"Kren": Part Five (Of Sausages and Such)

 

As he sat quietly sipping his ale, the talk in the room began to slowly return and grow merry again. Kren did not really blame their caution. The first time he had ever come to drink at the inn he was quite unused to it, and it had taken five burly patrons to pacify him at last. He still carried a chipped fang in his jaw as a souvenir of the experience. Incidences in a little village where nothing exciting ever happened made long memories to be endlessly chewed like cud and never really spat out. Kren sucked the tooth as he finished his jug, then unobtrusively stood up and went back to the bar.

“Another,” he said quietly. “And what do you have to eat?”

“Got a trayful of sausages in a buttered split loaf, ready to go,” the bartender said, turning the tap. “Been standing for a while. If you want to wait another half-hour, there’s hot squab on the spit.”

“The sausages will be fine. Two, please.”

“Right ye are.”

Pappy reached under the bar one-handed and with a clatter of plates drew out the order just as the jug reached the brim. He stopped the tap and handed everything over to Kren, who retreated to his corner. He noted as he set it down that it was ‘his’ plate, easily recognizable by its constellation of chips and cracks. He shrugged and settled down to eat.

The level of talk in the inn never changed while he did so, and indeed was beginning to get a little high as evening drew on and much ale was consumed. He was almost done with the second sausage and had paused between bites when his keen ears picked up the word “Morg” out of the babbling conversation.

Kren froze. Slowly moving his head so as not to draw attention, he started to triangulate where the annoyingly familiar voice was coming from and wound up facing a table to his left. Three people were sitting there: the burly Eekim, built like a barrel with a pumpkin on top of it; his jackal Liffy, cackling and flipping a flop of brown hair carelessly out of his eyes; and Foxglove, a girl who made her living cadging drinks at the Guesthouse and going home with a different patron every night.  

It was Eekim’s voice that had caught his ear. It was lowered now as he leaned into his little circle, eyes gleaming as he seemed to be making some sort of furtive, wickedly humorous suggestion. Liffy reared back guffawing and Foxglove’s voice rose in an amused shriek.

“No, not for any money!” she crowed merrily, shocked. “Unthinkable! What man would have me after? And then there’d go me living!”

The crowd nearby burst out laughing with them, and glances were shot Kren’s direction.  He pretended not to notice, but his ears were burning.  He could feel the Stain on his face glowing with anger and was surprised it could not be seen shining out of the shadows where he sat. He looked down at the shriveled nub-end of sausage and soggy, buttery bread in his claw, then devoured it viciously, savage thoughts in his head. He followed it with several long gulping draughts of ale that did nothing to cool him.

He sat there, paw convulsively gripping the handle of the heavy jug, wondering if today would be the day that broke his control, when suddenly the inn door swung open and life in Far Reach was changed forever.