[center][u][b]Jymson Fought the Law, and the Law [MISSING][/b][/u][/center]
[center][i]The Boot Buckle[/i][/center]

Jymson saw her coming; a tall woman, with an almost warrior-like attire. It was not uncommon to see one of the ladyfolk fronting that kind of dress, but it always made the old barkeep smile inwardly when he did. [i]All leather ‘n trousers, not like the gud ‘ol days, eh Jym?[/i]. 

She seemed sheepish, somehow, and subdued. She spoke in a tone that Jymson’s aging ears struggled to register, but it was of no worry, he was skilled in the arts of dealing with the timid folk. There was a distinct difference in the movement of the lips when one was saying the words ‘beer’ and ‘food’. 

“Aye lass, we got food. Mutton, chicken, bread – some beer blasted onions, too. Might be able to getcha some fish’n ‘tatoes, n’all, if that suits the ladyship?” He asked, merrily. Though he spoke to women as if he were dealing with men, he always did what he could to hide his gutter-speech. 

The oaken doors to the Tavern opened, and Jymson got an early warning from Tedmin, who had turned from a waiting customer to flash a concerned glance. Seems like the soldiers were back for more; it was always a throw of the dice as to whether or not they’d come back, and it looked like the oaf had thrown badly this time. The fingers of his right hand absent mindedly traced the thick scar that ran across his ruined eye. His diminished sight was a personal reminder of the Empire’s might.

“Sorry lass,” Jymson said with a smile to the waiting woman, “looks like I’ve got me some fine company to keep- but dun’worry, my whoreson friend here’ll take ya order.” He pointed to Tedmin, who was only too glad to find an excuse to escape the coming confrontation. 

[i]Lord Valfunde Perar, it’s bin a while, aint it now?[/i] Jymson thought to himself. The Lord stuck out like a sore thumb in the midst of The Boot Buckle; his men ever more so. Patrons stopped their chatter, and their ale, to observe the newest drama of the day. A Lord, and his men, and a barkeep guilty of assault on His Majesty’s soldiers. What could possibly be more entertaining?

The Lord walked towards the bar. Jymson took in the man’s presence; he was strong built, most likely not unfamiliar with soldiering, and had an air of authority about him. Jymson knew the Lord, though was unsure whether the Lord knew him. It was hard to be of nobility, and not be known to an innkeeper. Not with all the senseless talk of scandals that blew around an ale hall like a hurricane of self-wrought destruction.

Lord Valfunde stated his purpose, and Jymson inwardly recoiled. This was no snott-nosed child, used to beating his servants around extravagant hallways – no – this man was an image of true power. Even his unkempt hair and beard, a general negative for a noble’s appearance, aided in making him appear a Warrior King of old. 

[b]"I hope for you that your reason's just, sir, this is not a light charge. You may have nearly killed this legionnaire, messir. Not a good idea."[/b]

Jymson said nothing, just held the man’s gaze with his one working eye.

[b]"A round of beer for my men and I, meanwhile, if it shall please thee."[/b]

Jymson did not speak, but he did reach below the bar for a half dozen tankards. As he filled them, one by one, with the keg of [i]Legion Ale[/i] jutting out of the wall beside him, he never broke eye contact with the Lord. He hated highborn, indeed, he blamed them for a great deal of things. He had seen many walk through his doors, seeking ruin for the wrongs they had sustained at the hands of their betters. As Jymson finished filling the last of the tankards, he cleared his throat. 

“Tha’ man whose head I broke? Aye, milord, he was trying to poke himself into someone who didn’t want ‘im poking himself into,” said Jymson, keeping his tone as neutral as possible, with a side of extra gravel. “I asked ‘im nicely, ‘n things mighta been fine if he didn’t make me a sex fiend ‘nfront of my customers with that c**t tongue of ‘is.” 

Jymson cleared his throat a second time, trying to appear modest and subdued, when really he was full of fire. 

“Tha’ girl is me barmaid, ya see, milord. She’s only sixteen, just this autumn past, ‘n he had his hands workin’ towards her… innocence. One thing I don’t allow under my roof is the robbin’ of innocence,” he finished. His hand lowered to his waist; obscured by the rise of the bar, it gripped the handle of Peace Keeper. 

[i]Aye Jymson, nice knowin’ ya lad.[/i]