Vince stared impassively as a flask of ale was placed gently before him, his eyes melting like grey wax, pouring into the teabags beneath his lids in sluggish, tired ringlets. He brought the mug of warm, foamy beverage to his cracked lips, and took a long, suffocating drought. Light-headedness overtook his senses, but he welcomed it, as he had welcomed the bar when it loomed in his sight that evening, and the flask of beer, when it was set before his heavy heart on the counter top.
The waitress that had given him his drink turned to serve a group of rowdy men on the table behind him, her golden blonde bun balanced delicately atop her head by a tightly-wound strip of cloth, used as a make-shift band.
A man with a shaggy head of brown curls raised his ale into the air, his face a jumble of drunken happiness.
“Yo, boys! Whaths all tis talk of getting’ fired! Half ye lowly basturdds’ve never even hada job!” he slurred, laughing while the rest of the men knocked beer mugs in agreement. “Ya bloody slobs’re just good at drinkin’ arent ye, ya dreary souls! Well I got news for y’all, I got meself a job with a member of the high courts, and I’m still ‘ere with ye, drownin’ out ma sorrowss! Showsya how good life can possibly get, don’t it boys!”
They cheered again, with a nasally voice crying, “Tell it like it is, Clios! We don’t have ta go to work if theres no point in eet!”
Natural bar-talk, it was. The next morning they’d all pick up their hats and trudge to their separate employments, and return in the night and pretend it had never happened.
There was so much commotion in the inn, Vince could’ve hardly ingested a fraction of it, even if he had been completely sober. The place was cluttered with ill-made tables and wooden stools of varying heights and widths, and all around sat unruly men, of the hearty and boisterous kind, the withdrawn and sutble kind, and last of all, the perverse and ill-tempered kind. Vince simply dedicated himself to watching the bar-maids lug beer mugs too and fro, finding their menial tasks easier to follow than the cheery, drunk stories and tides of laughter emanting from all the rest.
A very thin bar maid with short-cropped, dark hair was pouring a cup of hot, tea-like brew for a considerably expired-looking blacksmith, the steam rising from the murky concoction like a mockery of the old man’s soul. The cup seemed nearly full to the rim when a bulky, leering man from the nearest table leaned back and pinched her in the rear.
Vince observed the scene, expecting no retaliation of any kind. The bar-maid straightened herself and appeared as if she would make no move, her face as cold as overhanging icicles in winter time, not revealing that she had felt the jab. She was only about to recollect her kettle and head back to the counter when the man leaned back once more, and pinched her again.
At this point, men from other tables began to lower their drinks and observe the scene—it was a rare sight at the Winking Kelpie, to see such lewd behavior, but alas, the vicious innkeeper was missing, and it seemed in her absence, common civility was lost.
Again, it seemed to deal the short-haired bar maid as little a damage as the buzzing of a nonsensical horse fly. The onlookers expected no retaliation from the girl beyond the empty haunt of her eyes, and the shaking of her fingers.
But they were wrong.
With the simple movement of her small hands—so simple in fact, it appeared she was only dumping the dirty water from the wash, outside the tavern’s door as she did every day—the maid scooped up the blacksmith’s steaming, murky cup, and cast the tea into the grinning man’s eyes.
There was a shrill yell, and the man shot up from his chair, swearing abominably to snap her long, thin neck with his bare palms. He pounced with extended arms, ready to strangle the life from her body in a moment of fire, when she, in placid, inexpressive chilliness, grabbed the tea kettle she had set on the table, and flung its boiling contents into his face.
