They were the only ones that came into the bar. It was far past midnight and they were far past sober. They laughed, leaning hard against each other, barely ordering drinks between whatever half-convoluted conversation they were having. Two whiskeys. The barkeep obliged them. They were Guardians, still dressed in armor stained with ash. He had no place to deny them.
They drank heavy, their voices loud and their laughter louder. He tried ignoring them for a time, but it was hard. They were drunk, but fresh back from battle. They had just met, but fighting beside someone made them more than just your acquaintance real quick.
The second time they came in, they were significantly less drunk. The woman, a warlock, looked terse and annoyed. The man, a hunter, looked utterly apologetic. They were arguing about something the barkeep had no hope of comprehending. They ordered whiskeys again. As the drinks flowed, the argument became less cutting and more joking. The woman opened up, the hunter was enraptured by her explanations, but would change the subject halfway through her long rants.
It went like that for many months. They would come in, usually in the dead of night, too caught up in each other to acknowledge him for more than a couple of whiskeys. It was fine, he was barkeep, they were guardians. They were quiet lovers finding a place to hide away from war they fought.
But war was nothing without loss.
So the day the warlock came in by herself, the barkeep knew precisely what had happened. He could see it. Her clothes still smelled of smoke and gunpowder, stained with the blood of her friend. The hunter was like a ghost in the room, an absent shadow that echoed into nothingness. She was bruised and tired and when she ordered her whiskey, her voice was low and broken.
She had one drink, sitting alone in his bar in the dead of night, staring into nothing. He didn't bother her, he knew better. She downed the whiskey, put money on the counter and got up and left. He never saw her again.