erich moved up the saint denis streetside with deceptive leisure, lifting a hand from his belt to let the saloon doors swing. he was greeted with unsure, trepidatious glances, but only in moments: the patrons knew his face, and that the name bronte came with it. the man that ate looked back to his food, the men that played poker returned to their game; even the bartender had found some small errand to run. all took notice, but spared no more than a glance, save for arthur morgan, who had spared nothing at all.
‘ that is a mighty cough, herr morgan, ’ the kraut simpered. ‘ be careful not to spread your foulness to these poor patrons, won’t you ? ’
@vauntir .
