Ninth Day of Winter, 513 AV
Remaello sat on the edge of the wooden bar, a little pewter cup of truly foul purple wine held between his knees. While the Pycon revelled in attention-seeking and theatricality, his favourite pastime was actually in people-watching. Humankind fascinated him to no end, but in truth it was more than just curiosity. Below his sculpted grin and charming demeanor, deep down Remaello harboured great doubts about the nature of his existence; its magical and artificial origins and fleeting nature, and he found in observation of the elder races a sort of solace, and examples to be followed, lessons to be learned. He sipped at the wine, absorbing the liquid into his clay, not because he enjoyed the sensation, but because it was a natural mimicry of the situation. It was what one does in the taverns and dives of Sunberth, and Remaello was convinced that in the saloons and drinkeries and brothels of this castoff city could be found the raw, unfiltered essence of humanity, and therefore answers to the questions that troubled his little soul.
In the Drunken Fish, however, he found the atmosphere to be less filled with unbridled revelry and nonchalant disregard for the hardships that the city produced each day than he had predicted. Instead, the fretful nature of the wet and gray weather was mirrored on the faces of each patron. Sailors in striped tunics gambled with cards near to the hearth, where a sad little fire crackled away. Tension was etched into the creases on their unshaven faces. Worry about the coming winter gales, about the next day’s pay, about cruel ship’s masters who were quick to reach for their cat, Remaello didn’t know, but could surmise. He spied a pair of ruffians, likely Daggerhands but it made little difference, crowding against one of the serving wenches, their meaty paws upon her bodice. The girl was clearly uncomfortable, but too afraid to do much more than whimper a soft protest, attempting to wriggle free. At the bar were more mariners, two arm-wrestling, two of them drunk blind, their glassy eyes emptily staring into their half-full cups of ruddy liquor.
In Sunberth, time was a cruel taskmaster, but it was not unfair. Here, amongst the detritus of Mizahar, the washed up, ramshackle flotsam of humanity, even a Pycon might outlive the elder races. How many of these men would see the winter through? How many would even see beyond the first snows, when the scavengers circled overhead and watched for weakness from the dark alleyways, when the cold winds lashed the city from the eastern sea like frozen whips.
Fear and menace, that is what this place offered today, and Remaello lost his desire for drink. He wished now for somewhere warmer, with more beauty and colour, to huddle away the winter months. He shoved his big pewter cup aside and began to forment a plan.
He was rudely jostled from his philosophizing when the arm-wrestle, which had been taking place between two wiry tars next to him, ended with an abrupt slam upon the bar, knocking his cup of wine over and spilling it onto the loser’s lap.
The sailor howled in anger at the violet stain upon the crotch of his breeches, and raised his fist high to smash Remaello into oblivion.
“Oy! Filthy little shyke rat! Ruined me petch'n kecks! Oo let rats in this petch’n boozer anyways!”
Remaello rolled to the side as the man’s fist fell, crashing into the wood like a hammer upon anvil. Then the Pycon held his hands up, his mind racing.
“Didnt mean mean nah offence gaffer, ay swear!” Rem squeeked, adopting the sailor’s manner of speech as best he could. His quick little mind worked out a plan. This lot weren’t the compassionate and understanding type, the scar-faced tar wasn't looking for an apology or promise of new trousers. Boldness was needed.
“Weren't me fault yous bushed dat contest. Shyke, A'll wager yous couldn't evun arm-wrestle a rat like me!”
The man threw back his fist to strike again, but his mates held him back, laughing.
“HA! De little rat is probably rite. Yer a weakl'n, shyke-eatin’ divvy ye are. 'ere's a silver ‘at says 'e beat's you like the little blert ye are!”
Guffaws erupted from his shipmates, as several other of the crewmen gathered round, placing further bets. Remaello closed his eyes and concentrated.
His legs began to shrink, his torso shortening. His left arm withered away to nothing, while his feet now nearly touched his waist, his head dwindled to a fifth of its normal size. His right arm, however, grew to monstrous proportions, veins and muscles popping up and out. For good measure, the little Pycon included an embossed anchor ‘tattoo’ upon his now bulging deltoids. The sailors whistled at the transformation, while a few others who were watching narrowed their eyes. Careful, Remaello, he thought to himself, this isn’t a place that looks kindly on magic tricks.
He reached up and gripped the man’s hand. Despite his transformation, the Pycon was still several times smaller than the human, and even his hulking arm, with all its decorative musculature, was not even half the size of his foe’s. But Pycon are strong for their size, very strong, and besides, even if he lost, the wager had worked; for the moment, they weren’t trying to squash him.
The man gripped his hand tightly, his own bronzed, tattooed and thewy arm flexed, and the sailors counted down.
"Go!"
Remaello threw his strength into the battle, his grotesque arm quivering with the strain. At first, neither man moved, the fight held in a tense static. The room was silent. Remaello could smell the rancid potpourri of sour ale, onions and fish upon the hot breath of his adversary, feel the power in his muscles intensify as the sailor started to take the contest more seriously. Remaello’s hand began to waver, bit by bit his arm began to fall. He bit his lip and willed more clay into the mass of his arm, his torso shrinking further until he appeared to be not much more than small feet and a head attached to a monstrous limb. The added bulk gave him the strength to halt his loss, but he needed to be careful, too much and he would lose his leverage and support. The crowd whistled and gasped, a few of the sailors gnashing their teeth.
Then Remaello grinned, and loosed his full strength into the contest. He had for a few chimes considered the advantages of losing this fight; the sailors would lose any animosity towards him, his foe retaining his honour, but the competitor in him just couldn’t conscience it. And so he began to push back. Their arms reached the apex again, the scarred sailor’s eyes bulging in shock and anger, and then Remaello began to finish him off. The man’s arm shook violently, trying to stop the Pycon’s humiliating victory, but the living statuette’s strength was surprising. Remaello fixed the man with a sneer, as he prepared to finish it.
Then the sailor drew his knife and slammed it through Remaello’s cyclopean arm. The Pycon howled in pain and surprise, letting go the man’s wrist and attempting to dart backwards. His tiny, shrunken feet did not comply, and he only managed to trip and fall backwards, the knife still protruding from his clay bicep. A melee broke out among the close audience, as those that had placed bets on the Pycon reacted with immediate violence upon the cheat. Bottles and tankards crashed into skulls, and ale, wine and blood splattered across the bar.
Remaello was not one bit interested in this particular brawl. His massive arm snapped out and grabbed the inside edge of the bar, launching his disfigured form over and behind. Fistfights continued around him, as he used the massive appendage to crawl like a caterpillar towards the saloon doors that led to the kitchen.
Inside, he did not pause, as two of the sailors crashed in behind him and tumbled to the floor, their knives out, held by each other’s respective wrists. The falling combatants had nearly squashed him, and Remaello hurriedly willed his throbbing muscle onward, until he reached the wall nearest a window. With agonizing will he managed to grow his other arm slightly, enough to help him climb up the counter and onto the sill. His fist crashed through the glass with ease, and he rolled out, falling into a steaming pile of offal and rubbish in the alley below. |
by Remaello on December 9th, 2013, 11:52 pm 
