When the Tavern goes Silent

[KidKrinkles 2044]

 

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[!] The following is a narrative roleplay retelling of events from Victor’s Point-of-View. Only those told of the event or present would have this knowledge. 

 

Please don’t metagame.

 

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The knight sat among faces familiar, at a fire. Those of Raelwyn, of Avagis, of Leithril and Iduna, of Arnuzor and Veluc, of Twig and Sulcelia, and of Ljufvina and Halfdan. A wind howled against the blackstone crenelations of the harbor town that once, and perhaps would always be, Goldenvine. 

 

His eye went to his sporran, and he had all he needed… extra cigarettes, some sweet rock, a handful of non-descript golden coins, and an argentum coin, even plainer still. He was prepared physically, and, having asked around, he was prepared mentally; he knew his part, and the story of the town to some degree.

 

The town was part of the Aeldin’s efforts to expand trade, as back home, they couldn’t eat the rubies they’d mined, and yet had no buyers. Goldenvine stumbled upon this ‘bastion’ of blackstone at sea; capable of weathering the elements, and offering security. At least that's what it seemed.

 

The bartender, Scully, was a ghost, a spirit, but unlike those others within the town, seemed keenly aware of their state. They’d offered one-time wisdom, useful for their interactions within the town, but especially so for their festival.

 

 

 

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“You!” Cried one of the forlorn, long-gone settlers, sitting at an old, creaky table, with his sole company, the two in spirited debate. 

 

“Help us settle this argument-- do you think it’s pronounced LIE-ER, or Ly-ra?” He’d ask.

 

“...say that again?” Sucelia asked, perhaps surprised at the question.

 

“C’mon! It’s an easy question. It’s Ly-reh -- you know, the instrument!” The man then pantomime a lyre in his hands. His opponent spit, “Bah, you don’t know a thing about music; you just know everything!”

 

There was a knit, unease gaze back from the elf, “Why would it be lyre?” She would say, baffled. “It’s like… lie-er. Like Liar. You’re a liar; you can be possibly think it is lye-reh.”

 

“SEE!” The man did bark, his rapid rise slamming the table, to a jostle and pound, and his hands reaching for the holy highs above. 

 

The other man did bitterly, under his breath spit, “S’stupid. Your accent, or something…” He’d pause then though, “Say, accents, where are you from…? You don’t look like you’re from around here.”

 

 

“... Eh?” A cold sweat; fitting for the tight room and death like chill that hung over the place. “I uh… grew up out of…” She’s whirl, to face twig, “Oh? Did you need something?” A question dodged.

 

Victor had watched all the while from his perch, above the bar, a long inhale from him. He’d drag on the cigarette carefully. Mindfully. For there was another rule. He would sneak that drag and blow smoke down, out the window, careful of going unnoticed. He’d eye Avagis, and Leithril, as they came to the loft; to his side, joining Raelwyn who had quietly stalked up to the vantage.

 

Victor did grumble to himself, too packed… and he made his way down. No one got him a beer, so, it was something to do.

 

He found himself behind Halfdan, and, to the side of Traskaath. A fire did burn; perhaps the only dry lumber in a town of driftwood and nightstone. The elf near him reaching out, a hand lifted, “How much for a beer? In minas?”

 

Scully, for a ghost, was expressive, and memorable enough. Fair of face, greenish eyes, and fawn hair. 

 

In life, she was gorgeous, and it seems her lingering spirit kept up that beauty enough. She was not out of place in a piss-soaked tavern though, with her attitude. 

 

She’d narrowed her eyes upon the man, and flatly offered, “Y’look green as grass, boy, y’sure y’er up for t’eh task?”

The dockworking bowie did sigh and drift an elbow into the elf’s side. A shake of his head.

 

 

“... he meant coin… and make it two.” Blackened fingers poking from his gloved hand extended, as he pressed his lips together, firmly. 

 

His tone had dropped, an easy enough act; he simply was roleplaying-- doing his part as a salt-soaked old man amongst the Aeldin hopefuls. The man then did step forward, as Scully dipped their head in affirmation of that.

 

Scully’s own form then looked to those remaining, dropping to Ysgramor-- Halfdan. “Yh- one of your friends able t’do somethin’ for me? Got a busy table n’ I can’ leave t’eh bar when a’h got new patrons.”

 

There was a brief silence but, Naurmir, Iduna’s betrothed and one of Aranuir’s sons whom climbed the Mountain, did stand and slip forward. “I can bring it to the table for you.” He’d declare. “Anything to help.”

 

Scully’s hands did swiftly take and pour those tankards and fill them to the brim with whatever could be within those kegs… either, by some miracle, ghost beer; as fresh as when it rotted, or, more likely, incredibly over fermented and stale, having been kept within hidden, antediluvian barrels.

 

Victor managed to rest his elbow upon the counter, and continued to hold up two fingers, as if he needed a drink; but still, the man simply could not quench his thirst… a fitting disguise, and the worst red flag he could manage would be to be bone sober within an inn. 

 

Without a beer in hand, he may as well stand ass-naked atop a table and sing praise to Iblees. He did listen though, around, as he went unserved.

 

He heard Avagis talk of horse meat to some poor old sod, and the Norn and company speak of old war stories and banshees. Veluc was explaining liar’s dice to some poor sap that, if playing for the first time. They’d be slaughtered. Distantly, the duo of Iduna and the Prince had clearly made their delivery; though he could not make out their words.

 

He’d simply sigh, and a hang ran through his hair, adjusting the cap his wife had knit for him that sat atop his head like a crown.

 

Finally, two mugs slapped down atop the counter, her expression expecting payment. A similar impatient gaze from Sulcelia fell upon him. All was silent. Still.

 

Silent.

 

 

Victor did immediately tense with realization, holding his breath. His cigarette glowing ambiently, a smoke rising from it, but he dare not suck in, or out; he dare not breathe. Everyone froze. 

 

 

 

… what prompted it…? That silence…? He did wonder to himself. A moment trapped in eternity, it seemed; a snippet of what unlife upon Goldenvine’s harbor was… a lively tavern stilled at the drop of a pin. Distantly, Iduna and Arnuzor’s words still continued; seemingly, it was localized, suspicion raised here. Why?

 

Victor could only wonder as the moments continued to slip by, and pass; as if each second were patrolling the room. The minutes filled the walls as an impermeable fog that threatened to crawl down the throat of whomever might speak, whomever might dare let breath slip past their teeth and through their nostrils, and choke them in their very chest.

 

“Aye, and so with a roll, a dash-- I slashed by side, n’ the banshee chopped herself upon ma’ blade…” 

 

The old man’s words rang out from upstairs. Life-gilded words from an un-rising chest, forever doomed to a musty tavern. Music returned to the halls. A long exhale left Victor, smoke trailing upon his breath. 

 

Perhaps he’d quit smoking… but more than likely not. He simply valued his breath a touch more, after that extended stillness.

 

The man did manage a smile towards Scully, who slid several tankards forward. “Here ye’ go.”

 

The man managed to set down a handful of coins upon the counter, a heavy thud of his hand full of gold, which clanked and scattered tightly around the impact; no malice intended, simply making his payment announced. 

 

He’d slide the other mugs towards Sulecia, and company, as he took his own and drifted from the bar.

 

The man stepped through a curtain and spotted two men within the alley, a transient, liminal space, between the main bar, and the side room that held Iduna and Arnie. He did slow himself, as he moved, treading lightly, his ear perking up. 

 

He made himself busy, easing to the curtain nearest them, leading to the new room, and peered inside. 

 

Ghosts, living a life once lived, unrealized. Unfinished. Dynamic and still both at once. Like shadows upon a wall. Memories tethered to blackstone wall and deeply sunken anchor alike.

 

“... hear’a storm’s comin.’” The one man spoke to the other, just behind the dockworking knight. “S’blocked off the route t’Greyling - haven heard from’em in weeks.” A grim rumor.

 

“Really? Y’think t’ey aren’ just abandonin’ us? Or s’pirates..?” A hush once more felt, though not quite as still; not as alert or probing.

 

Victor did look over his shoulder, bitterly muttering, “If’a eat ano’er salted cod or damn boiled mussle ah’m gonnae lose it.” His tone flat, as if enraged by blandness. The repetition of a meal was far, far too familiar to him, in his youth, and upon the Mountain. “... somethin’ better change.” His tone also a warning, almost a threat to the long departed.

 

“Y’ve heard it, lad?” Seen t’eh storm? How’d’yknow it’s real?” The man asked.

 

“A’ dun…” A hand drifting from the curtain, letting it return to it’s rest, a stillness befalling it. “But a’ walk te’ shores. Found more trinkets n’ oddities turnin’ up.” His hand gently resting upon his sporran, familiarly. “Bodies’ll be next.”

 

His hand motioning off left, towards the harbor. “Bodies’ll be next. Have ‘ad some sailors tell me, while’a been unloadin’ sweetrock… t’at te’ tides are ‘arsher. Less boats ‘er makin it to n’ fro.”

 

Another silence; brief, and unable to break the music, fell. A tenseness of news. Murmurs heard as his voice carried from the alley and split into both rooms. A wrathful fear put into the duo as they hurriedly spoke of food, and of rations. 

 

A hand went down to his sporran; no use in bringing all this shit if I need to carry it home.

 

He’d offer a few cigarettes between pinched fingers; which were taken… smelled, examined, rolled over, and eyed by one of them. “Who’s sellin’ these?”

 

The bowie shrugged, “A’ dun ask. Sometimes things jus’ fall outtae te’ crates.”

 

A devious smile did creep across the face of the man, cigarette in hand. Pinched, he’d bounce it, as if a sizeable reward for some task realized. “Thank’ye lad. We’ll remember t’is favour- case y’eh need any’tin.”

 

“May damn well come te’ it.” He’d hum in reply, his fist gently beating the stone, as if a knock, signaling his departure. He’d find himself the only living man in the room, surrounded by spirits. 

 

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His back pressing to the wall, he’d look out and off into it. The Storm. Was it real? He couldn’t decide if the ghosts had looked black clouds upon their pillowed faces. 

 

He’d snort to himself, a slight smile flickering upon his features. Already beat that too.

 

I wonder if anything here in this cursed land would end me?

 

His mind slowly drifted from that dank tavern to thoughts of lost friends… of Raug and Freyl’da, his first apprentice, Sagiri, and his brothers in. Were they too doomed to wander Aevos, just out of sight, like those of this harbor? 

 

He’d snap from that daydream, as if his body reminded him that as easy as this was, it was still a tense, cursed harbor. 

 

He’d bring his hand up to slosh his ale, his gaze staring down into its depths. An aquamarine fog, like death itself. He’d sniff at it…

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… menthol?

 

**** it. Down the hatch it went. He’d slam it back, and it did not come like a liquid; indeed, as a fog. It’d coat his mouth quickly, it’s level never dropping, as if he had never drank it. His mouth opened and closed, lips flickering as if he’d chewed cotton, and he’d ppfftt, pfftt, to his side, wiping at his mouth. Menthol indeed.

 

The man turned and made his way back to the main room, brushing back through the curtains and stepping to the familiar space, eyeing Raelwyn.

 

“All fine here?” He’d say to him.

 

“Hmm?” A pause, “Aye, sorry… just… distracted. Lookin’ at the storm.” The man indicating towards the outside, a bow of his head.

 

The music distorted, suddenly. Discordant, and cacophonous, as if all the instruments had decided to fist-fight.

 

“... I think it’s time…” She said. Another rule came to mind.

 

 

 

A shiver ran down his spine, briefly, but he’d watch as at her utterance, the life flooded from the room as if blood from the throat of a great beast, their belly pressed upon. 

 

Their retinue returned to the unyielding torrent of the Storm.

 

He’d offer a silent hand towards Scully, a great despair felt through him, but not as much as the despair upon her features.

 

Of all the Spirits, her curse was worse of all. A kind soul, all too painfully aware, around the same stale shades.

 

The same Storm that had snuffed out this town as if a candle before a deluge.

 

The same Storm that hung like a noose-- closing-- around the land.