The wizard wandered into the tavern like the reaper, and everyone held their breath in fear of who he might choose to play.

“Ghost,” his cold voice emerged like the kraken from the hollow, dark pit of his chest, “sit.”

From underneath his blackened robes emerged the hellhound, the venom of the night, the infamous blight of the sun. A little dog, blonde in coat and soft and curly as a baby’s head. It lolled it’s great big tongue out of the side of its grisly droopy jaws. It sat at the feet of its master and thumped its tail.

“Beast,” someone whispered. “_Demon_. Get it away, begone.”

Stifled cries spurted among the crowd of patrons, realizing their fate. Begging the wizard.

“I’m too young to die.”

“Please, sir!”

“Oh great Hag, do not let it take me!”

The tavernkeeper hushed the crowd with two large clangs of their iron pots.

All attention shifted to its ring. And the trusted, great tavernkeeper eyed down the wizard from behind the bar like a lord.

“Guests in this tavern are allowed to bring one familiar of their choosing. That is our rule.”

The wizard, one long finger pointed down to the floor, said, “Stay.”

And the hound of the darkness did as it was told, when it’s master ordered an ale and a small pastry from the tavernkeeper.

It even got a little taste of a cherry from the top.