The Red Worm's Way

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Morlock was sober when the coin winked at him, but that wasn't his fault. Towns were scattered thinly through the masterless lands east of the Narrow Sea, and he'd been walking and sleeping in the open air for weeks since he'd had his last drink. The town he finally arrived at looked promising. All the shops were shut down; all the people were in the streets wearing wreaths; the whole town seemed to be gearing up for a party. If you can't get a drink in a place like that, Morlock reasoned keenly with himself, why the hell not?

It was what he was still asking himself more than an hour after hitting town. If there were any taverns in the place they were locked up, the same as the rest of the shops. He ended up wandering after a crowd singing various slightly discordant songs; he followed them out to a large field at the edge of the town which seemed to serve as a sort of fairground. Here Morlock hoped he would find some agreeable person with a cask, selling or giving away strong drink of some type — wine, or beer, or hard cider at least.

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