Storygasm

Jaydren wandered into the inn, leaves falling in clumps from his boots. He had wandered for a long time before stumbling on the Shiny Badger.

“Hey! A pitcher of whatever swill you serve here! And what’s to eat?”

The bartender, a large man with that scowl endemic to tenders of bar the world over, pointed to the fireplace. “Stew roasting. Half a silver for a bowl of that and the pitcher. Up front.” He cracked his knuckles for emphasis.

“Geez, aren’t we a cranky old man today?  Or maybe that’s every day,” he said, taking another long look at the man.  Jaydren dropped three copper coins on the table, exactly half of the amount requested. “Here you are, sir. I’ll give you what I’ll actually end up paying and skip the trivialities of haggling and all that nonsense.”

“I said-“

“I heard what you said, old man,” Jaydren cut him off.  “And I told you what I’m paying you.”  He paused.  “The stew?”

A hand grasped Jaydren’s shoulder firmly.  Not hard enough to damage, but well enough to show the owner meant business.  The hand pulled and Jaydren turned with it.  He found himself staring dreadfully close into the face of the ugliest man he had ever seen.  What hair still clung to his head hung like limp rags in a rain storm around a particularly large boil on the side of his face.

“Half a silver,” the man said shortly, hairs in his nostrils stirring with his ending grunt.  If there was any doubt about his being the inn’s bruiser, the knives scattered about his person ended it.  Despite his ugliness, a man not to be trifled with.

“Half a silver’s a tad steep for a bit of stew and some ale, don’t you think?” Jaydren said quietly.

“Half a silver.”

“Verbose fellow, aren’t you?  Everyone here is simply charming, let me tell you.”  The hand tightened on Jaydren’s shoulder.  He decided enough was enough.  He pulled his coat aside at the neck so his necklace was clearly visible.  The bruiser’s eyes slowly drifted down to it and widened.

The ugly man backed away a few steps and glanced at the bartender, who wanted to know what the fuss was about.  “Give ‘im the stew, Bill.”

The bartender’s, Bill’s, face took on the appearance of a ripe thundercloud.  “And why in hell should I do that?”

“Death Walker.”