Maren slammed his stoneware tankard downward against the weathered tavern table with a violent crack, cheap sour ale spraying across the sticky pine planks.
"That miserable little piece of gutter filth... that arrogant, no-name, sewer-born bastard!" he snarled through gritted yellow teeth, his bloodshot eyes bulging with manic rage.
The dingy, smoke-choked tavern cleared out hours ago, leaving only three hollow-eyed regulars huddled over sour dregs in the damp shadows across the room.
Those quiet regulars were veteran tavern rats who learned years ago that making eye contact with an armed, raging mercenary was an easy way to lose teeth.
Outside, a relentless autumn downpour hammered against the grime-crusted greasepaper windows, leaking filthy grey rivulets down the rotted wooden sills.
A dying peat fire smoldered feebly in the corner stone hearth, puffing foul, acrid smoke into the damp air that stung the back of the throat.
