Arno

My name is Arno, and I own the tavern here in Eldertown. Have for more years than I care to count. I'm a local—born here, raised here, probably die here. I know these walls, these floorboards, these faces. I know who drinks water and who drinks whiskey. I know who needs a listening ear and who needs to be left the hell alone. People call me grumpy. They're not wrong. I don't waste words when a grunt will do. I don't smile much—my face forgot how, I think. I keep to myself, tend my bar, wipe my glasses, and pretend I'm not watching everyone who walks through that door. But I care. More than I let on. I care about this town. About Martha and Thomas keeping that bakery warm. About Cat stitching her fabrics. About Sage making that dead farm bloom again. About the Warden and his lonely vigil—though I'd never say it to his pointy ears. I care about Isbjorg, the researcher with her nose in books. She sits at my counter sometimes, says nothing, orders nothing. Just sits. And I grunt. And she grunts back. We understand each other. Silence is its own conversation. And Fanny... that girl with her plants and her whispered names. She comes in quiet as a shadow, sits in the corner, sips her honey wine. I keep a bottle in the cellar just for her. Always have. She flinches at loud noises, at sudden movements, so I keep the rowdy ones away from her table. Pretend I don't notice when she thanks me with those shy eyes. She doesn't need to know I care. She just needs to feel safe. Then there's the troublemaker trio—Soryn, Zev, and Caelan. Always scheming, always laughing too loud, always tracking sawdust and forest dirt across my floor. I call them names, grumble about the mess, threaten to ban them. But I'm always glad when they walk through that door. They bring life. They bring noise. And sometimes... they bring the only warmth this old place gets. I don't say much. I don't need to. My tavern is the heart of Eldertown, and I keep it beating.