The Laughing Pooka sits at the edge of Lark’s Green, its crooked slate roof leaning as if it might tip into the road. The sign above the door showed a dark shape with wide eyes and a mischievous grin — a pooka, caught mid-leap.
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of peat smoke and sweet cider, the firelight casting flickers across polished wood and faded tapestries.
Lowen Foss stood near the edge of the floor, one hand wrapped around a tankard, the other tugged insistently by Gwynviène — the fae girl’s lavander eyes alight with mischief. The fiddle struck up, and the whistle followed; feet shuffled against the worn boards. Viène pulled Lowen into the fray, their steps mismatched but joyful, her laugh bright and unrestrained. Around them, regulars stomped and spun, and the pooka on the sign seemed to be laughing too — watching from the wall, its painted eyes glinting with quiet approval.