The floorboards creaked, the ceiling leaked, and there wasn't a gods-damned drop of warmth to be had in the little ramshackle tavern that had been more or less built into the cliffs. Carving through solid stone for a refuge in which to house this edifice, however, didn't seem to have made a lick of difference: the whole of the interior was damp, moss grew in the dark recesses and in the shadows around every corner, and most of the wooden structure was rotting away, as were the tables, the stools, even the bar. Whatever the architect's designs, Byregot had abandoned him to Halone's judgment, and She had found him wanting.
Suppose he ought t'have thought things through first, 'fore buildin' on the edge o' the Oakwood. Ought t'have known better.
There came the chink and jangle of glass on glass as a dark figure clad in the leathers and felt of the latest Lominsan fashion worked his way slowly down the counter, lifting, unstoppering, and replacing ancient bottles of aged liquor one a time to sniff at their contents. He methodically worked his way from left to right, top to bottom. Each successive glass was met with a frown or a grimace; occasionally, the man would scoff, as if offended by the apparent lack of a vintage that met with his approval. Â
"Shite... there ain't a bloody thing worth drinkin' here."
At last, though, he rose, prize in hand: one dusty bottle of Admiral's Ale. Satisfied, he reverently deposited the liquor on the bar before diving beneath the counter; he emerged again, a pair of tumblers in hand. He contemptuously lifted a bottle of whiskey that he had rejected earlier in the evening, doused a rag of a cloth with it, and wiped the tumblers clean. There came a creak behind him, from towards the entrance, but he paid it no mind. His work done, he hopped onto the bar, rested his feet against a pair of stools, and poured the two glasses full. His own tumbler, he raised to the batwing doors in mock salute, shite-eating grin on his face as he greeted the newcomer.
"Lazarov."
Suppose he ought t'have thought things through first, 'fore buildin' on the edge o' the Oakwood. Ought t'have known better.
There came the chink and jangle of glass on glass as a dark figure clad in the leathers and felt of the latest Lominsan fashion worked his way slowly down the counter, lifting, unstoppering, and replacing ancient bottles of aged liquor one a time to sniff at their contents. He methodically worked his way from left to right, top to bottom. Each successive glass was met with a frown or a grimace; occasionally, the man would scoff, as if offended by the apparent lack of a vintage that met with his approval. Â
"Shite... there ain't a bloody thing worth drinkin' here."
At last, though, he rose, prize in hand: one dusty bottle of Admiral's Ale. Satisfied, he reverently deposited the liquor on the bar before diving beneath the counter; he emerged again, a pair of tumblers in hand. He contemptuously lifted a bottle of whiskey that he had rejected earlier in the evening, doused a rag of a cloth with it, and wiped the tumblers clean. There came a creak behind him, from towards the entrance, but he paid it no mind. His work done, he hopped onto the bar, rested his feet against a pair of stools, and poured the two glasses full. His own tumbler, he raised to the batwing doors in mock salute, shite-eating grin on his face as he greeted the newcomer.
"Lazarov."
![[Image: 1qVSsTp.png]](http://i.imgur.com/1qVSsTp.png)
