

Donovan didn't wake up all at once. The first thing his sluggish mind fixed on was that his face was stuck. Without opening his eyes he tried, gently at first, to lift his head. It hurt. He stopped. Knowing he would regret it he pried his eyes open one at a time, which also hurt. He saw smooth timber, stained almost black, and a stout drinking vessel heavy enough to casually bludgeon a shark to death, and battered enough to make you believe it had happened. The mug lay on its side, touching his nose. It stank, and so did the partly congealed puddle that surrounded it and his head, which he succeeded in lifting on the second attempt.

Fueled by the effect the smell had on his belly, he jerked his head free and sat up stiffly. This had the effect of making him look quite birdlike, which wasn't a stretch at the best of times, as he was a remarkably tall man with a hawkish nose and dark, piercing, predatory eyes. His coarse linen shirt and trousers clung to his skin in some areas and hung loose and tattered in others. The leather cord that would normally lace his shirt collar together was long gone, replaced by stains that were more from inbound fluids than outbound ones, but not by a large margin. His bulbous mane of tight, dark curls that normally stood up on top of his head was now grog soaked and smashed flat on one side, making it look like a shadowy half moon was rising behind him. Tess' pinched expression at this scene was impressively stoic. She had paused to watch Donovan, leaning against a stack of wooden kegs with her muscular arms folded over her broad chest. When she figured the performance was over she swept gracefully around the bar and across the tavern floor, taking a tawny rag in one hand and a small pail of soapy water in the other. "I normally charge a gold to sleep here," she announced to the mostly empty room as she approached. She seemed satisfied when his only response was to give her a sheepish look. "...IF..." she roared, deliberately banging the bucket on the table, "they don't make a MESS!" She slapped the rag into the bucket, picked up the overturned mug and began slopping soapy water over the smeared, sticky grog that had been spilled all over the table. The sheepishness held firm on Donovan's face as he unfolded his long limbs from under the table and pressed himself to his feet. Tess interrupted him before he could even begin to stammer whatever apology he was mustering. "Aye ah know," she grunted as she mopped the table, "we get more'n one of your type in here each week. Found your way through the shroud did ya?" She straightened and turned her full attention to Donovan, who was opening his mouth to answer. She held up a warning hand. "Wait! Don't spill it yet. I'll have a guess." She stepped in close. Donovan stuffed his hands in his pockets. Tess leaned one way, then the other, giving him a careful looking over. She stretched up onto her toes to look closely at his face and his wild shock of hair. When she seemed satisfied she stepped back, leaned a hip against the table and began drying her damp hands on her apron. She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "You stowed away in a barrel of pickled onions!" she blurted all at once and then paused, mid breath, peering theatrically. "No, no.... wait..." she stepped in even closer this time and a red flash of panic crossed Donovan's face as if he thought she might kiss him. To his credit, he stood his ground. Instead of puckering up, however, Tess scrunched up her nose and inhaled, sniffing noisily at Donovan's stained and bedraggled clothing. "Nope, not onions. Herrings!" she practically hissed, then smiled and wagged a matronly finger near Donovan's face. "Did you come here by way of a barrel of pickled herring?" She slapped him soundly on the back and nearly doubled over roaring laughter at herself, then turned and went back to driving wet slop across the careworn tabletop, lifting her apron to wipe a tear from her eye as she went.