[Saurreg]

The morning sun was already shining down into the alley when Loudewater awoke. He got up, yawned and massaged his neck gingerly; the farmer had fallen asleep in an awkward position and his entire body ached. Stretching and rubbing his eyes as he reentered the main street, Loudewater turned towards the direction that would bring him home, walked a few steps, suddenly stopped and then turned about and headed back for the Prancing Pony.

Andas Loudewater was hungry. He was also quite comfortably calm. He was happy.

The farmer stepped onto the tavern’s porch, pushed open the creaky door and headed straight towards the bar, ignoring anything and anyone in the peripheral. He took a seat on one of the high stools just a few feet away from where he was seated the night before. But Loudewater was non-fazed, he wasn’t contemplating the events of the previous evening. He wasn’t even thinking about Lenny or his best mate Prand. The only thing on his mind was breakfast.

Andas Loudewater was hungry. And he was also happy. And that’s that.

Butterbur Jr. was at the far end of the bar but of the serving girls approached, shrank back alittle when confronted by the horrendous stench and stains on the farmer’s day old clothes but quickly regained her professional composure. The bubbly lass bade Loudewater a good morning (which, our farmer reciprocated courteously) and asked if he would like to break his fast (which again, Loudewater amicably agreed to).

Breakfast was a steaming bowl of congealed porridge served with a half-boiled egg and a steaming mug of tea which Loudewater quickly asked for to be substituted for a tankard of mead. Breaking the shell of the egg, the hungry farmer poured its contents into the bowl, stirred and wolfed down the meal greedily. He scalded his lips and tongue a little and amused the serving girl who tried to suppress her giggles. Loudewater’s senses were highly acute that morning, he heard the serving girl and responded most uncharacteristically – he busted into an infectious fit of hysterical laughter himself.

The high-pitched laughter of a young teenaged woman and the guffaws of a middle-aged men drew heads to the bar. In normal circumstances, the normal Andas Loudewater would have shied away in embarrassment and scrambled for a place to hide. But on this day, Loudewater’s stomach was contented and he was feeling strangely fine. He couldn’t be bothered.

As the last of the laughter died down, the girl returned to her chores behind the bar (she was wiping tumblers) and Loudewater resumed to his meal. He took a long swig of mead and savored the sweet sour taste of fermented honey and distilled well water and signed appreciatively. It wasn’t particularly good mead, but on this particular morning Loudwater was in a mysteriously good mood and the beverage tasted divine.

“Tell me sweet lass,”

“Yes, Mister?”

“Do you think I’m fat?” asked Loudewater as he felt himself about the stomach and waist. His groping hands detected the presence of a slight paunch typical of a middle-aged man of his physique, a bulge that he had noticed and disregarded countless times. But on this day he eyed it evilly with much disgust.

The young girl was too surprised by the nature of the question and did not answer. Instead she continued to busy herself with her chores (still tumblers). But Loudewater did not expect a definitive answer from her anyway.

“It would seem that I should loose some weight. Don’t you think?”

No bite on the bait.

“Partake in those… those exercises that young strapping boys are nowadays so involved in. Get fit huh?”

No knock on the door.

Loudewater shrugged nonchalantly and made a funny face at the serving girl. It was meant to amuse, but it terrified her. Getting up onto the floorboards, the farmer slapped a gold guinea on the counter as tips for the service rendered and sauntered towards the door. Peripherals not important.

“Tell ole’ Butterbur to put it on my tab. Andas Loudewater,” he touted loudly as he reached forward and turned the handle of the door.

As Loudewater took one step out of the Prancing Pony with his left foot, he paused in mid step, turned around and faced the serving girl again,

“You know what? I think I would like some change. Some adventure or something. I think… I think I’ll go camping,”

The farmer stepped outside, closed the door and surveyed the bustling main street that was choked to the sides with traffic. The sun was blazing mightily. He took the cope off, swung it around his back and went off whistling. He did not even notice that Fen Sheperdspurse had passed by him and slithered back into the inn.

Loudewater was happy.