Jace
The Blue Pony looked exactly as it had the last time I sat in it.
Same low ceiling, same sticky tables, same smell of old ale and tallow, woodsmoke and the sourness of a room that had absorbed too many conversations over too many years. The fire was going despite the summer season, and the handful of afternoon drinkers spread through the taproom had the look of men who were here because they had nowhere better to be. Half of them were rogues, and half of them were just ordinary ne’er-do-well wolves drowning their sorrows. I had been one of those men more times than I could count.
A few barmaids wandered around, knowing full well it was too early to catch a paying customer for the night.
Still, they eyed me with interest as I moved through the tavern.
I took the table in the back
