"So I don't know exactly what started it," Barliaman Butterbur said to Shirriff Hayward. "It was just a peaceful night, and then the next thing I know, a woman launched a tankard of ale at Gwin's head."
The city watchmen were dragging people out of the Pony, stumbling around shattered crockery and overturned tables.
"It was the redhead," Lethrel said, rubbing his skinned knuckles. "The one in the pink dress. I walked in just as she did it. Goes by Rhusty. I was...um...talking to her last time I was here."
"Tell me you didn't hit her," Gwintheldh muttered against the bloody towel he was pressing against his split and swollen lip.
"Of course I didn't hit her. But I grabbed her before she was able to follow it up with a bowl of stew, and a couple of other drunks decided to jump me on her behalf. What did you do, Gwin?"
Gwintheledh's eyebrows shot upwards on his forehead. "I didn't do anything! They started heckling and it just escalated. I think she thought I was someone else."
"Can't you fix that?" Lethrel gestured to his brother's bruised and lacerated face. "You're bleeding all over your shirt."
Gwintheldh pointed at the broken fiddle bow and the damaged headstock of his lute and sighed.
Barliaman pulled a couple of green flasks from under the bar and handed one to each of them. "Boys, I'm sorry this happened to you in my place. Hob, Heathstraw, I'm sorry you and your men had to come out here during supper. Please have a round on me."
Shirriff Hayward looked around. Stew and ale dripped from the walls. A few combatants were sprawled on the stone floor, groaning among broken dishware and wrecked benches. The barber that usually set up shop in the corner had fled. He nodded. "This is one for the history books, Barley."
Barliaman scowled unhappily, shaking his head. "Yep."
"Barley," Hayward went on. "Remind me again why I left the Shire for this shite."
-By Gina
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