Nobody talks about us much. The troubadours sing about
Mouse-herders, but Mouse-herders buy their ale. The Children preach the virtues
of the Farmers' life, but Farmers make up most of their flock.
We purvey
protein to the most desperate. Grubs, worms, beetles, flies. Did you know the
flavor of cockroach steaks depends on the beast's fodder?
Trashlings
of every tribe have eaten in my shop. Penurious Tinkers, traveling Coggers,
absent-minded Scribes and mendicant Children of the Makers. Farmers returning
from a poor night at the market, and yes, even Mouse-herders.
Those-Who-Burn
eat here often. They say turnabout is only fair.
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