When lords duel, their favors divide the lowly.
A wail, violin-high, goes up by Moon-high Wharf, then shouts, sounds of struggle. When guardsmen arrive, there's one man down, three on another, a woman and a crowd.
“What monkey business...?” Haldarion snarls, wrestling one Southron from golden-haired prey.
They're all three sheets winded – bottle-broke, utterly forked, the Southrons screaming: “Longneck scum!”
The battered Southron woman just rocks, keening. Ambarin grimaces. The grievance of idled hands!
“Lock holes for you,” he mutters. 'Tis but a beginning: the crowd's discontent's ugly promise of more – mayhap worse – tomorrow...
Prompt: bottle, wharf, violin, moon, monkey, fork, hole, lock, sheet