Berafinna of the Mountain Folk

Sharpe rubbed his temples; exhaustion etched deep into his face as the strange woman jabbed a limp fish toward him. Her words came in a torrent of guttural sounds, half-growling, half-song, none of which he understood. Around them, the Prancing Pony’s patrons leaned forward with wide eyes, some stifling laughter, others muttering uneasily. Sharpe wondered whether the woman was cursing him, warning him or merely trying to sell the damned fish.