Slipping Away From This World

Chapter One

It's hard to imagine that just a few months earlier, I lived a normal life wiping down tables and serving customers at a tavern. I never expected to die so early on in my life. Those things only happened to people in stories and gossip, those people you heard about dying to save the lives of hundreds. I was an ordinary person, not a character in a drunk's piece of gossip. I was nothing special. I wasn't a hero, I wasn't an antagonist. I was just a barmaid who poured mugs of ale for a living.

I didn't always work at a tavern. I was once a scribe, writing out spells with an old quill. The shop I worked at fell into debt and closed down, leaving me to apply for a job at quite possibly the grungiest tavern in the whole town of Goldcrest. It was near one of the city's main gates, so I served a multitude of poor adventurers and travelers daily. It was mindless work, requiring me to only wash tables and counters and fill up mugs with ale, cider, beer, and the occasional cheap wine.

Work bored me terribly, and the low pay didn't cover my rent, meaning I had to move to a crowded bunkhouse in the slums of the town. It was far away from The Shattered Tree Tavern. Every day I had to endure a walk through three different sections of the city just to travel between my home and my place of work. Whenever I left the tavern, it was dark, which always made me feel unsafe. Thieves would lurk around corners, shady merchants would show me their wares. As soon as I spotted someone, I would run for it, not caring who it was. If something moved, I was ready to race halfway across the town. I didn't really trust anyone. The streets weren't too familiar to me, and I didn't know anyone. I grew up in a small village consisting of mainly dwarves and elves, my family being one of the only groups of humans. There were no more than seventy people living amongst us. A large town like Venzor scared me. When I worked as a scribe, I didn't have to interact with anyone expect my boss, who was usually out front taking orders from customers. My first real friend was one of the bartenders at The Shattered Tree. His name was Almar.

Almar had short, neat brown hair that hung around his stiff, thin face. He was extremely pale to a point where drunken customers asked if he was either a necromancer, vampire, or my personal favorite, a pixie. They were promptly kicked out. He was the one of the only real voices of authority at the tavern. The owner was a stout, short man who drowned himself in ale in his office, which was in reality, a glorified broom closet. Almar was quiet, reserved, and gave off an incredibly cold aura. He had perfected his glassy, cold stare, which he tended to use daily. Almar wasn't very fun, but I could rant about the customers to him without any repercussions. Some of the bartenders loved working with the drunks for reasons I could never comprehend, but Almar and I hated every second we spent in the forsaken tavern. We would mutter insults about the customers and our boss to each other. It was the closest to friendship I had at first.

As time went on, I tolerated the customers better and was usually the one sent to break up the bar fights, calm down the heavy drinkers, and to clean up the vomit. I started to loathe my job even more, despite being able to contain my rage towards the customers. However, one day, I came to hate my career less. It was a slow day, so I was bored. The tavern was desolate and silent. The door swung open, releasing a cool fall breeze into the room. The sweet smell of bread from the baker's shop trickled in, relaxing me. A beautiful woman with long, flowing white hair strolled in, a radiant smile on her face. She sat on a creaky bar stool and drummed her delicate, small fingers on the bar counter. I dusted off my dress and hurried over to her.

I flashed an awkward smile at her. "Good evening. Anything you'd like to order?" My voice shook, causing me to wince internally. I criticized myself on my choice of words. Of course she'd want to order something, why else would she walk into a bar for? I swallowed hard and waited for her response. She looked up and smiled. "Just a cider please. Thank you," Her voice was smooth and melodic. I flashed another awkward grin. "Sure thing!" I scuttled off, almost tripping, and grabbed a mug. Almar, who had been standing near me, leaned over to my ear and whispered in it. "You aren't the smoothest person around, are you?" There was a hint of a smirk in his voice. I rolled my eyes and glared at him, before hurriedly pouring the woman a mug of cider. I handed it to her carefully. She thanked me, drank, then left. About a week or two later, she had come back. I managed to clumsily start a conversation, and learned that she was simply a wanderer who like the prospect of traveling. She started to ramble on about adventuring and living life to its fullest, excited to be able to talk to someone about her different dreams. I found that she was an excitable person. While she had dreams, I realized that she always acted on them. It made me feel like something was missing sometimes, but I enjoyed our talks none the less. After having a single mug of ale, she would rise from her stool and leave. Despite knowing so much about what she wanted in life, I had no clue what her name was. She visited the bar two more times before I asked her right before she left.