You had just finished cleaning up the horrid mess left in a booth from the last lot of customers when four more walked through the door. The bell chimed at you, mockingly cheerful as they entered, almost drowned out by their incessant chatter.
You closed your eyes and sighed. You did not need this today.
These damn tourists. Longwythe was little more than a pit stop for them. They would breeze in, stay for a spell, then breeze right out again, leaving you to clean up the leavings. What did they care? It wasn’t like they would ever see you again. There was no need for courtesy or small talk in their eyes because any first impressions they made—good or bad—would surely be forgotten. They were partially right. You saw so many pass through that you forgot individual faces, but the bad experiences always left a lasting impression and fuelled a deep-seated animosity toward any and all outsiders that happened by your tiny little corner of the world.