Cecil and the Bull and Mare Inn
Little is more satisfying for an adventurer after a long journey than to pull into an inn with a cozy fire, hot food, cold ale, comfortable beds, and a rousing wench or three. Perhaps no inn is more sought after than The Bull and Mare.
Patrons of all walks, all races, and all trades line the bar, crowd the tables, and even patiently wait outside on occasion. A passerby is as likely to see an elf warrior as a human mage, or a dwarf miner as an orc trader.
With such a crowd, one might expect all the aforementioned comforts of an inn are well supplied, and at a location most desirable. However, at The Bull and Mare, you will find none of those things. The ale is usually flat and warm, the food is poorly cooked if cooked at all, the beds are lumpy and hard, and the fire often roars on hot days and burns low on frigid nights.
Certainly the only thing that might warrant the throng traveling additional miles just to wait outside The Bull and Mare would be a wench of uncommon skill. Many a traveler, whether male or female, grizzled and experienced or young and bright-eyed, would happily bask in the company of a quality wench. Images come to mind of a tall woman with flowing hair, a pleasant face, and well-appointed bosom, whisking around the inn and attending to the guests' every want and need.
And yet, if the comforts of The Bull and Mare are a disappointment, then Cecil the Wench is no less than a travesty of inability, as equally likely to spill ale on a guest as to forget their presence entirely. And still, the crowd is boisterous and full of laughter. The reason why is rooted squarely in Cecil--all who come to the inn dream and pray to the gods that they might join in one of her many adventures, which began the day she arrived at the inn some years ago.
*****
Although it was a pleasant spring day, a cloud hung over Cecil. She trudged along a quiet path beside a stream, a pack slung over her shoulder, ignoring the singing birds which flitted over rolling hills and ducked between tranquil forests.
"Damn the witches!" she said. "I can't even enjoy this beautiful day. Rules this, procedures that, all I wanted was a little fun. Why be blessed as they are if you never have any fun? I'm in my early twenties, I'm supposed to have fun! I just wanted to enjoy the gift they gave me. And kicking me out, how extreme. At least I fled before they could unenchant me. I swear, you damnable witches, I will have my revenge!"
Cecil paused, fist in the air, on seeing an inn ahead.
"That looks as appealing as a pile of hog's shit. What idiot would build an inn out here, in the middle of nowhere?"
The inn might have once been cozy, but was now dilapidated. There were gaps in the roof thatching, chipped clay cladding on the walls, and cracked glass in windows giving it a less than inviting appearance.
"Well, maybe this could be just the opportunity I need..."
Cecil strode through the door, which nearly fell off its hinge as she pushed it open. A middle aged man, a touch on the portly side but was clearly handsome in his youth, scrubbed the bar mindlessly.
"Come in, come in!" said the innkeeper enthusiastically, all but shocked at the arrival of a guest. The edges of the innkeeper's thick but well-trimmed mustache curled up as he smiled with a nervous sincerity in his eyes. "Welcome to The Bull and Mare! Richard, at your service. The sack of potatoes sitting over there is my son Georg. What can we, eh, what can I do for you?"
Cecil paused to look at her surroundings. The interior was in no better condition than the outside, with wobbly chairs, dingy lighting and the floor in desperate need of a scrub. The inn was empty aside from Richard and Georg, who sat idly in the corner. The young man, appearing in his twenties, had looks which far outpaced his father's, with a strong jaw and surprisingly well clipped hair above his deep-set eyes.
"The young loaf is far overdue to find himself a wife, a husband, a job, anything, really. All he does is laze about here, with the full support of his mother. Anyway, what can we do you for?"
"You need a wench," Cecil said, her voice bright and ever so slightly mischievous.
Richard was taken aback, but took a closer look at Cecil. Instead of seeing what he desired in a wench - a tall, curvy, blonde with pale skin and a huge rack - Richard saw a very different figure. Cecil was short and slim, with light olive skin and pert but modest breasts. Her face was attractive, though it might be described more as pretty than beautiful, with freckled cheeks set high beneath her green eyes and curly brown hair framing her face. A soft and narrow jaw with a pointed chin matched her slender nose. Even her outfit was drab, a simple tan dress over a white shirt which covered her cleavage, and dusty leather boots.
"What are you getting at?" He asked, hesitant to take her bait.
"I'm currently available," Cecil cheerily replied. "Look around! You need a wench. Every inn needs a proper wench."
"Well, you're not quite what I'd expect for a wench," said the innkeeper.
"Oh come now, give me a try," she dipped her chin and raised a shoulder, looking as innocent and attractive as she was able.
"Your coy look is not a demonstration of what you can do!"
"Then let me demonstrate," Cecil said with a grin.
"Why not let her have a try, father," said Georg.
"That's a good boy," chirped Cecil, causing the innkeeper's son to blush brightly. "Let me have a try. It seems to be a bit quiet at the moment, why not a test?"
