Within a cramped and cluttered room, a pile of blankets nested on top of the sole mattress of the tiny domicile. Each sheet wrapped and wove amongst themselves, forming not only the perfect shelter, but the mightiest barrier to the bright sunlight that shone down from a bare window.
Guttural growls and muffled curses could be heard as the mass of cloth shifted to and fro, fighting to keep the light from entering one's eyes. The worn wooden beframe shook, its splintered legs struggling to keep steady as its owner battled the call to action from the hot afternoon sun.
Eventually, after plenty of grumbling, the blankets were tossed off, revealing the whispy, balding head of a middle-aged man. A black, thin, and ungroomed mustache clung to his puckered upper lip, twitching in tandem with muttered complaints.
Boulder slouched forward with a fatty forearm concealing his scowling eyes. Dark circles from the night before only worsened the disheveled look, giving off the appearance of a well-fed, rabid raccoon.
Boulder slowly rubbed his face as he attempted to awaken, knocking over several empty bottles as his feet swung off the bed and onto the floor. He paid no heed to the clattering of glass rolling along uneven floorboards, though he did grab a nearby container, shaking it about in search of a final swig.
Failing to find any liquid, it too joined their abandoned brethren with a disappointed toss, finding a new home along the side of a peeling, oak wood wall.
With a final sigh, Boulder stood up to get ready for the day. A pair of brown pants was snatched from the floor and put through a rigorous hygiene check via smell.
After a few rounds, he managed to find one that didn't have the stench of alcohol and vomit soaked into the rough threads. A similar search for his shirt of the day followed, until Boulder was ready to start the afternoon.
Sporting his stained shirt along with a rushed comb-over, He swung the door to his humble abode open and was greeted by the sight of an empty alley, paved in a layer of dust and dirt that had settled on the buried stone.
Though the town of Sherfield was a bustling one, with a port located along the Delane River it rested beside, there were always exceptions to the rule; Basset Alley was one of them.
Located along the outskirts farthest from the docks, it was rare for this street to have much traffic, with many a dilapidated building lining the block. Still, that was no issue to Boulder, who was currently nursing a hangover. The busy streets would have been a horrifying experience to his frayed senses.
With clodding steps, he began his journey southward. The destination was not far, yet beads of sweat threatened to run down the sides of his face. Uncharacteristic of the autumn season, the humid air felt like breathing in a swamp. Heat from the overhead sun did no favors for the poor sap, leaving him gasping as he approached a... well, 'rustic' saloon.
Rustic. Every part of the building screamed that style. From the crooked signboard with faded letters, to the boarded-up windows lining the front entrance, there was little trace of care or maintenance.
Of course, Boulder would disagree with such a harsh statement. It was all part of the experience, he told himself. And any customers who tried to get uppity with him.
They just couldn't see the charm that grayed planks and rough tables brought to his establishment.
The entrance was quickly unlocked by the click of an old key, with hinges crying out as he forced his way through.
The familiar sight of scattered tables and a long bar greeted his tired eyes, which took solace in the darkness his pub provided.
It was unfortunate that he couldn't resume his nap in the perfect environment; his day had just begun.
Kegs were dragged, taps cleaned, and pots scrubbed as Boulder began to tidy up in preparation for a night of business. Dimmed crystals along the tavern's ceiling also brought a warm yellow light to the place, turned on with a solid smack from his broom.
A soaked rag met each booth and table with a wet 'plop' as Boulder put the finishing touches to the bar. Brown liquid seeped from the frayed fabric with every circular motion, left to be absorbed by the warped wood.
The process took over an hour by hand: a fact that Boulder deeply resented. When it came to mundane chores, magic was a person's best friend. Sadly, Boulder had no talent in the field, nor did he have the coin to afford the cleaning service of an apprentice mage— cheap as they may be.
Even so, that did not stop him from nodding in appreciation after the final surface was finished. No crumbs of dirt cluttered the wooden floor, and he had finally gotten around to cleaning whatever moldy atrocity had been stuck to the low ceiling.
The improved state of his tavern left him in a pleasant mood. Tonight would be a good night, he thought.
Who knows? Perhaps business would pick up with the cleaner environment.
Boulder's imagination continued to paint a brighter picture, conveniently forgetting it was a Tuesday afternoon. The low foot traffic failed to be taken into account as well, but this was not a new development for the excited owner.
'A good location doesn't always mean good business.'
It was a saying his father told him as a child, and had turned into a personal belief of his own over the years. Granted, Boulder Sr. never did make the bar into a local attraction, but such was life.
Yet— despite all signs pointing to a slow day —his own optimism was rewarded by the thumping of footsteps and a door forced ajar. A practiced smile and shining eyes graced his smudged face as he turned to greet the first guests of the day.
"Welcome to Boulder's Tavern, dear clients! Might I interest you in— Dear Goddess, what is wrong with you?!"
His mellow demeanor morphed into horrific shock at the first look of the 'guests'. Dirt covered every inch of the group, going so far as to conceal their faces like some homeless vagrants. A trail of filth followed them across the freshly mopped floor, along with a stench that even he was revolted by.
The group seemed undisturbed by Boulder's dismay as they slumped further into the establishment, with one of them patting his shoulder with an unwashed hand.
"Long time, no see, Boulder," The barbarian grinned with surprisingly white teeth, "Beer: bring it. Six- no, make it twelve, cups."
"Ah- uh... I'm sorry?" He asked, too distracted by the vile odor to notice they seemed to know him.
"Oh, you're right. Silly me. Make it a keg: a good one too. Trust me, we need it."
Gary's smile grew wider at the prospect of a drink, ignoring the traumatized man who beheld him.