What Master Rababull had done was
to make all fear him, and justly so. It was no doubt a telling reason
as to why the man was still alive after so many hundreds of years in
such a deceitful and vicious world.
Anyway, why question what was obviously the will of the gods? Even most
fools knew better than to do that.
He rummaged around some more in the bag.
"Ah!"
He pulled out a soft leather pouch as large as his gnarled hand, and
measured some powder out into his palm. He looked up at the boy,
seeming to estimate his diminutive size and stature visually, and then
poured out a good deal more, peering down and studying the exactness of
the amount with a frown as he openly took the time to gage it's weight
against that of the young boy.
"A little wine is needful," he said, raising his hoary, bewhiskered old
head and looking around vaguely at no one in particular.
At the sight of the Physician waiting patiently with the powder already
measured out into his sweaty palm and ready to be administered, Habrunt
turned to one of his boys and clapped his hands sharply with a terse
nod.
"Do not keep the great Physician waiting!" he admonished sternly. "Get
white wine if you can, or red if you must."
"Aye, Master Habrunt!"
The boy raced off at a dead run, presently to return staggering under
the weight of one of the flasks meant for the party-goers.
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