You can hear the chatter just beyond the door. Sensible conversation, not the usual rabble of a portside bar, but passionate nonetheless. The night is blue as the moon is full. Your face made cold by the icy gale of a nearby sea.
The faint voice of a middle-aged man, "I still could not tell you what I did wrong. She won't talk to me. What's a man to do? I would give her my very heart if-"
You place your hands on the door and lean in, this is a thick door with rusted hinges. Everyone will know when you enter.
The door bellows like an aching longship as you push your way inside. The room turns to look at you. Most turn away quickly, though two sets of eyes remain locked onto yours. A nobleman sits to the right, near a harp player. He is sizing you up. He dresses as a man who wants to blend in, but can not. The Barkeep's stare is cold.
The silence is offensive.
"Is this an inn as well as an alehouse?"
The barkeep grunts, "It's written on the sign above the door, inn'it?"
His thick brow cast a veil upon his face. His neck like a tree trunk supporting a head made for battle. His chest as wide as two men. His paws dutifully cleaning a mug with a fresh towel. His shirt is tan, his apron is black. Two glinting eyes, flickering at you, the disrespectful newcomer.
You open your arms and bow slightly, "Yes, my apologies. I must be careful, I've been...misled before"
The Barkeep barks, "Do I look like a mis-leader to you?"
....
"No, not at all...though...you do look like a leader"
The Barkeep chuffed, "What kind of leader?"
Your voice becomes slight, "A strong one."
His voice unwavering, "Observant, aren't we."
Confidently, "Yes, we are."
...
The Barkeep steps forward, lantern light casts upon his cheeks and neck, a trench of a scar tracked down the left side of his head to his collarbone.
"I don't see any scars on your face, boy. The same can not be said of me."
...he is threatening you
"Then perhaps you should practice dodging more, you cantankerous oaf."
A gasp fills the room. The clink of mugs reverberates as the patrons turn to look at the Barkeep.
His eyes are burning into yours, his mouth forming into a grimace.
The barkeep erupts into laughter. He throws his considerable frame onto the bar, shaking his head. He was goading you. The rest of the bar is laughing along with him. The tension is broken.
The barkeep raises his head to show teary eyes, " You took me by surprise boy, well done!"
...
...should you say another? Will it land as well?
You sheepishly point to his scar, "Seems I'm not the only one who's taken you by surprise."
One patron looks to another in disbelief, then erupts into laughter.
You did it again...or did you?
The Barkeep resumes his stance like a sentinel at the gates, "This scar on my face is from whaling. This one on my chest, this is from an ambush...they took more than a chunk of my flesh...but they didn't get away with it."
His face turned neutral, though somber. The ability of a strong yet withered man to turn a face like carved marble into a story all its own. Shadows once again veiled his eyes as he grabs another mug to clean.
Loneliness...loss. He lost someone. You shouldn't dare ask.
You can't help but wear empathy in your eyes, though you quickly dispel it to preserve his dignity.
The harpist in the corner plucks three notes, you turn to look and are struck. She has shimmering golden hair flowing down from a light blue veil, and resting just below her collarbone, like a waterfall of golden sunlight. Her eyes are dark and swimming, like glittering jewels softly dancing under the surface of a pond. She closes them as she focuses on the song. You hear the Barkeep make a cheeky laugh to himself, and notice that everyone can see you staring at this beautiful harpist.
This night...am I lucky or am I lost?
The nobleman sitting close to the harpist reviews you once more. He is looking into you. This is a man that people respect, he has a certain air to him.
Why is he here at this dive? Is this harpist his mistress...perhaps his muse?
You acknowledge his gaze by looking down to the ground as you proceed to the bar, no bravado can be used against moneymen.
They will have someone else do the dirty work if you catch their ire.
