Closed [The Drunken Fish] An Appropriate Name

[Vann]

Vann approved of James; the man was everything a storyteller could ask for in an audience. Above all, he was paying attention and allowed himself to become engrossed in the story. His frustration at being kept waiting was one of the biggest compliments he could have given.
Seems I picked a good story then.
The Syliran Knights were a touchy subject for a lot of people and speaking of them, be it for good or for ill, was always a risk. Fortunately, Vann's gamble paid off. The storyteller grinned at his companion as the prospect of ale was mentioned;
"I am relieved to hear it my friend, and fear not; I shall keep you waiting no longer." Following a deep breath, Vann transitioned back to his story.

Did you know that Syliras has taverns too? Most would argue their numbers few, but inns and alehouses are not taboo... and travellers seek them, as travellers do. When I was young, but not quite small, whilst propped against a taproom wall, a crime committed, knights were called; But was there justice? Not. At. All. My eyes did see, my ears did hear; I smelt the blood, but tasted fear. A shadowed corner, tucked away; was I noticed? I couldn't say.

I'll say this now, for it should be said, a caution should this story spread; freedom is all too subjective, and to be told that you have it, is to know that it's dead. Sunberth and Syliras are often compared, how the crimes we face here are over there spared, that those of us here should be rightfully scared; when I first heard the stories, I'll admit that I cared. For what else could a child have known, imprisoned in that cube of stone? I know more now that I have grown. I've seen them both, they're both the same, both sinful twins of different name, yet only one does hide its shame.

A Myrian woman, just passing through, her face was too pretty and her skin was too new. A drunk is a drunk be he saint or a bum; all men are the same once they've had enough rum. Advances amassed, relentless in pace, a pinch and a grope gets a slap in the face. Violence ensued, and the crowed got sucked in; it was one of those brawls that no one could win. Their response was impressive, as the knights often were, but instead of the beasts, they hauled off with her...

Of Myrian woman, I heard no other sound; be it the mines or Ms. Dira, she's now in the ground.

"I am no priest. My quarry with the knights does not stem from a false sense of justice." After a brief pause, Vann's tone returned to normal and he concluded his story;
"My issue isn't even the deceit, for who am I to dismiss a convenient story? What bothers me is that the knights believe their own tales; the delusion encompasses every citizen of Syliras. A rogue story, a rogue lie; I find it difficult to tolerate either. The storyteller let his sentence drift away, and he sat patiently to await James' reaction.

Vann was fond of the story, for it was ambiguous enough to let people draw their own conclusions and take away their own message. Vann liked that; too many details caused confusion, and defeated the purpose of the story. A story is designed to entertain as it teaches its life lessons. Any historian or scholar can regurgitate facts! A storyteller takes that raw material and gives it flare, making it easily accessible without losing its potency...
and there's something special about that.

[James Bishop]

The story resumed. James unwittingly leaned in a bit closer. Forgetting all about the lumbering Manowar that came closer. Until the man tabbed menacingly on the bar and Bishop threw an annoyed glance before he remembered. He dropped the necessary coin for another pair of ales for them both. He dropped a silver and eleven copper mizas. A little more than the price, but as always, keeping the Manowar happy was a reward in its own right. The man might overlook a few minor transgressions. But as the man went back to his rounds and James could once more commit fully to the tale that the man weaved from the darkness of his mind. It was elaborate, beautiful in its verses. Sublime and spoken in a way that made Bishop feel as the only listener. Logically, he knew this to be true, but he was still seduced by the idea. Holding his breath for the longest time, it took the burning of his lungs for him to realize it had been held in the first place. He exhaled slowly, suffered the burning lungs - delighted in the feeling as air was sucked in again. Blue eyes focused on the man, his vision was already beginning to blur, not that the racist took any notice of it - for the story was getting more and more tense. Building for a finale. The tale was told in a great way, the words rang melodic in his ears. But the heroine, if you could ever call Myrian scum that, rubbed James the wrong way. But she was not the heroine, but rather the victim. He felt no remorse for her, felt disgust at the men who had groped her, she was beneath their human hands, yet they had wanted and lusted for her. It was disgusting.

But any tale of knightly brutality found resonance in Bishop. As the story came to its conclusion, Bishop barely could contain his rage. He petching hated the knights. Such a useless organisation. A proud symbol of humanity subverted and perverted by the use of Konti and Akalak scum in their ranks. Syliras should purge every non-human from their ranks. But he could very well not speak such hateful words to his new friend, drunk or not. Instead he opted for the much shorter. Much less offensive.

"Petch the knights!" He said loudly as he slammed the mug down. "Such swine!" Once more his voice spoke loudly to his friend. Anger and outrage dripping from his words like acid from the fangs of a Dhani. "They are liars and deceivers, spreaders of falsehoods and oppression."

Bishop knew freedom, he had found it last summer. To Bishop, freedom was not subjective, it was a lie. An illusion crafted in the brilliant mind of Ionu at the behest of Lhex, the god of fate. The only true god, as the rest, no doubt, was bound by the same rules as mortals. Fate ruled all and every action was subject of fate, not free will. Still with a sour look on his face, he looked to Vann again. His eyes had scoured the vicinity in the Fish. Daring any to protest his accusations. But most did not care, the few who did, lost interest quickly. Which did soothe the emotions of the racist.

"Ah, I am sorry. You tell me a great story, and I return the favor by spouting profanities. Cheers friend." He rose the mug once more. "You have a gift, a silver tongue if you will, for telling stories. Did you try to help the woman?" His voice, apologetic first, but charged with an odd compassionate tone at the end. The compassion was a deceit, his voice, slurred a little, that was not a lie.

[Vann]

Such a display of passion went beyond Vann's expectations, and his friend's actions drew the attention of several of the patrons; in a town like Sunberth, an angry exclamation was usually the prelude to a brawl. Fortunately, the anticipation was short lived, for no one was foolish enough to start trouble while Manowar was on patrol.
All the same, it seems... it seems I struck a nerve with that one.
Despite tensing slightly at the outburst, Vann quickly relaxed when he realised nothing physical would come from it. Instead, the storyteller reached an eager hand towards his next mug of ale, taking a few tentative gulps before sighing in satisfaction. His head was beginning to spin slightly, and the charming buzz of inebriation was knocking impatiently on the cusp of his consciousness.
I'd best... I'd best slow down.
Af if in response to the thought, James apologised for his transgressions, slight though they may have been, and raised his own mug in consolidation.
Petch.
Not wanting to be rude, Vann knocked mugs with his companion and took another sip. It wasn't the wisest decision of his young life, but all things considered he was confident he'd live through the night... he'd survived worse, after all.

"Think nothing of it! I am honoured that my tale was able to stir something within you." The comment was accompanied by a grin, and Vann punctuated the statement by rapping his knuckles on the bar. James' compliments were well received, and further improved Vann's opinion of him; backwards trousers or not, the man could appreciate a good story. At his companion's enquiry, the storyteller grew momentarily serious;
"Ovek no! I rather like my head attached to my shoulders. I'd be willing to wager there have been countless sods who've ended up dead because they confused courage with stupidity... besides, I was young and wouldn't have been of much help anyway. Would I act differently in the same situation now?" Vann shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, "Probably not, unless the coin far outweighed the idiocy of the act."

Vann adjusted his hat and stroked his chin thoughtfully for a few ticks. His curiosity had been aroused, for James's reaction to his story ventured well into the realms of extreme. Throwing caution to the wind, he decided to try his luck at a bit of gardening;
You never know what a bit of weeding will pull up.
Pleased with his wit, the storyteller continued;
"Syliras assumed too much authority over my life, that's why I hated it there. Ironically, Sunberth was like a breath of fresh air for me. I assume it's the same for you then? You wanted some more freedom, so you eventually found your way here?" Vann resisted the urge to take another sip of his ale, he needed to sober up. There was something interesting about James, and he was determined to find out exactly what it was.
What is your story, friend?

[James Bishop]

Bishop cared little about drawing attention to himself. He lived in the moment, planning for the future seemed like a waste of time considering it was and always had been set in place. James gave the man an apologetic smile when he brushed aside his excuse. Vann was a good man, a great storyteller and forgave Bishop's transgressions with ease. It all made him a bit wary of the man. Someone so good natured and easy to smile ought not hang out in the Fish so confidently. Bishop looked thin and frail, obviously armed and rarely looked like he carried enough coin to make it worth killing him for it. Vann, on the other hand, looked fabulous. Like a prime target. Yet he carried himself with confidence and had even bought the racist man a drink.

He was a mystery.

One Bishop wanted to figure out, one way or another. Though the man responded to his enquiry - the man was not a courageous soul. A lie? Bishop believed him. Did not seem like something one would lie about. But the rhetorical question that he posed himself did have Bishop raise a brow and soon a lewd grin flashed across his lips.

"Coin? No my friend, gratitude rather - I hear myrian women are quite savage under the blankets. Imagine how handsomely she would have rewarded your bravery." The slurred laughter came immediately as he drained more ale from the mug. The question posed only to gauge the reaction of the stranger. His familiarity with the other gender. He blinked, tiredly as his boisterous laughter slowly died out and a crooked edge of a smile on his lips. The laughter had been genuine, the carnal pleasures of women was one of the things that kept him going. But in his own mind, the myrian aspect had been elegantly forgotten.

It was a curious question posed by the man in leather then, no doubt wishing for Bishop to reveal his past a little more. Or reveal what Bishop decided his past would be for this evening. The ale might have impaired his ability to speak as clearly, but his mind was still sharp enough to remember his story. Thus far, it had been quite simple, especially when Vann refreshed it for him. He eyed the stranger with a guarded look. Such a direct question warranted him being a little careful. But he shrugged as if it didn't matter - to him, nothing mattered in the long run.

"Freedom, aye perhaps, a fresh start mostly. Being kicked out of the guard had left me bitter and I needed a change in scenery. I had once been a sailor, took the first ship away..." He paused briefly as he put the mug to his lips. His own little theatrical trick. A pause to draw in the audience. "Away from Zeltiva and the stench of hypocrisy. Could not stand to see my former colleagues guard the city while I limped about." The lie was believable. "This place reminds me of where I used to guard in the city. Near the harbour, full of rowdy sailors. Pleasant men if you got to know 'em and they began to trust you. I suppose that is why I like this place so much..." Another pause, this one brief as the lewd smile returned to his lips. "That and you can get a mug of ale after perusing one of their women."

[Vann]

Of course, when Vann came of age he sought out the services of a prostitute, eager to rid himself of the last remnants of his childhood. The experience was... interesting. He enjoyed himself, obviously, but he couldn't get past how superficial the entire affair was. The woman, a young olive-skinned beauty, whispered sweet pleasantries into his ears during their time together. Ridiculous stories: "You're the best I've had." "You're the biggest." Such poorly fabricated lies irritated him, and his satisfaction was greatly diminished. Vann desired a woman to call his own; one who would legitimately mean what she said to him; one who wouldn't rinse herself off and jump onto the next man who showered her with coin. Vann still maintained the occasional night of passion with a working girl, but there was little excitement in the activity; it was a biological need, nothing more. The storyteller smiled softly in response to James' suggestion regarding the Myrian woman.
"Perhaps, perhaps not. I don't like to dwell on 'what ifs'. What's happened has happened, and that is the story." Vann shrugged his shoulders, dismissing the subject.

As James answered his question, Vann nodded slowly at each point he made. It was a sad story, but not an uncommon one. Unfortunately, the effect was ruined somewhat by his closing statement, and the storyteller couldn't help but laugh. He tilted his hat in thanks;
"A very well told story James! You're quite the accomplished storyteller yourself!" Of course, Vann took the information with a grain of salt; it was never wise to whole-heartedly trust the words of a man you'd just met, especially in Sunberth. All the same, it would suffice, and Vann would operate under the loose assumption that it was the truth. Still, his companion had slightly misinterpreted Vann's true intent.
I was too subtle.
Again, the storyteller shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. He figured there would be no harm in being slightly more blunt with James; he seemed like a straightforward kind of man anyway.

"So James, you've already seen how I fill my belly with ale," Vann cheerfully stated, of course in reference to his sotrytelling, "How about you? No, Wait! let me guess; hmmmmm-" Vann made a show of thoughtfully studying the other man, "I know, you're a travelling monk, aren't you James?" Vann flashed a grin to accompany the joke. His goal was to find out what James did for a living; obviously the man was no longer a guard... Sunberth had no need for such things.
Well, one could also argue that it desperately does... but I digress.
Vann reached out and took another sip, a small one, from his ale.

[James Bishop]

The man was met with a shrug when he spoke about not dwelling on the past. Bishop agreed. The past was what Lhex had determined previously, the present was what he had determined previously and the future. Likewise. Though he did at times wonder if fate himself had written his own fate? An end one day where fate would unravel and free will would return? Or would everything cease to be. Bishop added a mental shrug to his physical one and decided like Vann, not to dwell on things that was outside of his mental capacity to understand. The storyteller seemed to listen interested to his story, the sob-story he thought up as he went along. But it was a simple story. A basic tragedy and perhaps the storyteller could not let such a good story go to waste. The man, however, seemed too clever to just believe everything spoken. Just like Markus did not believe the details in the story was true. Not all of them at least. Like Vann being present had most likely been a trick to make the story seem to matter, make it personal. As a, hear, I was there, listen to my story. It had worked splendidly.

James bowed his head graciously, although drunkenly, to the storyteller when he gave the compliment as he added a happier ending to the story. Perhaps from the view of Bishop.

"Not a fun story, I am afraid, but one good thing did come of it all. I am no longer drinking kelp beer. Stuff tasted like mashed rats left to rot in the gutter for days."

The imagery was rather unpleasant. Then again, so was the beer. Vann did not appear to be entirely satisfied with him. At least he propped deeper into him. Wished to know about the present Bishop. The truth, a man who did not know what the next day would bring him. Sleep until he awoke, stumble out, find ale and whatever food the could scrounge up. Look at ladies. A fresh laughter came from his lips when Vann continued. His guess catching Bishop by surprise - humour.

"A fine guess, my friend. But alas, not correct." He spoke as the laughter died down. "I hunt now and then, bring back food to keep the hunger at bay and the taxman away. Keep a fire going outside my tent, luckily there is no rent..." There was a short pause. "How you put that long story into verses, I will never understand. Takes a special kind of talent." Should he elaborate, throw a tidbit of information out there, see if the storyteller picked up on the simple clue, a vision into the real Bishop. "They did train me well with a crossbow. Helped me keep the pirates away as a sailor and the opposite." An obvious clue, but he did not care. How would Vann react to that small revelation.

[Vann]

Vann smiled at his companion's attempts at speaking in verse, and the smile broadened at the compliment that followed.
"Lots, and lots of practice, my friend. It was truth, plain and simple. As far as Vann was concerned, storytelling was all about the gimmicks that could grab an audiences attention. Rhyme was one of his favorites, so it was the one he practiced the most. There were countless others, but speaking in verse was one of the few that Vann had a rough handle on.
Not that it takes too much to impress a drunk man.
It was a cynical thought, but an honest one. It was a difficult idea to swallow. Bitter.
Like kelp-beer, I suppose.
Vann found his own humour amusing, and it prompted a grin. He'd tried the stuff himself. Once. It was expensive in Sunberth, given that it had to be imported from Zeltiva, though why people bothered was a mystery to the storyteller. It was the type of stuff he'd only ever drink if nothing else was available. It wasn't something he would dwell on. If people wanted to pay for overpriced ale that tasted like a foot, then that was their problem.


"Crossbow hey?" Vann responded to James's question, a note of surprise in his tone. "I've got one of my own," the storyteller pointed at the miniature crossbow that dangled from his belt , "it's a fine weapon: effective, easy to use, and impossible to miss in close quarters. It serves my needs rather nicely." Vann stroked his chin and nodded thoughtfully, as if he were considering something, "Yes. I imagine the crossbow would indeed be favoured by the Wave Guard." There was something off about what James had said, but he couldn't quite place his finger on it...
Petch! I've had too much to drink! Petch, petch, petch!
This was dangerous. In his amusement he'd let himself go beyond the boundaries of sensible inebriation. Vann drained the last of his ale - he was drunk anyway - and stood up with a sigh.
"Pardon me James, but I need to go see a man about a horse." It wasn't a lie, for Vann did feel the need to relieve himself. Vann didn't lie; he exaggerated. There were all manner of stories he could tell James should they ever meet again, but for now, he had no intention of returning to the tap room that evening. With a tilt of his hat, Vann turned around and strode into the throng of patrons in The Drunken Fish. While not the most productive night, it had indeed been an interesting one.