[b]Robin Throckmorton
Inside the Boot Buckle[/b]

Laughing as his old friend did, he gave his cup back to Jymson with a meaningful gesture for more. His companions now started ordering their drinks aswell, and while Robin wiped off his mouth with his hand, after first undoing his gloves and placing them behind his belt. [b]"Me? Thinner? What blasphemy are you talking about! I even got thicker last campaign! No Barbarian's gotten a slice of me! But look at you, you fat bastard! You barely fit between the wall and bar anymore!"[/b] He responded, pretending to be indignated by the remark. Shaking his head as he thought about the idea, him getting thinner, he responded on the innkeeper's offer. 

[b]"Well actually yeah, give me some good, nice Deliari sheep dung. You've got a reputation for it, in this shitty establishment yo've gotten yourself 'ere. Probably shouldn't have named it the Booth Buckle with all the crap you find on the streets these days."[/b] He told Jymson, his voice growing more enthousiastic as he spoke. He never ceased making puns of the name of this tavern, simply because of all the possibilities for amazing puns it offered, and the rather foul language of the tavernkeeper himself. It was a joke that always returned between the two of them, just like the one about him growing thinner each time he'd return. 

It was strange howmany times that joke had been told by now. Having been in the 16th Legion for almost 26 years now, the innkeeper must have seen him literally grow up from a runaway village lad into a veteran soldier. Well, maybe he hadn't. Back as a boy he only visisted taverns when dragged along by other soldiers to prove he could drink, and drink he could! That aside, another man seemed to have tended the tavern back then, because the stout figure of Jymson didn't fit in those memories.Perhaps he had been less fat those days?

Turning around as two new persons entered the establishment, one, a young smith of sorts, judging on the apron he wore, filled with sootstains. The other person however was a fair lady in a fantastic and eye-catching red dress, and in that instant the smith was already forgotten. His eyebrows made a jump as his eyes traveled up and down the dress. Not bad, he mused to himself, before making room for the lady as she ordered a drink. Well, if he could ensure she got some more drinks than proper for a lady of her age, he might have some company tonight. He was perhaps 10 years older, judging by how she looked, but remembering how fast girls could age, he adjusted that image to 15 years at least. He might damn well be twice as old. Not that it actually mattered, but it did make him think about his age for a moment, untill that last thought melted away for her fair red hair. The barbarians up North often had red hair aswell. Not that you'd see it though, since only when you'd hit them so hard they'd lose their helmets is when you'd find the blond and red hairs they seemed to have in such unnatural amounts. He knew Jymson's bartender girl was off-limits, but anything else was fair game ofcourse. If you don't shoot you always miss!

[b]"Well, if you could tell me what you want, I'll gladly pay you that drink, for your beautiful dress!"[/b]