23rd Fall, 512 AV
Sour hops and centuries stained the bartop in front of him. Between both resting hands, a mug perspired. Honestly, the liquid beading on the outside of the imperfect tankard was more palatable than the mead within. Watered down, shit. Piss water after his time away in Zeltiva. There was quality there, a quality that Sunberth eschewed with characteristic pride. The whole of the city seemed to stand in the united voice of "Petch You" to the rest of the world. Live in finery? We'll live in squallor. Build your law? We'll tear ours down. Protect your people? We butcher our brothers.
Gripping the mug's handle, Wrenmae raised it to no one. Cheers then, to Sunberth....the only petching place where poverty, violence, and filth would be considered badges of honor.
"Need a top off?"
Wrenmae blinked, realizing again where he sat. The bartender looked him over with a suspicious frown, the same scowl baked into his face by years of disappointment. "No," Wrenmae said, sighing and placing the mug down on the table, "I apologize."
Grunting, the bartender turned back to his craft, polishing the same mug consistently. Maybe one day, years after Wrenmae was dust, the man would finally finish polishing that mug. Maybe then, and only then, a God would walk into this bar and order a drink.
"I know you."
A voice, not his own and not the bartender's. It wrapped around him, ghosted through his ears, drawing him to a face buried beard deep in a third mug of grog. The face wasn't familiar, but the eyes narrowed in familiar recognition.
"Yeh, I know you. Ran with that gang once, didin ya? What were they called? Edge? Aye. Aye. Edge. Crimson Edge! That's the one."
"You're mistaken."
"Petch I aint," He shifted in his seat, raising his voice,"You ran under that petcher, Cade and his ghoul-man mage, right? You an' yer pretty critter people, yer Zith. Oh yeah, I know you. You ran with the animals. A lil zookeeper."
Wrenmae was quiet. He didn’t make eye contact with the drunk. But by now, other had looked up to take notice.
“Lil petcher,” the drunk grunted, leering with yellowed teeth, “Call you the Crimson Shyke, good for nothing’s. What happened, huh? Bunch of you petched off, ran with tales between their legs. Where’d you run to, boy, where’d you go to hide?”
“Friend,” Wrenmae turned and smiled, tapping his fingers along the outside of his mug, “You’re drunk. Let us leave it at a mistaken identity and go on about your way.”
“He aint lyin,” Another voice, nasally in stark contrast to the drunk slur of the first aggressor. Across the bar, another man nodded, “Your kind ran mine into the ground. Red Arrows, remember us? Had me a brother and an Uncle with em, they say your whore and your Myrian knocked down our doors and killed em to a man.”
“Sunberth is a dangerous place,” Wrenmae cautioned “Not to be crass, but dangerous work breeds dangerous ends.”
The second man snarled, drawing a short blade, glimmering in the bar light, “That don’t sound like a denial.”
Wrenmae finished his drink, wincing as the spirits slid down his throat and made a fire in his belly. Sliding the mug back toward the bartender, he turned on his stool to look at both men. The inn was crowded tonight, and several of the rough citizens had unkind looks scrawled across their features. Times had been hard since the Djed storm a few seasons back. Now the brunt of irritation was placed on everyone. As a community, they were selfish. Most attempts to organize a rebuild were left with territorial disputes and violence. So the shyke had a shyke place to live, ever more dilapidated in their urgency to repress order.
They were spoiling for conflict.
What’s the word, murderer?
Storyteller, I prefer that moniker, if any.
Suit yourself, but my nickname will be far more helpful tonight.
I could hypnotize them.
You could. But am I the only one who feels that rage inside you? You’ve been looking for a fight since the whole manacle thing went down. My guess is that you don’t sleep enough, or too much, or something. I’m not usually paying attention. In any case, maybe it’s just projection, but I feel like caving in someone’s face with my fist…and I don’t have hands.
How poetic.
I do so try.
Very well, Zan, what’s our move?
Big fella talking shyke.
Which one?
I’m thinking the guy without family’s pretty lonely. Let’s give him a new baby welt he can care for and talk to.
My thoughts exactly.
“No,” Wrenmae said, sliding his hands off the bar, “it doesn’t, does it?”
Setting his feet on the floor, the storyteller cracked his neck. In the time it took him to roll his head, the bar had crowded closer. Men with murder in their gaze sized him up, eyes on the weapons dangling from his belt.
To three men behind his two aggressors, Wrenmae languidly threw a lasso of hypnotic Djed, leeching into their auras and subversively placing his seeds of sedition. To the first man, a rugged fellow with an eye patch, he fabricated the memory of just moments before, between the accusations levied at Wrenmae, that the fellow who had seemed so keen on talking about the Red Arrow looked awful familiar. In fact, that bastard had swiped coin from him a day back in the street. No proof, and he’d vanished soon as come, but there could be no doubt. Wren followed it up with a flash of anger, the impulse to crack a chair over his head and take his purse.
The second man had seen the drunk before, always lolling in this bar, making jokes at other’s expense. Just the night before last, he’d made a snide jab at the second man, but only now did he come to see how insidious the comment had been. The specifics, he couldn't remember, but the rage that followed in recognition of his tormentor flared. The third was simply given a burst of unspecific aggression, leveled anywhere but Wrenmae. In fact, the third man could not look at the young storyteller without thinking that such a chipper fellow couldn’t be the man these others said he was.
There. Now the stage was set for all of them, and the bar didn’t seem so one sided any longer.
Grumbling, the bartender retreated back from the bar, obsessively still polishing a single tankard. Wrenmae smiled as both men stood around him, staring down. “About time someone put you down, dog,” Said the second accuser, holding out his blade with murder in his eyes, “My kin can rest easier if I send them your soul to chew on.”
“Your kin chew in the afterlife?” Wrenmae asked, raising an eyebrow, “Sounds to me like you’re confusing who the real dogs are in this situation.”
With a strangled yell, the thug hurled himself at Wrenmae, thrusting out straight with his short sword. Snake-quick, Wren’s hand trailed to his long dagger, drawing it and intercepting the blade before it pierced his chest. The surprise of the draw and the momentum kept the blade at its same velocity, albeit at a different trajectory. His arm flew wide, guided by the dagger, and buried the short sword to the hilt in the drunk’s arm.
Alcohol could only dull the senses so much. Screaming, the bearded lecher fell away, tearing the blade from the thug’s hand, and fell thrashing to the floor.
Wrenmae acted, utilizing the shock of his opponent to a critical advantage. The dagger vanished into his sheathe, but two pale fists spun up through the air to deliver twin impacts to the man’s face. Breath hitched in his throat and the thug toppled, the first hypnotized man following his progress with a chair, smashing it against his chest soon as the body thumped against the wood.
Chaos erupted in a moment. Blood had been shed, a man had been struck down, and a chair had been shattered. All rules of escalation had failed and complete madness took swift precedence in the cramped quarters.
Wrenmae held back for a moment, watching the heavy hands of larger men deliver solid blows, take them, and continue swinging. Shroud would have left, slinking along the side of the wall, Weaver would have watched, even egged them on, Wren and Egyptus would cower…but they had all left him now. He was complete, he was angry, and he stepped full into the melee, bringing up his foot and digging the tip of his boot into a bloodied figure, knocking them back and sending a table askew.
He didn’t see the fist that loomed in his field of vision a moment before it impacted, knocking the storyteller sprawling. The blood tasted rich against his tongue and teeth, like lightning. Sunberth. Wretched Sunberth. If anything, it was good for excitement. It was good for feeling alive. And as Wrenmae pushed up to his knees, and then his feet, leaping onto the back of a burly brawler and wrapping his arms around his throat, he felt his frustrations ease, his rage settle, and some of his old fire…not seen since Alvadas, return to his being.
Sour hops and centuries stained the bartop in front of him. Between both resting hands, a mug perspired. Honestly, the liquid beading on the outside of the imperfect tankard was more palatable than the mead within. Watered down, shit. Piss water after his time away in Zeltiva. There was quality there, a quality that Sunberth eschewed with characteristic pride. The whole of the city seemed to stand in the united voice of "Petch You" to the rest of the world. Live in finery? We'll live in squallor. Build your law? We'll tear ours down. Protect your people? We butcher our brothers.
Gripping the mug's handle, Wrenmae raised it to no one. Cheers then, to Sunberth....the only petching place where poverty, violence, and filth would be considered badges of honor.
"Need a top off?"
Wrenmae blinked, realizing again where he sat. The bartender looked him over with a suspicious frown, the same scowl baked into his face by years of disappointment. "No," Wrenmae said, sighing and placing the mug down on the table, "I apologize."
Grunting, the bartender turned back to his craft, polishing the same mug consistently. Maybe one day, years after Wrenmae was dust, the man would finally finish polishing that mug. Maybe then, and only then, a God would walk into this bar and order a drink.
"I know you."
A voice, not his own and not the bartender's. It wrapped around him, ghosted through his ears, drawing him to a face buried beard deep in a third mug of grog. The face wasn't familiar, but the eyes narrowed in familiar recognition.
"Yeh, I know you. Ran with that gang once, didin ya? What were they called? Edge? Aye. Aye. Edge. Crimson Edge! That's the one."
"You're mistaken."
"Petch I aint," He shifted in his seat, raising his voice,"You ran under that petcher, Cade and his ghoul-man mage, right? You an' yer pretty critter people, yer Zith. Oh yeah, I know you. You ran with the animals. A lil zookeeper."
Wrenmae was quiet. He didn’t make eye contact with the drunk. But by now, other had looked up to take notice.
“Lil petcher,” the drunk grunted, leering with yellowed teeth, “Call you the Crimson Shyke, good for nothing’s. What happened, huh? Bunch of you petched off, ran with tales between their legs. Where’d you run to, boy, where’d you go to hide?”
“Friend,” Wrenmae turned and smiled, tapping his fingers along the outside of his mug, “You’re drunk. Let us leave it at a mistaken identity and go on about your way.”
“He aint lyin,” Another voice, nasally in stark contrast to the drunk slur of the first aggressor. Across the bar, another man nodded, “Your kind ran mine into the ground. Red Arrows, remember us? Had me a brother and an Uncle with em, they say your whore and your Myrian knocked down our doors and killed em to a man.”
“Sunberth is a dangerous place,” Wrenmae cautioned “Not to be crass, but dangerous work breeds dangerous ends.”
The second man snarled, drawing a short blade, glimmering in the bar light, “That don’t sound like a denial.”
Wrenmae finished his drink, wincing as the spirits slid down his throat and made a fire in his belly. Sliding the mug back toward the bartender, he turned on his stool to look at both men. The inn was crowded tonight, and several of the rough citizens had unkind looks scrawled across their features. Times had been hard since the Djed storm a few seasons back. Now the brunt of irritation was placed on everyone. As a community, they were selfish. Most attempts to organize a rebuild were left with territorial disputes and violence. So the shyke had a shyke place to live, ever more dilapidated in their urgency to repress order.
They were spoiling for conflict.
What’s the word, murderer?
Storyteller, I prefer that moniker, if any.
Suit yourself, but my nickname will be far more helpful tonight.
I could hypnotize them.
You could. But am I the only one who feels that rage inside you? You’ve been looking for a fight since the whole manacle thing went down. My guess is that you don’t sleep enough, or too much, or something. I’m not usually paying attention. In any case, maybe it’s just projection, but I feel like caving in someone’s face with my fist…and I don’t have hands.
How poetic.
I do so try.
Very well, Zan, what’s our move?
Big fella talking shyke.
Which one?
I’m thinking the guy without family’s pretty lonely. Let’s give him a new baby welt he can care for and talk to.
My thoughts exactly.
“No,” Wrenmae said, sliding his hands off the bar, “it doesn’t, does it?”
Setting his feet on the floor, the storyteller cracked his neck. In the time it took him to roll his head, the bar had crowded closer. Men with murder in their gaze sized him up, eyes on the weapons dangling from his belt.
To three men behind his two aggressors, Wrenmae languidly threw a lasso of hypnotic Djed, leeching into their auras and subversively placing his seeds of sedition. To the first man, a rugged fellow with an eye patch, he fabricated the memory of just moments before, between the accusations levied at Wrenmae, that the fellow who had seemed so keen on talking about the Red Arrow looked awful familiar. In fact, that bastard had swiped coin from him a day back in the street. No proof, and he’d vanished soon as come, but there could be no doubt. Wren followed it up with a flash of anger, the impulse to crack a chair over his head and take his purse.
The second man had seen the drunk before, always lolling in this bar, making jokes at other’s expense. Just the night before last, he’d made a snide jab at the second man, but only now did he come to see how insidious the comment had been. The specifics, he couldn't remember, but the rage that followed in recognition of his tormentor flared. The third was simply given a burst of unspecific aggression, leveled anywhere but Wrenmae. In fact, the third man could not look at the young storyteller without thinking that such a chipper fellow couldn’t be the man these others said he was.
There. Now the stage was set for all of them, and the bar didn’t seem so one sided any longer.
Grumbling, the bartender retreated back from the bar, obsessively still polishing a single tankard. Wrenmae smiled as both men stood around him, staring down. “About time someone put you down, dog,” Said the second accuser, holding out his blade with murder in his eyes, “My kin can rest easier if I send them your soul to chew on.”
“Your kin chew in the afterlife?” Wrenmae asked, raising an eyebrow, “Sounds to me like you’re confusing who the real dogs are in this situation.”
With a strangled yell, the thug hurled himself at Wrenmae, thrusting out straight with his short sword. Snake-quick, Wren’s hand trailed to his long dagger, drawing it and intercepting the blade before it pierced his chest. The surprise of the draw and the momentum kept the blade at its same velocity, albeit at a different trajectory. His arm flew wide, guided by the dagger, and buried the short sword to the hilt in the drunk’s arm.
Alcohol could only dull the senses so much. Screaming, the bearded lecher fell away, tearing the blade from the thug’s hand, and fell thrashing to the floor.
Wrenmae acted, utilizing the shock of his opponent to a critical advantage. The dagger vanished into his sheathe, but two pale fists spun up through the air to deliver twin impacts to the man’s face. Breath hitched in his throat and the thug toppled, the first hypnotized man following his progress with a chair, smashing it against his chest soon as the body thumped against the wood.
Chaos erupted in a moment. Blood had been shed, a man had been struck down, and a chair had been shattered. All rules of escalation had failed and complete madness took swift precedence in the cramped quarters.
Wrenmae held back for a moment, watching the heavy hands of larger men deliver solid blows, take them, and continue swinging. Shroud would have left, slinking along the side of the wall, Weaver would have watched, even egged them on, Wren and Egyptus would cower…but they had all left him now. He was complete, he was angry, and he stepped full into the melee, bringing up his foot and digging the tip of his boot into a bloodied figure, knocking them back and sending a table askew.
He didn’t see the fist that loomed in his field of vision a moment before it impacted, knocking the storyteller sprawling. The blood tasted rich against his tongue and teeth, like lightning. Sunberth. Wretched Sunberth. If anything, it was good for excitement. It was good for feeling alive. And as Wrenmae pushed up to his knees, and then his feet, leaping onto the back of a burly brawler and wrapping his arms around his throat, he felt his frustrations ease, his rage settle, and some of his old fire…not seen since Alvadas, return to his being.
