A man looked down at his mug of half-drunk ale. He lightly drummed his gloved fingers in a rhythmic beat on the tavern's wooden table. Then, looking up from his table, the man surveyed the interior of the building for the umpteenth time before hastily lowering his gaze.
"How long will I have to remain in this shithole?" the man murmured, taking a swig of the ale. The crude liquor tasted of wet cardboard and smelled stale. "Bleh." The man spat onto the floor, trying to remove the horrendous aftertaste. Was this really the best ale Blackthorn had to offer?
