Breaking the Sword

The Broken Sword Inn

Tristram had been hoping for a smaller crowd at the Broken Sword Inn. In fact, he had been hoping for no crowd at all, the better to drink himself happily under a table. Instead, the inn, which had employed him as resident entertainer, was doing what could only be described as a roaring trade. Emphasis laid duly on the word roaring. Tristram couldn't even hear himself sing over the din. His function that evening appeared to be ambiance rather than entertainment. The patrons, quite boisterously entertaining themselves, could feel safe in the knowledge that this was an establishment respectable enough to employ its own harper and teller of tales.

Not to be discouraged by this sad turn of events, Tristram plucked the strings of his Grey Lady and tried not to look too put-upon. He was due a break in a quarter of an hour, during which he intended to drink at least half his wage in ale and cavort a bit with the barmaids. There were some perks to being a kept bard, even if one did begin to run short of fresh tales. Still, something in Tristram chafed at this sedentary life. Certainly, he didn't miss sore feet and wet socks, or sleeping on hard floors in front of strange fireplaces... but life on the road did have its own particular romance. Perhaps he was built to wander, for life was quickly growing more boring than any reasonably impatient person could bear.

Tristram scanned the festive crowd, his fingers finding a tune with little mental input. Why had so great a number turned out tonight? The inn itself had only let about half of its rooms, unless he was mistaken. So the majority of the bar's patrons must have been city folk, and perhaps even laborers come in from the outlying farms. Some local holiday with which he was unfamiliar?

Well, Tristram might not have been a local himself, but he knew how to take advantage of an excuse to get sauced. His break came soon enough and he stowed Grey Lady in her case with reverential care before hurrying to the bar to drink up the night's earnings as fast as he could.

Even with the crowd there was only one soul sitting at the bar, a lanky fellow who appeared to be mostly leg, with a nimbus of curly blond hair and beard about his head. The leggy man hunched over the steaming mug before him, as if trying to shield himself against the noise and gaiety of his fellow patrons. Tristram liked the man on sight: he was drinking Dragon Fang, a choice that demonstrated not only considerable fortitude but also considerable taste. It was a Broken Sword specialty, and was perhaps the most potent brew Tristram had encountered in his travels.

The bard flagged down his employer, the inn's proprietor and barkeep, and ordered, "More of the same for us both, eh, Halstan?"

As the barkeep bustled off to fulfill this request, Tristram eased onto the stool beside the stranger. The leggy man toasted him silently before knocking back the remaining Dragon Fang before him.

"Many thanks, friend bard," he said.

Tristram waved away the thanks. "Any man with the will to make it through one Dragon's Fang deserves a second."

The other man grinned. "It's strong I'll allow, but not compared with the swill they serve up north."

As Halstan put down a second flagon and poured their drinks, Tristram examined the stranger more closely. True, his clothes were ill-suited to the unseasonable heat as well as travel-stained and rough around the edges. He seemed, also, to wear his beard as if unaccustomed to it. "You've travelled a long way, then?"

"Ah, seems as if I've been traveling all my life," the stranger murmured evasively, bending to his drink.

"Indeed?" Tristram replied with a mild air meant to conceal the full depths of his interest. "Then perhaps you have a tale or two worth telling?"

"Aye, perhaps I might," the other said into his Dragon Fang, and nothing more.

Tristram could tell it was going to take more than a shared good taste in alcohol to get the man talking of his travels.