Chapter 27: The Composition is Very Complex

The door hinges let out a soft creak, and a wave of heat—a mixture of ale, tobacco, and boisterous voices—washed over him.

In the dim light, dozens of crude wooden tables and chairs were scattered about, where all manner of patrons sat or stood, laughing and talking at the top of their lungs.

Anton walked straight through the crowded hall, found an empty seat at the counter, and sat down.

The bartender was a sturdily built, middle-aged human. A faded anchor was tattooed on his forearm, and an old, centipede-like scar ran across the bridge of his nose, lending his weather-beaten face a fierce air.

He mechanically wiped the oak countertop in circles with a cloth, seemingly deaf to the surrounding din.

"What'll you have?" the bartender asked without looking up.

"An ale." Anton tossed a few Copper Coins onto the counter. "And I'd like to buy some information."

Only then did the bartender raise his eyes and look him up and down.