The Great Cat Caper

The air in The Drunken Ogre tasted of stale ale, desperation, and Barnaby’s questionable breath. Silas, nursing a tankard that was less than half-full of what he suspected was more water than hops, grimaced. “You’d think,” he began, his voice a low rumble that had once been capable of inspiring terror but now mostly just made the barmaid wince, “that after all these years, they’d at least have the decency to brew a decent ale.”

Barnaby, who was currently attempting to balance a piece of dried meat on his nose, snorted. “It’s not the ale, old man. It’s your palate. Gone the way of your eyesight. Probably think this swill tastes like nectar of the gods.” He promptly lost the meat, which landed with a soft thud on the grimy table between them. He eyed it for a moment, then shrugged and popped it into his mouth. “See? Still good.”

Silas sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand forgotten battles. “My eyesight is fine, Barnaby. It’s you who can’t see straight. You probably think that dried bit of shoe leather is a delicacy.”