He said this, then turned and strode behind the bar with the practiced ease of someone walking into his own home.
Without even looking, he reached out and grabbed the battle-axe that always leaned nearby—its blade gleaming with cold light. With a casual flick of the axe’s flat back—crack!—the brass padlock on Old Barnaby’s ancient oak cabinet (the one that was supposedly always locked and held the best private stock) popped open and fell away.
Brog pulled the door wide and hauled out a half-man-high, deep-brown oak cask. Its surface shone with oil and the deep patina of years.
Next he reached into the lower cabinet and pulled out a stack of hand-carved wooden tankards—thick, sturdy, varying slightly in size—and lined them up in a neat row along the polished bar top.
The rest of the tavern saw the gesture and knowing, anticipatory smiles spread across every face.
No one needed to be told. They rose in quiet, orderly fashion and approached the bar. Every man—whether grizzled veteran hunter or nervous probationer boy—reached into the cabinet and took out the tankard that belonged to him.
In moments a long, silent, deeply ceremonial line had formed in front of the bar.
Brog stood behind the cask, expression solemn.
He twisted the wooden bung free with his own hands. Instantly a rich, mellow aroma rolled out—oak, honeyed sweetness, thick malt—filling the entire room.
Gripping the heavy wooden ladle, he began to scoop the clear golden liquid and steadily fill each tankard that was held out to him.
The ale poured with a pleasant glug-glug, raising fine white foam on the surface.
Finally, he set a pristine new wooden tankard squarely in front of Rune.
Amber liquid flowed in, catching the morning light and shimmering enticingly. The foam gradually settled until the surface lay mirror-still, reflecting the boy’s still-youthful yet already sharpening features—and the ring of rough, honest, welcoming faces all around him.
“Little guy,” Brog’s deep, gentle voice cut through the brief hush. One hand steadied his own brimming tankard; the other rested lightly beside Rune’s full one. He looked straight at the boy. “I know you’ve never been fond of drinking. Or rather… among all the kids we’ve watched grow up, you’re the only one who’s truly never touched a drop.”
A faint, knowing, elder-to-younger teasing smile tugged at his mouth.
“Those troublemakers like Gart were sneaking tankards of my ale by fifteen or sixteen. But you? Festivals, victory feasts—never once saw you lift a cup. Your father used to say it plain: ‘That boy may be young, but there’s steel in his heart. Once he decides something, no one can shake him.’”
Brog set the cask down carefully on the rough wooden floorboards. Then he lifted his own tankard in both hands with grave ceremony, turned to face Rune—and by extension every member of the hunting team in the room.
His voice suddenly rose, booming and powerful, carrying clearly to every ear:
“But today—today is different! Today is the first day you officially join the hunting team! This cup isn’t about learning bad habits. It isn’t about quenching thirst. This is your welcome ale! This is every single one of us giving you—the most solemn recognition and acceptance you have earned with courage and wisdom!”
“Little guy!” Brog raised his tankard high overhead. Amber liquid swayed gently inside, catching slants of morning sun. “Welcome—to the hunting team!”
The declaration was like a spark dropped into hot oil.
It ignited the already coiled enthusiasm in an instant.
“WELCOME TO THE HUNTING TEAM!!!”
The next moment every hunter—bearded old soldiers and still-boyish probationers alike—raised their cups and roared in unison, the sound deafening!
The unified shout became a surging tide of raw masculine energy and iron-bound brotherhood, threatening to lift the tavern’s low wooden beams right off the walls!
Every face glowed with genuine smiles; every pair of eyes burned as they locked onto the slightly slender figure at the bar.
Rune’s gaze moved slowly: first across Brog standing before him with cup upraised and beaming, then past the lieutenants likewise saluting with their drinks, and finally around the entire room—taking in every face, familiar or half-known, now all radiating pure goodwill.
He felt the faint coolness of the wooden tankard against his palm, smelled the heavy malt scent laced with the alcohol bite he had always avoided.
But this time he did not hesitate.
He reached out, closed his fingers firmly around his own cup, and—following the example all around him—lifted it high, arm straight and steady.
“Cheers,” he said softly. The word was quiet, yet cut through the noise with perfect clarity.
Then he leaned forward and deliberately tapped the rim of his tankard against Brog’s thick one—thunk.
One by one he clinked with each lieutenant in turn. Every collision carried the heavy weight of ritual.
When the last one was done, he looked at no one else.
He simply tilted his head back slightly, closed his eyes, brought the rim to his lips—and drained the cup in one long, unbroken pull.
The sharp, bitter, malt-sweet chill raced down his throat like a thin line of fire!
“GOOD!!!”
Brog’s eyes lit up. Seeing Rune down it so cleanly and decisively, he couldn’t help shouting in approval!
He didn’t wait any longer. With a bold laugh he threw his own head back and gulped the entire tankard down—gulp-gulp-gulp.
A few stray streams of ale ran down his thick neck. He paid them no mind.
“Cheers!!!”
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“Down the hatch!”
“Welcome aboard, kid!”
With the captain and the “star of the day” leading the way, the tavern exploded into even louder cheers and clashing tankards!
Everyone laughed heartily, saluted one another, and drained their cups in great swallows!
The fragrance of malt, the hearty gulping of men, the satisfying thud of empty tankards slammed down on tabletops—all wove together into a rough, roaring anthem of welcome.
“Haaah—!”
“Feels good!”
One cup finished, they set the tankards down, looked at each other. Someone let out a long, satisfied exhale—and then even louder, freer laughter swept the room again!
“Hahaha! Well done, little guy!”
“That’s the spirit! Welcome!”
“The future of the hunting team rests on you now, kid!”
“Killed it yesterday, downed it clean today—damn fine!”
All kinds of good-natured ribbing, encouragement, and pure joyous laughter crashed over Rune like waves.
He felt the faint spin of alcohol, the persistent heat in his cheeks—but he kept the small smile in place, slowly swallowed the last complex, unfamiliar bitterness on his tongue, then gave a slight, courteous bow toward the circle of fervent gazes.
The gesture was neat and graceful—completely out of place among all this ruggedness—yet in this moment it carried a sincerity that felt utterly genuine.
“Little guy, welcome to the hunting team!”
Brog set his empty tankard down, wiped the foam from his beard with one big hand, and looked at Rune again. His gaze grew even more solemn as he repeated the words slowly, each one weighted:
Rune nodded. He said nothing more.
But everyone understood: from this moment forward, Rune was officially a member of the Blackoak Village hunting team—one indispensable piece of this collective that defended the village with flesh and bone, carving out a living between the fangs of magical beasts.
“Vorn!” Brog gave a satisfied nod at Rune’s response, then turned to the lieutenant beside him.
Vorn had clearly been ready. Without a word he reached into the badly worn leather satchel he always carried and—with careful hands—drew out an old-looking sheepskin scroll bound with thin cord.
He didn’t unroll it. He simply placed it in both hands and offered it to Brog.
Brog accepted the scroll without opening it either, then held it out directly to Rune.
“Little guy, this is your induction gift.” A smile mixed pride and gravity played across Brog’s face.
Rune took the surprisingly heavy parchment with a puzzled look. It felt tough and faintly cool against his fingers. “What is it?”
“A map.” Brog’s voice dropped low and grave. He gestured for Rune to open it. “A… hunting map. It’s not some valuable magic item, but it’s what generations of brothers in the hunting team have built—step by step—with our own legs, our own eyes, and sometimes… our own blood and lives.”
Rune’s expression sharpened at once. He untied the cord with care and slowly unfurled the scroll across the bar top.
The yellowed sheepskin was covered in charcoal lines, mineral pigments, and even a few dark-brown smears that looked suspiciously like dried blood. They sketched the terrain around Blackoak Village—rivers, hills, and farther out, the perilous, unknown fringes of The Duskwood.
Dense markings crowded the surface: color-coded zones for beast habitats of different ranks, scribbled notes on species and rough population counts, crossed-out areas flagged as dangerous or worthless, dotted lines for safe paths and water sources, even a few special symbols that might indicate herb patches or emergency shelters…
“Here it shows the usual ranges and activity patterns of different-grade beasts in the areas we know…” Brog’s rough finger traced several key zones. His voice carried the solemnity of passing down hard-won survival knowledge. “And where the pack-loving bastards like to nest. Every full member of the hunting team gets one. Keep it close. Keep it safe.”
He lifted his eyes and stared straight at Rune, gaze burning. “If someday you go farther than we ever did—if you see deeper into the forest, or find new, valuable ground—add it here. This map is the extension of our eyes and our experience. It’s the most important thing we can leave for those who come after us: our legacy.”
Brog paused, then spoke with absolute seriousness: “I trust someone as sharp as you understands what a map like this—built from countless lessons and sacrifices—means to men who walk into the woods with their lives on the line. Sometimes it saves you more surely than the finest weapon.”
Rune drew a deep breath. His eyes lifted from the story-laden marks on the parchment and met Brog’s. He nodded gravely. “I understand.”
With great care he rolled the scroll back up, tied it securely with the thin, age-stained cord, then lifted the hem of his old robe and tucked the bundle snugly into an inner pocket right against his chest.
“Good!” Seeing the action, the solemnity on Brog’s face broke into a broad grin. He clapped his hands once and swept his gaze over the team—most of whom had already finished their drinks and now stood alert and ready. “Since our little hero’s geared up too, no more dawdling! Time waits for no one. Let’s get moving! Otherwise if we hang around any longer, Old Barnaby’ll come strolling in, see we cracked into his precious private stock and busted his lock, and he’ll chase me down with that hardwood cane of his and kick my ass black and blue!”
“Hahahaha!”
The tavern exploded with louder, more mischievous laughter.
Clearly everyone knew exactly what Brog had done—raiding the old man’s hoard first and asking permission never—and they all relished the thought of Old Barnaby’s inevitable explosion.
Amid the roaring mirth, Brog neatly slotted his twin short-handled battle-axes back into the custom leather sheaths at his waist. Then he turned to Rune, tone shifting to serious:
“This hunt, you stick with me. I’ll teach you the basics: how we move in formation, how to read the environment for beast signs, how to pace your stamina, and—when it turns into a fight—where a spellcaster should position himself in the team and how to make the biggest impact. Watch a lot. Listen more. Don’t rush in yet.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. With a broad sweep of his arm he strode toward the tavern door, voice booming:
“Let’s move! Everyone sharp!”
The hunters roared their agreement in unison. They snatched up weapons leaning against walls, checked gear, laughed and bantered, yet moved with practiced order and lively energy. Like a great python stirring awake, the column surged out of the dimly lit tavern.
Vorn hurried to catch up with Brog, lowering his voice as they walked: “Boss, which zone are we hitting today?”
Brog didn’t turn his head. His answer carried back clearly: “The usual spots first! We’ll see how it looks!”
Rune kept half a step behind Brog, pace steady, eyes sharp as he observed the hunters’ movements and the silent understanding that flowed between them.
The festive warmth from inside the tavern evaporated the moment they stepped outside. In its place settled the focused, professional readiness of men about to enter deadly territory—a blend of vigilance and quiet anticipation.
Outside, the morning sun was already bright enough to sting the eyes.
In the open ground beyond the door, forty or fifty younger probationers waited—most with basic gear, faces alight with tension, excitement, and restless eagerness.
As the full members filed out, the youths moved like chicks to their hens: each quickly found the “master” assigned to guide him and fell in silently behind.
Soon a near-hundred-strong column—equipment mismatched but momentum heavy and sure—marched away from the open space in front of the Oak Tankard tavern. They crossed the central village street under the gazes of early-rising villagers—some encouraging, some worried—and headed steadily toward the misty, unknown edge of The Duskwood beyond the village.
Creak—
About half an hour later, the tavern’s much-abused wooden door was pushed open once more—from the outside.
Old Barnaby limped in on his cane, his single eye sweeping habitually toward his beloved bar, ready to begin his daily vigil.
The next second his footsteps halted.
The bar was a disaster.
Empty tankards lay scattered every which way; dark trails of spilled ale stained the wood grain.
His most treasured liquor cabinet stood ajar. The beloved little brass lock lay forlorn on the floor beside it, latch visibly bent out of shape.
And the air—beside the familiar malt scent—carried the richer, more distinctive fragrance of his prized “Morning Amber” cask… unmistakably wafting from the now-open barrel inside!
Old Barnaby’s wrinkled face froze. His single eye widened. The muscles at the corner of his mouth twitched several times.
Then—a roar erupted from his not-particularly-broad chest, equal parts heartache, fury, and helpless outrage. It shook the few remaining empty tankards on the bar:
“My MORNING AMBER!!! You… you lawless, thieving, elder-bullying pack of damned little bastards!!!”
The bellow echoed through the now-empty tavern, furious and exasperated—yet threaded with the faintest, almost fond sigh of someone who had half-expected exactly this.
Sunlight poured through the windows, catching motes of dust in the air and falling across the old man’s face—twisted at first with the pain of his stolen treasure, then slowly softening as he pictured the backs of those “little bastards” marching off into the forest.
......
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