The Barkeep leaned forward and sighed, encumbered by a tiresome and haggard expression. His mustache, by all estimations, was spectacular by the first light of day. Waxed and curled and deep auburn, the tips extended outward and bent up to nearly touch his eyes. His cheeks were still rosy, though some might have assumed it was from drinks taken between busing, and one side of his mustache had evidently set with the sun hours ago. It gave his countenance an asymmetry that could hardly be noticed in the low ambiance of chain hung chandeliers. He ran a dirty rag across the polished counter-top and withdrew a blunt knife from his apron. Scraping the counter harshly, he excavated a puddle of wax and tossed it lazily to the floor. A divot remained and a drop of wax promptly began to refill it.
“Oye!” A farmhand pounded the bar-top with an empty tankard, burping what suds remained up and onto the recently cleaned wood. “Da fook is this about some...Laaaaady Carmine?” His words dragged on as he indicated towards the cup with a swirling index finger. The barkeep shook his head and grabbed the tankard. Filling it up with the turn of a spigot from a wooden barrel, he plopped it back down and offered an open palm. The farmhand placed a piece of metal there and smiled.
“You ain’t heard ov’her?”
“Oh I have.” The barkeep responded, sticking the coin in his apron. “Just prefer not to meddle.”
“It ain’t quite meddlin’, now is it? After all, wasn’t two days ago that this place was the peaceful Cast..." He belched. "Castellany of the proud Surmire.” The farmhand pressed his hand against his chest as if he truly believed it, though the Barkeep assumed it was simply to relieve indigestion. “Now look at it...oh a sordid affair is what it is. As grim as a grave I say.”
“Well…” The barkeep replied, turning the rag over and rubbing the wood once more. But it wasn’t something that needed cleaning. It was entirely habit. “No reason to not trust the Lord of these lands. And whatever consult he may keep.”
“Aye...that’s proper bullshite and you know it! Consult? I say Consort! This Laaaady Carmine…” He shook his head, downing a weighty bit of the lager. “Spread her legs and whispered a few words. Now every man from her to the strait is in her pocket. An’ ole farmer Castigane is for the gallows. Over what? He ain’t done nuffin to no one his entire life. Unless plowing fields is a crime now. Is it?” His eyes grew wild. “Is it? Best have me fettered then...with the lot of us!”
“Settle down.” The barkeep held out his hand. “And lower your voice. You don’t know what a Sorceress can hear or see. You put yourself in danger.”
“I put myself in fook all. They’re going to hang an innocent man tomorrow because that Witch said so.”
The Barkeep offered no reply. His silence came to the tune of catgut strings, plucked gingerly by a bard in the back of the tavern. His chittarone was of a poor fashion but it had served the night well. Happy and joyous tunes were played in an atmosphere of depressing sobriety, marked incessantly by the futile attempts of making merry to drown out the melancholy.
Such was the case for the Old Eagle Nest, the only standing tavern in the small village of Surmire. Planted indiscriminately between Elbion and Allira, it favored the Cairou along its southern border. It was a place of rolling foothills with fields painted in motley of various agricultural crops that served as their primary means of export. It was a sunny and pleasing place. But not tonight, not for the townsfolk. They had been informed by the Castellan, not half a day prior, that an execution would soon take place. And while public whippings were common for the occasional horse thief or adulterer, an execution had not taken place in these lands for nearly a decade.
It was to be a momentous event.
