The tavern owner is a scrawny individual with
failing eyesight.
He peers at them
from narrowed eyes. He seems somehow misplaced. More correctly, it is as if he
is mismatched in personality and choice of vocation. How he keeps control in a
tavern of rowdy drinking men is anybody’s guess.
Until one meets
his wife. She wears the big breeches, so to speak. Clearly even the tavern cat
is petrified of her. The feline, until the moment of her entry reposing
peacefully upon the bar counter, swiftly slinks away.
“What do you
want?” she demands brusquely of Kell and Rhodry. Massive jowls quiver with the
action. You do not want to get on the wrong side of this one.
It is gloomy
inside the rough place – just as well, given the suspicious glaring from the
other side of the counter – and it stinks of sour ale and old vomit.
“We seek a
tarot…” begins Kell, only to be interrupted.
“I told you! I told you!” the scrawny man screeches,
his voice scratchy, no doubt from too much rough tobacco. “Folk want cards! Did
I not tell you, Martha?”
She glares him
into submission. “Not your cards, dog. You can barely see the table, never mind
the rest.” She glares at the two men next. “Whatever this one claims, his cards
are poorly worked. Not worth even a handshake. If it’s cards you seek, go to
Hilda.” She slaps the scarred bar counter. “What you drinking?”
No doubt she will
hogtie them if they do not buy something. Barely containing a spurt of
laughter, Kell orders a flagon of sweet wine to take with them.
Mighty Martha
eyes him up and down, and then bellows into the back. “Bring a flagon of that
foreign piss!”
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