Styrmsthal Tyrbsyn neither knew nor cared what the hour was when he walked into the plank into the open berth of the Highness. He glanced around, taking in the none-too-thin crowd. There were all sorts, nothing unexpected, no one stood out. Old bald-pate codgers spitting rough words through missing teeth under bulbous noses red with drink; hard men safe for a night from the sea, flush with coin; whores full and flat, young and not-so-young, ripe and sour. Hells, one boy to the side held his ribs like they'd fall out otherwise.Â
Fresh beaten, that 'un.
He couldn't fathom where to start, so he started where they all must: the bartender.
"What'll it be?" the man asked him.
"A drink, so long as there's summut fer listenin'," he responded.
The barman grunted. "'Bout what?"
"'Bout Kink."
He served Styrm a drink.
Fresh beaten, that 'un.
He couldn't fathom where to start, so he started where they all must: the bartender.
"What'll it be?" the man asked him.
"A drink, so long as there's summut fer listenin'," he responded.
The barman grunted. "'Bout what?"
"'Bout Kink."
He served Styrm a drink.
