Post by Marty on May 19, 2013 17:05:32 GMT
The Broken Drum
Dramatis Personae
Dramatis Personae
Sofania sighed heavily at the sound of something breaking in the kitchen. Limdia had obviously broken another pot and that was sure to put Jodral in a foul mood. Everyone seems to be in a foul mood tonight, the young serving maid mused. It did not help that the weather was foul too. Growls of thunder could be heard approaching from the distance and it had been raining incessantly for the last three hours.
"Lim you piss-poor excuse for a cook," a voice growled loudly - Jodral's gruff, dwarven voice was shriller than usual - "What have you broken now you useless girl?!!"
The owner of the voice disappeared into the kitchen to hear Limdia's mumbled, incoherent response. Sofania shook her head in sympathy. Jodral would dock more than the pot was worth in wages from her friend. The job paid badly enough as it was.
The door to the outside opened, tripping the tinny-sounding bell that was half hanging off above it, and brought her out of her reverie. A man slouched in, water dripping from his drenched cloak. The hood was pulled so far over his face she could not tell his race. She could only tell he was male from his gait. He fairly shuffled forwards as the door swung slowly shut behind him.
He moved towards the large, central fire - which had been lit most of the day but which still barely warmed the room - and stood in front of it for a moment. He awkwardly removed his cloak to reveal a rather handsome face. He was human, Sofania noted, of average height and build. Nothing really remarkable about him despite his good looks, she decided. And I'm sure he uses those looks to his advantage. Summing him up in a glance; confidence trickster, Sofania decided. She sighed again, this time in melancholy. Why were all the good-looking ones never the good-behaved ones?
She put aside the brush she had been sweeping the floor with and walked up to the newcomer. He stood in front of the fire, wringing out more rain from his cloak.
"Can I get you a drink, sir?" she asked politely. He stopped wringing the cloak and turned to look at her, squinting a little. Although he had looked quite young from a distance, she could see that he was beyond middle-aged. His prime was behind him, she realised, though he wasn't played out just yet.
He smiled, pouring as much charm as he could muster into it. "Do you have mead?" he asked in a light, musical voice.
"We have several varieties," she told him. "Golden Sunrise, Heaven's Fire, Duntham's Pure Gold, Merryman's Finest, Talisman's..."
"Such wonderful choices," the man muttered, though whether or not he was being sarcastic she could not tell. The varieties she had just mentioned may have all had fine-sounding names but they were all of a dubious quality in vintage terms. The man may or may not have know that. "I have a sweet tooth," he told her. "And I have to confess these varieties are unfamiliar to me. Which would you recommend?"
Sofania did not have to think about it. "Merryman's would be my choice for sweetness," she replied. The man nodded. "In that case, Merryman's will be fine." He smiled again.
"Would you like me to take your cloak?" she asked. "We have a room where it can be hung up to dry somewhat," she added.
The man smiled once again. It unnerved Sofania for some reason.
"If it would not be too much trouble," he said, handing her the article. Sofania took it and walked off towards the bar leaving the newcomer to take a seat at a table near the fire.
me!"
