Sup homies? Sorry I’m late! This is another story starring the infamous Jack Lantern, the cool guy from my first story, “The Elf and the Enemy.” Enjoy!

Dedicated to Asia (the friend, not the continent, readers), because everyone should have something dedicated to them in their life. Also since no one else has dedicated something to her, and because of her constant patronage, and the joy she must feel of having 100 followers.

It was a cold harvest in Flowing Stream. Winter had just begun to creep in on the quaint little town, but even still Jack Frost’s icy fingers pricked at the people’s toes. Some huddled by their fires and hard-won dinners, and those without any fire or feast dug in to the pantry of their dreams, but most of the honest folk in Flowing Stream, (and quite a few of the dishonest ones from beyond) warmed themselves with a drink or two at Boxing Roo, that ancient sanctuary of tall tales and ales, where strange folk and neighbors can spin yarns and rest awhile without worry of enemies.

On this particular night, however, the inn was quieter than normal. It was too cold this late to be awake, and most everyone had either gone to one of the little rooms up the creaky stairs or gone home swiftly through the rain. But there always will be creatures of the night (literally and figuratively), those too sad or excited or comfortable to rest their eyes, and a handful of these gathered around waning tallow candles scattered here and there around the place.

The inn had a magnificent bar of ebony wood that had hunting scenes with horrible creatures in relief carved into it. It had a genuine Fulian marble top that the innkeeper had sent for two years prior to its arrival, and it was his pride and joy. In turn, the bartender was the pride and joy of the town, and his name was Eli Rumbody. He was a wrinkled old half-dwarf (his mother was a slave who escaped the Archpellago) whose ancestors had run the place since time immemorial, back before old Brakill Demonbane founded Flowing Stream so many thousands of autumns ago. Rumbody boasted a beautiful bushy white beard that went in all directions from his face and a egg-bald noggin to counter it, which made customers lovingly call him “Baldibeard” whenever he served up especially good beer.

Eli had the wisdom of a man long married, for he had wed old Mrs. Rumbody neigh fifty years ago. Boxing Roo was a monarchy, and Rachel Rumbody was the queen. She was the head cook of the first floor, crown housekeeper of the rest, and the undefeated gossip-finder of the whole county. Of course, nobody counted any of this against her, for she was a treasury of advice and consolation for any poor chap in trouble that boarded at the Roo and could say with certainty that she had helped dozens of customers out of a bad way.

There were five figures sitting at the bar, all of them newcomers, their cloaks still dripping from the hooks where they had hung them. Four of the travelers were obviously friends, and were laughing and chatting loudly, and the other was sitting further off.

One of the travelers, a fiery Spark, gestured to Eli Rumbody. “Oi, barman! Another round of ale for me mates here.”

Rumbody got the drinks for the group, and a short Scalonian with smoke rising through his fangs blinked his eyes (one at I time, like reptiles do) and beckoned Eli over and pointed at the loner a ways away.

“Who’s the quiet bloke over yonder?”

“Eh? Ye don’t know the man? That’s bloomin’ Jack Lantern, that is!”