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.
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