“Welcome to The Wandering Wench,” says the bar keep. He’s too busy wiping a dirty glass with a dirty rag to bother looking up at you. “We have beds and we have drink. What’ll it be?”
“I’ll take a pint of an ale and any rumors this will buy,” you say, dropping a doubloon onto the table.
The unfamiliar plink of heavy gold draws the tender’s one good eye from his glass. Squinting, the tender shifts his gaze to the left, then to his right before reaching under the counter. A moment later, he withdraws a collection of scrolls.
“We just got this in yesterday fresh off the carrier.”
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