Closed [The Drunken Fish] An Appropriate Name

[Vann]

4th Day of Spring, 514 AV

Another day, another night, and another mug of ale.
Vann slammed his now empty mug on the bar and sighed in satisfaction. Manowar made some good ale; not the best in Sunberth, mind you, but it was leagues better than the horse piss they served at some places. For no particular reason, the storyteller raised a hand to his head and slightly adjusted the position of his hat. Vann felt content; there were definitely plenty of benefits to staying at The Drunken Fish.

The hustle and bustle of the dockside inn was the same as it was most nights. Laughter, grunts, and groans all reverberated through the taproom in a cacophony that perfectly suited the atmosphere. Inebriated seamen were the cause of most of it, though the occasional cry of pleasure made its way down from the higher levels of the establishment; an occurrence greeted by cheers and laughter from those on the bottom floor. Barmaids had their bottoms pinched, drunk men had their faces slapped and every other word uttered was a variation of "petch". Stains of unknown origin graced the floorboards, mugs were broken and glass was shattered. Shirts were torn, noses were broken and throughout it all Father Manowar navigated the chaos with his generously girthed figure, lightly policing the entire affair. There was something special about this place; it was Vann's own little slice of paradise.

Vann was somewhat of a variation from the usual clientèle in that he was one of the few semi-permanent residents. The Drunken Fish was most commonly visited by sailors, pirates and privateers who were merely passing through the lawless city of Sunberth. That's not to say that the storyteller wasn't a part of the chaos, but in many ways he stood distinctly separate from it. While it's true that the young man took great enjoyment in sharing his exaggerated tales with anyone willing to listen, such a practice didn't exactly fill one's pockets with Mizas. No, Vann's business was information. He spent his evenings trying gleam all manner of rumour, whisper and secret from the men and woman he spoke with... and in a town like Sunberth;
Business is good.

[James Bishop]

A bar more to Bishop's liking. The pig was a fine establishment, no one could deny that, but this place. The Fish, simply held the allure to bring in folks like Bishop. Sailors were a funny bunch once you got to know them, always had a worthy tale of when they almost lost their arm to a sea monster. Or that time the Zeltivan navy had been hot on their asses and they narrowly escaped into the darkness of the night. Tales of adventure. As a former sailor, pirate, privateer and what not, Bishop had partaken in many of these drunken tales. Often they were half truths mired with inaccuracy on top of false information. Made for great stories, though that there goodly god, Tyveth, would look at them with disdain if he heard them spoken to him.

Bishop limped out of a private room, the naked slave inside sent a myriad of glares into his back. Bishop threw a glance over his shoulder at the female slave. He never liked petching slaves, they were not in the mood to satisfy him. At least those unmarked by Nikali. It was a chore to them and most of the time Bishop wouldn't mind that, but tonight he had been in the mood for raw emotions. So to get her excited, into the game, lies had been softly whispered into her ears. That he would give her freedom if she satisfied him.

That had put a fire in her and Bishop had been satisfied. Nothing like a little abuse of Priskil's realm to ignite people. A laughter escaped his lips when he slammed the door and heard the dull thud of a pillow hit the door. If he ever found the coin to free her, he might. Today was not the day, for his old injured thigh had begun to act up during their cordial relations. It had put a damper on his mood that not even this wonderful young lady had been able to remedy. So the stairs were troublesome to tackle, each step put a dull ache into his mind. Which just reinforced his cravings for some liquor to soothe his aching mind. He stopped briefly on the second floor, looked at the people gathered there, observed them silently before moving on. None of the had caught his interest, not yet at least, so down to the first floor he ventured. His finest set of clothes upon his body, also his only set of clothes, so that worked out perfectly. Some might notice that his pants were on backwards and that they had not been properly closed. Bishop would notice later when nature called.

At the bar, a fine man stood. Wearing a hat that Bishop could only envy. Was it not for the lights in the room, this man would vanish into the darkness. A large blot of black leather. He intrigued Bishop, most sailors didn't bother to dress fine for this room. This one man, however, with his fancy wide brimmed had. Bishop had found his amusement for the evening it seemed. Though was this man dessert or had the slave girl been an appetiser? Only Tanroa could tell. James stepped up to the bar next to the man with the wide brimmed hat. James dropped the four copper mizas required for the ale plus another to keep the Manowar friendly and afloat. He drained half the mug in the first gulp as he threw a couple of glances at the man up close. Handsome fellow. A young man. The stubbles and sideburns made for a good look under that hat. Those eyes did awaken a little bit of resentment - seemed foreign and decidedly non-human. Another damper on his mood - but the man might have a good tale or two that the supremacist might enjoy. Failing that: A good fight.

Ledger updates5 cm for ale.
Unknown amount for use of slave prostitute.

[Vann]

Noise. It clotted the room; the air was thick with it. When so much sound was enclosed in such a small space it began to blend, to fester, until nothing was left but a dark, incomprehensible mess. A master at gathering information could cut through the swathe of nonsense with pinpoint precision and unearth all manner of precious gems... Vann was no master; he closed his eyes, for without his sight to distract him he found it easier to concentrate, and simply listened. The technique was neither accurate, nor specific;
But hey, you open enough clams and eventually you'll find a pearl.

Unfortunately, it seemed that Ovek did not smile upon him this night. Almost half a bell had passed, and despite the occasional "It's petching cold!" the storyteller had heard nothing of any particular interest. With a shrug of his shoulders Vann opened his eyes and scanned the busy taproom for Father Manowar; almost immediately, he spotted the heavyset man weaving his way through the throng. Fortunately, Manowar was facing Vann's general direction, so he noticed when the younger man gestured to grab his attention. Within a chime Vann had a freshly refilled mug of ale, and Manowar had taken the opportunity to linger behind the bar and tidy up the workspace.

Content to consider the evening barren of any decent information, Vann sipped his drink nonchalantly. The storyteller didn't get proactive unless he was paid to find out something specific, and even then his approach was rather lax compared to others in the industry. The familiar, metallic clank of mizas hitting the bar drew his gaze. A newcomer, for the man was clearly a newcomer, had taken up a position next to Vann at the bar. He dressed far too well to be a Sunberth sailor, and -
Hang on a tick, are his pants...
Vann raised an eyebrow at the blue-eyed, dark-haired man's partial state on undress. Vann knew of the extra services Manowar offered at The Drunken Fish, despite never taking advantage of them himself, and it seemed this gentleman did as well... although the storyteller suspected that the man's knowledge went beyond the theoretical.

After a couple of chimes, Vann finished his ale. Manowar seemed ready to resume his patrol, and since it would be inconvenient to have to call him back any time soon Vann took the opportunity to order two more mugs. The storyteller nodded his thanks when they were placed in front of him, and turned to face the newcomer in earnest;
"So tell me my friend, what brings you to The Drunken Fish?" The statement was accompanied by a mug of ale, which Vann had slid across the bar. Vann liked strangers, they usually had something interesting to say. Get them drunk enough, and they might even let a secret or two slip through their guard.
Who knows, maybe Ovek still has something planned for this evening.

[James Bishop]

The silence between the two men in the bar did not bother Bishop, it was to be expected. Strangers rarely mingled with strangers unless there was some sort of benefit for either of them to begin talking. Often though, just to stave off boredom for another tick was reason enough to speak to strangers. The man was a mystery, his clothes too fine for a ordinary sailor. Which meant he had a specific purpose for appearing in the Fish. Another gulp of ale as he contemplated this mystery. He hardly blinked when a stab of pain made it up his leg and ended his line of thoughts. The petching leg another reason he was glad spring had arrived, sleeping in a tent during winter had meant his right leg had been a constant reminder of the pitiful conditions of the city. If he ever found one of those fabled Konti healers capable of miracles, he might pay them rather than throttle them to heal his injured leg.

Though when the pain went away, as did his annoyance with the injury. Out of sight out of mind. The man dressed in black leather next to him, the handsome fellow, suddenly shifted to look at him. The first gaze had been brief, just to seize up Bishop, that he had recognized. But something about him had drawn in the stranger to begin their dance of words. It seemed that fate was kind to him today - a slight wince as a gentle breeze swept over his leg as someone opened the doors to the Fish. Plus, his pants felt strange. The stranger spoke as he pushed a mug of ale before Bishop. Quickly the pain was dulled by the wonderful sight as James greedily downed the rest of his ale and pushed his own mug aside to make room for the gift.

"Thank you, my friend." He spoke with a warm smile on his lips, devoid of any suspicions of the stranger. He figured if he was to be drugged, that would be his fate. Who knew, might bring about a little fun. "I came to petch the whores and drink the ale. Got done with one, now to the other. Might return later, but my leg is acting up, old injury from when I served with the Wave Guard. They told me I would never walk again, much less petch." He let out a short laughter. "But still up and about, doing both - didn't stop them from kicking me out of the guard, though. Bunch of shykes." Lies came easily to Bishop, his voice carrying a mixture of Zeltivan and Sunberthian accent that made it hard to pinpoint his origin. Hardly a secret about his leg, anyone who saw the man during the colder days could testify that he often limped about on his right leg. - Though he would be surprised if anyone cared enough about him to sell such information to anyone.

Bishop would actually feel a bit honoured.

"Cheers friend." Bishop raised his new mug to his new pal, gently tap it against his should he raise it as well - before he raised the mug to the mouth and soon felt the soothing ale trickle down his tongue. With the mug in his right hand he looked to his new 'friend'. Undoubtedly the man wanted something from him, but Bishop hardly cared. Secrets where for spies and brokers to worry about. Only secret he had was one he kept tight lipped about or he would be strung up and left to dangle by the nearest tree. If that was his fate - then so be it. But he would rather postpone that conclusion to his life as long as possible.

"What about you? You don't look like the typical clientele." To illustrate the point he looked about at the sailors. Their clothes sullied and filthy and then to the fine leather that covered the man. Someone was the odd one out and the man wearing his trousers backwards wasn't the one.

[Vann]

The stranger's words arose suspicion. To reveal so much of yourself so easily, especially in Sunberth... he had to be either incredibly stupid, or incredibly cunning. Normally Vann would assume the latter, but a quick flicker of his eyes momentarily brought the man's backwards trousers into view, and the storyteller lost all confidence in his assessment.
Either way, this could get interesting.
Vann knew next to nothing about the wave guard, but he had heard of them. In much the same way The Syliran Knights had a reputation outside of Syliras, so too did the sea-side militia have a reputation outside of Zeltiva. As a man who harboured a general distaste for authority, Vann decided the man's situation balanced itself out. Regardless of whether or not the stranger used to be a part of the organisation, Vann would bet his treasured hat that he wasn't any more.

"Cheers!" Vann echoed his companion's sentiments and the two men tapped their mugs together. For good or bad, the man was no longer a stranger; he was Vann's drinking buddy for the evening. As a tradition older than time dictated, the pair drunk deeply after the declaration, lest their thirsts go unquenched. The storyteller was always amazed at the supernatural properties of ale. Within the space of a few chimes two complete strangers had established an acquaintanceship of sorts, and the glorious, golden beverage paved the way.
If that's not magic, then I don't know what is.

Vann grinned at his companion's follow-up question, for it was the question he had been waiting for. In a smooth, practised movement, Vann tilted his hat and slightly bowed his head;
"My name is Vann, storyteller extraordinaire!" after straightening himself out, Vann raised one of his gloved hands and extended two fingers before continuing, "There are two types of people in Sunberth my friend, those who want to blend in and those who want to be found. As I'm sure you can guess, I belong to the latter; for I cannot share my tales if I cannot be found, and that would be a shame, don't you think?" Vann lowered his arm and grabbed his ale, taking a long sip while he waited to gauge the man's reaction.

[James Bishop]

The fire that appeared in his newfound friend's eyes and the grin on his lips was contagious, but the supremacist kept his smile cheerful. The way Vann introduced himself, it looked too smooth for it to not be a practised introduction. Though Bishop was enthralled and looked a bit surprised by his simple act. He could not say he had ever met a man who survived only by telling stories, but if anyone could pull it off, it would be this outrageously expensive looking fellow. Those clothes did extend him a bit of credibility to his claim. Bishop was not entirely convinced that he was a mere story teller was probably a bit more to him than that.

"A storyteller? Sounds marvelous, and true it be a terrible shame, Vann. Name's James." This time lies did not flow from his mouth. If the man's introduction was any indicator, he knew how to capture people with his tales. The smile on his lips grew a little wider as he looked over the man again. "Well, perhaps many different colours would have better suited you my friend? Black tends to blend in at night, not many going to listen to your stories once you leave the tavern and they can't find you." He noted with a sharp look in his eyes before he drank from the mug. "But who listens to stories out in the cold away from a nice warm hearth?" He added with a warm laughter. Bishop threw a glance into his mug, still plenty of ale left. The heavy pouch hanging on the back of his pants, which meant against the front of his thigh. Plenty of coin for him to carry out his little idea.

”If your stories are half as fancy as the clothes you wear, you must be the best storyteller in the city. I may have to alter my original plans for the evening, for now I simply must ask you for a story.” Bishop paused as a pained look came over his face as if he just was reminded of something. ”Though I would feel like a terrible friend to ask for a story after you so generously provided the ale. A greedy buddy I would be." His finger raised and snapped softly as he was about to make a point. To articulate the sentence that followed his gesture. "But hear, I propose that the next round and the one after that is on me, Vann, in exchange for one of your stories?” The eagerness in his voice was genuine. It was a small price to pay to hear a storyteller in action. A man he might emulate and perhaps imitate in the future when he needed to tell a grand excuse to spare his life – or distract someone as his associates snuck up behind them. The few coins spent tonight might fuel his future endeavours - the possibilities endless and all of them sounded fun.

[Vann]

After receiving such a positive reaction from his companion, Vann's opinion of him increased substantially; he liked people who carried an appreciation for the dramatic. The man introduced himself as James, finally giving Vann a name to match to the face, and the storyteller committed it to memory. His grin widened at James' comments;
"My friend, the last thing I want is to attract attention to myself while roaming the streets of Sunberth at night. Even if I were wearing a frilly pink dress and boasting of my past affair with the goddess of the sun, I doubt anyone would care to stop and listen anyway."
Furthermore, it seemed he had been provided with an audience, albeit a small one,for the evening. A story for a drink or two;
What's not to like?
Vann assumed a solemn expression and stroked his chin in consideration; not of the proposal, but of what story he should tell. Either way, the purpose of the gesture was to build suspense. Perspective was important;
If a person thinks something will be entertaining, they'll be easier to entertain.
That's why Vann dressed the way he did. That's why he spoke with so much confidence. It went beyond standing out. It went beyond drawing attention to himself. Vann strived to create an image. He needed people to believe his stories, to believe that maybe, just maybe he truly was capable of the heroic acts in his tales. To balance mystery with bravado; truth with lie; and happiness with sorrow... That is what it meant to be a storyteller. That is what Vann aspired to.
"James my friend, you have yourself a deal."

The storyteller inhaled deeply, he had decided upon a story. Different tales should be told different ways, and it all depended on the audience. Vann's audiences never exceeded three or four, so his style of storytelling had a very personal quality to it; as if he were confiding in those who listened, as if the story was truly special. He started all his stories the same, feeling that his introduction was a calling card of sorts, a signature to place upon his words. So, Vann began to speak. There were no wild gestures, no booming yells, he spoke as if he were having a conversation with an old friend.

"Unfortunately, this is not a grand tale. This is not some epic that will echo through the ages. This is a simple story. My story. It's not even the whole story, merely a piece of it; a small piece at that. Though as I'm sure you can imagine, it is a story that I hold dear to my heart; for I am certain that no one can tell it quite as skilfully as I. You probably think it odd that a young man such as myself would speak as if I were reminiscing of days long since past. I will tell you this; since coming to Sunberth I have felt each day twice, sometimes more. I learnt more about myself in one season here than I did living in Syliras for seventeen years... but perhaps I've stalled long enough. After all, I promised you a story."

[James Bishop]

Bishop chuckled at Vann' little quip – but he noted with some satisfaction that he was not a god-fearing man. Make a light comment to Syna like that, only to prove a point. The situation in itself, quite silly and Bishop made a note to see if he could not bed a goddess before he died. He could settle for a god if the females seemed peckish. It was added to his absurdly long list of things to do before fate snuffed out his life. His blue eyes focused on the storyteller again, they had grown a bit distant as the man had been thinking.

”Huh, talking about shames. I think a frilly pink dress might suit you well. Especially if you bedded the sun goddess wearing one. That would be a tale worth telling more than once – perhaps it would only once before Leth slew you out of jealousy.” Bishop grinned and shrugged as if it wasn't a big deal. Might even be the biggest accomplishment in some people's lives, to be noticed by a socalled god. The grin stuck when Vann agreed to his terms. Ale in exchange for a story, one of the better deals Bishop had made in recent times. Oh wait, no that had been prior to meeting Vann and him paying for the slave girl upstairs. That had been his best deal in recent memory.

Though Vann did have a chance to knock her off the podium for the most entertaining part of the evening. The way he began to speak. As if the two had known each other for a long while. As if they were close and shared each others secrets. Bishop knew it was a lie – but he let himself be pulled into the lie. The man knew how to weave his words into a story. Keep it interesting enough to keep Bishop's attention. It turned to be a personal story and Bishop was, like his newfound friend, a bit wary of him telling a personal story. Suspicious that he would reveal himself for ale.

Unless he lied like Bishop had – though for a storyteller to lie, seemed reasonable enough. He could relate to the story to some degree, Sunberth did make him feel more alive. Fresher in mind than Syliras had – Syliras was a place where men went to die of boredom. The knights kept a lid on everything fun and exciting – unlike the chaotic streets of Sunberth where life itself was a challenge. Cloak and daggers behind every cloak and dagger.

But Bishop's focus returned to the storyteller – for his introduction to the story was over and the real deal about to begin. Without realizing it, Bishop had held his breath as Vann had spoken.

[Vann]

This is a story of my youth, of my time spent imprisoned behind walls of freedom. Syliras, the cradle of civilisation! Syliras, the safe haven in a world of misfortune! Syliras, protected by the Syliran Knights and all they stand for! Bah! Such stories are common; they are disguised lies! Imagine my surprise! There was no surprise... the truth did not escape my eyes. You see, it is why I said my goodbyes, as I'm sure you could surmise... Unfortunately, this story takes place at a time before I had fully embraced my clarity. I was still young, still inexperienced, and their deceit clogged my vision. It was not right, what happened that night... not that one could tell the time, not by sight. The stony halls were always bright, engulfed in orange light in spaces all too tight and try as I might I cannot forget what I have seen.

Vann raised his hand to signal a pause. The storyteller reached for his mug and drained the last of its contents before smacking the empty container onto the bar. He sat silent for a chime, a look of concern on his face, as if he were seriously contemplating something. Of course, this was all part of the act,a break to push suspense to its boiling point, to hold it there as the pressure built. Of course, he could not leave his audience too long, for too much pressure could lead something to explode. Vann locked eyes with James, using his golden irises to their fullest advantage;
"I must warn you my friend, this story is not for the faint of heart. I can offer you a glimpse behind the curtain, though I doubt you'll like what you see. Should you wish it, I can instead tell you something more traditional... I just thought- well, no matter. I will leave this decision with you." The storyteller cast a regretful glance at his now empty drink and waited for his companion's reply.

His performance advanced; now an attempt to tickle the curiosity of his audience. 'What is this story that he is so reluctant to tell?' 'What secrets does this man hold?' These were the questions he wanted his audience to ask themselves. The more they wanted to hear, the easier it would be to get them to listen. This was very hard to accomplish with a large audience, to be able to sway the hearts of the masses was the mark of a master. For now, Vann was content to entertain drunks;
But who knows... perhaps someday my words will change the world.

[James Bishop]

The lies of Syliras and their knights rang true to Bishop - nothing but a self-serving bunch of people whose lies corrupted those who listened to a life beneath their iron fist. But Bishop was okay with that aspect of the knights - but that they had inferior races in their ranks, that he could not ignore. They ought to purge their ranks of the inferior races. Much like how Ravok was a city for humans, the others were in servitude to the superior mankind. The tale of the man struck a chord in Bishop. He could understand the tale.

So he held his breath as the man spoke eloquently - the rhymes came easy for him it seemed. Rehearsed story? Or was he that good a story teller? Bishop assumed a mixture of the two, for his actions and words - the way he delivered them, seemed to indicate that they came naturally, not forced through a script set in stone. The man struck chords in Bishop, as if every word spoken was directed at him, personal things James could reflect upon. Embraced clarity - the discovery of Lhex and the subsequent binge as he had trouble with the concept.

To the man today, whose goal in life had shifted from survival to the hedonistic pursuit of fun - accept reality for a hollow lie and every action as pre-determined. Though Vann weaved a story for him, suddenly stopped talking and Bishop just sat there, listening, waiting for more. Watching impatiently as Vann began to drink from his mug of ale. He could be forgiven for stopping the story to drink ale - not a offence worth killing someone for. As the mug had been drained and the empty container smacked against the table - Bishop stared at the man. Contemplating strangling him for making him wait, the demand to know what happened rose in the nihilist. His curiosity knew no bounds - what had happened to him in Syliras? What had opened his eyes to the cruelty of the world? Answers that would go unanswered until the man began his tale once more. Finally his lips moved again - it was not the tale, it were words of caution. If Bishop had been a violent man he might have smacked Vann and told him to continue the story. But he drowned his growing annoyance in the ale. Felt the liquid soothe his flaring emotions.

"I am not squeamish, Vann - So continue the tale - I have to know, I need to know what happened next! It would be cruel to unveil the first act of such a marvellous heart-felt story and not tell it to the end!" Bishop noticed the mug was empty. "So tell your tale, friend and as you do, I will see if I can get the attention of the Manowar and procure the first half of your payment!"

Bishop mused over the use of the word procure. Had the man's elegant use of the common language rubbed off on him? He raised a hand to catch the attention of the Manowar - Vann's long pause meant he was on his way back to the bar and a silver coin gleamed in the light as it was dropped on the bar for the man in return for another two wonderful mugs of ale for the two.