The Golden Beek Tavern was incredibly busy this fine midday. The usual riff-raff and gossipers were present, but there were also out-of-towners and ambassadors from far flung countries who were in dire need of a drink. One table held a group of mercenaries, and Amahle swore that she caught the faces of some familiar brigands gathered at the corner table. The energy of one group fed into another, thus creating a seamless cycle of loud laughter and general excitement. So long as the mood stayed high and the ale kept flowing, Amahle was more than happy to sit among the bustling crowd.
An arm was thrown around her shoulders, and the man next to her filled her tankard with a laugh and a hard pat on the back. Another of her drunken tablemates looked at her with a discerning eye before shaking his head.
“Can’t quit peekin’ at ya, lad. You’re pretty enough to be a missus.”
Someone belched in a fashion that was both impressive and repulsive before saying, “Lass or no, you’ve no chance in hell, Sancha!”
The one named “Sancha” started to speak, looked at Amahle again, and then nodded with deep bobs. “Aye, all right. Fair!” He pointed at Amahle’s tankard. “More drink for you, then?”
Amahle raised the mug, feeling its weight in her rough hands. “I think it’s full enough.”
“Uh?” Sancha leaned towards the tankard until he was close enough to put his nose in the liquid. He stared into the dark brown pool before turning his head one way and then sharply another. “AH!” He shouted victoriously as if discovering a fabled prize. He then stared up at Amahle. “Right you are then!” He slapped the table with a throaty laugh before returning to his conversation with his compatriots. As strange as the behaviour was, Amahle couldn’t deny that it was a little charming.



