The whole tavern had gone dead silent as the story unfolded to its end. Not even the buzzing of a fly could be heard traveling through the gloom. Here and there, only the faint clinking of a pewter utensil or the quiet slurp of a man sipping his ale barely broke the air. The locals sat as still as the green moss creeping up the damp stone wall, or the sprits of wild grass sprouting through the gaps between the floorboards.
"A blind hag trading grand prophecies for a handful of sour plums!" someone shouted from the dark. "Shame you didn't give her two, ser, or she might have foretold you'd be sitting in our muck tonight!"
The spell broke, and the whole bloody room burst into roars of laughter.
That was the first spark, shouted by some half-soaked drunkard who thought himself a genius. And once the first nail was hammered into the coffin, the rest of the tavern was quick to drive theirs home.
