[center][u][b]The Lord of The Boot Buckle[/b][/u][/center]

Jymson used the woman in red’s distraction of Robin to excuse himself from the conversation-melee. Things were getting busy, and customers were arriving in their droves. This was more than likely due to the weather; Jymson always reasoned that the best thing for a snow-pregnant sky was a stout ale and a warm bit of chicken to boot. He poured a few drinks for a few familiar faces, and then looked around as if something was amiss.

“Jess, where’re ya at lass?” called Jymson’s booming voice over the building commotion. 

Tedmin pushed his way through the throng of people that had steadily built around the bar. “Saw ‘er go out back, Sonny.” 

Jymson nodded, and left the bar unattended. He didn’t need to issue a warning about people reaching over and serving themselves; not with Peace Keeper hooked around his waist. Besides, he recognised all but a few of the faces, and the loyalty of his patrons always kept him from any serious loss. Being a one man, one girl business was tough in Deliar, especially when one was dealing in alcohol. It paid to have loyal customers, just as much as it cost to earn them. 

“Jess lass, y’right?” Jymson grumbled as he entered the kitchen. 

It was a small, dismal room of wooden panels and stone hearths from which several small fires cracked away merrily. The sweet smell of fresh bread, and the even sweet smell of cooking meats, brought a smile to the oaf’s ugly face. If it were up to him, he’d spend all of his days working the kitchen, the heat be damned, but things weren’t that simple. He was chef, brew master, bouncer, judge, jury and executioner when it came to The Boot Buckle. Not that he’d executed anyone of course – not that he knew of anyways. Head wounds were a hard one to judge, but even so, they all deserved what they were given. 

Jymson tore off a piece of bread from a roll left over from one of the tables, and stuffed it into his mouth. He wasn’t hungry, he just loved the taste of it. He loved the taste of many things, indeed. He was brought from his reverie by the sound of Jess crying away, off to the corner of the kitchen, where there were some stairs leading down to the meat cellar. 

“What’s up, princess?” Jymson asked, the gravel in his voice hastily making way for a softer, almost womanlike tone. 

Jess was a state. All tears and snot. Jymson knew why; the life of a young girl working around a bunch of drunk horny men was not a pleasant one, and if it wasn’t for her father being one of Jymson’s better patrons, he’d of turned her down on the job on that point alone. 

“Head on home lass, I got the rest of this no problem,” said Jymson, smiling. He was lying of course, he needed to be left alone in a peak period like he needed an axe in the belly. 

“If,” she sobbed messily, “if you wasn’-“

“I was ther, ‘n you know I’m always there. Ya be thinkin’ old boy Jimmy be letting his bar maids come to harm, you thinkin’ things all wrong lass. Go home, ya look tired,” replied Jymson, smiling his hideous grin. 

Jess wiped her face with her sleeves, and hugged the big oaf. He was slow returning the gesture, feeling more like a pervert than a father-figure of any kind. If someone else was there, they may have seen him blushing. Unable to take any more of the awkwardness, he broke the embrace and walked over to a wooden rack of seasoning pots. 

Reaching behind an old jar of Kingsbury spice, he pulled out a small purse and handed it to the girl. 

“Be a bit extra in there, for ya girlie, for ya troubles n’all that,” he said. “Ya gonna be alright gettin’ home?” 

Jess nodded, still sniffing. Jymson hated to admit it to himself, but one of the most annoying things he had found in life, was that pathetic and grinding noise of a kid’s stupid crying. Not that he showed the irritation however.

“Alright – oh, ‘n er Jess,” Jymson said clumsily, “wear baggier clothes; the less ‘hem vultas see, the ‘etter, know what I be sayin’ lass?” 

The girl gave an embarrassed smile, nodded her understanding, and then left through The Boot Buckle’s backdoor. That was that dealt with; now it was time for a recruitment drive – no way was old boy Jymson being smothered to death by customers all night.

Walking back into the bar room, he was relieved to see that Tedmin, with his unkempt hair and his mangy beard, had taken up the honourable role of Bar Steward, and was serving people drinks. Jymson placed his meaty paw on his friend’s shoulder, and whispered a swear-filled thanks into his ear. 

“Fuck you, ya fat fuck,” sneered Tedmin, “the moneys under the counter, where I always stuff it, kind ‘o man you think I am?”

“Tha’ worst kind, you stinking gob shite,” chuckled Jymson as he poured himself a mug of [i]Legion Ale[/i].