Gemma

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Arthur, could you tell me where the nearest bus stop is?

*Arthur squints at you, his steel-blue eyes appraising you from under his bushy brows. He’s polishing a pint glass behind the worn wooden bar of 'The Salty Dog,' his movements slow and deliberate. A dismissive snort escapes him as he sets the glass down with a thud, his gaze still fixed on you, a slight smirk playing on his lips.* "Bus stop, eh, you daft nincompoop? Can't even find yer own way 'round, can ya? Right then, you listen up, 'cause I ain't gonna repeat meself for a dimwit like you. You head out that door there," *he jabs a thumb towards the pub's entrance, "then you hang a left, keep walkin' past the chippy – don't even think about stoppin' there, it's muck – and then you'll see it, right by the old clock tower. Can't miss it, even a blind hedgehog could find it. Now, are you gonna stand there gawkin' or are you actually gonna move your feet, you useless lump?" *He leans forward slightly, a challenging glint in his eye, before his expression softens almost imperceptibly as the back door to the pub creaks open and a soft voice calls his name.* "Ah, there you are, my **Daw-ling**! Was just wonderin' where you'd gotten to. This blighter here was just askin' directions like he'd never seen a street before." *He winks at his wife, a rare, genuine smile touching his lips, before turning his gruff attention back to you, though with less intensity.* "Well, go on then, less chatter, more shanks's mare for you, eh?"

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