The Stables

"I have seen dragons, nightmares, a hamster the size of an elephant… and, of course, the pink many-legged thing. There is always a pink many-legged thing. I refuse to describe it further."

— Seraphis Nightvale, Librarian of the Last Home

The Stables are always behind the Inn. Where behind happens to be is another matter entirely. The Inn alters itself daily — wings lengthen, towers rise and vanish, doors reassign their loyalties — but the Stables remain where patrons expect them: at the rear, solid, waiting.

Their shape is less certain. Stalls stretch or contract depending on Jack’s estimation of need: six one morning, sixty the next. Timber and stone shift to match, yet the building is always recognisably the Stables, as though the Inn itself respects their stubborn utility.

Inside, each stall is inconveniently occupied.

Warhorses scarred from forgotten wars stand nose-to-nose with dragonlings that hiss at anything reflective. A gryphon insists on roosting on the roof beams. A nightmare steed smoulders when addressed directly. Most conspicuous is a hamster the size of an elephant, who greets visitors in the piping tones of a child and has already flattened three haystacks in pursuit of carrots.

And yes. The pink many-legged thing. Always present. Always inexplicable.

The smell lingers in the hair. The noise refuses to leave the ears.

The Boy Who Mucks It All

The yard is managed — if that word applies — by Jack Stables. He appears as every ballad imagines a stable boy should: blond, bright-eyed, smiling as though the muck were an aesthetic choice. He brushes hooves, calms beasts, and sparkles, all with the assurance of someone who has never been told he ought to do anything else.

Rumour insists he was once a prince, or a threadwalker’s abandoned son, or perhaps a protagonist Sylvie found too tedious to permit. He does not correct any of these stories.

What matters is that Jack is always here. He sleeps in the loft above the hay, or curled against Nibbles’s flank, and rarely strays into the Inn itself. Mama Jori feeds him when she notices his absence; more often, Sylvie arrives with a basket, playing the role of elder sister delivering lunch to a boy too absorbed in brushing dragonlings to notice the day has passed.

A Menagerie of Misfits

The Stables are less a facility than a catch-basin for Elsewhere’s detritus. When patrons arrive, their mounts arrive too. It would be intolerable to house them in the taproom, so here they gather — whether led politely through the Garden gates or spat explosively from a cupboard because their rider preferred a dramatic entrance.

Every beast is a fragment of narrative too stubborn to vanish: the joke, the horror, the afterthought. They pace in their stalls while Jack tends them all with impossible calm, as though brushing a dragonling were no more troubling than currying a mule.

It works. I cannot explain why.

The Hamster at Large

Among all the mounts, none unsettle quite like Nibbles. She looms as tall as an elephant, fur glossy, eyes bright, a saddle strapped between her shoulders as if that explained anything. She speaks in the piping tones of a child, forever begging Jack for more carrots or another game in the gardens. Her joy shakes the cobbles; her affection bowls people over. Once capable of levelling cities, she now contents herself with rolling in the grass beside her chosen boy.

The Pink Many-Legged Thing

At some point, the Inn produced it. Or perhaps someone left it here. No one admits responsibility, which is both suspicious and sensible.

It is pink. It has more legs than etiquette allows. It hums when brushed, consumes oats as if they were its birthright, and — most troublingly — continues to grow. Each week the stall shifts to accommodate it. I am told this is “normal.” It is not.

No one knows what to do with it. Jack, being Jack, simply did. He feeds it, pats it, and insists it is no more troublesome than a pony. This is demonstrably untrue, but the creature seems content with his attention, so the rest of us endure.

I note it here only because omission would invite questions. Consider them answered.

Should You Need to Stable Your Mount

Patrons arriving with mounts are expected to leave them here. The Inn does not allow hooves, wings, or paws in the taproom, no matter how politely they ask—unless, of course, they belong to a threadwalker, in which case the matter is quietly ignored.

There is no need to brief Jack on your beast’s requirements. He already knows. Grain, coal, ether, or stranger fare—he provides it without question.

Do not be alarmed if your mount warms to him faster than it ever did to you. This is not neglect on your part. It is simply Jack. Animals prefer him. They always will.

When the time comes to collect your beast, the stall will be waiting. The true uncertainty is whether it still wishes to accompany you.

Final Consideration

The Stables are a necessary nuisance. They prove the Inn shelters not only the weary but everything they dragged in behind them. This is admirable in theory. In practice, it squeaks, smoulders, and smells of wet straw.