What Geoff says about L'Anguille and the Lighthouse
The ale sputtered angrily out of the tap, foaming in protest as it gathered in the dirty metal tankard. Geoff sighed as the vessel filled, not bothering to remove the substantial head that formed.
"A tuppence, m'lord." Geoff handed the tankard to the crusty, dirty vagabond sitting at the bar, with weatherbeaten pale skin, stringy black hair, and clad in coarse wool travelling garb.
The vagabond looked suspciously at the drink before him and coughed. "A tuppence? Reckon that ale be all foam, and not worth a penny!"
"Foamed ale still be ale, and the price won't change on account of your stinginess," Geoff sighed. His ale was practically cheaper than water, and still these beggars had to haggle. He had brought up the matter of these pestilential vagrants to the burgomeister, but the fat fool had simply mumbled something about adventurers and wanderers being good for tourism, and left it at that. Tourism! Geoff was certain that the particular 'adventurer' in front of him had never set foot beyond the walls of Carroburg!
Though, now that he thought about it, this particular customer did have something of a strange accent, and his clothes, under the layers of filth and grime, seemed a little out of place for his usual clientele of Reikslander and Middenlander merchants.
The dirty man grumbled. "Ehh, I'll pay your tuppence, though I'd wager it's half again as much as this Imperial swill deserves. What I wouldn't give for some Brettonian wine!"
Geoff glared. "So, you're one of those Brettonian wastrels, slumming about the inside of our glorious Empire?"
"Perhaps. I wish to spend as little time here as possible. I make for Marienburg tomorrow, then I'll catch a boat to dear old L'Anguille, where the drink is better and the service more hospitable." The man took a large gulp of ale, and grimaced.
"L'Anguille?" A touch of wonder crossed Geoff's eyes. He glanced around the room, which stood empty. Nervously, he turned back to the patron. "Is it true what they say about L'Anguille? About the Lighthouse?"
The man cackled. "Is what true? The Lighthouse is there, sure enough; 'tis a mile high, and its beacon can be seen from the shores of Albion, even through the treacherous fog there."
Geoff clenched his teeth. "I know that, you dullard. Everyone's heard about what it is." His eyes again darted uneasily around the room. "Is it true what they say about the people in it? That they're demons, bound to feed the beacon by Sigmar himself?"
The man erupted in to laughter, clenching his sides and spraying ale over Geoff. "My silly friend," the man gasped, "there are as many stories about those who inhabit the Lighthouse as there are people to tell them. I will tell you this; the sane folk of L'Anguille stay to the Ville Noveau. You, for instance."
Geoff wiped the ale and spittle from his face, his annoyance plain to see. "What do you mean, me?"
The man leaned in close, his breath smelling of ale and cheese and rot. "For outlanders like you, your best bet is to steer clear of the Lighthouse. Your church of Sigmar says it is an unholy place. You ignorant Reikslanders think that it is full of demons. The Ville Noveau is for your people," he sneered, placing two coppers on the bar and rising to leave, "The Lighthouse is for mine."
