12 Summer 515AV
The Rearing Stallion, and its surroundings.
Morgan had been in the Fortress City for almost two weeks, and he'd spent at least a portion of every day at the Rearing Stallion.
He was there now, in the late afternoon. He was tucked back into one of the corners, at the fringes of the crowd that would inevitably gather. He smiled at the thought of it, stopped short of licking his lips. He turned his eyes to the table, the loose tobacco which sat on the thick, dark leaf.
He rolled the tobacco up as if it were second nature. His missing finger did not impede the process. It was something he'd learned to live with many years ago. He brought the rolled leaf to his lips and dabbed at the loose edge with his tongue, sealing it. He leaned back in his chair and admired it for a moment, holding it up to the dim light.
Just like thieving, it was all in the fingers.
He stuck it between his lips, and pushed himself away from the table. He looked around as he stood, noting the few patrons finishing their dinner. He could hear the clatter of plates, the thunk of flagons against the wooden tables. In the far end of the room, by the fire, a group of musicians stood making adjustments. A dancer stood opposite them, refusing food and drink until after her performance.
The patrons now were the everyman. They were hard workers, scraping by in an unfair world.
He wasn't interested in them.
He knew though, that soon enough the tavern would fill. Merchants would arrive, seeking ale and meat, companionship. Like clockwork they would come. All he had to do was wait. When the sun sank low enough in the sky, and the oppressive heat from the day turned into yet another heavy night, they would be there.
He made his way slowly across the room to the hearth. Despite the heat, coals burned in the belly of the fireplace. He bent down, removing the cigar from his lips, and pressed the tip of it to one of the coals. He could feel the hair on the back of his hand crisping off in the broiling heat, could feel the flash burn rising on his fingers. When the tip began to smoke furiously, he removed it from the coal and replaced it between his teeth.
As he made his way back to the corner table, he tapped a barmaid on the shoulder, asking her to bring him a mug of dark beer. He pressed coins into her hand, and gave her a quick smile as she turned away.
He wouldn't drink the beer. Not for a long time anyways. Perhaps by the end of the night he'd quaff it, depending on his fortunes. For now though, he only wanted to maintain appearances. No sense being tossed on his arse over a few silver.
He returned to his table, followed shortly by his drink. He nodded at the barmaid and picked the mug up, putting it to his lips and not letting a drop past. He replaced the mug on the table and sat, smoking. He watched as much as he could, trying to take in and understand all of his surroundings.
"Everything has a meaning, you just have to make it out," he said, aimlessly gesturing at the empty seat across from himself and chuckling.
He watched as the tavern slowly filled. It was a trickle at first. Older men, in groups, dressed in good linens arrived. They chatted boisterously, shook hands, blustered as old men are wont to do. They ate dinner, smiled at the barmaids, and spoke business.
With them came guards. They weren't obvious. They weren't blokes in full suits of armor. They stood at the periphery, near the tables of the old merchants. Some sat and conversed amongst themselves. On every hip was a blade, concealed sometimes by a cloak or a convenient forearm. They were hard men, and professional.
Morgan ignored them. There was no sense pickpocketing old merchants. They had survived this long for a reason, and he had no interest in being gutted in the alley by a hired sword. He raised his glass to one of the guards. The man gave him an icy stare in return, followed by a slight begrudging nod.
The energy in the tavern seemed to double with the arrival of the older men. The musicians began to pluck out tunes and the dancer began her long night of work. He brought the cup again to his lips, laying the cigar on the edge of the table. His eyes scanned the growing crowd as he feigned a drink. The beer had already begun to warm, something he noted with slight distaste.
"It's too hot here," he mumbled. Already the noise in the tavern made his voice meaningless. He replaced the mug on the table and returned the cigar to his lips, tapping ash onto the table as he did so. He ran a hand through his hair and propped a foot up in the empty seat next to him. Smoke drifted from his nostrils, his eyes flitting restlessly.
The fingers of his free hand drummed on the table.
The crowd increased. Younger men were coming in now. These were the enterprising young traders, the apprentices and the journeymen. He smiled. They came in groups that was true, but they were prone to drink far too much. They were the ones who sought company in the alley behind the tavern, dropping their pants and their guard for a chance to plant their seed. They were young, and believed themselves invincible, it was plain by the daggers and short swords they wore on their belts.
"That's called being aware of your situation," he chuckled to himself around the cigar. The cherry glowed beneath the thick ash as he inhaled.
He watched the young men at their tables, trying his best to note what drinks they ordered, whose hands played across the shoulders and arses of the barmaids. He preferred wine drinkers. Wine was expensive and strong, a good combination. Those who ordered it would drink it down to the last drop.
He just had to wait.
The noise in the tavern increased as the sun sank beneath the horizon outside of the Citadel. It was deafening, between the musicians and the drunks clapping along and roaring with laughter. The mild clatter of cutlery from earlier was gone, replaced by a clamor of clanking taverns and shouting fools. The older men were long gone, and with them their eagle eyed guards.
Just the young men remained, intent on drinking and loving late into the night. They yelled back and forth across tables, swilling their tankards of ale and their mugs of beer. They spilled and stumbled, attempted to dance jigs with the music. Women filtered through the crowd, barmaids and others. A few approached Morgan, sitting in his corner with his untouched drink and his dwindling cigar.
He turned them away without a word, not that it would have been heard. As much as he loved the company of a buxom lass, he was otherwise occupied. Though as the last turned away from him he felt a pang in his chest, and perhaps one in his loins, reminding him that he was after all just a man.
He chewed on his bottom lip and smoked furiously.
