Swords Against the Shadowland

Cherig topped off the Mouser's mug as he set it down. "Well, now you and me are men of the world, are we not? And we've taken the measure of such boasts before."

A short cough sounded somewhere in the tavern. The Mouser momentarily forgot Cherig, and his gaze roamed around until he spied a trio casting dice at another table. A mustachioed bravo, dice clutched in a frozen fist, seemed in some distress. He gave a second, sharper cough as he lifted his mug with his free hand and took a quick, deep drink. Then, his discomfort apparently eased, he returned to his gaming.

Cherig resumed his serving duties, and the Mouser, his spirit sinking even lower, tilted his stool on its rear legs to lean his back against the wall. Raising his vessel to his lips, he drained half its contents.

The tavern door opened. Fingers of white mist curled around the edges, preceding a small girl-child with tangled yellow-gold hair and a haggard, dirty face. On her hip, she carried a shallow basket. Shyly, she approached the table nearest the door. "Would you like to buy one of my poppets for your sweetheart?" she asked in a weary, high voice as she reached into the basket and held up a doll made of braided and woven straw in a handmade scrap of a dress.

Deep in his cups, the lone figure who sat at the table growled and waved her away without looking up. Wisely, the child backed off and turned to make her pitch at another table.

Again, the door opened. Though the hour was well before midnight, the Mouser recognized the corporal from the Marsh Gate. The fog rose like smoke off the shoulders of the man's red cloak as he closed the door and looked around the tavern.

Raising his mug, the Mouser cried, "Ho, Captain! Can this be the hour of our appointment, already?"

The corporal strode through the crowd, unlacing his cloak as he came. Tossing the garment carelessly across one end of the Mouser's table, he then removed his helmet and set that down, too. "I was afraid if I waited until midnight," he said, seating himself unceremoniously across from his host, "that you'd have spent my bribe on ale and women by eleven."

The Mouser, suddenly glad for company, grinned. "I, sir?" he said, feigning offense. "Have I not dealt with you honestly?"

"Aye, sir," the corporal answered smartly. "And though you obviously have coin now when you had none before, I shall not ask with whom you have dealt dishonestly."

Laughing, the Mouser slapped the table. "I like you well, Captain. Tell me your name, and I shall buy you a drink." He beckoned to Cherig on the other side of the tavern.

"Nuulpha is my name," the corporal said. Then he paused as Cherig set a mug of beer before him. Lifting the beverage, he drained it to the last drop and ran his tongue around the rim before he placed it back on the table. "Nuulpha, the long-suffering," he continued. "But, gods willing, a few more of these, and I'll be suffering a little less."

"Your head may suffer the more," the Mouser responded as he motioned for Cherig to refill both their mugs. "Our host brews a devilish strong potion."

Cherig shrugged as he poured. "Consider the devils who make up my clientele," he grumbled in a voice dripping with good-humored sarcasm. "I get few such honest gentlemen as yourselves."

Nuulpha raised an eyebrow, smirking as the Silver Eel's owner departed. Then, he lifted his mug in salute. "If I may?" he asked, and when the Mouser politely nodded, he continued with gracious formality. "To my host. Though diminutive in stature, his generosity is larger than his guest's fat and spendthrift wife— and that is no small compliment."

With a low chuckle, the Mouser raised his own mug and added, "Let's hope it’s as large as your capacity for this fine beer."

Putting his elbows on the table, the corporal leaned forward and rubbed one hand over his grizzled chin. A weary look passed over his face, then faded. "Speaking of things large, where is your red-bearded companion?"

An exaggerated sigh slipped from the Mouser's lips as he lowered his beverage. "Sleeping like a babe, but with nothing more than a pillow on which to suckle." He leaned forward as well, laying his hands on either side of his beer, and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I would ask you a question, Captain."

A grin turned up the corners of Nuulpha's mouth. "So the brew has a price, after all," he said, lifting his drink. He swallowed noisily and smacked his lips with satisfaction as he set the mug down again.

"Not so," the Mouser assured. "Your company averts a dark mood that earlier besieged me, and no matter your answer, I'll pay for the privilege of drinking you under the table."

Nuulpha casually glanced around the tavern before speaking again. "You must have robbed a rich man, indeed," he said.

Preparing to drink, the Mouser spoke nonchalantly over the rim of his mug. "Three members of the Thieves' Guild," he answered.