I stand behind the worn, wooden counter of my tavern.
Lanterns’ warm glow flickers unevenly through the room.
Like a thick woolen blanket, the dull murmur of conversation envelops me.
I hear the clop of hooves over the rough streets outside rise, then fall.
Probably just another adventurer looking for trouble.
I sigh. The evening rush is about to begin.
As the crowd swells, I drop a chopped carrot into the pot bubbling over the cook fire.
It’s the same old iron pot that’s been used here for three generations.
“Soup’s up!” I shout, and the mob surges forward.
The patrons have now settled, enjoying their meals and drinks.
With a creak, the door opens; a man walks in. The cool night air kisses my face and arms.
I watch this new arrival with unease and caution.
Speaking not a word, he sits in the corner furthest from the lanterns’ light.
Squinting suspiciously from beneath a dark hood, his gaze falls upon each person.
He leaves after only a few moments pass.
I ponder this man, distant, dark, and brooding.
Why did he come, and then slip out so suddenly?
Was he looking for someone? Or perhaps he was hiding--
A sudden burst of hoarse laughter jolts me back into my tavern.
It’s not my place to ask these questions. It will only bring me trouble.
Now the evening’s end is at hand. Only a few patrons remain.
I peek beneath the countertop. Silently I count the night’s earnings.
The stack of coins is twice the usual size. T’was truly a good night.
The last patron drags his friend out of the tavern, passed out from drinking.
All that remains is the crackle of the fireplace and the stack of dirty dishes.
I will deal with them tomorrow, and not worry myself tonight.
Duncan Page