“I don’t understand the connection,” Wendell frowned, “What does that story have to do with this tavern?”

Terrin took the last sip of his wine. “The University of Magic keeps exquisite records—contracts being critical to those who perform services for hire, lest the University be taken advantage of. The records show threescore mägo of the highest order being hired by this same individual. It then shows that the individual paid again…to have the details of the record deleted.

“At the same time, Gypsy legend says they were led down here, under the world, where mägo worked their magic to sustain them. That the forest of Andle was combed for the remains of any living wood, that it might be salvaged. The greatest pieces being reserved for their loving benefactor.”

“The logs of the tavern,” Wendell added, with a sigh and a, “huh.”

“From what I’ve pieced together over the years, is the Gypsy’s brought each log down here, where the Woodsman crafted this tavern in memory of his beloved. A woman who said you can never hate a person once you’ve heard their story.”

Wendell smiled, “So he build a place to encourage storytelling. In her memory.”

Terrin nodded, “Where we eat, drink and converse about our lives, but I’m not sure that’s all.”

Wendell sat forward then, “You think there’s more to this story?”

The bard nodded again, his eyes darting across the Great Hall before adding, “It’s been whispered that the old woman literally meant that the Survivor’s wife would be brought back to life. Another rumor is that the Survivor brought the Gypsy’s into the dragon’s cave itself and had the mägo seal it off, using powerful magic to prevent its discovery. Lastly, that this tavern, which is indeed made of Andle wood, preserves the Survivors life, so long as he stays within its walls.”

It took a moment before the words sank in.

Wendell scoffed, “And you think Wood…is the survivor?” Laughing, “And I was really liking this story, until it went stupid!”

Terrin frowned, shrugging, “We have accounts that the Survivor had but one eye.”

“THAT’S your proof? An eyepatch?” Snorting, “Oh come on, a third of the guys IN here tonight have an eye patch.”

“Well,” said the bard calmly,”I have been a tenant of this establishment for nearly a decade and I have never, not once, seen Wood leave the Roadkill.”

“Do you ever leave?” Wendell smirked.

“Yes, but…”

“Then could it be possible that Wood left the tavern when you weren’t looking?”

“Well, of course, but…”

Rising from his chair, Wendell nodded to the gold coin he’d placed on the table. “Great story though. Keep the coin. You have me wondering about those doors, the University of Magic and a world of other questions, so, well done.”

With practiced dexterity, Terrin tossed the coin into the air, caught it, rolled it end over end across his knuckles and flipped it into his vest pocket.

Chuck wandered up with a waitress, two large platters of food in her hands. Wendell turned to leave, but hesitated. “Terrin…”

“Hmmm?”

“I’m curious what got you started as a bard—of learning about stories this way?”

“Ahh, well,” he smirked, “the first story I ever heard was the Tale of Butter and Rum.”

“It was?”

The bard leaned back, gripping the arms of his chair. “My father brought me here, to this very tavern and I sat on the floor in front of this very hearth.” He looked up at Wendell, his eyes sparkling with fond memories. “That night changed my life.”

“How old were you?”

Taking a deep breath, “I was ten years old.”

“Wow.”

“And Wood was the owner.”