[center][u][b]Familiar Faces - The Boot Buckle[/b][/u][/center]

Jymson had resumed his position behind his bar, and manned it as if it were the parapets of his very own castle. The soldiers were gone, but there was plenty of commotion outside – mostly jeers and mocking cries. His patrons looked nervously at the door, and some started whispering after peering out of the smudged windows. 

“More soldiers, Sonny, wha’ ya wanna do?” uttered Tedmin, nervous and fidgety. 

“Nowt, Ted, these soldiers ain’t worth the armour my tax buys ‘em,” replied Jymson, indifferent. 

The tavern doors bowled open with a creak of their rusted hinges. In walked a small group of soldiers, looking much the same as the ones who left moments prior, but somehow more refined. Jymson studied their faces; these were men, not boys. Their leader was a man he recognized instantly, but pretended not to notice. With Ted’s extreme disapproval, Jymson turned his back on the new arrivals and poured himself a drink. 

[b] "Gimme some wine, you bastard."[/b]

Jymson smiled to himself, and gulped away at his tankard. 

[b]"Sometimes we wish the barbarians'd hit as hard as you, then we'd be rid of that bastard Vincent a long time ago!"[/b]

The hulking tavern keeper lurched forwards, grabbing the wine racks behind the bar for support. He let out a booming laugh, that though full of warmth, sounded like ale barrels rolling around in a cellar 

[b]"You sent those recruits running faster than I've ever seen a barbarian run away from us, perhaps we need more men like you fighting on the frontlines! We'd have won the war ages ago!"[/b]

Jymson turned holding a bottle of [i]Deliar Blues[/i] and grinning like a child who’d won his first race against his peers. He was faced with Robin, a true soldier, or so Jymson had thought so, and an even truer man. Robin was not an impressive figure, but he had a charm about him, and an eerie “mess with me and wake up without a throat” kind of appeal. He’d always been kind to Jymson, often paying more than he should for the beverages he consumed. 

“There, it’s yours, on the house – I never drink the piss of high born, you little shit,” thundered Jymson. “Noxios’s bowels, you’ve gotten thinner. You want some sheep dung with that piss?”

Jymson cast a gaze over Robin’s shoulder as the tavern doors swung open again. He half expected another group of soldiers to enter – the ones he had seen off, although he was confident now that he had enough peers at his back to drive off a legion. Instead, a small fellow entered, with bound hair and a tired face. Jymson knew him as a blacksmith, but his name he couldn’t quite recall.