Sometimes shit happens. Hey, it's not always your day, it's alright. One moment you're riding high, soaring above these mud-riddled plains with the king of mercs by your side, another, you're running far away from the crater he blew himself up in. Y...
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yes its -her- . and yes i dont like her either . you know what ? have another one just because i dont like her .
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ok onto the chapter
"... This the place?"
W and Odda arrived at the "town's" pub.
Surrounded from all six sides, the floor and the ceiling accounted for, by a snowy and gloomy birchwood forest, the establishment had the outside decor of something resembling closely a very badly run-down mercenary stash. W's seen her fair share of hovels here and there, yes, but this particular mud-hut really did take the cake. If there even had been any "cakes" to take in Kazdel. You could never truly know, not in this country.
"It appears so, yeah." Odda muttered, somewhat reluctantly eyeing the swinging front door. "Are you familiar with places like these?"
"Like what?" She raised a brow. "Hellholes? Rat-dens? Mud-hutches? Swine-pens? Shanty towns in general?"
"Yes?"
"Why?" She raised another brow, her tail rattling with growing suspense. "What're you implying here, exactly?"
"Huh?"
"Why would I be familiar with a piece of shit like this?"
"Oh. Oh, um..." He backed lightly, arching naturally into the mushy wall. "That's not really what I, uh... I wasn't implying anything. No, really, I was just–..."
"Because you'd be right, actually." She grinned, stepping over the boy and placing both her hands on the door. "... I'm very familiar with places like these."
"..."
The "gates" swung open with a disapproving creak. A gale of frosty chill blew from outside and died immediately on contact with the warming, toasty atmosphere of the pub's lively innards. Completely on the contrary of the surrounding snowfields, the inside teemed with life and bustled with joy. Anthills of heavy-dressed Sarkaz slipped and crawled around the makeshift wooden tables, avoiding hooking their horns on the sleeves of torches plastered over each wall and pillar. This was a living, breathing glee-machine, and it was fueled purely by human laughter. Human laughter and copious amounts of booze.
