"What's yer pleasure," the old tavern keep asks, spitting into a mug before wiping it clean with a filthy rag. His hair is dingy, gray and grizzled, his nose red and bulbous from having a test of his "finest" swill, and most of his teeth are either blackened are missing. "Order yerself sumthin' or move 'long. I don't have th' time ta stand 'ere an' tell tales. Don't know what y'want? Ol' Merdra th' wench will be willin' ta serve y'sumthin. Be it grog, ale, mead or sumthin' ... special." His thick brows wiggling strongly in suggestion. "Now move 'long and stop crowdin' my bar."