It wasn't always as obvious as this.

The first scraps of parchment had been ordinary. Innocuous, even, by the standards of the usual "portentious advertisement by ramshackle tavern" fare. "Adventurers Sought to Relieve Moſt Foul and Loathſome Scourge of Goblins;" "REJOICE IN THE LIGHT OF CH'GARL THE DRAGON LORD (prayer meetings every Moonday at dusk; recommended donation 5 ducats)," and the like.

It had been around the six-month mark, when the Djinn and Tonic had established itself as a flickering fire of mirth, mead, and music amidst the foothills of the Candemar Mountains, when Mellie had begun to suspect that something was a little wrong about the place.

The add for a trip into the Gnarled Glades to the west had caught her eye, first. "Lay the Fearsome Wolf-Man of the Glades" could have been a mere error of transcription, but somehow, the mention of "Long and Fulsome Riding to Reach the Destination" and "Extensive Experience in Handling Monsters" had rung a little off to her eyes, seasoned as they were from years of putting out broadsheets.

"Must Not Be Allergic to Canids" had been a bit much, even.

A first peek in the tavern run by the mysterious Meister Lockwood had revealed only the usual, though - the typical bevy of humans trudging off on some grand quest, a few dwarves drunk under the table, a few elves laid out on top of them. Nothing, in short, that wouldn't be a sight in any tavern in the world.

If that mysterious missive hadn't set her suspicious racing about the tavern and its all-too-innocent-seeming owner, though, the pamphlet advertising an expedition to "Roust the Pixie Witch of the Shattered Spires" had. "Seeking Party of Two, Ideally One, for Long-Term Expedition" was odd, but reasonable; the request had segued blithely into "Magical Interests Needed, Appreciation of Sunsets and Warm Baths a Plus." The letters themselves were clearly scrawled out by tiny hands wielding a quill like a broadsword, and the longer the missive went on - "Brown Eyes Are The Weakness of the Fiend - Really It Gets Cold and Lonely in This Tower -" the worse it got.

Massive Two Inch or More Member Needed in Your Party had been out-and-out slathered over the bottom of the page, for gods' sake.

The proprietor had been kind enough when she made her way in the door, all pleasant smiles and gracious offers of brandywines on the house. He'd even offered to let her check the back rooms for secret passages, even if he did also suggest that she might pay for the privilege with a free advertisement for the D&T's upcoming Sunsday open-vox-imp night.

"Just a retired bard, of sorts," he'd beamed at Mellie when she'd hopped up on a barrel to glare suspiciously about, quill poised for an exposé. "Sometimes people stop by to post up things on the door, is all, and who am I to besmirch the motivations of those looking for a little assistance?"

He'd asked about how she got into the broadsheet business, and offered another mead, and as the evening wore on, the advertisement delivered by bat that he'd posted went almost unnoticed, the proprietor muttering something under his breath about the Blood Duke fishing in the wrong pond.

The glint of orange in his eyes slipped past, too, even as the dwarves trudged out, the notice board grew dim in the setting sun, and even the elves had caroused their way off elsewhere.

The tavernkeeper was almost charming, in a way, after all, Mellie was loath to admit, even if the paintings behind the bar seemed to show him at a disturbing number of nuptials. Just an inkeeper, he kept smiling at her, although perhaps he couldn't resist a little dip back into barding here and there. That had been said in a conspiratorial tone, a little closer than before.

One of these days, perhaps, she'd find proof. But for now, a little more time in the Djinn and Tonic couldn't hurt...

As always, both this silly ramble and any other piece in my posts are up for grabs! Thanks for reading, and I look forward to hearing from you.

Cheers,

Werewizard