A heavily loaded wagon rolled slowly through the Gut, a mountain of a man at the reigns. It slowed to a stop in front of the Bucket of Blood. Two dusty and dirty children leapt from the back, pulled back the tarp and began to run armfuls of bottles down in to the gloomy pub.
The large cloaked figure squinted up at the building from under his hood, his gaze shifting briefly to the red-painted windows of the connected house. He pulled the hood back from his head, revealing lank greasy black hair and a scraggly beard. Lighting a cigar, he cleared the back of his throat then spit on to the cobbles.
As one of the urchins returned for another armload the man said: “Make sure Miz Dizelle’s ok out in that back room. Should be under one uh the flagstones near the back.” The child nodded.
The gigantic man sighed. “Well,” said Bib. “Here we go agin.”