an epic saga

paint me like one of your french girls, cock

~meanwhile~

The tavern was old, and traditional. It was dark, lit only here and there by oil lamps that produced a heady, bitter scent when burnt, and cast only small orbs of hazy light in the smoky atmosphere. The lack of windows and doors made it stuffy, and the air in there had probably been in more people than Rasputin.

Despite the good reputation of the town, every light creates dark, and this tavern was crepuscular. The murky corners were usually filled by shady characters making a living through shadier practises; regular brawls broke out, both inside in between the tables and outside on the cobbled street; nowhere else in the town had a population density this high of Nickelback fans.

It had white-washed walls stained with an array of fluids from surprising places, and a cold flagstone floor, worn down and made smooth by hours of careful sanding in the production center at Period Interiors.

The barkeep, an old man by the name of Bartholomew J. Prongle, wiped down the sticky wooden counter in front of him with an old, greasy rag.

- - -

   Interestingly enough, his was the less successful side of an ancient and honourable family. Many hundreds of years ago, his forefather, and his forefather's brother, worked in door-to-door sales, selling such rare and exclusive items as Ru Feng Taiils, Xclu Seeve Cuttle Airy, and a family favourite, Ye Olde Hüvur.

Until, one day, after many years of successful co-operation, his forefather's brother, Craig, decided to propose a new line of business. He would take the family name, and they would start selling his ingenious new product, wafer thin slices of potato, corn, and starch, dusted artfully with spices and flavours from across the disc (he believed the flat earth theory), shaped in an elegant curve that flowed in two directions, and they would be called Pringle & Sons.

But Bartholomew's forefather, Bartholomew VI (a curious case of time travel and fornicating had resulted in their hereditary name being passed back and forwards through time), was not happy with this idea.

"The Pringles-" He'd exclaimed, "-are an ancient and honourable family of door-to-door salesmen! And you want to take that away? Strip us of our name, and give it to some childish fantasy of yours? NEVER. I refuse."

So it was jolly good that Craig had always been the more independent of the two, as he didn't give two shining shits about what his older brother said he couldn't do. He took his name and business prospect and made his own way in the big wide world.

And so began an empire. Craig was famous across the disc (globe) for his innovative, risqué ideas, and aristocrats and bourgeoisie everywhere praised him.

Whereas Bartholomew VI was disgraced, and stripped of his name. He could only afford to buy back six of the original letters, so he had to make do, and thus was born the slightly less ancient and significantly less honourable family of Prongle. But anyway. I digress.

- - -

Bartholomew was tired, and his shift was almost over. There were ten minutes to closing time, and so far he'd been able to deter any possible time-wasters with just a surly glare from his stern eyes, a watery brown that closely resembled really, really badly made tea.

   He was in the back room when he heard the door into the tavern crash open, a strong gale screaming through in the moments before it was slammed shut. Great, he thought. Now I have to wait even longer until I can jack off.

   Muttering under his breath, old Barty shuffled, hunch-backed, into the front of the tavern. A short, slender figure stood just before the bar, a long fringe of dirty blond hair just about visible under the long peak of the hood on their floor-length cape.