“Welcome to the Broken Sword tavern,” My‑re phonetically said to General Pol.
General Pol repeated the phrase but struggled with a slow, heavy drawl.
“Say it quicker and lose the accent,” My‑re replied in the Rirorni native language of Rathiri.
“You might as well ask me to lose my arm as well,” Pol snapped.
“Keep practicing,” My‑re said and poured herself another honey mead.
Pol muttered and paced around the bar, repeating the welcoming phrase.
My‑re breathed deeply and marveled at her work reconstructing the Khan’s Retreat into the newly remodeled Broken Sword tavern.
The pub now had a traditional curved bar at the back with three tapped kegs behind it, ready to be drunk by thirsty patrons. Shelves behind held row after row of mugs and glasses. Next to the bar and up three short steps was a small, separate area with a solid, ancient oak table and three high-back chairs, with a fourth resembling a wooden throne, which could easily seat two people facing the entrance: a reserved area where the Tower Guardian’s special guests could sit and watch the patrons from an elevated position.
Rectangular tables with warm, lit candles faced different directions with a mismatch of chairs styled from the Andorian, Delarquan, Lirith Kai, and Free Blade nations. The tavern’s walls were covered with numerous small, medium, and large shields, with empty hooks designed to hold broken weapons. Two large, round chandeliers suspended from thick chains held six large candles each. A hearth in the middle of the room had three large chickens roasting over the center, and the simmering soup of the day filled a large, black cauldron. The aroma of the cooking meat permeated the tavern and wafted out the door.
General Pol approached My‑re, clapped his hands, and said in Rathiri, “I think we are ready for our first customers.”
They both heard heavy footsteps. My‑re saw an impact tremor across the surface of her drink. The pair turned toward the entrance.
Three massive forms ducked as they entered the doorway and sniffed the air. They were Shewish Giants. The leader, older, rose fully eight feet in height. A thick, black brow loomed over undersized eyes. He folded his thick arms over a barrel chest. Two slightly smaller but equally impressive Shews moved to either side of him. Their presence made the room shrink, and their massive size made My‑re feel like a small kid in an adult world.
“I don’t think we are ready for our first customers,” My‑re mumbled to Pol in Rathiri.
General Pol straightened his outfit and walked toward the Shewish Giants.
“What you want, tiny human?” the leader glared down at the Rirorni. His two companions moved to flank Pol.
Not wanting the Rirorni to become the latest mugging victim on the Isle of the Eye, My‑re hurriedly approached.
All their eyes snapped to her, and low growls emanated from their throats.
“Welcome to the Broken Sword tavern. I’m My‑re, and this is General Pol, the owner of this fine establishment.”
The leader brushed past Pol, approached My‑re, and stood over her. He was easily twice her size; his massive hands could crush her head like a grape. His downward gaze made her feel like a child.
Swallowing hard, My‑re looked up and met his gaze. “Have you heard of our free drink promotion?”
All three ears perked up at the word ‘free.’ The old Shew’s brows lifted in interest, revealing his tiny black eyes.
“Gromp like free drinks.” The other two nodded in agreement.
“Yes, any gladiator with a broken weapon in the arena is entitled to a free drink,” My‑re explained.
“Gromp no gladiator, and no have broken weapon.”
“I apologize, but the promotion is quite specific,” My‑re replied, folding her arms.
Gromp’s displeasure rumbled in his throat. He strode out of the tavern. Still flanking General Pol, the other two watched Gromp leave, unsure what to do.
“Hey!” came a distraught voice from outside.
Gromp returned with a hatchet in his hands. He gripped its wooden handle and snapped it. Throwing it on a nearby table, he growled, “Gromp take weapon from gladiator. Gromp now gladiator. Gromp has broken weapon. Gromp want free drink. Now.”
My‑re retrieved the broken hatchet and turned toward their first patrons. Examining it, My‑re said to Pol, “Get the gentleman his free drink.”