The tavern bristles in the quivering
candlelight. Strange people meeting here now,
large, burly, fearless in delivering
a silent promise, an unspoken vow.
The swiftest retribution, shivering
in anticipation, matter of how.
Tables mended, already slivering
to break, to bruise, to fracture in the row.
In Shamukaar, you do not start a fight
although the patrons will swiftly end it.
Troublemakers tremble at the sheer sight -
the quiet gladiators of the pit
who hold a vigil in the earnest plight
to get drunk in a place that they see fit.