Brothers Campfire The Puking Peasant-An Ongoing Tale Chapter 41

The Puking Peasant Inn has a reputation
for unpleasant experiences and regret.
A pint of Screaming Peaches will make you
question your sanity.
There are rooms to be had for the night
for a fee.

The Puking
Peasant is the place to pursue passion,
poison, poetry and problems a plenty.
It says so on the sign.

The Sign

The Puking Peasant
The Place to Pursue
Passion,
Poison, Poetry
and Problems a’Plenty.
All Sales Are Final

I am the Bard, an artist if you will.
I have been to the Puke to perform prior
to problems and placement at the Brother’s
Camp.

Pleasant pathways provided productive pursuits of coin so I have returned.

If you keep your ears open,
you will hear the local gossip and get
insight of what is going on elsewhere.

Travelers of all kinds frequent the Puking
Peasant to and from La Longi as there is a
merchant district and places to be hired on
as a mercenary. There are traveling caravans. A notable caravan belongs to Penelope.

Precious, Putrid, Preening, Purse Policing Penelope.

I play instruments and bore you to tears
I ask you for coin,this is what the Bard hears.

-A merchant is on his way with a collection of household goods

-Several woodsmen came from near the
Northwich area and found corpses of brigands displayed prominently in an abandoned camp. They were well weathered.
-There are men here looking for an ancient
temple. They heard an alchemist nearby
has a map.
-There are mysterious lights in the far
North Country

I listen. I am dressed plainly and am not
doing anything to draw attention. I take in
the room. I know how to read a prospective
audience.
I see many faces.
I have many
faces.
The gossip provides opportunity for a man
such as myself.

I am no woodsman or warrior though wayfaring.
Wonderful waypoints unscrupulously unravel unwittingly. Understanding undertones enriches excitingly.

The pints of Screaming Peaches means
money to a performer. Those same pints can
mean assault for a Bard who is not attentive.

I pause for potential trouble. There are always
a few in the crowd that are sour. I can work
this room for coin.

I will return later to the
Puke. It is time to change faces and attire to perform.

A tall, rather skinny man with straw colored
hair, blue eyes and very tight lips blocks my
way.
“Stiletto, or silver. Your choice.”
He
motions with his eyes to a thin sheathed
knife that is in his waistband on the right
side .
I smile. I feel a rush of excitement.

“ Why thank you, a gift, for me? I will take
the stiletto, friend.

I continue to smile. It makes me fully dressed for an act.

“You do not understand, I will take your coin
or your life.” Says the straw colored hair.

“ Sir, I misunderstood. Spare me.” My eyes are big and contrite, pleading

With my right hand, I wistfully reach for my coin bag.
As I hand it to him, I pull the knife from his
waistband.
The man is shocked.

My smile remains, regains.

You offered me a gift, friend. I will offer you one.

“Would you like a poem, peace, pieces, projectile? Perhaps a part in an unplanned performance in a play?”

He never
answered me, he looked sickly,palish,
perhaps even pukey.

I walked away.
I am presumptuously perceived prior to
panic as a pilgrim. Proceed to polish my
project I must.

No one noticed my act.
It was worthy of prestige, payment, and
applaud.
I will return to the The Puking Peasant
with purpose and presence proactively.

The Bard