Bottles and ale keep them, but cookie’s their daily bread. The mooncalf brother gurns hunger; Thrasja’ll worry a hole in that pendant. Likely sell their chair and her pretty locks to violinists next.
Will she sell on wharf? he wonders. Or catch tavern-forked lads who’d seed her – spare him their monkeying… or Ranilo Hal’s attentions…?
Uneasy thoughts. Law’s letter holds all women equal after dark – if they’re for money, even Dúnedain and Northmen can meet...
Summer’s rage has passed into crystal autumnal skies; still, Ambarin, wretched, tails her home. Later twisting in his sheets, he dreams wetly of her helplessness.
Prompt: bottle, wharf, violin, moon, monkey, fork, hole, lock, sheet, pendant, crystal, cookie, letter, money, tail, chair, bread, seed