Old Men Talking about Nothing

[KidKrinkles 2044]

[A narrative retelling of a conversation between friends, please no metagaming.]

 

 

A pair of legs hung over the edge of a limestone face. Godrays broke and vanished along the southern shores of Azuras, thin spears of pale light slipping through the bruised seams of clouds. The sky grayed, forewarning a storm, but it still held. Dark-bellied clouds dragged low over the seas, shedding cold, fine rain, clinging to stone, to wool, to hair. “Don’t you think it’s dangerous to meet with him?” his grandson had asked. “Nae,” the bowie had replied. “Probably no un’ a’ trust more on te’ continent." Loose grit clicked down the slope with each step. Rainwater had gathered in the pale grooves of the limestone, making the cliff shine bone-white where the clouds parted and dull gray where they closed again.

“... it’s always damn raining,” he uttered, the graying hair of Ser Griffith slick from the spitting skies.

Victor idly drew a hand from his tartan, pinching the cigarette from his lips and flicking it once. Ash broke away, darkened in the rain well before it reached the stone.

“Always,” he echoed. “A’ think’a said e’ te’ last time’a saw ye: but age took ye’ well.”

As well as age could, anyways.

“Seems age hasn’t made its mark on you,” Griffith retorted, perhaps somewhat surprised.

Without a few hair potions and some finer alchemy, Victor would not have looked near as young as he did. He had avoided the white and gray hairs of an elder Adunian, and the creases of experience that wished to creep upon his features and lay there until his grave.

Victor’s hands slipped to his side, where a pair of the Fishing Guild’s finest poles had been kept. Handed out freely, of course. He lifted the two up and shook them gently.

“Basic skincare don’t ’urt, but ma’ wife and I’ve both our tricks n’ secrets,” he said. “Despite movin’ a bit slower, n’ slower, with time.” The tartan sagged heavier around his shoulders by the minute, drinking the mist.

Ser Griffith reached out and took one of the poles. He clearly had some familiarity with it, his hands finding their place with little thought.

“Well, you’ve made it this long, being one of the most wanted men in the realms. And to think I just cleared my own status, for joining the Silver Spears…” He trailed off, holding a solid face, before a chuckle rolled off his lips.

“I’m surprised the Silver Spears got shit. Aranuir din’nae go ’alf as far as e’ should’a.” Victor motioned his arm free of the tartan and turned, placing a hand down to steady himself. He rose to his feet and rolled his shoulders, stepping a pace back and looking toward the ocean.

Fishermen always made this look easy. It couldn't be that hard.

“They took issue with us taking money for our deeds. For me, at least, all my proceeds just went back to pay for the rent of our hall,” Griffith chimed, informatively.

He brought the fishing rod, turned his hips, and gestured an arc with his arm. The wet grip slipped a little in his palm, and the line hissed out. It hesitated, halfway through the motion… not nearly enough force, an audible sploosh followed, far closer than he had intended.

“... mercenary company workin’ for mercenary money… who would’a t’ought… big deal.”

“Yes, well, everything is bureaucratic.”

A slight shrug. It was not his place to make sense of their decision, it seemed.

“Always ’ated that. Ah’m surprised ye’ve returned at all,” Victor said.

He tried to move through Griffith’s motions as best he could. He brought the rod back, turned his hips, and gestured an arc with his arm. But it was amateurish. Not nearly the force. Not nearly the distance. An audible sploosh followed, far nearer than he had intended.

The fog that circled him seemed to deflate with disappointment.

I understand why Griffith suggested fishing… I should've practiced.

The Glennmaer tugged at the rod, testing the line. It went taut. He reeled with a practiced confidence that made the huntsman feel blindsided.

A dark shape moved in the water.

“I could’ve easily taken your path, and the thought crossed my mind. But I spoke to Azruphel, and that gave me a new perspective. Life in Angrenost reminds me of home.”

Victor watched the water, and the dark shape beneath it.

“I don’t know how to fish,” he murmured, as if to absolve himself of the sins he was about to commit upon the practice. He sighed, before replying. “I ’ope t’ey dun’ ’ate me.”

He let out a breath through his nose.

“Dun’ ’ate ’em. But’a do ’ate t’ere decision. It’s like turnin’ t’ere ’ome into’a snowglobe.” Beyond them, the rain stippled the sea until the horizon blurred. The shore, the sky, sealed together in gray glass.

A slight frown lingered upon his features as he spoke the words. He watched the darkened shape grow, and grow. Could he say he wasn't in his own prison? He'd been spending years hiding, waiting, motionless. Sometimes he wondered if he ever truly was saved, in that cursed gate on Aevos…

“Not many of them are old enough to remember why you left. They only see what the Empire wants.”

The old knight put his back into the work, ebbing and flowing with the tension of the line. He dug in his heels for the fits, then walked back and tugged with the easing. A flopping shape appeared, dredged onto the shore for collection.

A swordfish.

He makes fishing look easy.

Victor shrugged and began to reel too. He felt something. So he heaved, and tugged, if only to match his brother.

Finally, there was a release, though the sight was pitiful and torturous. A rusted chain. Somewhere within the bowie's head, he heard a cruel laugh, somewhere from the corner of his vision where he could still see the peak of the Mountain.

It hung from the hook in a rusted length, each link orange-brown and eaten thin. Seawater dripped slowly, patiently tapping away. It smelled of salt, decayed iron, and rot. Victor stared at it in silence, his face contorting into something just shy of a snarl.

“... I believe te’ world as’a sense’a ’umor,” he said at last, grave in tone. He took the chain into his hand and tossed it aside. “I should’ve suggested we go huntin’,” he grumbled, more to himself than to the Ser beside him. Then, after a moment, “I hope these new lads don’t mind listening to you. I hope they look at you.”

Ser Griffith had already drawn back his rod and recast it, his eyes returning to distant horizons. “Some do. Mostly those in Angrenost, save the last Glennmaer I still speak with Angruth.” His shoulders eased, slackening some. “The others, especially the new folk; non-Adunians. They don’t care much for the ramblings of an old Knight. The Royals and I have a mutual distaste for each other. I ignore them as much as I can. The Bastards of Carandir.”

The man spat idly to his side. Victor felt his own mouth fill with venom, bittered by the tobacco that swirled in his mouth. The wind shifted, blowing the smoke back into the man's face. He did not blink.

“T’at’s Anorhil’s name, aye?” he asked.

“Aye.”

“Well, if’a get my chance te’ go after Argellion, I’ll try te’ make sure t’ey meet each o’er in ’ell.” A lifetime ago, the man had sworn to come. It remained at the forefront of his mind. Just as soon as he saved himself.

“Argellion has abdicated. Did you not hear? His son, Pharazon, sits the throne.” Somewhere, far off, the thunder rolled without breaking. It was too distant to matter, but near enough to be heard.

There was a shrug from the bowie. “My oaths defy crowns. A’ dunnae ’es son. But I’ve ’eard eh’s more upstandin’. Maybe one day ah’ll come to ’em and try te’ bury te’ ’atchet.” His mouth made an amused little pout around the cigarette. “Or per’aps eh’ll pike my ’ead? Won’t know till’a try’a guess.”

There was a moment of contemplation from the Glennmaer. He slowly reeled the line, no doubt coaxing some underwater critter with actual patience. Victor tugged at his own line and reeled much faster. A boot came up attached to the hook. The boot came loose with a wet suck, its leather swollen soft and blackened by the water. A few strands of seaweed clung to it, like a hair. 

Perhaps some mermaid's wig holder?

He stared at it. Then he took a few moments to carefully unsnag the hook from the drowned thing, as though it were some troublesome and embarrassing creature. An apology for the offense to the inanimate.

“Aye, he’s a good lad,” Griffith said at last, “certainly better than his father and grandfather, but won’t be making any major changes to our relations with the Empire anytime soon.”

“Te’ Empire will do it on its own,” Victor postulated.

“...Now.” Griffith commanded, keeping an eye, and an ear upon the bowie's rod.

Victor glanced aside, entirely unaware.

“Aww, ye missed one.”

“F**k, I did.” He'd hiss. He looked back to the water, lips pressing thin. “... Probably ano’er chain.”

“It is only a matter of time...” Griffith began.

Then his voice cut sharper.

“OI.”

Victor’s rod bent with sudden violence. The bowie lurched, startled by the betrayal of the sea, and yanked back with both hands.

“... Oh s**t it’sae lobster...!”

He drew it up, eyes widening at the flailing shape on the hook. The thing snapped and twisted, claws working with insulted purpose. “Don’t t’ey... don’t t’ey like cages or somethin’...?”

“Sometimes, or with snares on a line. But impressive.”

Victor watched the lobster snip at him as though it had taken the matter personally. There was something about it. Some strange dignity in the little armored thing, all fury and legs and wet indignation. He set it near him for a moment and watched it flop about. Then his frown deepened. With a quiet tsk, he took it up and idly chucked it back into the waters.

“... I think it’s kindae cute ’onestly,” he said, casting his line again. “Unlike fish.” A beat. “Eyes on te’ side’a t’ere ’eads... weird lil’ bastards.”

“Good eating.” The Glennmaer observed, as he watched the recast line return just as swift.

“Te’ log? Aye, I appreciate it,” Victor snorted. He had hauled one up, somehow. A wet length of driftwood, ugly and useless, hanging as proudly from his hook as any prize catch.

“I always said’a was ’alf beaver...”

“Wood make a lot of sense,” Griffith chortled out stupidly.

Victor choked suddenly at the pun, the cigarette nearly slipping from his mouth.

“... Dinnae think you ’adda dad joke in ye.”

“Well, I am the fun uncle, to Az and Boromir’s kids.”

Victor’s brow lifted. “Did t’ey ah’ve kids?” He seemed surprised but time moves quickly, and waits for no one… a lifetime he had missed in Numendil, for his morals and codes. Then his line snapped him away from the tangent. “F**k.” Another missed catch.

“Three of ’em. They take after their mother.”

“Per’aps better t’at way,” Victor said, recovering the line with no small amount of resentment. “Me and Boromir butted ’eads after’a left. For my rhetoric.” A dry snort followed. “Tried te’ get me te’ go te’ Norland after my capture was called for.” This time, when Victor reeled in, an old flag came up from the water. For a moment he only looked at it. It unfurled, halfway in the wind, heavy with seawater. Whatever color it had once had been beaten down into some drowned, uncertain stain.

The sea had a strange memory. Stranger than men, perhaps. It spat out chains, boots, flags, and beasts in armor. It offered no answers, only objects, each one wet and ruined and somehow too pointed to ignore.

“... Huh.” His mind wandered, free as the gulls, with each memento offered by the ocean's tide.

“He’s just trying to run his lands,” Griffith said, “make it look good so they don’t give them away to some boot licker.”

Victor stared at the old flag a moment longer, then set it aside.

“I dun’ fault ’em,” he said, and shrugged. “Just wish our folk realized t’ey are more, and stronger t’en 

What they had been. What they had forgotten. What the young inherited without understanding the shape of. Numendil. What once was.

 

Victor drew in a breath and let it out slowly through his nose.

“... But, I dun’ wanna keep whingin’,” he said, glancing toward Griffith. “What’s next for ye, Griffith Glennmaer?” His line jerked again. He missed it again. A growl of frustration came from the man, eyes narrowing bitterly.

“Not sure,” Griffith answered, “once I finish training my current squire and page. I think I might move into retirement.”

Victor’s hand stilled upon the rod.

Retirement.

The words were heavier than the rain. Even the line seemed to go slack, in Victor's hands. The hook drifted unseen beneath the gray chop.

“I ’ad similar t’oughts,” Victor said. “Whether’a die or wha’ever ’appens.” The rain kept falling. The water kept moving. That was the way the world went. For a few breaths, it was almost enough to leave the matter there. But there were names still caught in Victor’s throat. Names he had avoided because asking after them would make their absence real.

“... How uh...” He looked left a touch. “What ’appened? With Maeril. And Ed.”

The question seemed to pull what little warmth lingered from the air.

“An army led by a few wraiths stormed Ildon...” For a moment, the water answered. It slapped softly against the stones below; indifferent, endless.

Victor stared outward. “... I see.” There was not much else to say at first. Not because there was no grief in him, but because there was too much to move cleanly through the mouth. Maeril and Ed had loved that place. The thought came before the words did. “... Surprised t’ey din’nae win,” he said. “T’ey loved t’at place. T’ere lil slice’a ’ome.”'

The bowie went to suck at his cigarette, and found only stale, damp air drag through… his hands moved to his sporran for a match.

“I did my best leading the cannons from most of the horde, but surprisingly the flank of men failed.”

“Sieges are brutal,” Victor admitted. He recast after a long pause. The hook cut out into the water, less clumsy than the first time, but not by much. “I dunnae. Ah’ve some hole in my gut about it. Not bein’ able t’e go.” Well before he left, they swore to stay together. They hated Anorhil as much as him, maybe more. Yet all of his friends had some reason to stay: some land, some title, that they clung to. Some notion of a people, better left standing than drifting like a horde.

“I think the average age of those I commanded was seventeen… Minus Stinthad who showed up randomly.”

“I am sure t’ey fought valiantly.” Then, after the name caught up to him, his head shook as if from a daze. “Stinthad? Ah’ve not seen ’em in’a age.”

“He’s still running around.”

“Per’aps I outtae write to ’em,” Victor hummed.

He thought on that. On letters unwritten. On roads untaken. On faces remembered younger than they were now… could he even recognize those from the days past? Their faces faded at the edges in his mind, like a static. Worse was the alternative: to never see them again. To not say farewell.

“... Eh... I miss so many things.” The admission was quiet, nearly taken by the wind before it reached his brother.

“I do as well,” Griffith said. “There’s a great many people I miss, being the eldest comes with many burdens.”

Victor looked at the fish upon his line. It was flapping its wings… who would've thought? A fish with wings. He stared, having thought he had seen it all. Gods, monsters, magics… they'd all become commonplace, but a fish with wings was something special. “... Guess so,” he said. “Didn’t think ah’d make it to 'eldest'.”

“Neither did I, of all the adventures and wars we’ve been through. I’ve seen more in this lifetime than I would have imagined.”

Victor held his line still, bringing the rod back to rest against his shoulder. He looked left.

“Can’a tell ye’ somethin?”

Griffith looked over to Victor. For a moment, Victor watched the rain bead along the old knight’s face. The gray in his hair. The set of his shoulders. The familiar shape of a man who had stood in too many storms and somehow had not yet been carried off by one.

“Climbin’ t’at Mountain was te’ most fun I ever ’ad,” Victor said, dry-toned as ever. A break formed in the gray of the clouds, narrow, and sudden. Pale gold touched the water, the wet stone, and the sides of Griffith's face. It made the world seem briefly kinder than it truly was. “... Lost my soul, and folk think ah’ma monster. But, I’d do it again.” Aruzond had told him that it would be a one of a kind adventure… that it would change everything. It surely did.

“Aye...” Griffith said. “A shame we will not meet in templar heaven.”

Victor snorted. “Don’t count me out yet.”

Griffith raised a brow. Victor did not see it, but continued regardless.

“I promised te’ come for Argellion’s white flame. I would’nae wit’out some avenue te’ try.”

Then his line yanked. A pufferfish came up. “AH! AH! AH!” He shrieked, twisting the line sharply to throw the thing back, plainly unwilling to grab it with his hands. The thing vanished with an offended plop, and the rain immediately erased the ring it left behind.

“Argellion grows fat and sluggish,” Griffith said, “licking the boots of the emperor has done him well.”

Victor watched the water settle where the pufferfish vanished. “I dun’ take glory from battle, nor do’a threaten death lightly. But I grow old, ma’self.” He drew in a breath. “It’ll be even. If I get the chance.”

“I did not see him much unless he was with some representative of them.”

“We went on’a adventure when e’ was young,” Victor said. The memory sat strangely in him. Argellion, younger. Different. Perhaps that was a projection on the once prince, once king.

“I actually thought e’ would not be anythin’ like ’es father.”

Griffith sighed as the sun went down. He placed his rod down and sat against a rock. “Seems he had his own agenda.”

Victor exhaled smoke through his nose and shrugged. “It seems so.”

The two sat there for a little while, beneath the rain and the fading light, with the sea making fools of them both in different measures. Then Griffith stirred.

“I think I best be off for now...” By then, the light had thinned to silver. The godrays were gone. Only a seam in the west. The rain had grownbold enough to drum against the stone, rather than whisper so the men might speak.

Victor glanced aside. “... I was gunnae say: I don’t mean te’ keep ye’ till ye’ grow roots n’ fall still.” The words came easily enough. Easier than the next. “I worry a’ may not see ye’ again t’ough.”

His line tugged. He reeled. A second chain came up from the water. Victor stared at it quietly. Of course. He nodded once, slow and humorless, then looked off to that stained portion of his eye the Mountain claimed in his monocular vision, and held up his rudest finger wordlessly.

“I still have some duties,” Griffith said. “I’m sure I will see you before either of us goes. If it is to be me, I will seek you out.”

If you can. We don't decide our day. It is written on us.

Victor lowered his hand. “Aye,” he said. “And I ye.”

The old knight rose. “Go well Victor...” His words ended abruptly, seeming to hold in a small sniff as the elder knight templar turned back north. His footsteps carried him a small distance away before they paused. “Flame guide.” The words hung there with his breath, pale in the growing cold. Victor watched him quietly. There was more to say, wasn’t there? If he just kept talking, filling the void, the moment might remain frozen there. He could yap away the sunset and save someone from fading. He did not want to look upon the man one last time, only to find static growing around the fraying image of another friend.  … but that was a dream. An unreal one. So he nodded his head. The sea kept moving below, the clouds kept closing above.  Nothing in the world had the decency to pause. “What once was, will be again,” he offered. It did not seem unique as words. They were a farewell, too.

[ChainedDragons 1374]

"Vy catch anything gramps?" The cursed child questioned.

[KidKrinkles 2044]

1 hour ago, ChainedDragons said:

"Vy catch anything gramps?" The cursed child questioned.

 

"Not a thing." The man answered, setting his fishing pole somewhere it might forever gather dust.

[bimblesnip 122]

 

 

---

 

"What became of the man of those stories?"

 

A gnome would ponder, deliberating upon words passed down by his late father.

"That Victor, I have ne’er seen him. Perhaps he was but a tale after all?"

Yet the name lingered in the damp air of the burrow for some time as he thought.

"Victor…"

He repeated it now. A curious thing, how oft it surfaced within that long abandoned home, spoken with a significance that Bimtar, son of Bimble, never truly understood. No two tellings were ever alike, and all seemed steeped in excessive hyperbole.

His father spoke the name sparingly in his later years, as though wary of dwelling upon it. Yet in earlier days, after long eves and heavy cups, the aged gnome had let slip the occasional remark or anecdote. 

Now there remained only questions.

 

Had Victor been a man?

A wanderer?

A fabrication borne of hazy memory and excessive mushrooms?

 

The gnome would not know.

"Perhaps some day I shall search for this Victor… see if he can tell me of my father.”

Thus murmured the half-man unto his grotto, peering through a narrow gap amidst the roots beyond.

 

[Two2the 365]

Stinthad mentioned <3

(Had to swap lotc for college grades and binge drinking)