...pushed Brahm toward the shelter of the local tavern he was weary from travel and had people to meet and monsters to slay. A meal and a drink (not necessarily in that order) would help take the edge off.

The plaquard above the door said "The Wandering Woman", but that did not deter Brahm's quest for refreshment. He pushed through the oaken door, past the drunken gambeling rufians and found a smaller round table near the bar but away from the crowd.

Brahm lit the candle on the table with a snap of his fingers and dropped the heavy canvas bag from his shoulder. He fished around in the inner pocket of his leather overcoat and produced two small green gems laying them as payment on the table. As if by magic, rare roast beef and heady stout beer appeared accompanied by either the owner, or a servent of the owner.

The green gems vanished into her pouch.

He had nothing to do now but wait for the person or persons who had sent for him to approach and identify themselves. He guzzeled a pint and poured more from the copper pitcher while he sliced bloody beef with a teakwood blade. As he ate, Brahm's ancient eyes peered past his snow white beard toward the beauty of humanity that was in great assortment before him.

His eyes fell upon a true beauty, that of a black cat that seemed quite content to weave herself in a serpantine patern around a young woman's legs. Brahm looked past the tables of peaceful women toward the gamblers. They were brusque and crude with the exception of one pale skinned fellow who drank wine and lost hand after hand to lesser skilled players.

Brahm kept his eye on the pale man and thumbed back the hammer on his Colby .45 break-top. He had checked the custom amunition before entering the tavern. Seven rounds of silver jacketed iron-wood tipped catridges stood between him an the undead.

Brahm stopped drinking.