"Bitches and breasts," shouted the bartender. "That's all they can offer! Scavenging pigs!"
Everyone in the inn guffawed, ordinary men who can only afford an inn that doesn't offer the luxuries of the city. Galro never changed.
Brandon smiled at the familiar scent of wood and oil and spilled ale. He felt the touch of warmth from the hearth crackling on one end like its own little ritual pyre. He continued his way to the bar, the hardwood floors creaking in each of his steps, a giddy sound to his ear. Unlike most inns, the tavern never had its share of waifs. There were at least three barmaids, wearing proper dress and apron, cleaning tables and serving food to their customers. Galro would never hire someone who couldn't even clean his tables. Lute played in the background as well, a rare sight to have ever found a bard in these parts, let alone someone who can actually tell a story.
Putting a smile on himself, Brandon nodded to the bartender and took a seat on one of the stools.
"Hmph, you look familiar," said Galro, rubbing his overgrown beard.
"I will be," said Brandon. "Do you have cider?"
"Everything you need is here, minus the whores that is."
The men behind chuckled.
"Lucky, it isn't women I'm here for. No offense, these maids of yours are wonderful creatures."
The maids giggled.
"No," Brandon continued. "I'm here to eat, and you better give me your best or else—"
"Or else what?" said Galro, a brow raised.
"Or else I'll be stealing your girls tonight."
"Hmph! Vash!" bellowed the oversized bartender.
"Aye, boss?"
"Cook the pigs! We're making a tree out of a stick," said Galro, looking at Brandon's lanky stature.
"Also!" Brandon climbed up his chair onto the table, standing on it and almost tripping down. "Order your beers, men, and ladies. This is a night of drinking!"
Everyone cheered. Hands raised, maids running and smiling, the bard playing quick, vibrant songs, mugs chinking, men laughing, beers and ales spilling. Brandon hummed along, smiling to himself as he drank his own. Sweet cider. Sweet.
Galro grunted.
"You're good," Galro said in reverie. Almost like. . ."
"Like what?"
Galro laughed. "You madlad! I almost didn't recognize you!"
"I would say you did, my old friend," Brandon said.
"Can't blame me, can you? You always have a habit of showing up when least expected to."
"A good habit, that, don't you think?" he said, raising his mug to the bartender. Galro fetched his own mug of beer.
"To a night of drinking!" Galro roared as he raised his mug and everyone cheered again, raising their own.
Chinking his mug against Brandon's, Galro gobbled his beer in one gulp, leaving him with a satisfied sigh.
"You've been long for quite a while," he said.
"Work," Brandon said. "Kept me away from this safe haven."
"Nonsense, lad. You had saved this tavern in every grand appearance you make. You are its safe haven."
"This place had saved me more than I ever came here, Gal."
"Fairtrade, as you always say?" Galro grinned at him.
Brandon grinned back. "Fairtrade it is."
They continued drinking, the music still playing, the men singing, the maids running on errands. His stomach grumbled. When was the last time he ate something worth digesting? It took him two weeks to get here, spending only a small sum of his thievery for transport and occasional food, whatever the wagon can cook for them. That minstrel sure was generous, keeping Brandon alive and all. His gut grumbled again and Galro gave him a toothed smile.
"Can't help but sing-along, huh?" the bartender said.
"You better make sure that pig is worth the wait, old man," Brandon said.
"How many times had you said that to me?"
"Just this once."
Galro grinned.
"That makes it even better," Galro said, turning towards the kitchen.
That smile tempted Brandon. He sniffed the air and indeed, he could already smell the roasted air, the marinated meat, the crunchy meat. A kind of smell he would be telling his kid about his old days. Supposing if that kid would even exist. It grumbled again.
"Is it just me or did you forget my face?" said a voice from behind. A familiar voice, someone he knew. Someone he knew very well.
"Andry?" said Brandon, turning.
"Damn right, I am."
It was the man who bumped into him before.