The grumpy barman runs them off and the gang stumbles, bleary, into the streets, the dry heat already picking up. Sweat-stained peasants saunter by and the reek of alcohol rises from the gang.
“Maybe now we can get our clothes cleaned too,” Shyan says, poking at a handful of coins cupped in her palm. “Hm,” she says, squinting at them. “Seems to be less than I thought.”
“Alcohol has that sort of inebr—” Cang begins, before a fit of hiccups interrupts him.
Eyebrows furrowed against the traitorous sun, the gang makes for Montague’s barbership.
Logan Bright — Works 