Chapter 1: The Rhythm of Routine
The air in the Rusty Tankard is thick enough to chew. It’s a stew of woodsmoke from the hearth, the stale-ale reek of old spills in the sawdust, and the sour tang of unwashed bodies packed too close. Noise, a constant drone, pulses against your ears: the low murmur of a dozen private deals, the smack of dice on tabletops, a sudden burst of too-loud laughter that dies just as quick. Light comes from a few soot-stained lanterns hung on hooks, their flames guttering in the drafts, painting the room in shifting, drunkard’s shadows. Each swing of the door from the muddy street brings in a slash of cold, damp air, and the smell of wet wool, before it’s swallowed again by the room’s ripe, insistent heat.
Behind the long, scarred bar, you move. You’re Willow. Your hands, raw from lye, wipe a pewter tankard with a grey rag. The motion is automatic, the cloth tracing the same circle inside the rim, over and over. You don’t really see the cup. You see the men reflected in its dull curve.
Your dress is short and blue. It’s tight across your chest, the laces at the front straining to contain you. The sleeves are pushed up past your elbows. Over it, you wear a rough linen apron, already stained with a day’s work—dark patches of spilled porter, grease, a splash of gravy. Your hair is the thing people notice first. Dark, burnished red, like old copper, it’s tied back in a thick plait that hangs heavy over one shoulder, but messy strands have escaped to curl against your neck and temples, stuck there with moisture. Your face is dewy from the heat, giving your skin a soft sheen. Your eyes are a clear, startling green, like sun through a river reed. They’re large, and often hold a vacant, pleasant sort of light, as if you’re listening to a distant, nicer tune.
“Girl.” The voice is a gravelly scrape at your elbow.
You turn, the vacant smile already fixed in place. It’s Hargon.A regular. His tunic is stained with things you don’t want to name, and his beard holds crumbs of his last meal. He smells of damp earth and cheap gin.
“Another,” he says, shoving his empty tankard at you. His other hand, coin-stained fingers dark with tarnish and dirt, closes around your wrist. He pulls, and you go, your body moving with practiced ease. You land sideways on his lap, the solid bulk of him hard beneath your thighs. The smile doesn’t waver.
“D’you want to try the brown ale?” you ask, your voice light and charming, a little breathy. “We tapped a new cask this morning. Sweeter.”
He doesn’t answer about the ale. His hand, the one not pinning your wrist, slides over your apron and finds the curve of your hip. You can feel the calluses on his palms through the thin fabric of your dress. It travels down, patting your thigh in a clumsy, familiar rhythm, then slips beneath the apron. The touch is hot and heavy on the bare skin of your leg, above your stocking.
You don’t tense. You don’t pull away. You keep smiling at him. Your father’s words are a quiet drumbeat in your head: They pay for the drink, and a little more for the view. A little more for a feel. Let ‘em. A happy man leaves a heavy coin.
“You’re a soft one, ain’t you?” Hargon mutters, his breath foul with onions and rot. His fingers creep higher, beneath the hem of your skirt now, rough against your inner thigh.
“Sweeter ale, you said?” Hargon’s voice brings you back. His exploring hand stops its climb, gives a possessive squeeze, and retreats. He jiggles you on his knee. “Aye, go on then. Fetch me a sweet one.”
You rise, smoothing your apron down. The feeling of his hand lingers, a warm, slightly greasy imprint. “Right away,” you chirp.
You take his tankard back to the barrel. As you work the tap, you feel another presence. Another man, Jens, leans on the bar. He’s younger, cleaner. His eyes are on the sway of your hips, the way your dress pulls across your back as you stretch to hang a mug.
“Busy night?” he says.
“Always is,” you reply, turning with Hargon’s full tankard. You have to squeeze past Jens to get back to Hargon. The space between the tables is narrow. As you pass, Jens’s hand pats your rear, a quick, familiar tap. You don’t break stride.
Hargon takes the ale. Before you can turn, his hand shoots out and slides two copper pennies into the pocket of your apron. They’re warm from his palm. “There’s a good girl,” he says.
“Thank you, Sir,” you say, the smile feeling stiff now. You need to move. There are other customers waiting, other tankards to fill, other smiles to fix in place.
Jens is still at the bar. “Don’t I get a smile, then?” he teases. He reaches out and hooks a finger under the string of your apron, giving it a gentle tug, pulling you a half-step closer. His other hand comes up and brushes that stray coil of red hair from your neck. His touch is lighter than Hargon’s. It makes your skin flush. “You look flushed, sweet thing. This heat too much for you?”
You give a little laugh. “Just the fire,” you murmur.
“Maybe you need some air,” Jens says, his voice dropping. His eyes aren’t on your eyes. They’re on your mouth, then lower, on the top of your dress where your cleavage is visible. “Later. Out back. I’ve got a silver bit says you’d look even prettier in the moonlight.”
"No thank you, Sir," you say with a pretty smile, "You might have better luck finding what you're looking for at the brothel a few streets over."
His smile tightens. It’s the smile of a man whose pride just got nicked. His fingers, still hooked in your apron string, don't let go. They pull, a little harder. The twine bites into the small of your back. He leans in close enough for you to see the grey flecks in his blue eyes, the pores on his nose.
"Who says I'm looking?" His voice is low, a private rumble meant just for you over the tavern's din. His other hand, the one that brushed your hair, drops from your neck. It slides, slow and deliberate, down your collarbone, over the tight curve of your dress. His palm cups your breast. His thumb finds the peak through the fabric, presses.
Jens watches your face, searching. He sees the obedience, the lack of fight. His confidence returns. His thumb circles. His other hand untangles from your apron string and slips down to your hip, pulling your body firmly against the solid edge of the bar. You are pinned. You look down at your hand, at the tankard. The ale inside sloshes gently. You can't spill it. Spillage comes out of your keep. Slowly, you set the tankard down on the bar.
He takes your silence for consent, which it is. His hand still on your breast squeezes. His other hand leaves your hip and slides around to the back of your thigh. It hikes up your skirt, the rough wool bunching in his fist. The air in the tavern, already so warm, hits the bared skin of your leg. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your thigh.
His exploratory hand moves. Inward. His fingers press against the thin linen of your undergarments. He rubs. You close your eyes for a second. He leans in again, his mouth near your ear. You feel his lips move, his breath. "That's a good girl," he whispers, "See? Not so bad."
His fingers work, pushing the damp linen aside. You let out a small, shaky breath. A familiar warmth spreads, dulling the edges of the noise from the main room. “See?” Jens murmurs again, his voice thick. He’s watching your face, your parted lips. He takes your silence for encouragement. His other hand fumbles with the laces of his trousers.
He turns you, gently but firmly, to face the bar. Your cheek presses against the rough wood. The smell of old beer and pine sap fills your nose. His body Presses up against your backside.
You can feel his cock, hard and urgent, pushing against the fabric of your skirt. His hands go to your hips. They slide down, gathering the rough material of your skirt. He yanks the blue wool up to your waist in one rough motion. The cold tavern air hits the backs of your thighs, making you shiver. He doesn’t touch your undergarments yet. One hand holds the bunched fabric tight at the small of your back. The other slides back over the curve of your ass.
“Fuck, you’ve got a body on you,” he breathes, his voice tight.
His fingers curl into the waistband of your panties. He pulls them down, just far enough. The air touches new, intimate skin.
He leans into you, his body curving over your back. The hard, hot length of him probes at your entrance. “Go on, sweetheart. Push back a little,” he says, his words guttural.
With another small gasp, you tilt your hips, granting him the access he wants. He takes it immediately, driving into you with a single, solid thrust. You bite your lip as the sharp shock of penetration courses through you. He buries himself to the hilt, a tight, stretching fullness, then stills for a second, sighing, his forehead dropping between your shoulder blades. A rush of dizzy warmth spreads from the center of you outward. He begins to move in earnest, pushing into you with a rough, greedy rhythm, the sounds of his heavy breaths loud in your ear.
His rhythm is hard and uneven against you. Each thrust drives you forward, mashing your breasts against the unyielding wood. The seam of his trousers scrapes the backs of your thighs. His hands grip your hips tight, holding you still as he pounds into you, skin slapping against skin.
“Fuck,” he groans into your neck. “You take it so fucking good."
You don't answer. At least, not with words. You moan softly into the wood of the bar as he takes you. He probably means it as a compliment, and you take it as one. You're happy that he's enjoying your body. His cock feels good inside you.
His cock feels good inside you. The stretch is familiar, a blunt, welcome pressure. He sets a brutal pace, hips slamming against your ass, the impact jolting through you with every thrust. “That’s it,” he grunts, his voice strained. “Take it, you pretty fucking thing.” Your cheek presses into the wood of the bar and your fingers scramble for purchase on the slick, beer-stained surface. His breath is hot against the back of your neck. One of his hands releases your hip and fists in your hair, pulling your head back sharply. A surprised gasp escapes you. His rhythm stutters, grows frantic. “Fuck, I’m gonna—” he chokes out. His thrusts become erratic. With a deep groan, he buries himself deep and holds there. You feel the hot, sudden rush as he empties inside you, a pulsing flood that leaves you feeling impossibly full. He sags against your back, his weight pressing you harder into the bar, both of you panting in the damp, close air.
(Roll for pregnancy: 17. Pregnant.)
He stays lodged there for a long moment, catching his breath. Then, with a soft, wet sound, he pulls out. A warm trickle runs down your inner thigh. “Good girl,” he murmurs, his hand patting your ass once before he steps back and starts fumbling with his trousers. You stay where you are, pressed against the bar, catching your own breath, waiting for your legs to feel steady again.
Slowly, you pull yourself upright and tug your skirts down. The dampness between your thighs is a secret warmth. You fetch a rag and wipe the spot on the bar where your cheek had been. The night goes on in its well-worn groove. A farmer from the valley, smelling of sheep and hay, coaxes you into the storeroom amidst the sacks of grain. He’s gentle, almost shy, until he’s inside you, then he fucks you with a quiet, earnest intensity against the rough stone wall.
Later, the blacksmith’s apprentice, all sweaty bravado and smudged coal-dust fingerprints, takes you over a barrel in the alley out back. His cock is thick, and he groans obscenities about your tits as he pounds into you from behind, his calloused hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave faint bruises. He spills inside you with a shuddering sigh.
(Roll for pregnancy: 84. Not pregnant.)
The night ends. You count your coins.
Days blur into weeks, the rhythm of the Tankard as steady as your own heartbeat. You wipe mugs.You smile. You’re tugged onto laps and led into corners. The warmth inside you, that pleasant buzz, becomes as much a part of the routine as drawing ale. One afternoon, kneeling to scrub a stubborn stain from the hearthstones, a wave of nausea hits you so suddenly you have to sit back on your heels, swallowing hard until it passes.
Later, you realize your monthly bleed is late. A few days. Then a week. Your breasts feel tender, heavier. A strange, deep fatigue clings to you by mid-afternoon, something more profound than the usual tiredness from being on your feet. Standing at the bar one evening, feeling the usual pinch and jostle of the crowd, a cold, clear understanding settles in your stomach, quieter and more certain than any feeling you’ve ever known.
You are pregnant.