Completed [The Spinning Coin] A Life Less Ordinary Fall 505AV

[Adlard Brightmoor]

Adlard woke from a half-arsed slumber to find himself perched on a barstool of the Spinning Coin, being lectured by one of the many banjaxed drunkards within. '...And you, my friend, should not pay any,' ran a mouth so close to his ear, hic'ing and slurring words with a great stench, 'should not pay any mind to that... whore. And do you know why?' He nudged Adlards arm and turned to order another drink from Gene Duval. Adlard closed held his eyes closed and rubbed at their corners with his thumb and forefinger. 'I'll tell you why. All they want is money, a house and a big-' 'Let him be, Crewe. The man can drown his sorrows without your insight' said Gene, pushing a tankard toward the man, who scoffed and supped grossly on his drink. Adlard hung his head, opened his eyes and peered at the various etchings on the bar. Blunt slanders and was-heres grooved into the edge of the dark beer-stained wood. Gene looked at him whilst cleaning a mug like any countless illustration of a barkeep. 'Low spirits are good for business.' 'Thanks, Gene.' 'I don't give a rats arse if you're moping or cheering, so long as you're ordering another drink. So what'll it be?' Adlard raised his hand without looking up and pointed one finger at Gene. 'Another coming up.' he said with a snarky smile Adlard hadn't the fortune of witnessing. He heard several yobs teasing a young bard somewhere off behind him, at a rougher end of the room. Burly men roaring unkindly for another song, for details on his lovelife. 'Nancyboy, give us another song.' 'I've got more hair on my fist than you have on your chin.' Adlard shrugged his coat further onto his shoulders and let his unkempt hair cover his eyes before raising his beer to drink. It was murky and dark, strong and foul-tasting. He had nudged a gold coin across to the bartender to keep the flow steady. The bartender looked through Adlard without pity and pocketed the gold. 'Why don't you put some money on the games, Ad.' 'Go have some fun, Ad.' said the drunk. 'Ye'd have to be thicker'n hell to gamble with a wallet like yours I reckon. But I was never so smart anyways.' he said, swallowing his drink with long, displeased gulps. Adlard turned and watched the old man's head sway from side to side with a dumb grin. 'Ain't never occurred to you to leave this place, Crewe?' 'Old Man Crewe? He ain't never had any thoughts outside this room, Ad.' sounded another inhabitant of the bar. 'Naw, I got a tab to pay and all.' said Crewe, scratching his head. 'And the way I figures it, there ain't much a world out there that wants me now.' 'What was your trade, if you ever had one?' spoke Adlard, eventually. 'Well, I used t' work the docks when I was a young'n and had my brother with me. He weren't much a worker he sure talked. Which lost him a job 'ventually. I worked hard. Damn good loader I was.' He took a big mouthful of drink and smiled. 'Used to own a shop too, I did. Me and him did. Then ol' drink got me, heheh.' The man laughed to himself and slammed his fist on the table for a reason which wasn't apparent to Adlard. 'Where's your brother now, old man?' 'Oh he done shot himself in the head not a few years back now. We weren't talkin' much anyways.' 'Do you miss him?' Adlard asked, but the man had trailed off in some thought and was eyeing the young bard behind them. 'Y'all leave that boy alone, huh.' said the old man. One man laughed and Gene sighed to himself, because he knew that there were people in this world who would batter an old man without blinking an eye. 'He ain't done nuthin' wrong, just leave him be. Even if he is a nancy, which I ain't sayin' he is. Are ye? Ain't no shame if ye is. Ain't no shame.' The fellows laughed heartily, drawn back in the shadows of the room, miscreant postures with shaded faces. Some burly, some thin and jagged with knives weaving between their fingers. One played a game, stabbing at the table around his hand. Another called out: 'Are you trying t' git yerself bled out, old man?' and Adlard could feel them staring at the back of his head. 'Don't be daft, boy.' said Crewe. He wore a stupid drunkard's smile on his face. 'You think you're Bertie Big Balls, doncha? Going on a bender, gettin' y'self a pretty knife. I'll tell you you ain't. Daft fools... Daft fools...' he said, with a somewhat unguided sense of anger and justice. Adlard continued drinking but more uneasily than before. 'Daft fools. I seen ye, I seen ye gamblin' and cursin' and you ain't no good. If you were back in my day, I'd see ye hung before this district turned like this...' he continued, though the men didn't seem to be listening. They simply stared at him, some mouths agape in dumb attention, some redfaced and brushing their knuckles, holding their knives. A man with large arms and a shiny bald head under the squalid light stood up and dropped his cards to the table. 'You is some kinda stupid, old man... 'You is some kinda stupid as hell.' 'Alright, McCalley, why don't you get back to your drink right about now, hm?' said Gene, thumbing the tankard toward him. The old drunk turned to Gene. 'Gene, these kids-' 'Get back to your drink, Crewe...' he replied, and then there was a silence. Adlard could hear the penny drop. Suddenly, Gene reached over Crewe's shoulder and grabbed a thug by the collar and slammed him face against the bar. Adlard jumped back startled and nearly fell off his stool. A clatter sounded as a knife flung from the hand of the assailant as he tumbled down to the floor, rattled by the blow. The bartender said something but Adlard didn't hear what. He felt like he had been flung into combat and suddenly he was. Some piece of cardtable miscellany flung at him and over the bar. Adlard ducked down to the floor, holding onto the stool like some supporting totem which would save him. He scampered off to the side as Old Man Crewe turned around to face the men in outrage. Adlard wondered how in hell things had escalated so quickly, but thinking was hard and his shakey hands fumbled on the floor for the blade out of instinct. He put his hand towards it, a dull dagger by his stool but Crewe kicked it out of the way, not noticing Adlard in some clear stance of opposition to the men. Adlard cursed under his breath. Crewe spoke loud and trembling with an old rage: 'You bloody hooligans' he said slowly. 'You bloody, bloody hooligans...' He opened his mouth to speak but the men had been cursoring around the room and intercepted by some working men at the tables. Before Crewe could say anything, a small, closed fist swung at Crewe and hit him down to the floor. That which had possessed some brawling charm in the Spinning Coin had become gritty and terrifying to Adlard. He saw men draw blood from the young bard and the old drunk topple over half conscious, facing him. He got up and backed slowly to the entrance. A bottle crashed down on his head and he found himself laying on the floor watching Gene battle over a chair with the man who had first challenged the old drunk who Adlard had been sitting next to only moments ago. He scampered and felt his knees weak beneath him, trampling over broken glass and odd ends of bar furniture. He cursed over and over and dabbed his head, which had started bleeding. A foot lashed out from a small gathering of people and Adlard looked back winded pondering if the room had been this crowded when he entered. Another limb came sprawled out in his reach. A hand, of the young bard. He crawled and looked at the boy's face. Matted blonde hair blackened with blood. He dared not stare beneath it. The scene was gritty from the appearance it had moments ago. No fun tomfoolery, just broken furniture and odd laments from the groups. Most of the men who had started the fighting were down or cut and bruised. Gene had seemed to remain unscathed by the battle. Slowly the sounds grew fainter as Adlard made it for the back door which he had noticed earlier. He caught himself to a low stand and limped towards the back door. Through it he passed a dragondust dealer who stared vacantly at him before Adlard sped up and sidled across the stucco of the outside wall. He breathed heavily and slumped down to the floor, panting and touching his head, flinching. Adlard had sat for some minutes, getting his mind back together, pushing the pain from consciousness and then making his way up against the wall, standing heavily on one leg. Somehow he'd been cut, but he had not noticed. He saw Syliran knights approaching the building down the road and hobbled in the opposite direction.

[Adlard Brightmoor]

Adlard shut the door from the outside world and leaned back into it with a sigh of relief, wholly unaware of the inhabitants inside. His face was bloody, his clothes somewhat torn and his hair a mess, though that was not the most of his worries. The first thing he heard was indeed the last thing he wished to hear. 'You got coin?' said the owner, a man called Tyras. Adlard lifted his hair and wiped his face. 'Brightmoor? Hell, Adlard, what happened?' he asked, though he didn't seem interested in the answer. Adlard managed to walk over to the bar and pulled up a stool. Tyras said he wouldn't serve Adlard anything, and Adlard said he didn't care. Tyras served him. 'Thought I would have to get out the cooks for a second. No-one's looking for you, are they?' 'Shouldn't be.' Tyras shook his head. 'Get this man some company,' he said, but Adlard objected with his hand. 'No, no.' 'All right then.' 'I don't have the coin anyway.' 'All right.' said Tyras. Adlard looked around the room. Thick red all over. Gold trims. Curtains for private rooms. Rich plumes of smoke filled the air from various silken women in booths with mostly fashionable men, some distracted by the ragged man at the bar. Adlard wouldn't sit in the dining area so bloody, though he was sure no one in the room hadn't seen worse. Rich; that was how the place looked. Velvet, silk, fine robes and luscious colours draped across the furniture. A girl with ebony black hair eyed him across the bar. She looked about to smile cutely. He fixed her a stare and her eyes fell to a drink in her fingers. He looked out the window to see a homeless pressing his hands against the glass. Adlard raised his glass in false salut. Tyras shooed him away and turned back to Adlard. 'Well.' 'Well.' 'Tell me what happened.' 'No.' 'I'll kick you out.' Adlard sighed and made some gesture with both hands which meant How do I start? 'I was at the Spinning Coin.' 'I'll not ask.' 'Do.' 'Why were you at the spinning coin.' 'I have no idea.' 'Yes you do, you were drowning your sorrows.' 'Why'd you ask?' 'You told me to.' Tyras exclaimed and turned to a drink cabinet. 'So you didn't get the job done. Which is why you're here.' 'Maybe.' 'You're a persistent bastard, said Tyras, shaking his head again and pouring a glass of wine. The late hours of the night had the Dragon nearly shut. The patrons were up in their rooms and Tyras was sitting beside Adlard, drinking himself. 'This is a real man's drink.' 'This is a real man's drink?' questioned Adlard. 'This is a poet's drink.' 'Ah.' replied Adlard. 'You're crazy.' He knew Tyras wouldn't let a friend drink alone. Tyras was good like that. Strong, arrogant, but caring and quite the polymath. 'Adlard. I thought you were supposed to live a dull life. An ordinary life.' Adlard looked at Tyras who had drunken eyes and was leaning a little too far into the bar. He looked about the room though there were only a couple patrons left, who were too lost in companionship to pay any notice of the two men at the bar. His face ached and his jaw clenched after a stiff drink. Before long bright begun to creep between the gaps of housing outside and Adlard felt sick with the early morning. He felt his face and looked at his hand, on which crumbled some dry blood. His leg throbbed and Tyras looked as though he had fallen asleep onto himself. Adlard would have pat him on the back were it not for the uncertainty of his consciousness. 'Tyras' he called. 'Tyras.' Adlard wandered out of the Dragon sometime early morning. He kept a drink close to him and swigged from it every so often, making his way to a curb off the road. He perched and looked up at the sky, like some child weatherwatcher and squinted. A vagrant of drink and drowned thoughts. He hung a sleeve in the air above him and looked at the tattering across the cuffs. The sun shined warm, bright on blue and without a cloud in the sky. He eyed a grinning child across the road who was sitting opposite and kicking his feet together. Adlard checked his pockets for loose change and flicked a piece of silver at the boy, who scuttled off wide-eyed without a word. Finally, Adlard rocked forward and doubled over without a thought in his mind nor a care in his heart.

[Chevalier]

Adlard

LORE

• Bar Fights
• Slam the Head
• Knights Have a Quick Response Time

EXPERIENCE

Skill	XP Earned
Subterfuge	2
Rhetoric	1
Observation	1

Storyteller Notes

Secret :

When you do a timestamp, it doesn’t need to be in the title, it’s just usually at the top of the first post in the thread. So it would say “43rd Day of Winter, 512AV” and then a new paragraph would start the actual story, for instance.