Or is it? Americans don’t really have a good context for understanding the English pub—and, hence, the medieval tavern. (Here in the States, even those bars that style themselves on pubs really aren’t, because the pub simply fills a different social role in the UK.) So we tend to cast our fantasy inns and taverns on the models we have at hand: bars, restaurants, roadhouses, and roadside motels. But spending a little time in an actual English pub (or three) can give you a different perspective.

Over on the Fascinating World I talk this week a bit about real English pubs--what they're like, how they're different than most gamers think, and what this means for the fantasy tavern.

Drop on by and let me know what you think!

“Thinking of me?”

“Yes, you. You have been quite the talk today.” He took a couple bandages from the kid and laid them on his knees, then started pushing up my sleeve.

I glanced at Gigot. “Really?” I said slowly. “Who has been talking about me?”

Chretien ignored me. “I’ve been asking myself: What sort of man arrives in town with a ten-year-old draft and a strange accent.” He took an earthenware jar from the kid and pried off the lid, dabbing a rag in the contents. “Buys himself expensive clothes. Then gives ostentatiously to the poor. One answer presents itself: A man suddenly into a large sum of money, but with a weight on his conscience. A thief or brigand.”

I glanced again at Gigot. He had taken a quiet half-step back, and his hand had moved to the haft of the axe.

It's been a while since I posted anything about my novel, but here you go! Chapter 11 (along with the previous 10 chapters) have now been posted at www.charlesmryan.com. Enjoy, and shoot me a comment or two--I'd love to hear your thoughts!

It was still night. Still dark outside. Still cold—colder, it seemed, than when we went in, though maybe that was just in contrast to the heat down below. At least the rain seemed to have finally stopped.

I tripped and stumbled, half sliding, down through the brush and weeds for thirty or forty feet until I found a relatively clear spot. Somehow I kept my feet under me and managed not to drop Celestine. I crouched and, as carefully as I could, lowered her to the ground. In the deep blackness of this night, her body seemed almost to glow. She looked like a ghost.

A ghost who must be freezing. I quickly reached for the clasp of my cloak, but it took my shaking hands a minute to work it. Laying the cloak down on the wet grass, I rolled her onto it, then wrapped the edges around her.

Then I took a break to throw up.

Nothing came, but I must have spent two or three minutes on my knees, immobilized by the violent churn of my stomach. I heard the crack and rustle of someone else making their way down the slope, and some part of my mind acknowledged it was Michel, but had it been a bad guy there was nothing I could have done.

The churn and the tunnel vision started to slacken, and I willed myself to straighten as Michel crouched down beside us. He had Stephan’s shield, and now I could hear the latter pushing through the bracken above.

Michel pushed the cloak back a bit to look at Celestine’s face. “She is alive?”

Chapter 9 of The Mason of New Orleans is now posted at www.charlesmryan.com. (Haven't been reading it? The other 8 chapters are also there! Comments are overwhelmingly positive, so give it a look--you might like it too!)