by Hans-Jörg Knabel

Choked, is what they all should be!
Murdra squeezed through the crowd with her flagons of mead, accompanied by raucous laughter. No drinks, but standin’ in the way - and I ’ave to dance! She heaved the flagons over Elgan’s head and thumped them down on the table so hard that mead slopped onto the dark oak. Elgan reclined in his chair, took a long draft of his pipe and grinned at Murdra revealing his rotting teeth. »You’re in quite a foul mood today, ‘ey Murdra?« he said with pipesmoke wafting from his mouth and nostrils.
»More o’ that and ye won’t see another drop,« Murdra retorted angrily, »and ye can smoke that pipe o’ yours out in the rain.« She spat on the rushes strewn on the floor of the common room and stomped off, back towards her kitchen. Elgan shouted something after her, but his voice was lost in the din of the crowded tavern. Behind Murdra’s back, her patrons erupted with laughter. Thrown out, is what they all should be!, Murdra grumbled to herself – then she felt the hand on her skirt.
The nerve! Murdra turned around with fire in her eyes. Feren, the young merchant from Stewark who visited the Cleaved Maiden every other week, smiled at her. »Sit with me, Murdra«, he said, indicating an empty chair at his table.
»Ye wish!« Murdra shot back and turned to walk away, but Feren’s hand closed around her bare forearm. He had a soft hand, with delicate fingers and nails unsoiled by dirt. Murdra felt the fine hairs on the back of her arm rise.
»Come now,« Feren said, his hand still on her arm.
Well, he’s handsome enough,thought Murdra and looked at his hand. And he’s got rings.
»Jus’ a little«, she decided and sat down at Feren’s table.
»My uncle is back on the island«, Feren told Murdra, stroking the back of her hand with his fingertips. His gold rings twinkled seductively in the candlelight. »Arrived yesterday by ship from Vengard«
»Huh«, Murdra replied and tried to imagine what his rings would look like on her fingers.
»The orcs are beaten, he says. And he has come with many tales of a nameless hero and Xardas the mage. «
»Wardas«, Murdra cut in. Feren stopped and blinked at her, bemused. »Wardas is what the mage is called«, Murdra said derisively. »Everyone knows that!«
»My uncle says…«
Murdra shook her head. Pretty, but quite thick, she resolved and pulled her hand away. Rings can’t help that. Believes every word the uncle says and dun even know what the mage is called.
»Anyhow, my uncle tells me that Xardas…«
»I don’t wanna hear it«, Murdra said resolutely and got up from her chair. »The uncle dun know the mage’s name. What tales could he bring, if he don’t know that?«

Feren was about to reply, but she turned her back on him and, fuming, looked about the common room. Seeing her, her patrons began to clamor for mead. »Yeah, yeah«, Murdra growled, »I’ll get to ye soon enough!« Then she stomped off to her kitchen.
Belgor was standing by the chopping block, wielding a cleaver in his calloused hand. He greeted Murdra with a murderous look in his eye. No rings on this one, Murdra thought angrily.
“What?” she asked, and glared right back.
„Been sittin‘ with a man again?“
Murdra swirled some spit around in her mouth, but didn’t spew yet. Shouldn’a have married him, she decided. What’s the point o’ a tavern if the husband dun even have rings?
Belgor was waiting for an answer. Murdra could feel his anger, his jealousy. But there was a faint glimmer in his eyes, betraying his hope that she hadn’t been sitting with another man.
„None o‘ yer business!“ she snapped, spitting near the hearth. The glimmer of hope in Belgor’s eyes died. He slammed his cleaver through the pork loin on the chopping block and took off through the back door, grabbing his pipe on the way. New clamors for mead came from the taproom. Smokin’s all he’s good for, Murdra thought. And I’m the one doin’ all the work! “Beliar take him!” she snorted. Grabbing the flagons of mead waiting on the counter, she trudged back into the common room, where she was greeted by raucous laughter.

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