ye olde parser

…’twas a cold and stormy night.

On a gust of wind the oak door of Ye Olde Parser Inn slams open.

Framed in the doorway is a dark cloaked stranger. The conversation dies down. The stranger walks in, shuts the door, shaking the wet off his cloak, his boots leaving a trail of muddy footprints to the bar. A wide-brimmed felt hat obscures his face, his cloak covers most of his rangy frame, but between the folds of his cloak pokes the worn leather wrapped hilt of a sword. And it looks like it’s been used.

The portly, ruddy-cheeked innkeeper, absently wiping the bar with a rag, looks at the stranger from the corner of his eye. “What’ll ye have, stranger?”

“Get drink.”

Glancing at the sword, the innkeeper says. “well, uh, as you say. What will ye be drinking?”

“Beer.”

The innkeeper busies himself with a mug and ale cask, and the stranger leans against the bar, rough, weathered hands folded. Two merchants standing next to him edge slightly away with nervous looks. But as time passes the bright cheer of talk picks back up, and the innkeeper even manages a smile as he places the mug on the bar in front of the stranger. “There, my friend, that’ll be two coppers. Will ye have anything more?”

The stranger looks the innkeeper up and down. “Give 2 copper innkeeper. Buy bread. Buy bread. Buy bread.”

…to be continued…

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