was nothing to fear inside the Pub, the instincts of one who is simultaneously predator and prey are impossible to set aside. From the bar, he heard the Bartender give one of his typically welcoming greetings, followed by the short conversation afterwards.
“Eoghann MacShimidh! Do me eyes deceive me? Fàilte! In for a pint, good sir?” The Bartender had slipped into a somewhat more boisterous mood for reasons known only to him.
The newcomer stepped to the bar and removed his beret, before taking a seat.
“Probably more than a pint. Didna’ feel like lockin’ me’self up in a cage tonight.”
“Same as last time, perhaps? That was a Lonely Wolf Stout, if memory serves?”
“I ’spect I’ll be here for a few hours, though. Don’t want to start snoring at the bar. Maybe something a bit lighter to start?”
“Ah. I’ve got just the thing for you, then.” The Bartender lifted a mug from the counter and polished it with his towel before stepping over to the taps. He selected one seemingly at random and pulled the arm, letting a warm-looking ale pour down the side of the glass mug, slowly filling it. With a perfect amount filled and just the right amount of a foam head, he placed the mug on the bar.
“Here you go, a Waning Moon brown ale. I think you’ll enjoy it.”
“Waning moon, eh? Aye, that is something I be lookin’ for’ard to.” Eoghann grabbed the handle and took a taste, the foam slightly decorating the tips of his short but bushy mustache. “Ahhh… that is a good one. Yeah, I expect I’ll be downing a few of these tonight while I wait.”
The Bartender smiled and slightly tipped his head towards the secluded alcove where the other man sat, alone, with his wineglass and bottle of wine.
“If you are, indeed, here for a bit of a stay, there’s another one in here, who’s … ah … hiding from a wider world.” He continued in a softer voice, “And for much the same reasons, too.”
Twisting in his seat, the two men looked at each other and a smile crossed the new man’s face in recognition. He tucked his beret under his arm and slid off the barstool. “Aye. I’ll be going to have some drinks with his’self, then. I’ll be back when I need a refill.”
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Carven used his foot to push a second chair back from the table, granting a seat to the other man. Eoghann placed the mug on the table, followed by his beret next to it before taking the offered chair and sitting down.
“So we’re both here hiding from what can hurt us, eh, Your Lordship?”
“Oh, stop that. We both know my title comes from somewhere you’ve never heard of and probably wouldn’t even be able to visit unless you went with me. And, from any of what you’ve ever told me, I doubt you even have Marquesses there.”
“This is true. But, then again, I am very certain I wouldn’t want to go where you’re from. I have enough hardship with just the one moon to cause me misery when it’s full. You’ve got two of the damned things. I really don’t want to even think what those would do to me.”
“Fair point. However, I suspect my need to shelter from a sun’s light would remain, no matter where I may be. I fear it is only at home nestled away in my personal chambers, or here,” gesturing with his glass to the pub around them, “within these walls, I might feel safe from any such light. And, thus, I come here at times to give myself the … illusion … of a more normal existence, I suppose.”
Eoghann chuckled. “First time I’ve ever heard anything within this place referred to as ‘normal’.” He took a long drink from his mug. “P’raps surprisingly, t’is the same reason I come here. Out there,” waving his free hand towards the outer door of the Pub, “the moon is full and high, spreading far too much light on the land. Were I at home, I would have needed to chain myself up to keep those I know, and love, safe … from me.”
He wrapped both hands around the mug and stared into the dark liquid somberly. “Aye, I heal from most wounds… but only of the physical sort. I can’t trust the … him … to not take advantage of the suffering I can inflict on others, wounding myself in the process.”
Carven picked up his glass and studied it for a second, saying softly, “At least you have the excuse of a crazed other to blame. I have only myself.” He drank slowly from the glass in an attempt to smother the thought.
=====
After spending much time in silence together, slowly drinking their respective beverages, the man, simply contemplating his existence, looked up and softly asked, “How long has it been?”
“Been what? That we’ve known each other?”
“No. How long since … you were changed?”
“Oh. That.” Eoghann stared into his mug. “Maybe twenty … thirty … years, I think? And almost every single month of that time has seen me need to deal with the … changing.” A soft shudder rippled through the man’s body and he quickly finished what remained of his first mug of ale. Abruptly, he pushed his chair back, then stood and solemnly walked back to the Bartender to request a refill.
While he was away, Carven slowly sipped at his wine, still deep in thought. When the other man returned and again seated himself, Carven asked, “So that’s twenty or thirty years, during which you’ve not been able to bear the full light of the moon?”
“Aye. ’Tis a curse for me, as the moon used to be special for me. I still fondly remember taking my beloved to the lakeside on a moon-filled night … and seeing the light glistening in her eyes. T’was the first night we kissed…” A soft smile spread across his face in remembrance. “But, thankfully, not the last.”
“For me, the full light of the moons is the brightest I am ever able to experience the world. I try to remember what everything looked like, wrapped in a warm golden glow … and find myself unable to do so.”
A lengthy pause while both men contemplated their personal histories and even more personal curses. Eventually, Carven broke the silence.
“Do you ever miss it? The moon, I mean? Do you miss that moonlight and what it meant to you?”
A quick sharp breath, then a very controlled and slow exhalation. “At times, aye. I hate what I find as the results of a night when I’ve Changed. But I’m not …. me … under the moon’s light. It’s a different moon and it’s harsh now … angrier. So I’d rather keep myself locked up — chained. He doesn’t understand locks and keys, so it’s the only way to keep everyone safe.” A pause, then almost in a whisper, “Even myself.”
A long drink from the man’s second mug followed by, “And you, my friend? I suspect I know the answer, but … do you miss the sun?”
Even though he’d prompted this, and started down the path, he hadn’t considered where it would lead, so Carven found himself surprised by his own reaction to what should have been an expected question. For a man who had not been shocked in several lifetimes, the tears forming at the corners of both eyes were still unexpected. He attempted to hide this by picking up his wine glass and answering softly, his words barely audible across the small table.
“Do I miss the sun? Only every single day of my continued existence.”
