Mallory owned a small pub on the south side of the river, in the area where even before the Magiclysm tourists didn’t venture too often, so most of his clientele were local humanborn and those few mythborn who lived in the area. Most of the pub’s furniture bore the marks of war, charred by an incendiary curse that fell through the window or broken when some angry mythborn wanted to punish Mallory for “aiding the enemy of Eireland,” as anyone who sided with Trinitians had been called during the conflict.
People hiding inside back then, most of them regulars, snuffed the fires before they could ruin Mallory’s Ales, and as for the mythborn mob… I couldn’t resist a smile, because even as I entered the pub, some humanborn was telling the story of “Mallory’s courageous defense.”
“… And then th
