Billy - Part 11

The old tavern crouched at the edge of the cliff that overlooked the ocean, a short, stocky building made of stone dulled by years of wind and rain. The waves collided with the rocks below forcefully trying to mold the rocks to their will, a battle that has been raging on for centuries. The tavern and the inn above it had been there for many years, unshakable and unyielding like the rocks they had been built upon. The wind was unrelenting as it hammered against the inn making the shutters rattle and the candles spit and splutter, but the people inside where oblivious. Those who came to the Mighty Fish did not mind the noise, or the wind, or the rain, it was the company that they sought. Frequented by only a few, the Mighty Fish was cozy and familiar. The barkeeper was a stout old man, barrel-chested with a deep, resonating voice. Beneath his bushy brows were small, beady eyes that darted nervously betraying the calm and steady movement of his hands as he cleaned the mugs that hung above the bar.

Two old friends sat at the back of room close to the fire. They were talking animatedly, swinging their mugs and spilling their ale in fits of laughter and mirth. In the midst of their laughter, the door to the tavern swung open with a crash and a small, childlike figure stormed in, fighting violently with his cloak and spitting out incomprehensible obscenities. The ale-drinkers were silenced as they watched, a person much too small to be causing such a commotion. He fumbled for a few more moments in anger and then looked up. Pointing a finger at the back of the room, he let out an angered screech and charged straight at the two men by the fire place, much too fast for anyone to stop them. He crashed into them turning over the table and their chairs, wrestling them to the ground into one giant heap of bodies and ale.