Culture Clash (open to Mad Sweeney)
Guy of Gisborne was ready for a drink. It had been a very long… How long had all of this been going on? It felt as if almost every moment he had been in this strange place had been some sort of trial for him. Was he there to prove that he was more than just the Sheriff of Nottingham’s hired man? Was this a place for him to be the knight he had always meant to be? Or was this just to torture him by showing him what might have been before throwing him back under the shadow of Robin Hood and the sheriff.
He would rather have a drink than continue to think about all of that.
It did not take Guy long to find a public house not far from his cabin. He briefly wondered if it had always been there or if The City provided for him. But then he decided he didn’t care. He wanted alcohol. Wine or ale would be lovely right now. He went inside and was no longer surprised by what he saw. The different ways the residents dressed and acted rarely shocked him now. Though he did worry for the future if that was really where these people were from.
“Give me a mug of ale,” he said, taking a seat at the bar. There were others there, but it wasn’t too crowded. He hated how when a place was crowded people just assumed they could speak with him simply because they were seated beside each other. If he wanted conversation with a stranger, he would go to church.
“No, not ale.” He caught the man before he poured his drink. Sir Guy wanted something else. Something stronger. What was that potent drink he had tried on one of his campaigns? It was a battle against the Celts, on their little green island. He could not remember the name of the drink. Risky?
“Not ale,” he repeated. “I want that swill the Irish make. It tastes like Greek Fire smells, but is good for getting intoxicated. Which seems to be the constant state of those barbarians.”