In among the loud and overlapping conversations in the tavern, one in particular quiets to what passes for hushed tones in a noisy room.
“I tell ya...there’s somethin’ else goin’ on... They found ol’ Flynn on one o’ them burn piles,” says one patron, shifting his eyes around to make sure no one else is paying attention.
“Ach, poor lad,” says another, shaking his head. “This plague’s a bad way t’ go...an’ ‘is family’s gonna have a rough time of it, if they survive.”
“Yeah, yeah...of course,” says the first. “But that’s jus’ th’ thing...Jus’ yesterday Flynn was hale, healthy and strong as an ox. On my soul, it weren’t th’ Plague that got ‘im...”