On the edge of a forest perched a village, the line of homes, timber and clay, blending into saplings. A fresh village, hewn from towering trees.
Lumberjacks and Jills carving their way into the belly of the Grand Forest. Buildings rough and ramshackle sat as waiting to be devoured by a deciduous maw lined with beech and oak.
The lumber trade was steady, the town small in its ambitions and perceptions. The wood grinned fondly, and loomed over its prey for this was an ancient forest.
Golden hues marked the passage of the village’s third autumn. A fickle season, known by the villagers as the ‘Golden Lady’ or over cups in the tavern as ‘the Browning Bitch’.
Lady Autumn had come, leaving folk with little to do but drown their sorrow. The nearest pier the local tavern for one to plunge into jun-gin.
A particular concoction that was harsh, tart and caused a tingling on one’s tongue; not unlike the buxom barkeep. Pale violet splashed into dirty glasses, onto counter tops and the floor.
The tavern was as crude as the villagers who visited, which was the whole village. It’s two-stories a marvel compared to hovels and splintering houses.
It’s lofty heights dwarved both the church and the town hall; which is just as well because people were more honest there.
Many nights came and went in that tavern, the general hubbub and bustle of a small town.
A warm place, the ruckus of familiar faces, arguments and booze broken up by the occasional traveller or trader.
The sole source of excitement in a small town with little to rejoice over but the shades of leaves. Folk gathered in the tavern no matter the season by quirk, or tradition.
Bedtime bell marked another occasion; they would gather for the telling of a tale. A single story ranging from tragedy, history or primitive ail.
Every townsperson spoke, one a night, each having their turn. Booming voices over a night-cap of jun-gin. They listened intently and so did the forest.