As he walked between the shelves of phials, vials, and flasks, he saw a lanky figure standing near his counter. It was a high elf in a long, brown robe, holding a gnarled wooden staff. It appeared to be the elf who had been in the tavern the other day, but she was far more overbearing now with her heavier robe and large staff.
“How did you get in here?” He asked as he rounded the desk.
“Through the window,” she replied.
“Why?”
“Am I not supposed to?”
“No, you are not.”
The two stood in silence for a moment before Nessa posed to him a simple question.
“Do you think it’s possible to make money selling herbs?”
“Indeed it is,” the wary warlock replied. “Why?”
“I’ve got an herb garden in the abbey, and I thought I could gather some bushels and sell them in town. I just wanted to check with somebody who has experience with herbs before I tried because I’d hate to do all that work for nothing.”
“I see,” Carl replied. There was another pause.
“Alright, well thank you,” Nessa said. She walked out the front door and turned in the direction of the temple. Carl was slightly confused as to why that just happened but didn’t let it perturb him as he prepared to open up shop. He looked out his windows to see the artisan row to one side and the tavern to the other. He couldn’t see the blacksmiths’ workshop, as that was on the same side of the road as his store, but he saw the leatherworkers and weavers happily working away. He then turned his gaze back to the tavern, which had begun to grow crowded as those who did not wish to make their own breakfast sought out eggs and fish and fruit.
Then, just as the first customer entered the magic shop, Carl heard a smooth, clear melody echoing from the tavern. He didn’t let it distract him from his work, but he wondered who or what was playing like that.
Burk had found the problem. While it was true that he was a little rusty on his saxophone, this could not have accounted for the truly awful performance of the previous day. Upon further inspection, the young musician had found that there was a small piece of his reed missing that had gotten lodged in the hinge of one of the keys. Now the instrument sounded crisp and beautiful as he played for the growing crowd at the tavern. During the morning rush, he was tossed twenty-three silver and not a single tomato.
At the end of his first set, the monk smiled at the few remaining audience members and sat back into one of the booths, smiling. Tom came by and served up a pint of mead to the weary musical monk.
“That was impressive,” the former lumber worker said with a smile. “I had no idea you were so talented. Where’d you get that old horn? I haven’t seen any like it before.”
“It’s called a saxophone, according to the book of songs. I’ve had it all my life,” said Burk with a tusked smile after taking a swig, a bit of foam around his mouth from the hearty gulp he took of the drink. His throat had become quite parched from the performance. “Father Joden said he found me with it in a heavy satchel on the dock.” Neither of the young adventurers was sure whether they actually believed that story, but they’d never admit to that aloud. “I’ve had plenty of time to practice with it in my cell.”
“I’ll bet,” Tom replied cheerily. He was happy to see that his friend had found his job for the week.
“So is this what you’ll be doing during our little lead-up to the adventure?” The green one asked. “Waiting tables and cleaning the bar?”
“Looks that way,” Tom said with half a shrug, “I suppose it doesn’t pay too poorly.”
“Glad to hear that,” Burk replied. “I’d better let you get back to that, then. I’m going to go find another venue while the tavern’s between shifts.” The saxophonist rose, bringing his instrument along. He adjusted his baggy robe and waved good-bye to Tom as he headed for the door.
“Alright, good luck to ya!” Tom called after his departing friend, who nimbly side-stepped a haggard man who was entering the building just as he left it.
The doors of the tavern creaked closed and suddenly there was a darker, wetter feel to the whole room. The man sat himself down at the bar, his hood pulled up too high to let Tom see his face. He ordered an ale. The bartender slid a tall glass down the slick surface of the countertop. The man caught it with one hand.
Athastar was just two seats down from the stranger and took note of his appearance.
“You look like a man who doesn’t want to be noticed,” Athastar started.
“That’s because I don’t want to get noticed,” the cloaked man returned in a gruff and gravely tone. He’d turned his head slightly towards Athastar while he spoke so the paladin saw the unkempt, but short facial hair the man wore.
“Well you’re doing a terrible job,” the shining, armor clad adventurer shot back. “First of all, your footsteps are louder than mine, and I am wearing steel. Second, your cloak is black and covers most of your body, immediately drawing attention to you and encouraging the more paranoid or careful folk among us to more closely examine your actions. Third, you sat in the dead center of the bar, so you’re clearly not trying to lay low in a booth.”
The man was taken aback. “Well… I thought sitting in a booth would just, uh, make me look more suspicious.”
“A corner booth, absolutely, but if you took up one of the wide open ones that’s not centered, say the second one form the right over there,” he pointed, “ you might almost have gone unnoticed by a blind bard, but as it is you’re doing very poorly.”
“But you said I looked like-“
“Yes, I said you looked like somebody who doesn’t want to be noticed,” Athastar Corrected. “There’s your problem. You look like you’ve got something to hide.”
“But… well… shut yer trap, boy,” the man grunted.
“I’m sorry, I seem to have offended you. Allow me to restart. My name is Athastar. I’m a paladin of Cooglara from Jackross. Who might you be?” Athastar extended his hand in greeting.
The man hesitated a moment, giving a sideways glance to the hand. The cloak was pulled so that only one eye was visible. He then reached out to return the paladin’s gesture. Athastar was shocked to feel wood grains against his palm.
“Name’s Holt,” the man said. After his hand was released, he reached up to pull back his hood and reveal an eye patch. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, land lubber.”
“What happened to you?” Athastar asked, still somewhat rattled by the texture of the wood.
“I’d rather not say,” Holt replied.
“We just went over the reasons why that’s not true. You’re obviously trying to find an audience for your tale. Let me hear it before the rest. I promise I won’t spoil it for the lunch crowd.”
“Alright, alright,” Holt conceded. “It was the pirates.”
“The pirates did this?”
“Well, they took my arm. The wooden one is thanks to a tinkerer I met on another island on the way back home.”
“And your eye?”
“Fishing accident,” the cloaked man said, flushing slightly though his gruff voice still carried its dire tone. “In any case, we was out on the seas, scouting out them deeper waters out past the drop-off, tryin to see if there was any fish worth catching out that way, and a massive ship came down on us before we could even react. They had their three huge cannons pointed right at us. When the gang planks dropped, we grabbed up gutting knives, hatchets, whatever we could grab, and charged them, but it was a mistake. They outnumbered us, they outmatched us, and they tore us apart. They torched the boat and tossed us over the edge. I was bleeding pretty bad, but something came and saved me. I didn’t see what it was, but I bet it was one of them merfolks. They took me to the island of the peninsulas, and a little gnome machiner built me this,” he lifted his wooden limb before turning back to Athastar. “And that’s my story.”
“It could use some work,” he criticized. “Maybe find a way to draw attention from your eye so that the next group you tell won’t have the mental image of you gouging out your own eye with a fishing hook while you’re telling them about the pirates. Also, the buildup was excellent, but you had zero details on the fight itself.”
“I-… um… what?”
“Never mind. How many men did they have?”
“Not a one,” the cloaked man replied.
“Elves?”
“None.”
“Halflings?”
“None.”
“Alright, you’re going to need to tell me here. I can’t just keep guessing every single race there is.”
“The ship was entirely populated by women,” Holt explained.
Athastar paused a moment. Then he scowled, his brows furrowing. He gave Holt a frustrated stare. “When I asked you how many men they had, did it even occur to you for a moment that I meant humans?”
“Well, no, I-“
“And when my next question was about elves, did that not clear it up for you?”
“Um, you see-“
“Do you think ‘elf’ is a gender?” Athastar asked, placing emphasis on the word elf and shaking his head abruptly and derisively as he did so.
“Look, I was just-“
“Trying to be dramatic, I get it,” the bulky armored man affirmed, holding up his hands to stop the sea-farers retort, “but there are better ways to do that. Ways that don’t involve making your audience feel like idiots. Don’t insult the intelligence of the people you’re telling your story to. It delegitimizes everything you’re trying to do.”
“I-I’ll try to keep that in mind.”
“I should hope so,” Athastar huffed before taking a swig of Holt’s ale, standing up, and walking out of the bar. Holt was dumbfounded. He’d never been spoken to like that before. He suddenly felt the need to lie down.
The bartender, who had witnessed this entire exchange, asked, “you want me to get you a second round?”
“Yeah… yeah, I’d like that,” Holt replied.
“For what it’s worth,” Tom said, coming around the bar to take the empty glass, “I liked your story.”
“Thanks, kid,” the scruffy man said with a slight smile. He then turned around on the stool to face the door. “I wonder where a man like that goes after just walking out on a bizarre conversation like ours.”
“Probably to find a job,” Tom said. Holt and the bartender both burst into laughter at this. Tom, on the other hand, just began to wonder what type of work a man that bombastically forward and analytical could possibly have in a tiny town like this one. He then remembered his own duties and returned to the kitchen to clean the used glasses and flagons he’d accumulated.
Comments (0)
See all