Putting off his return to the tavern for as long as he could, Mor was finally standing at the bottom of those stone steps again. As to be expected, it was raining, but there was also a storm coming, Mor could feel it. Standing there, as he was quite sure the tavern had been neglected during his long stay in Hastings and Lewes, Mor found himself reluctant to enter. To his surprise, the windows still looked rather clean, as if someone had cleaned them not too long ago.
Ascending the steps to the door, Mor could see the run down state of the sign, which hung above the short archway to the door.
"Foxy Tig ...", he tried to read the name but the end of it had already worn off. Due to the elements or because of some mischief, he could not say. Even one of the chains holding the heavy sign had broken off, causing it to hang crooked. He turned his gaze away from its sorry state.
At least the door still looked sturdy as Mor stopped and stood silently in front of it. Taking a deep breath and pressing his hand to its surface, as he had done countless times before, the man was almost convinced it would all but crumble under the pressure. Yet, the door held firm, no sign of ageing there. Pushing on the door harder it became evident that not all things had changed in his absence.
"Still unyielding, eh... stubborn. How alike we are, you and I." Letting out his breath, a grin emerged on his lips.
"Hope remains." With fortified determination, Mor took his key, unlocked the door and stepped into the dark.
As Mor was closing the door behind him, a strong gust of wind suddenly swung it shut with a loud bang. This was more than the single chain holding the sign outside could take and the whole thing came crashing down with a thunderous boom. Falling the distance of more than two grown men and striking the hard cobblestone street below was the killing blow to the already weakened sign. It cracked in half right down the middle, severing Foxy and Tigress for all time.
Opening the door again to calmly survey what exactly had happened, Mor sighed in relief.
"And thus it ends," he spoke to himself, while kneeling down to pick up one of the splinters that had flown to the door from the force of the impact. Noticing a figure clad in all black pushing a wheelbarrow on the street, past the tavern, Mor calls out to the person.
"Need firewood?!" The person stops, turns to Mor and simply gives a nod, or if the person did speak, Mor could not hear it over the driving rain.
"Help yourself!", Mor shouted pointing at the two halves of the sign and went on to mumble to himself as he stood up and closed the door behind him once again,
"I have little use for broken symbols of the past, long lost their meaning."
Pocketing the splinter, having a careful look around, things didn't seem as bad inside as he had thought. Leaning against the railing and taking a peek down at the bar floor below, Mor smiled as he could see all was in order and neatly in place. Then it suddenly dawned on him who he owed thanks for this delightful surprise and he yelped out his satisfaction in a single word.
"Miffle!" She had once again saved his day.
My dear, thoughtful Miffle, I should have known I could depend on you, he thought while rushing down to the fireplace. He found it all clear of ash and wood already in place. Still grinning, Mor lit the tinder and in no time at all was enjoying the warmth of a crackling fire. Indeed everything was in order, Miffle had gone through some trouble to make sure of that and Mor felt truly grateful.
Making himself comfortable in front of the fireplace, with some ale in his tankard and cured meat on a platter, Mor started writing Miffle a message. She deserved thanks and he needed something from her as well. The Fortuitous Tale tavern, his home to be from now on, would need a new, mighty oaken sign and Miffle was the only person Mor would trust to craft it.
As he was penning the note, a small shadow emerged from under the bar side bed and fearlessly made its way to his right boot. Smiling down, Mor picked up his familiar tavern companion and gave the little critter a gentle caress.
"Came to warm by the fire too, did you? Don't worry, I am home again and not leaving for a good long while." Placing his small companion on the table, Mor got up to fetch some cheese for her and soon came back with plenty.
"Hope, an apt name," he muttered as he resumed writing and Hope squeaked quietly in response, with a huge lump of cheese between her front paws...
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to say that would be understatement of the year. Cynth had seen the large door first and then the rear then the toe and then the Buns.
