Long day at work? That's not unusual, we all end up with days like those. From the construction site worker all the way to the suit and tie executive type; life can be hard on everyone. Couldn't sleep for some reason or another? That's fine, you've got a place here at the bar too, just gotta walk in through that door. The home life getting you down? I guess that's why you're here and not there on a night like this. Running from memories of the past? Chasing a future that's always at your fingertips but always just out of reach? Don't worry about those here, time stops it's relentless march in this humble little bar of mine. Stray cat that's just stopping in for a small bowl of milk and a good, long, nap? Heheh, don't worry your weary little whiskers, we'll take you too. This is the Wayward Stool, a place for those without direction or a refuge of their own. A pit stop for the lost souls that wander the streets, stepping between the lights in the endless darkness of a cold and lonely night. Come on in, warm your bones, and stay as long as you like.

You see it there, amidst the cold light of a street lamp on this particularly rainy and miserable night, the warm glow of a place you won't be alone. You're not quite sure why, but you just know that's where you're supposed to go. Looking up the way you were going only revealed to you more of the same dreary loneliness you'd already suffered from for far too long. Behind you, all the things you were running from at the start, waiting ever patiently for you to come back as they followed you no matter how far you went. Just across the street, nothing but the now familiar urban sprawl that loomed over you since your journey had begun. But, right here next to you, was an open invitation that you just couldn't pass up. So, instead of continuing your never ending march of isolation, you decide to take the plunge, you open that unlocked door and make your way inside.

Relief sets in as the tension from your aching muscles begins to ease, the warmth of dimly lit room seeps into your bones. The atmosphere around you is calm, quiet, with an oddly familiar sounding slow jazz tune drifting softly through the still air. The floors were a clean redwood, not quite polished but clearly maintained with an obvious touch of love. The walls from the floor to about a third of the way up were a darker hickory planning that gave way to plaster painted a soft tan. The ceiling was constructed of the same dark stained hickory as the paneling that framed the room, a domed rectangular skylight cut across most of the ceiling to reveal the rainy night sky above. Occasionally, the passing lights of a silent train danced through the bar, filtering in from the skylight above. The layout of the room was simple. In the furthest corner sat a small bar with a handful of stools and a white marble top, cushioned seats stretching across the wall behind the stools, chairs and tables set with lit candles to accommodate those without a seat at the bar. To the opposite end, was a long wooden bar top where drinks could be served and the ashtrays sat, allowing those who smoked to do their business while not disturbing those patrons who did not partake.

Taking this all in, your eyes eventually drift back to the small granite topped bar in the corner. Behind that bar stood a tall man, an older gentleman with long back hair slicked back and meticulously combed in a way as to be presentable. gracing his chin and cheeks were a well groomed and trimmed if not a little greying beard. He wore a fine white button up shirt tucked into tailored black slacks, sleeves rolled to his elbows as he busied himself with polishing his glass mugs. Over his shirt rested a black suit vest with a tasteful black silken tie tucked underneath. Now with your attention finally on him, the man gives you a warm smile and a nod of the head.

"Welcome, stranger, to the Wayward Stool."

Every world has their stories, their legends. Tales of heroes and villains, of tyrants and dictators, of gods and men. Of aliens and monsters. After all, it is within the nature of most to tell stories. Be they true, be they urban legends, folklore, or scary stories to protect innocent lives. Some stories are the same across many worlds, some are different. Perhaps a dozen worlds or a trillion have some variation of "Batman" or "Iron Man."

But a story, lesser told, only because each world had their own variation when touched by such, was the Rockwoman's. A lone traveler, wandering the world, sometimes passing through a remote village, or a country town, or anywhere. Perhaps reports of them were isolated to one area, maybe longer. Maybe they were on their own, perhaps they fought in a team, but one thing remained. A loner who walked a path known only to them. For some worlds, this story swelled, to make them seem larger than life, to the point of true tall tales, to urban legends. But sometimes, the truth is stranger than fiction, or more mundane than a simple legend. Everyone has a goal in life, even if their goal is to do nothing. Something that which they expend energy or none towards. Something drives them.

For some, it is the thought of home, that drives them onwards. Through smoked battlefields, across icy tundra, or atop the urban sprawl, or underneath the crust. Wherever the journey takes, its about the adventure had, not the end goal, in the end, perhaps. A goal that the Rockwoman followed, no matter how long it took. Even if it meant an eternity.

Rain cascaded down outside, a storm perhaps brewing, or perhaps just a random bout of rain. Ultimately, it didn't matter. The door slipped open, as a single hand pushed it open and inward, stepping in from the cold outside. An umbrella held overhead was already being brought down, closed, before vanishing abruptly into thin air. A hooded figure stepped in, not in a long, black cloak that might make one think of the Grim Reaper, nor in red robes that might make one think of cults, or any other number. No, just a hoodie, blackish-blue in hue, a simple white star emblazoned on the back, over whatever was worn underneath, sweatpants adding to more or less hide the figure's actual body from view. The two hands previously out, slipped away into the forward pockets just as quickly as one could imagine, so fast that it would have been a blur to a mortal. The hoodie's hood was pulled forward, casting the owner in shadow. Despite the storm outside, they were as dry as could be, even down to their shoes, blackish in color, which almost could be mistaken for boots.

Though their eyes could not be glimpsed, one could feel their gaze traversing the space. Shoulders that seemed tensed from who knew what abruptly began to relax, as the music was felt. Underneath the hood, tired lips quirked up in a faint smile, before just as quickly, flattening out. In a strange way, it felt almost familiar, and for a moment, a pang of homesickness ran down their spine, before being dismissed. Steps were taken, nodding slight once addressed, before taking a seat at the bar, whichever seat was closest to a wall, for a split second, the right hand came out to assist in sitting down, before just as quickly returning to the pocket. A few moments passed in silence, before the visitor spoke, their voice soft, refined, but not at all haughty. And more accurately, female.

"Thanks, what do you have to drink?" A simple statement was given, and while the hood remained pulled forward, the bartender would be able to feel eyes lifting to focus upon his. Nothing further was done, as the speaker merely waited politely.

Setting down the glass be had been dutifully cleaning, the bar tender smiled softly at the stranger, his bright green eyes twinkling with a friendly light. His gaze seemed to cut through the gloom that hung around the stranger's head but showed no indications of concern if he truly had learned of their true nature. The smile didn't reach his eyes, but it crinkled the corners and projected a grandfatherly vibe.

"The Wayward Stool can provide anything that your weary heart desires. If you know what you want, all you need to do is ask. I have all manner of drinks and foods for you to enjoy, just ask. If you'd like to avoid alcoholic drinks, I can accommodate. We have many fine teas, coffee, and sweet drinks a-plenty. A glass of juice? Some cold milk perhaps."

The man shuffled under the bar for a moment before gently setting down a beautifully menu book in front of the woman. Opening the book revealed a tastefully made list of the many drinks and cocktails available to thirsty travelers. Each turn of the page continued to unveil yet more options, each just as pleasing as the last. Flipping through the pages of the book would reveal that it went on and on, each page fulled with endless delights. Foods, drinks, treats, snacks, and all manner of other edible goodies.

"Please, take your time and choose."

Despite everything, Theodore Richford was still standing. The old world was dead and gone, nothing but memories in the minds of the precious few who were still alive. The new world was a harsh and unforgiving place. Most of humanity had fallen in the first weeks, and those that survived found that they were no longer at the top of the food chain. Monsters lurked in the dark, now. The undead were the most plentiful by far, but they were also far from the most dangerous.

Ted was lucky enough to be away from civilization when the world ended. He was a hunter then, stalking deer in the Pennsylvania wilderness. At first, he didn't even know the world had ended. Away from civilization, the signs that something was wrong came gradually. Radio stations changing to repeated warnings, then silence. Abandoned vehicles on the road, seemingly broken into. The buzzing of insects grew louder, then the shuffling of feet in the night. Things, shapes moving in the darkness.

Adapting to this new world wasn't easy, but he managed. He had plenty of experience with living off the land, and he knew the area well. But above all else, he was a skilled hunter. The prey was like nothing he had faced before, and unlike the deer, they fought back. But for all their differences, all their alien features, they weren't immune to bullets. So, he hunted them.

---

The storm was relentless, and Ted knew he had to find shelter before exposure and exhaustion put an end to him. He wasn't sure where he was, but it seemed like he had wandered into a town, or maybe a city. The undead would likely be nearby, but he hadn't seen any sign of them so far. Still, he couldn't let himself be caught off guard. He'd have to find shelter soon- a building he could secure, or at least a place where he could set up a lean-to. Maybe if he was lucky, he would find a working car to replace the one that had broken down on him hours earlier.

But in the night, he couldn't see anything. Finally, he rounded the corner, where a street lamp stood bright against the darkness. The building next to it had its lights on, beckoning him in. Despite the strangeness of it all, something compelled him to go inside. Something about the area made him feel safer. So, he opened the door, and walked in.

As he shut the door behind him, the others in the bar would be able to get a good look at him. He appeared to be middle-aged, and his skin was pale. He was a gaunt figure, the demands of the new world having dealt a heavy toll to his body. He was incredibly skinny, and the look on his face was that of someone who hadn't slept in a long time. He wore a dark green knit hat, with some of his black hairs poking out, as well as an old Army jacket, cargo pants, and hiking boots. He had a rucksack and a rifle strapped to his back, and a shotgun in his right hand. Everything was covered by a clear plastic poncho, thrown over his other clothing to protect it from the rain.

Looking around, he immediately noticed that he wasn't alone. A bartender and someone in a hoodie, who was sitting at the bar. The impossibility of the scenario was obvious. A place like this couldn't exist, not in a city, or even a small town. But despite everything, no horde of undead appeared to smash through the windows and break down the doors. Somehow, this place existed, and he was here. Something about it told him that, despite how impossible it seemed, he had nothing to fear.

So, after giving the bartender a nod, he wiped off his boots, then walked over to the wall. He took off the poncho first, folding it up and placing it down before placing his rucksack, rifle, and shotgun next to it. Finally, he took off his hat and placed it on top of the rucksack, before walking over to the bar and sitting down, one seat away from the stranger. After a few moments, he looked up at the bartender. "Hey..." He paused for a moment, thinking of what to say. Looking over at the stranger, he noticed the menu in front of them. "Uh...could I have a menu?"

Looking to the newest costumer with that same grandfatherly smile, the bar tender slid a menu over to the thin looking man. Even as he did so, the smell of well cooked food began to permeate the small bar, smelling of the most enticing meal one could imagine, hearty and warm. If the Stool's most recent patron were to open his menu, it would be filled to the brim the with most familiar and comforting of foods. No matter how hungry one felt, the menu's options provided what seemed to be the perfect portion for the amount of hunger they felt at the moment. In this case, rustic, home cooked meals of the Mid-western American style filled the pages, each chock full with goodies as the last. If he got a thirst about him, the pages of his menu would most conveniently show familiar brews and cocktails for him to enjoy.

"You look famished, stranger. Please, review our humble offerings and take your pick of any one of our lovingly prepared meals. Choose any accompanying drink you like." Wordlessly, the bartender presented the hungry looking man with a large basket of steaming, fried, potato wedges, lightly salted and hot from the fryer. Something to whet the apatite. Turning back to the first customer of night, the bar tender set a tall glass in front of them and filled it with ice and water before doing the same for the man who had just walked in. A little hospitality always went a long way.

"If either of you need anything, please just ask."

Ted grabbed the menu as it was passed over to him. Flipping it open, his eyes went wide as the vast array of food it advertised. He couldn't remember the last time he had a meal like the ones on the menu. His diet was almost entirely composed of wild game and edibles, with the only processed foods available being canned. "How did you..." But he shook his head, turning back to the menu. There didn't seem to be much point in questioning the situation, so he continued to look through the menu. The fact that they hadn't been attacked by a horde of zombies by now was a miracle, so it didn't seem much of a stretch that this strange bar also had a well-stocked kitchen.

As he continued to read through the menu, he saw that some appetizers had been placed before him, as well as a glass of water. "Oh, thank you." He took a few of the potato wedges, shoving them in his mouth. After eating nothing but smoked venison and the occasional wild mushroom for the past week, the potato wedges tasted incredible. He quickly scarfed down several, before taking a gulp of the ice water. Ice! That was another luxury that had been abandoned- unless it froze overnight, he'd be lucky to have water that was colder than lukewarm. He continued to snack on the appetizer as he scrolled through the menu, eventually settling on an old classic. "Could I have a cheeseburger? And a Coke to drink." He closed the menu, setting it down in front of him.

Hadd stood outside of a building he had never laid eyes on before. This was not something that Hadd had experienced in quite some time. The rain did not seem to bother the tall man as he stood outside the tavern, slowly stroking his chin. In fact, the rain did not actually seem to touch Hadd, it more so slid away from him at the last moment.

"How odd." Hadd muttered to himself as he continued to stare at the door for what, most people would agree, was far too long an amount of time to be normal. But what those same people would not understand, is that Hadd had not seen anything new or surprising in a very, very....very long time. Despite outside appearances, Hadd was old, extremely old. He had seen the rise and fall of nations and played no small part in a few of them. He had watched countless beings grow and die and had seen more wonders then he could count. In all honesty Hadd had assumed that there was nothing left that could surprise him. And yet, here it was, something surprising. A tavern that, by his reasoning, should not have been here at all. What was, perhaps, even more surprising was that this fact didn't really bother Hadd at all. He was almost pleased to find a place that he had never seen before and had no business existing where it did.

After another few moments, Hadd simply smiled and muttered, "Ah, what the hell" before wandering inside.

Hadd, was a previously mentioned, rather tall, standing at about 6'3". He had medium length dark brown hair, lightly tanned skin, and a pair of mirrored sunglasses that he did not bother to take off as he came inside, judge that last fact as you see fit. He appeared to be in his mid 30's, with the slightest five'o'clock shadow creeping in across his chin. He wore a pair of black slacks, polished dress shoes, a maroon button up long sleeved shirt, and a black vest. He was, of course, completely dry.

Hadd paused for a moment to look at the people already present. There was someone in a hoodie, whom Hadd could tell almost nothing about, a man who looked like he had walked through hell in order to get here, and a man Hadd could only assume was the bartender. Hadd approached the bar, the smile never dimming on his face, and took one of the empty bar stools. He turned to the bartender, and in a surprisingly deep voice said, "Something strong to drink, if you would be so kind good sir." He would leave the choice up to the bartender, curious about what the man would choose for him.