Toadstool Tavern

The golden glow of lantern-light spilled from the crooked windows of the Toadstool Tavern, cutting warm slices into the misty evening. Inside, behind the worn oak counter, Bartleby the frog wiped a pint glass with a square of soft linen, humming a song only the oldest pond-folk would recognize.

Business had been slow that evening—just the occasional moth drifting in past the door and a scattering of crickets tuning up in the rafters. Bartleby didn’t mind. A quiet night meant time to polish the mugs until they gleamed like the full harvest moon.

The little bell above the door gave a jangle, and Bartleby looked up, blinking his wide, wet eyes.

In tramped two familiar figures:

• Tamsin Quickwhistle, the chipmunk, with his ever-present dagger slung at his side like a stubborn old friend,
  
  
• And Merrin Underbough, the rabbit, crossbow slung casually over one shoulder, her ears twitching sharply at every creak of the floorboards.
  
  

Bartleby’s cloth froze mid-wipe. “Now what’s all this, then?” he croaked, peering over the counter. “Oughtn’t be needin’ steel and string to fetch a pint, lads.”

Tamsin just tugged the dagger’s sheath a little tighter and heaved himself up onto a stool with a weary grunt.
“Best pour me a drink first, Bart,” he said, voice low and dry as autumn leaves.

Merrin pulled a stool up beside him, crossbow resting against her knee. She said nothing, but her eyes—sharp and watchful—never stopped scanning the tavern’s windows.

Bartleby set down the shining glass, reached for a sturdy mug, and began filling it with a slow, steady pour. “Well?” he prompted, half-whisper, half-worry, “What’s stirring the woods tonight?”

Tamsin wrapped his small, callused paws around the mug, took a long swallow, and wiped his mouth with the back of his paw. Then he leaned in close, voice dropping to a rumble:

“Something’s moving, Bart. Out past the Fern Hollow. Big. Slow. Makes the fireflies scatter like they’ve seen a ghost.”

He tapped a finger against the counter, rhythmic and restless.

“Truth is,” Tamsin added, lowering his voice even further, “nobody knows what it is. But the forest’s holdin’ its breath tonight… and that ain’t never a good sign.”

Bartleby flicked his eyes to the shadowy corners of the tavern, where the firelight trembled and the dark pressed against the windows.
In the distance, he thought he heard the faintest crack of a branch breaking, swallowed quickly by the hush of the waiting woods.

He tightened his apron strings with a determined tug.

“Well then,” he said, steadying his voice, “best pour two more. If trouble’s afoot, we’ll meet it with full bellies and full mugs.”

And somewhere, beyond the light of the tavern’s door, the forest creaked… and watched… and waited.