Help Opal with pastries

Havilah was helping Opal pick out which pastry she wanted to cut into three pieces to share with the local birds when the gang of knaves entered boisterously.

Blushing and embarrassed, she hid behind the counter to collect Opal’s pastry. The old woman leaned to Havilah whispering, “Knaves, those boys, known them since they were wains. You do best to keep staying away from them. Your mother was worried when they became your friends years ago, though it were the summers of youth where even the vile seem meek. Wrap mine to go lass. I’ll not stay while their rabble fills these halls, in the daylight no less, weevils.” She shunts off glaring at their table. After she passes by Tomas the Lugheaded shoots a flatulating call, erupting the table into giddy boy-ish laughter.

Hidden from view, she cleans the station, but turns when the daggers of a stare vex her. Moth like eyes with their unnerving compound properties study her. Standing only a counter space away, the smell of raspberry lingers in the air, incensing. Looking into those eyes is too difficult, she looks away asking coldly, “what do you want.”

The brooding one, silent and still save for the eyes which gaze upon her breasts with salivation. “We came here for service.” He replied monotone and firm.

She threw down three flagons and a pitcher. “Now, leave me alone.”

For the next hour they sat and drank. All ogled her, but no other attempts at her attention were made by the knaves.