“Once upon a time, there was a poor country widow,” Phoebus Buckroe said in a somber tone.
“Oh, stop that!” Croaker Norge interrupted. “We are not in some fairy tale land, chasing dragons to save the fair maiden.”
“Well, it is a quaint village, and we are being treated to tea by an ancient, rickety woman,” the younger man said, knocking unseen dust from his top hat with an arrogant air.
“Shush, she will hear you,” Croaker said and leaned forward to look through the doorway at the old woman in the kitchen who was preparing a tray. “Just because you dress in fine clothes doesn’t make you any better than anyone else, and it definitely does not allow you to treat others as if they were second class citizens.”
“But Croaker,” Phoebus said, straightening his pristine white gloves, “they are. Even the upper class can’t compare to me. I am better looking than most of them, and I am an adventurer who has experienced the world.”
“You are an arrogant dandy,” Croaker said, trailing off as the Widow Winkley entered the room, hunched over as she carried the tray and set it on the table.
“What were you boys talking about?” she asked, her smile showing a handful of brown teeth.
“Nothing ma’am,” Croaker said, straightening his leather tool pouch and wrinkled brown tweed jacket. “Just the weather and beauty here in this place.”
“Oh, you flirt,” the old woman cackled, patting her grey hair that was pulled up in a bun, “you say the sweetest things. And you are quite the rugged dish yourself, handsome.” She poured a cup for each of them, winking at Croaker as she did. “How do you take it? Sugar, honey, milk, lemon, or perhaps you would like a spot of whiskey in it instead? Yes, I think you like it so it takes your breath away. And sugar and milk for the boy.”
Phoebus grinned at Croaker as the older man shifted in his seat. Norge ran his fingers through his greasy salt and pepper hair, and then across his stubbled chin. Accepting the tea cup, he sipped at it and glared at Phoebus. The younger man set his hat aside and removed his gloves, tucking them into his coat pocket, smoothing the silk material down as he did. Flipping his glossy black hair back, he smiled a flawless smile at their host and accepted his cup of brown joy.
“Gentlemen,” the widow began, sitting as she did, “I asked you to come because we have a monster preying on travelers and the village, a horrible beast that lives in the mountain pass, in the old deserted keep that once protected us. It devours children, and steals horses and maidens from passing wagon trains. I don’t take kindly to anyone taking what belongs to me, and if they don’t stop, then I find a way to make them stop. We need a hero to go and rid us of this fowl creature.”