Redwulf's Head: Less a veiled threat, more a dagger to your throat

 Dear Reader,

All but lost along the streets as Kirkby Stephen there lies a pub, seeming impossibly small, barely more than a lean-to braced astride a dilapidated-looking building purporting to be an Apothecary. Do not be fooled by the façade; this establishment hides deeper and darker secrets than any would expect at first glance. Steel yourself as we prepare to enter Redwulf's Head...
The rough-cut wooden boards stacked against the crumbling timber framed building could easily be mistaken for a carpenter's pile of off-cuts, but closer inspection shows it to be a deceptively sturdy structure, with iron nails studding the surface at odd angles. The front wall extends beyond the rest of the building, creating a secluded yard for the main door to open on to. On the back wall of the yard, just behind the door, a gruesome depiction of a severed otter's head has been painted, with a broken band of gold falling from its brow. One can guess whom that represents, and the careful artistry utilised to depict the pooling blood beneath the decapitated cranium rather illustrates the attitude of the owners of this establishment toward the Othyrs.

Simply knowing the location of the door does not guarantee access though. I witnessed several prospective customers approach furtively, just to be turned away by a gruff voice from inside the closed door. Only one fellow attempted to gain entry a second time. The poor soul, a corgi if one is a capable judge of the various hound breeds, was met with a crossbow bolt through the eye. Though not normally one to shy from violence and gore, the suddenness of the experience did cause me to wince and briefly turn away. By the time I looked back, barely a wink later, the body had been drawn inside leaving behind a streaked red stain on the cobbles. Those that did gain entry (at least those whom survived the request) did so after distinctive rhythms of knocks. There was no discernable pattern, as far as I could espy; perhaps such idiosyncrasies pertain as to the personage making the knock, or an ever transposing code I was not privy to. Paranoia may be getting the better of me in this instance, to be falling to such conspiracy theories, but as you read on you may understand more of where such musings originated.
At a pre-arranged time, I was met by a guide of sorts; a confidant who had promised to arrange access for me, and warned against approaching without his assistance. Though the reason for the warning was not given ahead of time, after what I had witnessed* with the hound earlier, I was thankful for it. The small black rat, barely more than one and half times my size**, melted from the shadows despite the brightness of the day. Still rallying from the earlier events, I confess I let out a short squeak of surprise, before recomposing and introducing myself. Though my escort has requested to remain anonymous, he seemed acquiescent enough as we exchanged pleasantries. After a few moments, and checking the coast was clear, I was led across the street to the door.

From this vantage point, the thick oak boards and black iron fittings seemed more intimidating, if anything. One could not help but be drawn to the small hatch three quarters of the way up the door. Little more than a studded ring of dingy hogiron in reality, it felt as though a glowering eye was scrutinising me; all too ready to strike me down with a killing gaze. I was snapped out of my reverie, as my compatriot rapped his knuckles against the frame. The hatch snapped open briefly, revealing a bloodshot eye, scarcely less unnerving than the image conjured by my imagination, before closing just as quickly. After what seemed like an eternity, but could have been no more than a heartbeat or three, the great door swung outward, as silent as an owl's flight. We were beckoned inside by a hulk of a badger. Behind them, a loaded crossbow was hung high on the wall, along with a selection of other cruder, though no less deadly, weapons.

As the door closed and my eyes adjusted to the darkness inside, I was struck by the notion that none of the visitors I had seen enter were present. Indeed, save for myself, the rat and the badger, the space was entirely deserted and far too small to have accommodated more than a couple of others. It was then that I was offered a blindfold and asked, politely but with the full certainty that I would comply, to cover my eyes before the true entrance was opened. That I am still here to write this story bares testament to my actions, and before long I found myself being walked down a winding set of stairs. From whence they appeared, I have no clue. How far deep they delved, or how far we walked before the blindfold was removed, I am equally perplexed. By the time my vision was returned, I found myself in the depths of a warren; well appointed but clearly very old.
Sufficiently lost, I was guided through the labyrinthine tunnels to the main bar. Along the way we passed several side passageways, as well as small caverns used as more private venues. Many were unoccupied. Others filled with booze, life and verve. A few were screened off by drawn curtains, with fewer still guarded by hired brutes brandishing significant weaponry; sufficient to dissuade even the most curious beast from trying to sneak a peek inside. The punctuating screams of someone clearly being tortured added to the ambience...

As we approached what one assumes was the hub of the warren, music began to echo gently down the hall, masking some of the horrors behind us. Though the word music is somewhat charitable; it was a sharp and somewhat scratchy melody, played on several poorly tuned instruments, with no sane sense of rhythm or tune. Droning lyrics were being sung over it all, with perhaps three or four different phrases sung by disparate groups, in what one can only assume were attempts at unrelated keys! It was, however, keeping the locals happily entertained and, thankfully, occupied on something other than myself.
I proffered my rat companion a drink, though he declined, purporting to have other business to attend to, and offering to escort me out in a few hours time. With my most polite tender rebuffed, I made a wary approach to the bar. Before I even considered asking about B.O.G. discounts, I noted the collection of trophies hanging across the ceiling; each a grizzly head, in various stages of decomposition, each with a sign wedged between its mandibles reading "NO STEALING FROM THE MANAGEMENT!" Whilst the red pigment used in the lettering may have been a beautiful ink, I rather suppose the unfortunate former owners of the heads provided the fluid (quite possibly against their will...) I thought it prudent to pay the full price for anything I purchased.

Behind the bar, I found a rather scabrous-looking stoat. The patch over their left eye had worn through, showing a knot of scarred tissue beneath, though I am unsure if it's owner was aware. The service was expedient, though lacked any form of social niceties. Whilst I enquired about food, being quite famished by this point in the day, nothing suggested appealed. Many of the meals on the menu included "meat", but without indication of which creature they came from***. Other dishes may have been less worrisome, though the general level of hygiene was disquieting enough for me to reconsider the depths of my appetite at the time.

Instead I opted to drink, as one would expect. I asked for a recommendation for a beer, and whilst I was delighted to discover the entire selection is brewed on site****, it was all of the lighter (and cheaper to brew) styles. Those that I tried (which were disappointingly few as the barstoat refused to serve any tasters) lacked any interesting depth of flavour, save for what I shall graciously describe as an interesting aftertaste. The most notable hogswash I tried, and would warn any of my readers against, was called Förderts; a nasty, chemical-tasting brew that may lure the unwary with its suggestion of foreign providence, or the absurdly low price!
I sat myself at a small table toward the edge of the bar room and shortly after, whilst still supping the first beer of the night, I felt a gentle pull at the hem of my coin purse. My natural reaction was to slap away the claw as I turned to face the pickpocket. I think I caught the shrew by surprise, perhaps thinking I may be more inebriated than I was, causing him to screech, jumped back, and draw a stubby, rusted cutlass against me. As you can imagine, I was less than pleased with the situation but the prospect of it had been sitting uncomfortably at the back of my mind since I had woken up that morning, and so I was prepared for the eventuality. Having had the proper instruction in sword-play from my earliest years, I was more than capable of seeing off this ruffian. I naturally fell into a fencer's stance as I drew my stiletto from its scabbard. The moment of shock, accentuated by a dumb look on the shrew's pinched features, gave me sufficient opening for a quick thrust, piercing the skin over the first dorsal interosseous. Whether I caught the muscle itself, I do not know, but it was sufficient to cause my assailant to drop their blade. The dumb look instantly flicked over to rage, and I feared that they would revert to their species' infamously sharp teeth and claws. Just as I prepared to defend myself with a more lethal jab, I watched the shrew's muscles tense for a pounce, then immediately relax. As the hair smoothed back down, their posture diminished, and they slunk away to one of the grimier entrances to the bar.

I turned around to find a colossus towering over me. The bulldog looked down on me, drool roping down from a mouth that was more than wide enough to swallow me whole. Unlike the majority of patrons of the bar, they were not armoured, wearing a simple cotton tabard that displayed a bulging pair of arms cross-hatched with scars; had I not known better, I would have sworn they were the trunks of a pair of gnarled oaks! I distinctly remember thinking that it was from beasts like this that the legends of bears had arisen. It escapes me as to how one could have not noticed this giant prior to this point.

Rooted to the spot, my stiletto held firm in my hand but with the tip slowly drooping as my wrist strength, such that it is, failed me, my eyes tracked across the sheer mass of the beast before me. As I met their gaze, the impossibly beady eyes fixing mine, I felt my heart drop through my chest. They barely had to twitch their eyes to take in my entirety, before settling back on mine. A gentle grunt, a slight rise of the lower lip and the briefest single nod, and they turned away; impossibly slowly and impossibly silently as they padded away to the corner of the room. It was only as they sat, barely reducing in presence in doing so, that I noticed that all sound had stopped. As a shrill stung instrument began to draw out it's first note, I nodded a quick thanks to my mysterious guardian before returning to my drink. Within a few heartbeats, the entire raucous atmosphere had returned.
Whilst sipping my third drink, a numbness started to spread across my body. Now, though I am small, I can usually handle my drink far better than that! I partook of the free water self-served from a very grubby urn at the end of the bar (which tasted not unlike it had been drawn from a stagnant pond, I fear to report), until the sensation passed. I carefully approached the bar and enquired with the stoat as to whether the ale had gone bad, but they replied with a disturbing smile.
"Nah, 's'nuff wrong wiv it. We gets leaks frum da 'poffur, see? Has this'un, you'll be right as! Err, dat'll be thrupence though... and one fer the cup." I am unsure whether the leaks are literal fluids filtering down into the distillery, or whether they were directly stealing from the Apothecary****, but the smirk on what was left of the stoat's face encouraged me not to probe further, and take the draught at the given price without argument. To my astonishment, this was actually a good idea! Whilst I could not recommend the beer, The Adder's Bite, for it's flavour (or colour, smell, or any other factor one would usually used to judge a beverage), the reviving affects could not be ignored. In addition to clearing my foggy head more effectively than any coffee ever had, my eyesight felt sharper, my hearing more acute (perhaps not the most desirable effect given the circumstances) and the gentle ache that had been troubling my left shoulder for weeks simply disappeared. I am sure it is with no surprise to you, dear reader, that I report these effects did not last for long, though I certainly did not fall back to my previous malaise.

As the evening wore on, I was cognisant of the crowd around me. From what I could overhear of their conversations (trying to not look too much like I was listening), they were certainly no Royalists. I think it would be fair to say that none would consider themselves to be legitimately of the clergy, though one or two may be using the role as a cover. Whilst I would be hesitant to describe them as the dregs of society (at least within earshot), I suspect the average patron of the Redwulf's Head have, at best, a minimal level of respect for the law and those who enforce it. And as for personal property...

Shortly before my guide arrived to collect and escort me safely from the premises, I heard what can only be described as a peal of distant thunder calling the name "Joe"! I turned to the source to see the bulldog from earlier in the night gently shaking their head, eyes fixed on me... my heart stopped for a beat (not for the first time that day) before I recalled that my name was not, in fact, Joe. I turned to follow the gaze, finding a frozen starling standing behind me, the tips of his wing feathers poised to slip into my coin purse.
"Err... yeah. Right, guv..." he chirruped before slowly backing away, his bright blue and green waistcoat catching my eye, even in the dim light of the bar. I realised my hand had jumped to the hilt of my stiletto, but a brief grunt from my erstwhile protector (definitely in my direction this time) dissuaded me from any further action, and I let the starling disappear into the crowd. Whilst I had survived two separate attempted pilferings, with my purse no lighter than before (save the day-light robbery of the cost of the drinks), I was glad when my rat companion whisked me away before a third attempt (or a more violent act against my person) could occur. Again, I was "offered" a blindfold before being led along a winding route that I am sure was longer than was strictly necessary and designed to befuddle and confuse. When the blindfold was eventually removed, I found myself on a country lane, slightly to the south of Kirkby Stephen. How long I had been outdoors, I could not say, though I was able to find my way back into town to find lodgings easily enough, despite the late hour and minimal moon light to illuminate my path.
Regular readers will, I have no doubt, be unsurprised to find that I do not recommend Redwulf's Head as a destination of choice, whether for food, drink or rest. I suspect very few patrons make their way there of their own volition, other than out of "professional interest". Though I did not enquire after lodgings, again I doubt those who do stay on-site overnight are doing so out of choice.

The drinks are a disgrace to the name of beer, though may have some interesting side effects. The food is best avoided, even by those with the strongest constitutions. The ambiance leaves more to be desired than even the greatest artists of our age could ever imagine. As for the patrons themselves; well, one would consider filing a report with the local constabulary, if one wasn't relatively certain that it would result in them being left severely short-handed, if it were to be dealt with at all!

No, dear reader; whilst I am sure there are delights aplenty in and around Kirkby Stephen, Redwulf's Head is definitely best to be avoided.

As ever, your faithful servant,

Madam E.d.A-M

P.S. Apologies for the paucity of my drawing of Redwulf's Head. As you can imagine, the "management" didn't exactly allow me to set up an easel and take time to perfect the artwork...
*Perhaps a poor phrasing, should legal proceedings for the event come to pass. Or worse, those whom may wish to avoid said legal proceedings come to visit...

**Do not forget that my frame is diminutive, even for my species.

***Whilst one is decidedly not an investigative journalist, I cannot help but think of the poor souls whom may have been tortured beyond their limits, those whom may have crossed the "management", or simply drank more than they could handle. Such unfortunates would need disposing of, and transferring their corpus to the kitchen would be an elegant, if macabre, solution.

****One supposes that any number of side tunnels could have lead to a burrow or cavern large enough for a brewery, though I didn't notice any of the usual aromas associated with such. Perhaps they were overwhelmed by the general foetid stench of the Redwulf's Head...

*****I am assuming, of course, that the Apothecary was not simply a front to get drugs into the Redwulf's Head's fare.