“You sold me a phony potion, Azark.” The accusation drew me out of my drink, which I had been waiting to get to all day. My hands hesitated around the wooden mug, its surface smoothed by the hundreds of tavern patrons that had drank from it before me. I lowered the mug to the table, the amber liquid’s piney scent fading.

    I turned to the man, the rest of the tavern oblivious to the confrontation that had just ignited. I was silent as I studied his face. There were so many customers over the last several months, it was hard to keep everyone straight. I usually learned all of their names the first few days into being in the town, and mentally dumped them on the way out to make room for the next batch. After all, I can’t appeal to each potential customer’s weak spot without knowing a bit of their life story.

    Behind me, card games were happening, and someone with a bad temper was losing based on the indistinguishable mumbling that I kept hearing. A bit further off, the high pitched nature of women's voices cutting through the general murmuring din caught my attention. With them was a gurgling babe, its erratic coos and giggles a stark contrast to its mother’s worried whispered moans. The mother and her friend  were discussing a series of red welts on the baby’s hand. The mother was worried, and I had to fight a smile as her friend began to talk about me. The mother cut the friend off, insisting she hadn’t even a fraction of a coin to spend on magical remedies.