Old Bertha had been around a long time, a bit like a version of Methuselah – probably been there for hundreds of years without notice. Hardened, ornery, and best described as cranky, she made her way around the vendors and market bent over, shuffling, and bitchy, scowling at anyone and everyone in her path. For a variety of reasons. Loud colors on their shirts. Someone’s general appearance. Existence.
And by swinging her head towards Wessex and Alexander, she sneered. There were a few mutters and growls uttered under her breath, but nothing coherent, tangible, or audible – simply turning, twisting around, not even remotely subtle, once she caught sight of them.
And by swinging her head towards Wessex and Alexander, she sneered. There were a few mutters and growls uttered under her breath, but nothing coherent, tangible, or audible – simply turning, twisting around, not even remotely subtle, once she caught sight of them.
