Quoted By:
He raises an eyebrow at you, presumably on account of the change of clothes, but beyond that he does not immediately respond. Only after some seconds have passed, does he stir himself. The chair or stool suffering underneath the proprietor groans in protest as he sets aside the ledger that he was consulting and shifts the whole of his girth forward. Eventually, the counter stops him, so he has to roll a bit of himself on to it, grunting with the effort as he braces himself with both arms, one resting on his elbow and the other resting on his palms. With his breathing sounding a little bit wheezier for all of this strenuous exertion, he finally cranes his neck out enough to peer over the height of the counter. Staring straight at your crotch, he takes a series of deep sniffs, then looks you right in your eyes.
“I’ve had worse.”
And without another word, he shifts back to his more comfortable reading position, the unseen chair or stool whinging away once more underneath him. At this moment, it is all you can do to not start crying in shame and frustration. It would have been galling enough if he had said it as a joke, or worse, loud enough for the other men in the room to hear – but there was no mirth, nor malice in those words. It was simply a flat declaration of fact. When you were pilfering the wedding band and the locket off of the dead Comptroller, you did not feel half as filthy as you do right now. What does he smell? Did you get something on you from the Mitigation of the Glyphed Gull? Do you just … smell, and no one has ever told you? You are about to leave, when you realize that you still need the water, and you force yourself to try again, unable to the sound of tears from your voice.
“Sir, please, I’d really like to clean up.”
He looks at you with this blank gaze, his head cocked to one side and his mouth hanging open as he breathes in and out. After a couple of moments of this, he finally deigns to give you a proper answer.
“Bertram gets the water.”
Figuring that this is not going to go anywhere, instead of grasping at straws, you decide to take an entirely different tack. Cold-Touch just requires a liquid that freezes at a temperature close to the freezing point of water.
“Then, perhaps I could have a drink? Some … ale?”
He looks at you again, same as before – until his face breaks into this impish little grin. You had not even noticed, but sitting to far side of the pile of ledgers that he was looking over was this battered looking tankard. Without a word, he picks it up and places it on the counter right in front of you, and then resumes flipping through the pages of the ledger seemingly aimlessly. You are certain that you are start crying any second now - and though you don’t consider yourself an impulsive sort, you have to physically stop yourself from throwing the damned thing at him.
