Cider

Your throat is dry and you could indeed do with a drink. The Apple Filchers used to be small-fry; pickpocketing and booze-running. The Handsome Bumpkin, in his plaid shirt and leather pants, still looks as he ever did, if smugger. But something has happened. Something happened to him and his gang.

He breaks the silence before you can think to ask, talking about everything and nothing and ignoring your questions. ”Those muscles just for show?” He laughs but continues before you can give a grim answer. ”’Cause a friend o’ mine is out and she’s always looking for new blood, and I reckon’ you’d do well at bloodsports. Give it a thought, will ya? Or are you above busting some heads for a quick buck nowadays? Here’s the address, anyway.”

You can now make some money as a prizefighter

His woman returns before you can tell him what you think about the Crooked Bloodletter and her operation. The pony has not changed her lack of dress, but she does carry a tray containing two pewter mugs.

The Handsome Bumpkin pushes one into your hand and grabs the other. ”That hit the spot.” He smacks his lips and smashes his tankard against yours. Sweet and sour cider surges over the brim and he, laughing, offers his hand for his filly to clean. ”You had questions?”

You did try and ask him about the product from his press, but he did not answer until she returned and offered a taste. The drink is strong and crisp. You nod after taking another sip.

”Fruit’s the secret,” The Handsome Bumpkin says with a conspirational wink. ”Firm, ‘n’ fresh, ‘n’ juicy.” He squeezes the woman’s naked rear and his smirk widens. ”Quality, mate. Quality’s everything.”

You raise an eyebrow. The dead light of the Sundered Sun is not conducive to firm, fresh, or juicy. Nor quality for that matter. You have only tasted better once, and his cider does not taste Feyish.

”Ah...” He laughs. ”Can’t get anything by you, eh mate? We do a bit of smuggling, and we buy from some unsavoury types. The kind with sharp ears an’ good smiles, if you catch my drift. Still, good fruit, eh?”

The fruit does make for a fine drink, and your guesses could be wrong. And you, of course, cannot prove anything. So you give a polite nod.

The Handsome Bumpkin smirks and rubs his hands. ”Good fruit. Good fruit. You wouldn’t happen to know someone with an interest in good **** at reasonable prices?” His smile widens. ”We do bulk.”

You agree to at least hear him out.

”C’mon, let’s cop a squat,” he says, pointing at a couch overseeing the presses.

It is a strange piece of furniture. One half of a large, wooden barrel is filled with straw and upholstered in burlap. Polished brass hoops shine in the weak light, a hint of chic elegance grafted around the shabby staves of the lumbering lounger. The colours are garish, but the makeshift mattress makes for surprisingly comfortable seating.

”Comfy, eh?” He says and pats his lap.

His filly sets down her empty tray and joins him. Her tits sway in lazy circles, and she has opened her legs wide enough to reveal her wet sex to you. He meanwhile gropes her naked ass cheeks, pressed against his bulge. A moan escapes from her autumn-red lips, and she turns her head to kiss his lips. His hands are on her and hers on him, until they both reach his crotch and free his cock.

”Oh bugger,” he says as he enters her from behind. ”What were we talking about?”