Kester looked across his grim collection of steaks with a sigh and a shake of his head. How long had it been since last his pantry was this well stocked? How long had he imagined the day in which his stores would be as brimming as they were? Now that he had all this flesh; what good would it do if he could not feed his daughter- the light of his life- any of it? He threw a glance over at the puttering stew of silverside cuts and pondered... did Men even have silversides?

Before he could finish pondering the question, a rare ring of the bell sounded through the tavern- signaling that someone was coming for a rare visit. Dreading that it would be another rapist or mass-murderer, he hesitated before inevitably striding into the tavern’s front to see... a group of soldiers. His back jerked upright as the four-man-squad stepped over towards the bar. The loudest of the quartet raised his nose up high and sniffed the tavern’s atmosphere and questioned; “Well, well, Kester... smells like you’ve got something cooking in the back.”

That voice... he could never forget that damnable voice. As the soldier stepped closer, he could see that face- a face that still haunted the shell of his broken dreams. It had been there- that night, nearly a decade ago. He had stood from the table, belched in his face and set an example for his men by skipping out on the first bill- setting the precedence for what would soon become the undoing of his business.

Kester’s hearing faded- his head spun with the shock, horror and fury. They passed around jests as if his torment had been naught but bemusement to them all- as if his daughter hadn’t gone days without food because of them.

“You hearin’ me, Kessie? You don’t want us to have to ‘search’ our way into that kitchen of yours, do ya?” Kester broke from his stupor to hear the thinly veiled, humored threat and slowly nodded his understanding.

“Y-yeah... yeah, have a seat, my good men... I’ve got just the thing for you.”

Kester’s bright grin tremored as he watched them greedily consume the stew- rubbing his hands for the crescendo-to-come. By long; he would have his vengeance in full, he would-… he recognized the steps coming down the stairs from second floor. How could he not? He had listened to those steps for a decade, but only recently had they turned so heavy- so spiteful.

Maribelle stepped out onto the tavern floor to glare at her man and the loud-mouthed, jeering gluttons in turn. When she next looked at Kester, it was with disgust in her eyes- a disgust he imagined likely directed at the pathetic oaf that had let the city’s scum walk all over him for all these years while they wilted away... he would show her soon enough. She would see that it had not all been in vain. She stepped up to the bar counter and muttered:

“I see our favored patrons are back... and you’re serving them with the foodstuffs Neda’s coin is paying for.” As much as he would have loved to point out that the money was, in fact, Asrael’s; he imagined it better to be silent- at least in that regard. Instead, he muttered in turn, “What, you’re talking to me now?”

She wrinkled her nose and shook her head at him. He was almost unrecognizable to her. That hopeful man that had once clung to whatever scraps he could muster to feed them had receded back and beyond the darkness that had taken hold of him. His blue eyes- the ones that had been enough to fill their bedchamber with the warmth their lack of coin could not provide, were now cold and frightening. He scowled at her for a moment longer before looking over her shoulder to pride himself on the unsightly activities behind her. That darkness took hold of him worse than ever as he returned his gaze upon her and bared his teeth in a grin.

Again, she shook her head and demanded: “Well... now that we have food, I will take some to go feed our daughter-” She attempted to push past him, only for the tavernkeeper to grab her by the shoulder and shout: “No! Don’t go in there!” She froze and looked down at his strong hand gripping her by the shoulder and shook him loose.

“She is hungry, Kester. The smell of food is driving her mad- it's driving us both mad. Now, let me past and-” They scuffled and struggled as she attempted to get into their kitchen. She had never seen him this frantic- this frightened.

“You don’t understand! She can’t have that food- neither of you can!” He whispered hoarsely, but bit his tongue from speaking the dark confession at the forefront of his mouth. She took a step back to eye him with disgust.

“T-that food’s for guests. Look, take some gold and go buy yourselves something nice- something better than this slop. It’s on me, all right?” Her jaw fell agape for a moment- her cheeks reddened.

“For guests, Kester? It almost sounds like you find them more important than us... I shouldn’t be surprised, really. You seemed to care more about your guests than you did for us when you left us to that disgusting man!” She took a step back to slap him across his cheek with a resounding clap that bemused his guests greatly. Next, she leaned over the counter to grab the brimming bag of coin and stuff it into the pocket of her dress with a scoff and reminded him:

“We are married. It’s not on you- this is my gold, too!” She turned and stomped up the stair, where she slammed the door shut in her wake and began hustling their daughter’s clothing- readying her for a meal out in the city. Kester was left rubbing his cheek under the scrutiny of his honorable guests and forced a shallow smile.

“You aight there, Kessie? You look a bit pale.” The good Sargeant spoke from the distant table. Kester’s lips split apart in a grin as he looked down to the four, empty glasses atop the bar... no... not empty. They were simply there- awaiting an ample dilution of spirits that would mask the flavor of the deathly concoction within.

“I apologize, my good men... Please. Let me offer you a drink- on the house.”

He poured a total of five glasses and waited by the bar for his wife and daughter to stomp out the front door without as much as a wave of goodbye before he stepped out with the serving-tray. The men eagerly rubbed their palms as he stepped up to the table and set the tray down, where he hurriedly grabbed the glass closest to him and sniffed the fine spirits. One-by-one, their greedy, grubby hands grabbed the fine spirits and not-a-one offered a toast to his hospitality, his health- not even his marriage. All they did was bring it to their lips and quickly drain it down. If they had tasted the expensive cognac, like fine folk did, then perhaps they would have noted the slightly floral scent... not that it mattered. By the time the concoction had touched their tongues, the poison was already in their veins- seizing their muscles as their peripheral nerves sent chaotic signals to overload whatever centres Asrael had blathered on about. All at once, the men hunched over on the table- gripping their stomachs with groans of pain.

Kester stepped over towards the door and clicked the lock and turned the sign as the helpless men looked up at their gracious host with desperation- confused, agonized and terrified at what was happening to their bodies. Turning around, he spoke through a frightening grin: “Believe me... I hope you survive. If it’s as painful as he says it is, I hope he manages to turn all of you.” He cracked his knuckles and stomped the floor.

“We’ve got guests, you stab-proof freak!”