Water, eh, John thought, giving Jacques' third patron a sideways glance. His cloak was of middling quality, but a fine shade of blue. The sword at his hip caught John's attention. He didn't quite recognize the work as that of any local smith. It was, however, good steel, no rust or pitting on the metal. The sheath was well-cared for as well, lightly oiled leather on top of what was likely a hardwood base.

He grabbed the bottle from the bar where Jacques had placed them. Full of amber liquid, it felt dense.

Well it's my job to lighten it, he thought, putting his teeth on the cork. It popped free, and the half-giant began to pour. He was glad for the return to normalcy, however brief. Jacques kept his establishment in perfect working order. There might have been soot stains and nails to forge by the hundreds outside, but here, there was just another night at the Bounding Tankard. He absently wondered if that funny sign out front still hung above the door, with its little bouncing mug of beer. He smelled the food coming out before he saw the bowls. His stomach gave a growl of appreciation. He hadn't noticed just how hungry he was until the smells of Dheathian spices tickled his nose almost as much as the whiskey did.


"Thanks," John heard from the boy to his left. There was a certain sincerity about him that John found endearing, despite the dubious nature of his study. He wondered what the boy's motivations could be. Some part of his mind always wondered if he came around the tavern so often because his parents had died. Then again, he could just be that innocent with respect to necromancy. John didn't dwell on it, choosing instead to focus on eating some of the delicious-smelling stew.