“Don’t be fooled by those stories,” Devon chirped. “They’re just stories, after all. Believe in what you see, and what you can taste.” He winked, and gave the woman an extra scoop of the day’s sludge. Her eyes widened as she tugged her daughters away.

“Neither of those girls are touching their food,” Guy said, leaning back to spy on them as they left.

Devon shrugged. “What of it?”

“Probably not her children. She’s using them for the extra rations, I’d wager. Beats them, too. And you gave her an extra helping.”

Devon’s reply came in the form of another smile, for another stranger. “I’d rather trust and be disappointed later, than to just assume everyone’s awful. They’re not, you know.”

“Sure they are,” Guy responded. “You just have to meet them first.”

The Temperance Line kept on.

“Ho now!” Guy barked at the sight of an impressive brute, a tall man that was clearly built for pulling a field plow. “What are you, a mason?”

“Docks,” the stranger grumbled, tilting his head back. With even a single word Guy could hear his northern accent. Most of those that came to the food line were desperate—it was rare to see someone in good health.

“Docks are full of runts and skivers. You ever think about putting those muscles to better use? The Guard could use a man like you.”

“Yeah, maybe,” the man grunted, but did not pause as he moved along. Behind him, a skinnier fellow snickered, trying to keep in the former’s shadow. He wore a loose padded arming cap, a trend that Guy loathed. It practically screamed that the wearer had no intention of ever putting a proper helmet on top of it.

“Good Sunday to ye.” Devon offered out his ladle. Guy reached out and pulled it back to the pot.

“Mind taking that cap off?” Guy asked.

“What for?” returned the skulking man.

“I said, mind taking that cap off?”

He scoffed a non-answer and held his bowl out to Devon. The cap’s ties dangled loosely down to his chest, which made them quite easy for Guy to snatch and whisk from the man’s head with almost no movement at all. The man was slow to react, first at the offense of having his cap stolen, and second to hide the puffy red scars of his left earlobe.

“Outside,” Guy demanded, thrusting the cap back into the man’s chest. “Temperance is for honest folk. Get back to the wharfs.”

“Fuck on you.” The man sent his empty bowl flying, twitching as he broke out of the line to head directly to the gates.

“Sorry,” Devon apologized once it was clear the man would make no further incident. “I didn’t know.”

Guy brushed it off. “Don’t apologize.”

“That would never have occurred to me, but it’s the first thing you noticed.”