The Merry Mug

The Merry Mug had once been little more than a dark blemish on the edge of a quiet village—a seedy, rundown inn that only survived because it happened to occupy a convenient crossroads. Back when it was called the Rusty Dagger, the locals avoided it like a festering wound. Rumors told of shady deals struck in dark corners and whispered of disappearances that often began with a visit there and ended in blood. So when Lilly Genrill came around, purse light but ambition heavy, the old place was cheap—and exactly what she needed.
  “It has good bones,” she told herself, day after day, as she tore through grime and refuse, caked-on decades of filth and shadow. And it did—stout beams of seasoned oak, stone quarried from the surrounding hills, walls that had seen centuries and held firm. Lilly, a two-foot-nothing halfling with a quick smile and quicker hands, did what work she could with her own back: sweeping, scrubbing, scraping, polishing, until her arms ached and her lungs wheezed from dust. But what the small folk can’t lift, they find a way around, and what they can’t build with brawn, they build with patience and cleverness.
  When at last the new sign swung above the door—a polished copper mug etched with protective runes that shimmered in the sun—Lilly wept tears that scoured clean the dust from her cheeks. The Merry Mug was born.
  The new building barely resembled the old Rusty Dagger. Where once there had been warped boards and rotting sills, there now stood earthen walls streaked with pale local clay, timber beams polished smooth, and a foundation built of stone pulled from the surrounding hills. The tavern was a haphazard tower of joy: three full floors, and a half-floor above where the third-floor roof unfurled into a rooftop garden brimming with herbs, flowers, and even a dovecote of bright-eyed birds. Balconies jutted from the second and third floors, each with a pair of chairs perfect for watching the sun slip below the trees on a warm evening. In the warmer months, vines spilled from the rooftop garden and crept up from below, so the whole building bloomed like something alive.
  Inside, the Merry Mug glowed with welcome. The first floor was given entirely to the tavern—a broad, open space dominated by a massive fireplace so large it could, and occasionally did, roast a pig to feed the whole village. Sturdy tables bore the scratches of countless mugs and the memories of songs and dances sung into the night. A row of overstuffed chairs huddled by the fire, worn smooth by weary travelers’ bones. Smaller nooks with cushioned benches lined the outer walls, perfect for quiet conversation or plotting grand adventures.
  Beside the heavy front doors hung a wall of pegs at every height, holding coats, bags, and gear. There was always something forgotten there, waiting patiently for a careless owner to remember.
  Above the tavern, the second and third floors offered rooms for rent, each furnished with soft beds, heavy quilts, and small touches that whispered of comfort: a vase of dried wildflowers, a shelf of battered books, curtains stitched by Lilly’s own hand. The half-floor apartment at the top was hers, and also served as the business office—a cramped, sunny space stuffed with ledgers, maps, and the controlled chaos of a halfling who never stopped working.
  Because in the end, the building was only the bones. A tavern’s true heart lies in the food and the drink, and in ensuring no soul who walked through the door wanted to leave too soon. Lilly spent her days and nights behind the bar, in the kitchen, and out in the village fields, forging ties with local farmers and wandering the woods for fresh herbs and mushrooms. She brewed new ales with a stubborn glee, twisted old recipes into new comforts, and carefully introduced exotic flavors to villagers who, once wary, now came eagerly to see what new wonders she’d conjured up.
  Entertainment was its own dance. A good bard could keep the house packed through winter’s chill; a bad one (like the tone-deaf orc with the battered lute—never again) could empty it in a heartbeat. Lilly learned quickly, hiring only those who could charm even the frostiest elder or the rowdiest youth.
  Behind the scenes, the Merry Mug was as much a warren as any halfling burrow. Beneath the bustling kitchen lay a cavernous storage cellar, half filled with barrels of ale and wine, half stacked with baskets of root vegetables, dried herbs, preserves, and crates of goods waiting for their turn above. But that was only the start. Beneath that cellar lay another, and beneath that yet another, relics of the inn’s older days—and older secrets. Some claimed the building was once a temple to forgotten gods, carved deep into the earth. Perhaps. Lilly cared less about old gods and more about useful space. She kept the deeper cellars sealed, their ironbound doors enchanted by a passing mage to keep out anything that might wander in—or out. Only Lilly knew the runes to open them, and she intended to keep it that way. Curious teenagers could get themselves killed poking around places best left alone.
  And the tunnels beyond? Well, the Merry Mug was built on old bones, and old bones always hide mysteries. But those are stories for another time. For now, the fire is warm, the ale flows sweet, and Lilly Genrill hums to herself as she wipes the bar down once more, ready for whatever the night might bring.