Closed [the malt house] a copper for you drinks (verin rush)

[Patrigan]

52 of summer, 514 a.v.
halfway through the twelfth bell

Patrigan stood in front of the Malt House, a curious amalgamation of apprehension and a burning intent to come out with well-earned knowledge tucked into the drawers inside his mind. He was never one to volunteer a conversation with a stranger. It wasn’t that he wasn’t interested, because he was. But you never knew what a stranger was thinking, and Patrigan found this both relieving — because then nobody could know what he was thinking, if he was good — and highly suspect.

With a quick breath and a heave, he pushed open the front door and walked inside. The people closest to the door turned to watch him enter before turning back to whatever it was they were doing, and Patrigan was glad for it; unwarranted attention raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

When he entered, he had scoured the room for anything out of the ordinary, for something or someone to jump out at him, anything that would suggest something not normal. But the men in rustic trousers adjusted the hats on their heads and women smoothed down their skirts and there was even a pair of children to the far side of the tavern, their laughter pealing like bells. He didn’t know what he had been hoping for — blue skin, wings sprouting from backs, curled talons that gleamed black like the night?

He exhaled, and realized he’d been holding his breath. With slumped shoulders, he slid onto a stool in front of a counter. But he wasn’t finished yet.

“Hello,” he said in greeting to the bartender. His voice was husky; he cleared his throat, and spoke louder the second time. “One mug of ale. Please,” he added, perfunctory.

OOCDoes this timestamp work for you?

[Verin Rush]

It was the monotony of his work, Verin thought to himself as he swung his hand in wide motions as he cleaned, that sometimes made Verin hate the job that he had suffered for so many years. He had met many people - travellers, merchants, the wealthy, the poor. The Malt House was lucky that it attracted all manner of patrons and punters to its doors. Some, he would only meet once, some would return again and again until Verin no longer had to ask what they might want; he could tell just by looking at the arrival's face how bad his day had been, and how strong the drink would need to be to combat that.

Some faces he would remember... a scar, or a fascinating tale, or an exciting new drink that had been suggested. Others, Verin had forgotten before they had even left the tavern. But no matter what the story of the person, or the boots they walked in, there was something very similar about all he served. And that was that he was serving them.

There was a limit to the ways he could pull a pint, or write down an order of food, or pour out a dram of whisky. There was a limit to the amount of times he wanted to talk about the whores that offered men their bodies, or the women at home nursing the children. It was rare that Verin could engage in a conversation that had his excitement piqued now, as all he could think about, all he desired, was to serve his God. He kept telling himself that his time would come, that he would soon be worthy of donning the black robes that marked the elite, the closest to Rhysol. But that day had not come, and he was left serving people who, for the most part, were not worthy of the beautiful protection that the Defiler offered.

A man cleared his throat in an attempt to get the blond bartender's attention, but Verin didn't look up; he had almost finished cleaning the surface, and wanted to see his work done. A few, smaller strokes of his hand, where he forced as much of his weight into his arm in order to clear the rest of the sticky alcohol off of the bar. Turning, he dropped the cloth into a bucket on the ground and finally glanced up to smile at the customer. It was a regular, a man who went busy the name of Bennett, and was Verin's favourite punter... or least favourite, depending on their moods.

“Can I entice you to try one of our whiskies at last, Bennett?” Verin half asked, half demanded of the punter, even going as far as to feign his frustration that the man had yet to try any by placing his hands on his hips. The old man chuckled genially but shook his head, "In my sixty-three years I have never been convinced to abandon my beloved ale, dear boy. You will not convince me now."

Shaking his head in disappointment, Verin reached down to collect a large pint flagon from one of the lower shelves. “Maybe in the morrow, then.” the man's laughter grew, and he repeated the bartender's words with the same mock serious tone. Looking down, Verin placed the flagon under the nozzle and pulled down on the lever, which released the ale in a controlled burst. “I don't think you have the sophistication to drink whisky anyway, Bennett,” he continued as he pulled down again on the lever to allow more alcohol to flow into the drinking vessel.

He handed it over as another man entered the tavern, “I'll add it to your tab, shall I? Though that thing is growing so big that you could have bought your own brewery by now...” Verin left his regular guffawing as he turned to the new arrival with a more controlled, polite smile. At the request, he nodded and reached down to pull out a smaller vessel, which he quickly filled with the golden nectar. “Maybe I might be able to convince you to try the delightfully fiery spirit created by Ravok's own distillery?”

[Patrigan]

Patrigan blinked. He hadn’t been to many bars (perhaps, maybe, twice?) because he’d come to the conclusion that tavern regulars were the worst sort of people, because of what snippets he’d stolen from his mother and Old Man Patch’s conversations, and when he did, he always asked for a mug of ale because it was all he thought to order.

Whisky? Spirit? With the expression on his face, his mother would have laughed until her ribs snapped. He tried to maintain a sophisticated expression — the bartender just said whiskey was for sophisticated people — but he thought a silent string of curses when he felt the familiar rise of heat colour his cheeks.

I’m already eighteen, he thought fiercely. I should be able to order a petching drink at a stupid tavern with some notion of dignity.

A chime passed as, unbeknownst to the bartender, he wrestled with himself. And then he realized the bartender was still waiting for an answer.

“Why not?” he said, swallowing his doubt. “I’ll try it.” He sounded like a total greenhorn trying to convince himself, which he was. After drumming his fingers on the counter with some thought, he added, “Must be strong,” and then went on to simmer and despise himself, because what was the stupid thing he’d said? He knew he'd said something dumb but he didn't know what. He was at the bartender’s mercy, and a man oughtn’t be confused in his most natural habitat.

He decided he was never going to walk into a tavern again, after this.