An Average Night at Toadstool Tavern

The capital has a drinking district just like any other in the kingdom. The high-brow bars line the paved roads, with alleys slinking off between them to more rustic or less legal joints. Many of them don’t open till sundown when people pour in from the commercial district – workers of every variety looking to get dizzy or drowsy or dead. Bar hopping wasn’t just an accepted part of life here – it was encouraged. Once you built up your tab too high at one place, you’d pay it off and take a trip next door. Each place had a doorman, and if they didn’t let you in, they’d all say the same thing. 

      ‘You’ve had enough mate, try Toadstool Tavern.’

      ‘Can’t let you in ‘ere, try Toadstool Tavern.’

      ‘Just down the road there, lad.’

      Try Toadstool Tavern was the unofficial motto said only to the well and truly drunk. If a place thought you were too unruly for them, they’d send you down to toadstool’s – that’s just how it went. Some of the more weak-hearted might take this as the time to go home (or pass out in an alley), so those that took the advice usually knew what they were getting in to. 

      It had the most central, grand position that any bar in the district would beg for, and it squatted in it like a goblin in an ogre den. It looked like it was held together with sheer willpower – the windows were boarded over with haphazard planks, the door had holes in like someone had punched through them, and the massive sign hanging over the entire first floor merely read ‘Toadstool’s’, in big black paint. 

      The inside matched the outside. The chairs and tables were splintery, but didn’t look worn down at all. The heavy scent of wood shavings was so prevalent you almost couldn’t smell the alcohol. Everything that might’ve been painted wasn’t, everything that could’ve been varnished was left naked to spilt drink and leaking drool. The carpet was loosely fitting (it shifted slightly with every step) but surprisingly clean. Even so, it was bustling with customers that swayed like they were on a boat. Despite the looks, this was the most respected place in the district, for one very clear reason.

      ‘Oi, what’re you lookin’ at!?’

      Tolerance.

      ‘I’m lookin’ at yer forehead, got a, got a brick in there or sumthin?’

      Two idiots were picking a fight right up at the bar.

      ‘you fu- I Got more in there than you, yer bluddy… nose loik a bird!’

      ‘Oi’ll show you burd!’

      Rynn the barkeep just looked on, slightly dejected. He wore a tailored suit that didn’t fit at all with the surroundings (In fact, he looked more like a noble’s butler than a barkeep). Of course, he actually owned the place. He wasn’t annoyed at the shouting – he just hadn’t heard a good insult being thrown in over a week.

      ‘Urk.’

      One of the idiots threw a punch. It was aimed at the jaw but hit the man’s ear instead. The other idiot fell backwards anyway, tumbling into another patron. The one who threw the punch was looking oddly triumphant until someone else hit him over the back with a chair. It was so flimsy it fell apart on impact. The guy who used the chair was immediately glassed in the face, and the whole place flew off in chaos. 

      Rynn’s expression didn’t change. He quietly hopped over the bar and walked towards the door, careful not to get pulled into the fight himself.

      The guy who got punched could barely get to his feet before he was shoved over forward. A couple people rushed up and started kicking him, but they too were soon down on the ground being trampled under the growing throng of fighters. 

      No one could really tell who was who. If they were sober, they’d have a hard time telling anything. Everyone just started fighting because it’s what they were there for. Someone broke off a chair leg and started batting people on the head with it, someone had a broken bottle and was stabbing wildly. Someone pulled out a knife like they’d been waiting for this, and stabbed at whoever was in reach. The throng began to slowly turn red from heavy exertion, blush and blood.

      Rynn had made it to the front door and locked it. He returned to the bar, nimbly dodging between the uncomposed brawlers (he had plenty of practice, so it wasn’t too hard).

      People were having to get creative now. One person wielded a shoe, another was trying to bash people with a table. A few more knives were in the fray now – someone even had a morning star from who knows where – and all of them were covered in blood. Many of the patrons had stopped moving, or were convulsing on the floor. Rynn made it back to his post, and reached below the counter. There were only a few patrons left – some were barely standing up from either latent drunkenness or blood loss. One guy – the one with the morning star – didn’t seem drunk at all. He probably wasn’t, some people just skip the drinks and come for the fighting. Rynn didn’t recognise him though. Maybe he was an adventurer? 

      He swung the blood-soaked morning star and a patron took it right in the face – the long spikes digging deep into him, and for an instant it seemed like he was stuck to it, before his skull caved in. The morning star was swung again, and another patron fell, a bit of bile coming from his mouth as he died. One last man made a staggering effort to charge the adventurer, but tripped on someone’s corpse, and the metal ball found the back of his head as he crashed into the floor. Rynn pulled out the crossbow he kept behind the counter and shot the last one standing in between the eyes. He fell over backwards, and the chaos was over. 

      He started tallying up the damages. 

      Three tables were broken, five chairs. Most of the glasses were smashed, and he would need a new carpet. He chuckled to himself, this was a pretty good night. The walls were undamaged, plenty of the furniture survived, and the counter wasn’t even scratched. He wondered how many glasses he would still need to open shop tomorrow…

      Someone tried the front door, but it was still locked. Rynn scolded himself internally for forgetting to unlock it. He jogged briskly over, careful not to trip on the carnage, and promptly undid the deadbolt and flung the door wide in greeting. 

      It was one of the men who had started the fight – the one with the supposedly brick-like forehead. In a word, he was naked. He was also unharmed, without so much as a scratch.

      ‘Hey Rynn!’

      ‘Greetings, sir. I believe your corpse is over there,’ Rynn said, gesturing towards where the man had been sitting when the fight began

      ‘Cheers,’ he said, moving over to loot his corpse.

      Rynn thought he had a pretty good gig going. Most of the bars couldn’t afford to deal with hooligans, so for a reasonable charge they could send their most disruptive over to Toadstool. There, they’d get the fight out their system and die. Their spirits, now detached from any semblance of mortal coil, would be drawn through the aethereal plane to the church next door where the priest would resurrect them. 

      Of course, all the daily damages meant that Rynn couldn’t decorate how he wanted to…

      ‘Heh, bird-nose.’ The customer said, kicking the corpse of the man he had started the fight with.

      ‘My nose is NOT bird-like!’ a new, equally naked customer said as he ran through the door.

      ‘It completely is.’

      ‘It is not!’

      ‘Gentlemen, please, only one fight per night.’ Rynn cut them off.

      ‘Oh, yea, sorry Rynn.’

      ‘We’ll cut it out till tomorrow.’

      Many more naked people came in over the next hour or so. Some just stripped themselves and left, others took their former body with them, slinging it over their shoulders or dragging it behind them. Eventually, once all the bodies were either gone or looted, Rynn began to close up shop. The bodies that weren’t too injured could be sold in the red-light district. The rest would go to the dog kennel. But that was for tomorrow. Rynn walked out, locked the door behind him, and made for home.

Here's my notes and initial draft

Right, so ideas for fantasy.

In a world with immortality or regeneration or healing magic or something along those lines, violence is a much more tenable response to… anything.

I could write a REALLY fun story about incredible violence being made meaningless by such magics. I’m imagining a bar fight end in a massive murder pool. Then those same people who just died, sober, walk in and apologise and pay for damages.

If such a bar were to frequent such fights, I would imagine the furniture would be either made of stronger materials like metal, or made of the flimsiest, cheapest materials the barman could muster. What would make a more interesting scene to write?

 

 

Notes for later –

In a world in which death is merely a setback, people have far different priorities. That’s why there’s a whole drinking district – because if life is unending and death is without meaning, then people are gonna want a few drinks.

The bodies being sold in the red light district or disposed of in the kennels is another natural progression of the problem ‘what to do with all the bodies’

 

 

An average night at Toadstool Tavern.

The capital had a drinking district just like any other in the kingdom. The high-brow bars lined the paved roads, with alleys slinking off between them to more rustic or less legal joints. Many of them didn’t open till sundown when people poured in from the commercial district – workers of every variety looking to get tingly or dizzy or drowsy or dead. Bar hopping wasn’t just an accepted part of life here – it was encouraged. Once you built up your tab too high at one place, you’d pay it off and take a trip next door. Each place had a doorman, and if they didn’t let you in, they’d all say the same thing.

‘You’ve had enough mate, try Toadstool Tavern.’

‘Can’t let you in ‘ere, try Toadstool Tavern.’

‘Just down the road there, lad.’

Try Toadstool Tavern was the unofficial motto said only to the well and truly drunk. If a place thought you were too unruly for them, they’d send you down to toadstool’s – that’s just how it went. It had the most central, grand position that any bar in the district would beg for, and it squatted in it like a goblin in an ogre den. It looked like it was held together with sheer willpower – the windows were boarded over with haphazard planks, the door had holes in like someone had punched through them, and the massive sign hanging over the entire first floor merely read ‘Toadstool’s’, in big black paint.

The inside matched the outside. The chairs and tables were splintery, but didn’t look worn down at all. The heavy scent of wood shavings was so prevalent you almost couldn’t smell the alcohol. Everything that might’ve been painted wasn’t, everything that could’ve been varnished was left naked to spilt drink and leaking drool. The carpet was loosely fitting (it shifted slightly with every step) but surprisingly clean. Even so, it was bustling with customers that swayed like they were on a boat. Despite the looks, this was the most respected place in the district, for one very clear reason.

‘Oi, what’re you lookin’ at!?’

Tolerance.

‘I’m lookin’ at yer forehead, got a, got a brick in there or sumthin?’

Two idiots were picking a fight right up at the bar.

‘you fu- I Got more in there than you, yer bluddy… nose loik a bird!’

‘Oi’ll show you burd!’

Ryan the barkeep just looked on, slightly dejected. He wore a tailored suit that didn’t fit at all with the surroundings. Of course, he actually owned the place. He wasn’t annoyed at the shouting – he just hadn’t heard a good insult being thrown in over a week.

‘Urk.’

One of the fighting idiots threw a punch. It was aimed at the jaw but hit the man’s ear instead. The other idiot fell backwards anyway, tumbling into another patron. The one who threw the punch was looking oddly triumphant until someone else hit him over the back with a chair. It was so flimsy it fell apart on impact. The guy who used the chair was immediately glassed in the face, and the whole place flew off in chaos.

Ryans expression didn’t change. He quietly hopped over the bar and walked towards the door, careful not to get pulled into the fight himself.

The guy who got punched could barely get to his feet before he was shoved over forward. A couple people rushed up and started kicking him, but they too were soon down on the ground being trampled under the growing throng of fighters.

No one could really tell who was who. If they were sober, they’d have a hard time telling anything. Everyone just started fighting because it’s what they were there for. Someone broke off a chair leg and started batting people on the head with it, someone had a broken bottle and was stabbing wildly. Someone pulled out a knife like they’d been waiting for this, and stabbed at whoever was in reach. The throng began to slowly turn red from heavy exertion, blush and blood.

Ryan had made it to the front door and locked it. He returned to the bar, nimbly dodging between the uncomposed brawlers (he had plenty of practice, so it wasn’t too hard).

People were having to get creative now. One person wielded a shoe, another was trying to bash people with a table. A few more knives were in the fray now – someone even had a morning star from who knows where – and all of them were covered in blood. Many of the patrons had stopped moving, or were convulsing on the floor. Ryan made it back to his post, and reached below the counter. There were only a few patrons left – some were barely standing up from either latent drunkenness or blood loss. One guy – the one with the morning star – didn’t seem drunk at all. He probably wasn’t, some people just skip the drinks and come for the fighting. Ryan didn’t recognise him though. Maybe he was an adventurer?

He swung the blood-soaked morning star and a patron took it right in the face – the long spikes digging deep into him, and for an instant it seemed like he was stuck to it, before his skull caved in. The morning star was swung again, and another patron fell, a bit of bile coming from his mouth as he died. One last man made a staggering effort to charge the adventurer, but tripped on someone’s corpse, and the metal ball found the back of his head as he crashed into the floor. Ryan pulled out the crossbow he kept behind the counter and shot the last one standing in between the eyes. He fell over backwards, and the chaos was over.

He started tallying up the damages.

Three tables were broken, five chairs. Most of the glasses were smashed, and he would need a new carpet. He chuckled to himself, this was a pretty good night. The walls were undamaged, plenty of the furniture survived, and the counter wasn’t even scratched. He wondered how many glasses he would still need to open shop tomorrow…

Someone tried the front door, but it was still locked. Ryan scolded himself internally for forgetting to unlock it. He jogged briskly over, careful not to trip on the carnage, and promptly undid the deadbolt and flung the door wide in greeting.

It was one of the men who had started the fight – the one with the supposedly brick-like forehead. In a word, he was naked. He was also unharmed, without so much as a scratch.

‘Hey Ryan!’

‘Greetings, sir. I believe your corpse is over there,’ Ryan said, gesturing towards where the man had been sitting when the fight began

‘Cheers,’ he said, moving over to loot his corpse.

Ryan thought he had a pretty good gig going. Most of the bars couldn’t afford to deal with hooligans, so for a reasonable charge they could send their most disruptive over to Toadstool. There, they’d get the fight out their system, die, and get resurrected at the church next door.

Of course, all the daily damages meant that Ryan couldn’t decorate how he wanted to…

‘Heh, bird-nose.’ The customer said, kicking the corpse of the man he had started the fight with.

‘My nose is NOT bird-like!’ a new, equally naked customer said as he ran through the door.

‘It completely is.’

‘It is not!’

‘Gentlemen, please, only one fight per night.’ Ryan cut them off.

‘Oh, yea, sorry Ryan.’

‘We’ll cut it out till tomorrow.’

Many more naked people came in over the next hour or so. Some just stripped themselves and left, others took their former body with them, slinging it over their shoulders or dragging it behind them. Eventually, once all the bodies were either gone or looted, Ryan began to close up shop. The bodies that weren’t too injured could be sold in the red-light district. The rest could go to the dog kennel. But that was for tomorrow. Ryan walked out, locked the door behind him, and made for home.