"You are free to choose,"
Cylus 1, 720
Soren bit into his chicken, eating it quietly and politely, unlike the man down the bar, his bar, rather pleased with how his cooks did on it. However, he kept finding himself staring at the man who was chewing with his mouth open. Soren would never admit it, but he was tired these days. Ever since he began being haunted by the ghost from that damn bottle of whiskey. That would teach him to open things that weren't truly his.
He bit into the roll that came with his meal. It was a bit stale, tough. He spat it out on his plate, and was now glaring daggers at the man. Seeing Soren's agitation, Harold came over, still wiping down a glass, a constant habit. The man always had to have something in his hands. It did well to complete the bartender look. "Something the matter, boss?"
Harold, of course, knew that the loud eating man was at least one of the sources of Soren's problems. Still, he would ask. "What is wrong with this bread? I thought we ordered fresh, daily. I pay extra for that." Harold grimaced. This was a more embarrassing problem. A business related problem always got deep under his boss's skin. "I believe the baker we made the deal with, Jorgun, has fallen ill. He's older. His son has taken over the shop in his stead but... he's just not got the same eye for quality as his father. Jorgun spent so much time honing his craft, that there wasn't enough time to pass it on."
Soren scowled. Shoddy business was not something he could tolerate. He moved his plate forward, and Harold knew enough to not even need to ask. He took the plate, to go dump it. Soren stood up, walked over to the man with a severe lacking of manners, and slammed a few coins down on the bar in front of him, causing the man, and a few others, to startle. "You're done. I'm paying for your meal. Leave now, never return to my tavern. Now."
The man stood up, coming a full head shorter than Soren. But he was a Melrathi pride on the line. He faced Soren, "You going to make me? Old man?" Soren smiled down at the man, "I don't take out the trash here." Then Soren slammed his head downward, crashing his forehead right into the man's nose. The man dropped like a sack of bricks, crumpled in a heap. Soren's head was already aching from the blow. Nobody ever wins in a headbutt.
Shelly was already being brought to the front room, Harold having fetched her. She was a mountain of a woman and picked up the man easily. "What he do boss?" Soren, holding the bridge of his nose, scowling beneath his fingers, "Refused to leave. I believe they call that trespassing. Take him to one of the newer guards, that redhead boy that patrols here now. I'm sure he'd like an easy one." Shelly nodded and left the tavern with the man over her shoulder.
Soren turned to Harold, "We are no longer accepting business from Jorgun, even if his health does improve. Do not serve any more of that horrible bread. Throw it all away, burn it, I don't care. I will find us a replacement." Soren raised an arm, one finger extended, turning his hand in a circle. Harold knew that to mean to give everyone a drink on the house for the disturbance. And with that, Soren left, having one destination on his mind.
And it didn't take long for his feet to carry him to Greta's, hearing the bell ring and smelling the delightful aroma of her shop as he stepped inside. His agitation was gone already, he was in business mode now, as he was most of the time. And he smiled like a wolf, shaking off all the sleep deprivation and annoyance.
"Why, hello there, Greta."
"But you are not free from the consequences."
