It was a relatively slow night after a rather slow day at the Dancing Pirate, or at least it was by Hazel's standards. Not that he was complaining. Quite the contrary, the quiet was a blessing, not because he really enjoyed solitude but because it just meant he wouldn't have to hear too many complaints about the state of the meals here today. And as he stirred the watery stew in the old, bent-up metal pot filled with a measly mixture of leftover ingredients, he knew that if today had been a busy one that he would have never heard the end of it.
On the flip side, he rather preferred the busy days--when his cooking was actually good--because it meant more money for him and a lot of flirting with the customers. That was pretty good for business, too, and a lot of the people here seemed naturally drawn to him at times. After all, he didn't exactly look like he belonged in a shady place like Zantaric. Unlike most people who acted with caution and had a guarded look about them, he moved in a casual, careless sort of way as though oblivious to the sort of environment he lived and worked in. And while he wasn't built like a twig he also wasn't built like a tank, and with his wire-framed glasses and sandy brown hair, slightly curled and falling around his dark-skinned face...no, he looked more like an intellectual than a thug. Even though he wasn't an intellectual. He was simply nearsighted.
At least he had good hearing, with his pointed ears and all.
But despite all that, and despite looking like a pretty young man that a few people here and there had tried to take advantage of, he'd survived in Zantaric for quite some time perfectly unscathed. Looks were deceiving after all.
Humming softly to himself, he grabbed a wooden bowl and ladle and dished up a bowlful of the stuff, wrinkling his nose a little in distaste--sigh, this put his wonderful cooking skills to shame, but it wasn't his fault the innkeeper hadn't restocked. But then he remembered that he wasn't the one that was going to be eating it, so with a shrug, he stuck a little spoon in the bowl and carried it out of the kitchen and to the patron seated at the counter.
"Your steak, sir," Hazel announced with a grin and a flourish as he slid the bowl down to the man, broth sloshing over the sides. The man, an older, gruff fellow with half of his right ear missing and a crooked nose cursed loudly and dabbed at some of the liquid that had splashed onto his breeches.
"Goddammit, kid, watch it!" he snarled, folding his napkin in his lap before peering into the bowl...and growling. "What's this?" Lifting a spoon, he prodded at a piece of stringy beef floating among the shriveled vegetables in a broth that was thin and almost clear. The beef promptly sank, and Hazel couldn't help but wince. Er. Yeah. He wasn't sure beef was supposed to exactly behave like that. If it was even beef. He didn't actually know, he'd just grabbed the stuff that looked like meat and stuck it in the soup. After all, he wasn't eating it.
"I remember ordering stew, not water. When'dja get so lousy, Hazel?"
"Hey, hey, talk to the innkeep, not me. I can only use what's there!" Hazel replied with a chuckle, pushing his glasses up further on the bridge of his nose with a finger. "Besides, I distinctly remember telling you to order the--"
A scream cut off whatever he had been about to say and both he and the patron jerked their heads toward the sound. When that scream became a gurgle, Hazel cursed and bolted around the counter and took off toward the stairs.
By the time he'd reached the top of the stairs and found the woman laying sprawled half outside the door to her room, bloody foam on her lips and gurgling her last breaths, the innkeeper was at the foot of the stairs yelling up at him. "What's happening this time?! Fuck, this ain't good for business--"
"Get a healer!" Hazel shouted down at him, pressing his fingers to the woman's throat to check her pulse. "Now!"
The sounds of boots smacking against creaky, hardwood floor told him the man had obeyed.
And a quick glance around showed that no one was there to see the small brown spider skitter out of the woman's dress, across the floor, and into the safety of his pant-leg.
One more name checked off of his list.