Pot - The Inn Keeper

Behind the bar of Solomons' Nest was a man named Pot. No-one knew his given name and after many years of thirsty men waving empty tankards and calling 'Pot' towards him he was duly named thus.
Some said the bald headed man had been a ship's captain due to the strength and thickness of his build, others believed he had been a man-at-arms for some foreign m'lud for he understood strange tongues when they were spoken (though none had ever heard him utter one word and he was considered a mute) and had a way of curbing trouble before it escalated unnecessarily.
He worked methodically along the bar his wooden clogs banging on the floorboards as he took each proffered coin and threw it unerringly into a brass spittoon situated for the purpose between two barrels beneath the bar. He never gave change and not one man considered stealing the spittoon for his reputation demanded both fear and respect following an incident many years previously.
A drunkard, a visitor not attuned to the particular etiquette of The Nest, let his manners away with him and having spoken in unnecessary foulness to one of the serving girls, caught Pot by the shoulder angrily demanding a refill out of turn. As the bar about them fell still and silent Pot turned his cold cobalt eyes upon the wretched rat and those who knew him saw his hand reach slowly for a stiletto he kept tucked in his apron. Unheeding the motion the drunk began a challenge and flicked open his own switchblade but was stopped abruptly when, with the ease of a skilled swordsman Pot's blade flashed and plucked out the the eye of the drunkard. Pot then calmly cleaning the blade on his apron tucked it back into place and moved away to serve the next customer. The rat finding no help from the patrons staggered bleeding into the street and none more was heard of him.
No-one knew Pot had lost his tongue to a Spanish captain and escaped a pirate's noose in tropical lands through the sympathy of a native girl he instantly married though she died three days later of typhoid. That he could play a flute in duet with a songbird, was born in the Ottoman empire one of 23 children each of whom were sold in turn to merchant sailors or once played a hand of cards against a pig and lost all he owned on the two of spades.
He slept on a low filthy bunk amid the barrels and heady smell of hops in a small room separated from the bar by a ragged greying signal flag of the Blue Peter - 'come aboard for we are about to set sail'.
This was what drove him on each day, beneath the sweat stained mattress was a strongbox, hammered to the boards and locked by a heavy iron key Pot kept hidden in a secret nook cut into the chimney. Here he stowed away the days takings and one day Pot would be gone back to the sea and the strongbox would be empty - but not today.

Welcome to Solomons' Nest

Solomons' Nest was no place for the unwary, dark corners held whispering conspiracy the creativity of men of ill manner and evil disposition. 
The door opened before dawn while the sun held blood in the sky and shadows of men slipped inside to confirm their residency and have a tankard filled with thick dark ale to soften the twitch of their bottleache.
It was an ungovernable place of unlawful proceedings well known to those that need avoid it and found by those who sort to make use of its unique talents. Some entered for companionship of a kind whilst others, more unhinged, rattled keys to mysterious places where secrets were locked away in dark heavy boxes. Others yet, rested dormouse like above their pots half asleep half awakening only stirring when the awful possibility of an empty jug occurred.
Hams hung above the bar like a warning, slices cut off occasionally and laid between bread when a patron required something in the stomach to hold the beer. Sometimes a swine, soon to be the provider of the bacon, poked an inquisitive snout over the stable door from its cobbled yard and was sent packing with a flurry of blistering language and a hail of scraps. 
At night The Nest was a buzz with conversation and bathed in the smoke of clay pipes. There was the constant swell of movement; those arriving to meet and scheme and those leaving in haste after some disagreement or in satisfied leisure with some dark deed agreed. Money changed hands within the soft wrap of cloth, to ensure no nearby eye may be tempted and locations of weapons, of enemies, of potential targets all plotted in the damp traces of spilt beer on the scarred wooden table tops.
No-one knew who Solomon was and no-one cared for Solomons' Nest was more alive more, dangerous than any man who ever walked through its door.