The band was plinking out something approximating a traditional folk reel while the customers bent over their drinks and tried to ignore them. It was a fairly typical evening, truth be told. The bartender was holding court in his deeply impenetrable accent with a small entourage of regulars. The pub dog had annexed the best sofa, and was busy snoozing and farting in front of the open fire.

Revelsond knocked his pint back and wiped the froth from his mustache with the back of his gauntlet. Then he belched for good measure and laughed. He looked round, as if hoping to catch someone disapproving. Beside him, Arno tutted under his breath, and sipped the last of his wine.

The table before them was just as much an indicator of the differences between them. Revelsond’s platter was covered in the debris of disarticulated bones, while Arno seemed to have barely picked…

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