<span style="font-style: italic">The Broken Lip</span>was by far the worst name for a tavern Pete had ever heard, so much so, it made him crack a smile. That was not true, of course, because Pete Girly always smiled, but for a brief second the side of his mouth curved a little extra and exposed a flash of white, which was uncommon. Usually his slight smile exposed his intentions and mood through it subtle variations, and to the dim-witted it just seemed eternally mocking.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">The Broken Lip.</span>Why did all taverns in the world have to be named "The Adjective Noun". Pete decided then and there that if he ever purchased an inn he would call it something different, like, only a verb; or two verbs!<span style="font-style: italic">"Sprinting Fencing"</span>that would be his inn someday. He would never buy it, and he knew that he never would, so it was with resigned pity for the boring Broken Lip that he walked through its open door and was overcome with a stench of strong ale and what he guessed was over-cooked rat-and-pigeon pie.<br/><br/>At least the patrons lived up to the name. Every table was filled with someone burly, with flat noses, black eyes or cauliflower ears. Heads turned to look at him and people shouted at him, and he noticed that quite a few had, indeed, broken lips with fresh blood on them. He had found the roughest, toughest tavern in the shadiest part of the city, through several back alleys, each darker than the other, where no city guard or local militia would ever step foot. The people were all bigger than him, even the portly matrons who served the tables looked like they could give a punch, and Pete Girly, true to his name, was far prettier than them all.<br/><br/>He was ostensibly a man, slender of built, and with less of a beard than even the prettiest barmaid, who in this tavern was not very pretty at all. Men in the tavern wore tunics, brown-stained shirts or potato sacks, while Pete was dressed in exquisite, light blue clothes with the top unbuttoned exposing a perfectly hairless chest. They would rob him, of course, or just beat him up for being so terribly out of place, and if any of them struck him they would feel smooth, delicate skin. Despite his smooth skin, and lacking even the tiny moustache that was usually expected of a swordsman, Peteâ€™s hair was magnificent, a sea of bright orange hair that curled down his neck and below his shoulders, in the same colour as the sun setting over a northern sea. They would cut that hair off him, probably, or just beat him to death for having it. Pete smiled to them all as he passed, giving them the same condescending, pitying look he had adopted when he saw the name,<span style="font-style: italic">The Broken Lip</span>. He was Pete Girly and untrue to his name he was deadlier than them all.<br/><br/>"Milk," he ordered of the man behind the counter after he was not asked what he wanted. The tavern had no milk. "Fetch me some milk, then." Pete said with a small sigh, looking the larger barman with the broken lip straight in the eyes, not defiantly, but with a bored expression. He was in the part of town where no one gave a shit about laws and Pete could kill half the tavern without the improper authorities taking notice.<br/>The barman told him to piss off, they hadn't got any milk, and the concept of fetching what people wanted seemed entirely lost on him.<br/>"I will make you a wager, then," Pete said, still in his bored tone. "When the red-haired man at the third table with serpent tattoo-"<br/>"Orsk," the barman informed.<br/>"Of course he is. When he attacks me after I enrage him by deflecting the insult he will hurl, will you fetch me a glass of milk should I manage to defeat him? Call it a wager."<br/><br/>The barman did not answer, but turned away, and Orsk was an annoyingly long time about starting the trouble they both knew he would start. His attention was diverted to someone even more out of place in the tavern than Pete Girly, as the boy Pete would later learn was called Cen entered, and the thugs of the place became stuck trying to decide which of two targets to harass.