Скачать или смотреть Ember's Brew: Chapter 3 The Watering Hole by @MindsGaming

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The traveler picked up his knife
Placed in his kettle without thinking twice
"I told you, my friend,
I got it from the best craftsman in the land.

Just down the road,
Over the hill,
Past the blueberry field,
There is a boy with a bow.

He is the best craftsman I know."
The bartender grimaced a bit,
"I'm too lazy to make the trip."
The traveler smiled and laughed,

"I'm glad to help, I'm your man.
For a little gold, I'll make the trip.
You'll have a sword in your hand—
I'll be really quick."

The bartender, not the trusting kind,
Said, "Leave me your knife,
Not to return wouldn't be nice."
The traveler grabbed his knife,

But this time, he thought twice.
"This old thing," he said,
"Without it I would be dead.
I'll take that broken sword

For protection instead."
And stuck the knife in the table’s stead.
The bartender waved to the broken sword's mess,
"A pile of rubble at best."

Then he reached into his till,
Handed the gold to the traveler who stood still.
"That should be enough,"
The bartender spat—

The traveler put the gold in his pocket,
Pieces of the sword in the kettle,
His drink, untouched, and never settled.
"A myth, a myth, it's just a broken stick."

Down the path,
Over the hill,
Past the blueberry field,
Five miles, to be exact.

There was the trader wearing his hat.
The trader looked at his traveling friend,
"It sure is nice to see you again,
That broken sword I can mend."

The traveler smiled and waved,
"These pieces of rubble?
You can have them, it's not any trouble.
Yet I do have a favor to ask.

The man at the bar
Needs a new sword at last.
This is all the gold he gave to me—
It's all yours, that's what we agreed."

The trader counted every bit,
All the way up to 56.
"This one here, usually 60, you know,
But for you, I'll let it go."

"It's not for me,"
The traveler said—
The trader handed it to him
And nodded his head.

The traveler started back,
Sword in hand, kettle in the other,
Whistling along, without any cover.
"A myth, a myth, I've got rocks and sticks."

Five miles he walked,
To be exact—
And arrived at the bar with that.
The place was still dimly lit,

His knife in the table still it sat,
His full beer at that!
He walked past the tables,
And there he was—

The bartender, dead, covered in blood.
The traveler didn’t smile or laugh,
And took his knife out of the table.
Then he sat on the stool—

Knowing exactly what he must do.
He sat for an hour or so,
Before getting up on his toes.
Then set the kettle on the stool—

He would need another tool.
Looking behind the bar,
In the stockroom,
Nothing so far—

He found what he needed out back,
A shovel and a stream of fresh water at that.
He spent all night digging that hole,
While his kettle sat on that stool, you know.

He went back into the bar,
Grabbed the body and the new sword.
He took them out back, buried them both,
Filled his flask and made a toast.

"Here's to the bartender, who gave me a beer,
When all I needed was water near!"
He took a sip of his flask,
Quenching his thirst at last.