Chapter 8: The Deep End of the Bottle

“The Deep End of the Bottle” looked like the very model of a fine establishment or at the very least, what Miro thought the very model of a fine establishment ought to look like, never having seen a fine establishment before in his life. Either way, it had a quaint drawing of a little boat braving the waves inside an oversized jug on its sign, nets draped over its windows and, most importantly, the smell of something heavenly wafting from within.

Miro didn’t need to be well-travelled to know that he stood out like a sore thumb in a place like this. The patrons, of whom there were almost two dozen, more than he would have expected for a settlement of this size, were lean and thickly muscled, likely coming for the night off the boats anchored outside. On account of his farm work, Miro didn’t exactly consider himself particularly doughy either, but it was clear that any of these people would hardly break a sweat dragging him in a net from fifty feet below the waves onto the deck of a ship.

The welcome news was that none of them paid him much attention. The ones at the tables were too engrossed in their conversation. One fellow was throwing his arms out as wide as he could, likely boasting of the one that got away or a catch from his glory days that conveniently neither of his tablemates were witness to. And the ones at the counter looked like they had chosen it for a reason, which wasn’t lively conversation.

Miro picked an empty table away from the general chatter, thinking that this way he might attract less attention. He’d hardly had a chance to enjoy the feeling of stretching out his aching legs under the table, when a serious looking woman about Bondook’s age arrived at his side, one hand on her hip, the other leaning on his table. She had thick inquiring eyebrows, thin pale lips and a curl to her auburn hair, which was tied back, and when she appraised the look of Miro, her expression softened a bit.

“What, dare I even ask, will it be today?”

“Oh, ah, umm,” Miro sputtered, “I’ll have whatever that, uh, delicious smell is.”

“Fish soup it is.”

“Fish,” he muttered. That made sense. There were hardly any in the puny tributary that flowed through their village, so he wasn’t all that familiar with the smell.

“You need room for the night?” she asked, her words drawn out a little longer than he was used to and he wondered if it was just her or the local accent. The room she was offering sounded like the greatest thing in the world but even through his one point of Intellect, he knew this would be a terrible idea.

Regardless, he hesitated in his response. “I think I’ll be alright.”

“Have to keep moving, do you?” She took a look around the room and then turned back to Miro. “These fisherfolk won’t trouble you. Unless you’ve got scales and big dumb eyes, they won’t give you a second glance.”

The doors to the Deep End of the Bottle swung open and a laughing group of seven young people, four men and three women, walked into the tavern.

“Speaking of big and dumb,” the proprietress murmured and walked back behind the counter, shouting something at the kitchen.

The group of newcomers looked around the establishment in search of empty tables and Miro could see that among the yellow life bars that were simply labeled “Village Hooligans” two stood out – labeling their owners as “Mages”.

“Well, well, well, look how many soggy asses the tide dragged in today,” said a young man with short messy hair, blonde stubble and a nose that had been broken at least twice; one of the two mages in the group.

“You here to scare off my customers again, Bagsil?” the woman behind the counter asked, both hands thrust accusingly into her hips.

“Oh don’t you worry, Renith.” The blonde mage named Bagsil pulled up a chair, and the rest of his group positioned themselves as close as they could to him. “Won’t be a big loss anyway. I can drink any one of these under the table.”

None of the fishers looked in his direction. None of them gave any indication that they even heard him, except for one man, who had a salt and pepper beard that was of a thickness that the mage with the broken nose could have only dreamed of. “He’s hardly more irritating than a common lake gnat. And it’s going to take more than a swarm of those to keep me away from your soup, Renith,” the fisher with the beard said.

“You spoiling for a fight old man?” a woman sitting beside Bagsil called and tensed across the table; in her eyes, the very same sentiment she accused the fisher of.

The fisher grunted a suppressed chuckle, while the blonde mage put a hand on the arm of his companion. “Easy there, Kerik. I don’t think it’s a good idea to tangle with them, anyway. Wouldn’t want to come away reeking of fish.”

The fisher shook his head and rolled his eyes at the person sitting across from him.

Renith delivered a hot bowl to Miro and the smell hit him so hard he just wanted to drop his face into the fish soup and drown in it.

“Eat quickly,” she whispered in his ear, throwing a quick glance at the table of newcomers.

Miro didn’t need to be told twice. Where he grew up also had a group of the same kind of individuals, and he’d learned over the years that the best way to deal with them was staying the hell out of their way. Unfortunately, in his current situation, the pull of the fish soup was too strong. So he shoveled in spoonful after spoonful trying to ignore the cramps that came from stuffing a stomach that had been empty for too long, and hoped that he wouldn’t do anything to attract attention before he was done. He failed, of course; must’ve slurped too loudly, because he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as he heard Bagsil’s voice, “Hey, you over there.”

Despite his best efforts, Miro looked behind his shoulder and found the man approaching with a relaxed gait, and the kind of smirk on his face that the weird kid who lived by the mill had when he’d pull legs off insects, the one who got his head kicked in by a donkey which generally made everyone sad but Miro secretly knew he probably deserved.